Vineyard Training

I'm sure that, just like everything else, the act of pruning the vines will eventually loose its novel luster, but, at the moment, bring on the vineyards!

After having spent a good part of my morning on the computer writing publicity blurbs, I jumped the chance to go outside and do a little work in the fields. Having never done any farming and having really never done any gardening, this whole process of plant growing is completely novel to me.

We spent our time in one of our new blocks, concentrating on the most time intensive portion of the whole wine growing process-- training the vines. Essentially, when you look at a vine you have two main parts-- the barky looking stem, called the stalk, and its leafy outstretched arms, the shoots. While all parts of the vine are crucial to the quality of grape that will be produced, the most significant component is the stalk. Training, in these early stages, is all focused on this foundational part of the vine, making sure that you have the thickest, strongest stalk possible. The shoots only come into play much later, when you already have a 3-4 year legacy with the stalk.

So, carefully schooled by Justin in my own row, I set about empowering our stalks-- as I like to think. Of course, as always happens in the transfer of knowledge from the experienced to the inexperienced, the former treats the subject in a blasé way while the latter grasps at the scraps with scholarly diligence. Justin walks up to the vines, takes a firm hold, and snips with a sure hand as he works his way down the vine. I, on the other hand, walk up nervously, cradle the vine ever so gently as I feel down the vine to reluctantly snap off stray tendrils. The result is that about a half an hour later, Justin is 2/3 of the way down his row while I'm still nursing the first 1/4 of mine.

Despite my sluggish advancement or perhaps because of it, I absolutely loved being out in the vineyards training the vines. There is something so satisfying in knowing that your little snips and cuts will be the things that create a strong stalk, a healthy vine, vibrant grapes and then, hopefully, a fantastic wine. Clearly, I'm very removed from that end product, but that doesn't keep me from day dreaming in the fields and feeling like a viticulturist in the making. That said, there is something really hard about actually cutting back the vines, something that makes you feel guilty for cutting short the green shoots.

At this stage, there were two stalks that had been allowed to grow for each vine. One of these "branches" was meant to be in reserve in case the other branch, the one trained around the strings, were to break or die. So, in many cases, you have two flourishing branches coming out, both of which could make a very healthy stalk, but you must chose one to concentrate on. It was really hard for me to then cut off one of these completely healthy leads, I just couldn't help but feel like I was killing a perfectly good vine. For someone with as bad of a green thumb as me, (I managed to kill a succulent given to me at college, a plant that is known to be virtually "indestructible,") every time I trim something living, I fear it will never grow back.

Of course it is all for good reason. The fewer off-shoots on the vine, the more vigor that is concentrated into the vines' core, and the better your grape bunches are going to be when they arrive. So despite my misgivings, I went ruthlessly from vine to vine, using my shears with fatal exactitude-- I hope one day it will show in the wine! Now I may just start corn stalks and wearing coveralls with a pair of shears always in the belt loop, (not that there are corn stalks or coveralls on the vineyard, but, well, sounded good to me!)

After all, let's not forget, I do have the farmer genes somewhere in me...

Bob Watch #1: Aussie Bob

So I'm sitting in the office today, trying to write articles for our next Highlands Herald and in waltzes my favorite, favorite character on the farm (and in life)-- Aussie Bob. As any true Aussie, Bob has spent his whole life traveling. We believe he left his "island" about 45 years ago, but despite his long time hiatus from home, his down-under drawl is as strong as if he had never left. I guess once an Aussie, always an Aussie.

Anyways, Aussie Bob has had the most fascinating life. From spending a season in Guyana panning for gold, (where he revolutionized their filtration system to save them losing about 30% of their gold-dust yield,) to traversing the African continent three times, Bob has just about done it all. The incredible diversity of his life experience is only matched by his tireless story telling; you can literally sit for hours listening to Bob recount adventures from all over the globe, like the movie UP, but better.

So, as I am sitting here writing my article about Summer Setting upon Highlands Road I think, how interesting is it to read about sundowners and pinot noirs when you can read about the life of Aussie Bob? So I turn to Bob, who at this point is mid-story about something he was doing in a jungle in god knows where, and ask him if he could do a column for the Highlands Herald called An Aussie Walkabout: yarns from the world traveler. Excitedly he affirms that I can use his life snippets for column fodder and I, equally excited, ask him to dictate one of his favorite stories for the next issues.

