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Published: February 7th 2011
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We stopped in Dullstroom hoping to acquire provisions. I was looking for some good stuff for evening barbecues, better known as ‘braais’ in southern Africa. Having a petrol station directly in front of the main stores in town gives rise to a rather dense traffic situation, both regarding vehicles and their passengers. Diane went into the local butchery as I waited in the blue rocket, prompted by a milling throng of folk and wondering whether they were all totally unaware that the suitcases on the back seat contained everything needed for an enjoyable trip. She soon returned. “No way. All the meat is frozen.” What??!! How can that be true of small-town South Africa? Have things changed to a plastic cheese and frozen meat culture in just a few years? Looking around there was nothing that remotely suggested that any of the other stores would deliver a more appetising selection.
So we set off again, easing over the brow of a hill and around a bend and … there it was … the ‘other’ Dullstroom. It had hotels with names like Critchley Hackle and a boutique establishment called the Walkersons Hotel & Spa. There were shops like Wild ‘n Wooly
offering supersoft mohair throws, just what we needed in the summer heat of the Lowveld. Or you could try Bo Peep for gifts and collectables, or The Nest for quality German products. Right, so this is what the 2010 Football World Cup had done; our byroads were filled with nicky-nacky-noo places but no 'braai' essentials. But enough of that; I was on the hunt for fresh meat, so ... forward.
A birding deviation led us to some splendid grasslands which seemed to be festooned with small perfectly designed gardens tucked in between the rocks that controlled the gently undulating countryside. Why can’t I get the same natural effect back home?
We drove through Lydenburg expecting to have to live on crisps and acid jelly-beans for dinner when, suddenly, there it was ... Bokkie’s Meat Market. That had just the right ring to it. Here the meat would not be frozen. A whisp of blue smoke drifted from the Fiesta’s tyres as I made a quick decision and turned into the shopping square. A sign outside Bokkie’s temporarily dampened my enthusiasm with its message that inside there were, just waiting for me, sheep’s offal, potato sausage and items which
translated to pig-sisters (‘varksusters’) and little tortoises (‘skilpadtjies’). Not deterred I ventured in. Bokkie was built like a rounded refrigerator with a head. As I could have suspected from the signs outside, I was addressed in Afrikaans. “Hoe kan ek meneer help” (How can I help you, Sir). Nice and formal as I recalled many rural Afrikaners being. Here I would DEFINITELY find stuff worth 'braaing'.
But there was a problem. You see, although my mother was an Afrikaans-speaking wine farmer’s daughter from Helderberg, I had rarely spoken Afrikaans since 1980; I mean that was 30 years ago. Not only that, by I had since screwed with the one remaining slot that was available for other languages by learning Spanish and, even worse, by converting my Afrikaans to a peculiarly accented form of Dutch.
I stared blankly at Bokkie for a few seconds and then hesitantly eased into Afrikaans. After a few seconds I was reminded of the smoke from the Fiesta’s tyres as I suspected that something similar was issuing from my ears. Bokkie looked at me in a slightly puzzled way, and then the light came on. “Why not try some flatties?” was his suggestion. A rather pregnant silence followed as I attempted to process this suggestion and not to show my ignorance too plainly. What were flatties? Road kill? “Dankie. Ek sal ‘n bietjie rond kyk” (Thanks, I’ll have a look around). By now Diane had joined me after having visited the hole-in-the-wall to draw cash. “He said we should try flatties.” My practical spouse looked at me and I could see the road-kill thing going through her mind also. There was a dose of pity in her gaze. I put on my Homer Simpson look and proceeded to browse the displays.
All was soon explained. It seems that in recent years a ‘flattie’ has come to be the accepted term for a butterflied chicken. Bokkie had them plain and also in all sorts of marinades. Nearby was a selection of ‘borewors’ (literally farmer’s sausage), the best barbecue 'bangers' in the world, and I invite no discussion on this topic! I was like a kid in a candy store. We left suitably supplied, flatties and 'wors'. By unspoken mutual agreement we had skipped the little tortoises.
We had a moody drive over the Long Tom pass, moody because the mist suddenly appeared and we were transformed from crisp Highveld sunshine to slowly shifting grey, opening occasionally to provide a view of the mountainous terrain through which we were passing. I quite enjoyed the eerie mood, wondering how the drivers of the cars that overtook us could pierce the leaden gloom. And equally suddenly we were out, surrounded not by vast vistas of rippling grassland, but by lush green bush. This was the real thing! Soon we arrived at our time-share resort. A look at the sign on the side of the road leading to our chalet told me that I was definitely not in Europe
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