The world out there is not part of it any more. There’s just me, the car, the open road and the radio. I never listen to the radio unless I’m driving. It’s a shame, because there’s a lot going on on the wireless.
At this moment, driving through sheep- farming country in the middle of South Africa, the radio brings me news of an American outrage. The scene is somewhere in Texas, the oil-and-beefburger state. The outrage has been perpetrated by a gang of vegetarian fanatics who have launched a billboard campaign against the beefburger part of the Texan and, by extension, the American soul. They have put up massive billboards depicting Christ with a vegetarian halo made out of mealies or something. The point they are putting across, they say, is that, since Christ was a vegetarian, the rest of us should be too.
Where did they get this notion that Christ was a vegetarian? From the scriptures, of course. Where in the scriptures, asks the interviewer. I mean, for example, doesn’t it say in the scriptures that Christ divided up the loaves and many fishes? Weren’t all his disciples fishermen? Are you including fish in your list of animals that shouldn’t be eaten by human beings, and if so, how do you explain Christ’s position on fish?
Firstly, yes, I am including fish, says the unflappable vegetarian. Any kind of animal that you kill to eat is an animal that has been tortured, and Jesus was not into torture. That’s number one. Secondly, there is only that one mention of fish and fishermen in the scriptures. After that, fish as a subject is dropped completely. What does this mean? This means that after they were converted to Christ’s way of thinking, the disciples stopped being fishers of fish and became, in the immortal words, fishers of men instead. It’s all there, as plain as the nose on your face. They stopped eating fish and started eating … vegetables.
I’m not sure where the interviewer tried to duck to after this, because I was trying to read the road map and keep the car on the road at the same time, while also watching out for Mac Maharaj sitting behind a speed trap machine on the hard shoulder. I did get the impression, though, that this billboard campaign had so outraged peace-loving Texans who had unknowingly become completely deranged through eating beef that they had started firebombing the offensive billboards, and were lobbying senators left and right in order to give more spine to the gun lobby, especially in favour of defensive weaponry for use against vegetarians.
So much for America, I thought. Thank God I’m here, driving through the sanity of South Africa. Steaming through the heart of the sheep-infested Karoo, wondering what I’m going to have for lunch.
Ah, yes. The Bible talks about the land of milk and honey, but this is the land of meat and liquor. They have their own wine route in the Karoo. None of the discreet elegance of Stellenbosch and Paarl. Suddenly, out of the desert landscape, a huge metal tank the size of the Jo’burg stock exchange heaves into view. It is a wine vat as big as the Ritz. Attached to it is a little building where they sell wine at incredibly low prices.
I walked in, expecting a big welcome, a guided tour through the history of wine- making in the region, and a bit of a wine gargle before I chose my poison, sort of thing. Instead I found the nooi standing there behind the counter looking at me, a stiff-haired, tight-lipped young thing in an orange, flowered dress. I asked her about the qualities of various wines on the list, and she told me as little as possible. I walked out with a bottle and a feeling of dj vu.
At the next winery, the nooi was slightly older, and had that same tight-lipped look. She was wearing a dark blue two-piece thing, and dark lipstick that was rather modern for this part of the world. She tried to be friendly, but I wasn’t going to push my luck. I ordered a bottle of sherry from the list, which she rang up and put in front of me without comment. Belatedly, I asked her which of the two sherries on the list was the better. The one I hadn’t chosen, she said. Could I swop, then? She shook her head. Why not? They’re the same price. “I’ve already rang it up,” she said, her hand hovering over the panic button under the till. I split, carrying the wrong bottle of sherry.
I stopped for lunch in a place called Prieska. I asked the coloured girl at the counter for a cheeseburger. She wrinkled her nose. “Cheeseburger?” She was completely blank about this one. I pointed at the list behind her. “Oh, kaasburger,” she said. As she walked away to prepare my order, her nose was still wrinkled in amazement: “Cheese. Cheese. Cheese,” she kept muttering to herself, trying to get accustomed to the taste of this foreign word in her mouth.
I took a walk.