Here is how the story started. I really thought we were in business:

Once upon a time, in the bush of New Guinea, I came across an Australian patrol officer who had been living there for 10 years. In the bush, these patrol officers were God—they were able to keep up tradition and civilization in a place far removed from it. This particular officer was fastidious about two things: his facial hair and his freshly pressed trousers. A complete oddity in the bush, the patrol officer was religious about shaving, and every day the women from the village would come down to watch this foreign, “white-mans” ritual. On one particular day, the patrol officer came down to shave as usual...

At this point Bob then interrupted himself to tell me about the interesting cultural practices of people in New Guinea. In Bob-like fashion, the informational diversion expanded and Bob went on to tell me about how the women of New Guinea will suckle pigs because of thier incredible bartering value in the community. In fact, he went onto say, one of the women in the tribe had breast fed not only 6 children, but also 12 piglets. I just nodded and smiled, nod and smile. I thought we were returning to the story after this swine diversion, when he continued with a diatribe about how the concept of shame in this culture was very different than our ideas of modesty in Western society. I guess that these two sideline discussions should have clued me into the fact that the story was going to be quite a curve-ball, but the excitement in Aussie Bob's eyes and his seeming certainty that this was the perfect inaugral story for An Aussie Walkabout made me believe that the cart would right itself on the tracks.

So picking up the story where we left off, Aussie Bob continued to build on the suspense in, what I hoped, was both a highly appropriate and highly accessible story for the general public:

So this patrol officer decided to have a little bit of fun with the crowd of women who came to watch his daily shaving ritual. Taking his brush in hand, he proceeded to lather up the thick white cream on his already white face, creating a comical beard that nearly melted off in the jungle heat. Reaching into his kit, he then produced the shaving blade. He made as if to cut through the side of his lather beard, but then looked down at the blade with a perplexed expression. Turning to the 12 piglet woman, (the aforementioned celebrity of the village who had suckled 6 kids and twelve piglets,) who also happened to be particularly fastidious in her shaving-routine attendance, he walked towards her, grabbed one of her breasts, and began to sharpen his blade on her nipple. In response, the whole tribe broke into hysterics and the day of the patrol officer's breastly shave was forever memorialized in the tribal lore.

Close your jaw and realize that the discomfort you are feeling at the end of this story is only a fraction of what I felt sitting there with Bob, in the office, this morning. Here he was, looking expectantly towards me for approval for his story, and I had to stammer out something like, "oooo, great story, but I just don't know if that is completely appropriate for a business publication..."

To Bob's credit, this was a fascinating story which does explore the intricacies and complications of cultural translation and transition. It didn't even cross his mind that such a "yarn" would be inappropriate in a publication that's distributed to fancy winos, restraunteurs and kids. And that is Bob. You have to love him as much for his unscrupulous, oblivious nature as for his wealth of experience. Only Aussie Bob would be able to not only produce a story like that from his memory chest, but offer it up without the least fear of it being mistaken or misunderstood. And I think that is his beauty; a traveler through and through, he no longer cares for or really even sees the cultural boundaries that every individual society erects. Why not have nipple sharpeners as the front story of the Highlands Herald-- could teach all of us a thing or two about shaving in the wild!

This post will now mark the inauguration of a crucial installment of the blog moving forward:

BOB WATCH.

This posting, henceforth, will be BOB WATCH #1

A Hiatus

As a short hiatus from the vineyard life, here is an email I just received. And this is why I love Malawi. And this is why I love the Minjale family.

And the best part of all is that the kindness of this note isn't singular to me, it would be passed on to any visitor to the Anglican Village. Never before have I met people who so unconditionally opened their heart and home.

Hi Molly,

Don’t worry for your laziness to update us on how your travel from Malawi was. By the way, where and how are you now? How is your Penguin? We have a little puppy and Aim named him Spider.

We still remember your good company and lovely jokes. We also remember your stories about your world experience.Our son, Aim always asks about you. I have been trying to reply to your mail today but all in vain and that’s why I have sent you this attachment.

Molly you are our sister abroad and it was a huge pleasure and honor to host you in our family.

Extend our family hugs to your parents and the rest of your family not forgetting your sister I talked to through computer.

Once again we still remember and love you.

Best regards,

Jacque, Aim and Peter.

The Valley of Wonders

As if golden life-sized oscars and world class champagne pourings weren't enough, Elgin has come out with yet another oversized pearl from the oyster. Since arriving in the Valley, my one major complaint has been that there aren't many active things to do. I now realize, that, as usual, I couldn't have been more wrong.

The other day I was told that there was a spinning class in the Valley. Pretty sure that I was going to walk into a room with a broomstick between barrels for a bike and a silver-haired eccentric repeating "peddle, peddle, not too fast, everyone at their own pace" for a teacher,

I was pretty reluctant to try the class. I have been to exercise classes in small towns that are much more like coffee shops, with constant breaks and constant gossip, than any sort of gym. I've also seen those Curves studios placed strategically on the end of a town square in shockingly close proximity to the local donut shop, and have then marveled at the amount of traffic that moves from one storefront to the other and back again. Dubious of this set-up, I was looking for something that could make me sweat, and just couldn't quite imagine that a "spinning" class in the middle of vineyards would do the trick. But, since there is really very little else to do in the valley and since I often harbor misconceptions about these kind of things, I thought I would give the "ladies' exercise room" a try.

I drive up to the vineyard entrance and head right to the house. A beautiful cape dutch building, it was hard to imagine that anything was done here except entertain the valley guests. The first good sign was that to get to the class you had to walk through the garage-- at least we weren't being entertained in the foyer or being set up in the cushy living room. Then, I quickly noticed the second auspicious note-- both the teacher and one of the students were in serious looking padded bike shorts. Gear is good in this case, gear means at least a basic awareness of what these sports look like in the "big" cities. As a third positive, the teacher was buff and had, how do you say it, that testosterone demeanor. In other words she looked like she would skid by you on the hill and eat your children for breakfast. Despite all of these positive signs, though, I still had my concerns. For one, there were only three of us present.

I held onto this reluctance until we climbed the steep, wrought iron stair case that led to

the teacher's lair. Now we were in business. The upstairs garage apartment had been transformed into a proper spinning studio with eight bikes and views out to the vineyards. AMAZING. Each bike was outfitted with a heart meter, so that the intensity of the class could be closely monitored. When the music started, I realized that though my suspicions about the class had been wrong, my suspicions about the teacher (T) had been spot on. She was a beast and she would definitely ingest your children for energy bars. The whole class was incredibly well-run and challenging, and T is a phenomenal teacher that constantly pushes by her own, rock-hard example. Suffices to say that I nearly passed out after the last 2 min at 90% heart rate and had to really grip the hand-rail of the little spiral stair case on the way down.

So you come into the valley expecting a little farming community, but when you start to peer a little deeper, you realize that this community has just as many desires, drives and commodities as Cape Town, just with a little added country flare. Aww, I love this little gem of a place-- I think I'm finally finding all the diamonds under my nest.

A Ball in Elgin

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James: The romantic

Really quick post. I just walked outside to say hi to James and Emily (Justin and Mary's kids) to ask them how their field trip was. Emily began telling me a story about how she was crammed on the bus the whole time, beside a boy XXX on the way there and a girl X, James' friend, on the way back. Upon hearing X's name, James head popped up between the seats, and with the doleful eyes of an 8 yr-old boy, he said, "I'm in love with her." In response to the heartfelt remark by her brother, Emily went onto clarify, "but X doesn't like him like that," to which I replied, that we just needed to formulate a plan to sweep Miss X off her feet. James replied that he had already tried, but she hadn't responded. When asked what he had done, he had the best response of all-- "I kissed her." That is my kind of guy, just cut to the chase.

What a sweet sweet cute kid. This also comes from the same boy who was playing on the beach trying to catch dragon flies. When he had managed to catch two in his hands, I asked how he had done it. He said that they were mating when he found them and thus unable to fly away. In the course of our chat, one flew away but he kept the other tight in his grasp. Then, unexpectedly he turned away from us all, started walking back to the dunes from which he had first extracted the flies, opened his hand and released the second dragon fly into the sky saying, "go back to your love." Oh, I can only imagine the torments of an 8 yr-old love.

Attn: all names have been altered here-in to protect the young romantic from all teasings, hecklings and straight up lashings.

Champagne Vagrant

I should be shot. Two days ago I went to a Champagne tasting in Elgin and got my hands on the most expensive bottles of bubbly that I will ever touch. I really felt like a thief at the table, my champagne qualifications are certainly not good enough to justify me getting to sip on $700-1100 bubblies.

The group I tasted with is filled with winemakers and vineyard owners who take this tasting business very very seriously. Every bottle is sheathed in red velvet bags with hand-sewn

numbers, a huge jump up from the paper bags I'm used to seeing cover bottles of liquour. Many people bring their own tasting kit complete with carrying cases and specially engraved tasting glasses. Some people even bring notebooks in the same material as the carrying cases. Perfectly outfitted, they use the notebooks to write down not only tasting notes but a score for every wine or bubbly that goes by. Robert Parker would be impressed by the diligence of the 1-20 scale and the excel tracking that the group master uses to meticulously rank each product.

Pretty soon in the evening, I became convinced that I would be kicked out of this high-culture wine tasting society. Strike one, I had no fancy carrying case but instead came in with a cardboard box with 6, not the required 8, wine glasses packed in with haphazard care. Turns out I believe that you can pour out the dregs of one champagne and re-fill the glass, clearly I am mistaken. Strike two, instead of a notebook, I had only a sheet of paper and a dog chewed pencil. Strike 3, a run-away avocado fell from my corn fritter onto my shirt and left a little spot that remained for the rest of the evening. Strike 4, I know very little about bubblys and, to be perfectly honest, don't even feel that comfortable popping a champagne cork. Strike 5, I still have a sinus infection and can't really smell slop.

But, much to my surprise, they let me stay for the whole tasting. At one point, the man sitting next to me invited me to chirp up and do the dissecting of the #5 champagne to which I meekly replied that I had very little to say. It's amazing how uncomfortable these events can make you feel-- people start talking about velvety textures and persistent, fine beads-- and you think to yourself, are we talking about a champagne here or are we talking about fashion week. At some point, I gave up on my botched nose and began writing down word for word some of the craziest, most colorful things people were saying, a great idea that added some real introspective flare to the rest of the evening.

My favorite part of the evening came when a corked champagne was served. This instance

just confirmed what I had felt all along, a wine tasting is an adult version of "telephone," where everyone is just trying to pass along, with as little manipulation as possible, the ingenious tasting notes of the person next to them. Of course, as we all remember from our grade school games of "telephone," the real message never quite makes it through, and the effect is that the poor chap at the end ends up with a tasting note of "poasted rubble with teast pondertones." In this particular instance, with the corked wine, it began with a whisper and chuckles between Justin and Robby-- two winemakers who are both making their own bubbly. Everyone careened to try to figure out what these two were saying. The "corked" whisper began to spread and you could literally follow it out from the epicenter, at the middle of the table where Justin and Robby were sitting, to the table ends. The poor chap leading the tasting was standing up and thus removed from the "telephone" wire. He began to talk about the flavors of the champagne until the whispers began to formulate themselves into comments that cut him off. From "do you think it may possibly be corked," it moved to "I think it may be corked," to "yeah, this one is corked," to "oh, the wet newspaper smell is overwhelming-- this one is definitely corked." The good news is that the wet newspaper ended up saving the day and all safely agreed that the champagne was corked before any ratings were given out.

The actual champagnes we tasted were pretty extraordinary.

From South Africa we had the Klein Constantia 000, a bubbly that was only made once, in 2000, by Ross Gower who is a winemaker now living in Elgin Valley. It was quite cool because his son, Robby, who is also a winemaker, was the one who told us about the bubbly. My favorite was the Champagne Duval-Leroy from 1996 which comes with a small red heart on the label, (though I would say that fact makes it less, rather than more appealing,) followed closely by the very unique Champagne Jacquesson, which had, for me, this strange sort of asparagus flavor that I didn't get in any of the others.

Sadly, the UK house of Denbies didn't fare quite as well, guess the brits should stick to tea and crumpets. In Denbies' defense, though, I liked it better than most of the rest of the group...

Open Gardens

To all the waiters of the world: I'm sorry for all the times I was incredibly indecisive and even sorrier for all the times I've asked for a substitution. I'm not so sure how I got through 24 years without ever having to serve tables, but I am getting my just desserts now! Today, Mary and I had about 60 people come to the deli in the span of three hours, from 1-4pm, though some lingered far into the 5 o'clock hour. Two things I've learned-- there is no cure to waitress fatigue quite like red wine and chocolate and there is never enough ice.

That said, it was an absolutely perfect day on the farm and though hectic, it was deliciously so. Elgin is having it's big "Open Gardens" festival this weekend wherein all the private gardens in the area are open to visitors. This is the perfect time of the year for the blooms and roses propagate like rabbits here. All along the roads in the valley, the rose bushes are absolutely bursting with color and the roadside is a collage of just the most stunning blossoms. So, in attempt to build on this already established tradition, we opened the Highlands Road up to visitors. And, phew, don't know if I'll ever pray to the gods of busy venues again.

Most everybody was absolutely lovely, but it doesn't hurt to have beautiful views and bottles of wine to really relax the people into a mode of patient acceptance. We had such a colorful mix of folks coming through-- from an Irish couple who schooled me in Gaelic, to a German couple who wanted to drink wine straight from the bottle, to a whole pack of kids who thought that dragging the roots from the dam shore into snowman-like piles was a great idea-- that I was never wanting for interesting conversation and real entertainment. Perhaps the most, how shall I say it, diverting table contained four dutch. Arriving famished, they asked for a round of bread to start them on their way. Then, they ordered the wine and food pairing, (which was delicious if I may say so-- hollandaise asparagus with the sauvignon blanc, spicy prawns on mustard seed salad with the rosé, plum dressed fillet crostinis with the Ruadh and a gooey brownie with our Highlands Road coffee blend), but apparently such food is just fodder for the fire in the land of tulips. Unsatisfied, they proceeded to order a plate of chicken pies each, only to jump, still famished, onto a cheese platter. Convinced that at this point they would either sink into the ground or pop, they did every American proud and went on to order a whole plate of desserts. I guess they don't make those sturdy wooden shoes for nothing...

Oh and in the last installment of EXCITING BREAKING NEWS-- the bridge is finally fixed! I got a phone call this morning asking if they could use the bridge to come to the deli and I sighed my long sigh and proceeded to have a 10 min conversation about how this is africa, and people are painstakingly slow and you just never know yadda, yadda only to have Emily, Justin and Mary's 12 yr old daughter, tell me that they had just driven over the bridge that very morning. I literally ran down to the entrance and the miracles of miracles had occurred, forget the parting of the red sea it is the joining of the African roads that takes true, blind faith. Also, it must be said that the men worked around the clock to make it happen, and illustrative of the last-minute nature of the endeavor and its haphazard African fashion, as people were arriving today, they had to wait for the bulldozer to move over so they could pass. Always courteous and quick to accommodate the passing cars, it still added an interesting opening flair when the entry drive was flanked by large machinery.

May the Dam ditch rest in peace.

Wine Peddling

Today was my first day on the road, the first incarnation of the “wine-lady,” and hopefully not the last. Because there is nothing quite like a trial by fire, I figured the first place to go and try to market our wines solo would be none other than the beating heart of the wine region itself—Stellenbosch. Surrounded by wine farms, Stellenbosch is South Africa’s Napa and the center of all the nation’s wine activity– a perfectly over-saturated market to try to squeeze into. I was certainly intimidated by the idea of going and trying to peddle wines to those who bathe in it, but my fears were rather unfounded and I ended up receiving quite a positive welcome. If it was a trial by fire, it was a baptism of water.

Actually trying to sell wine is quite an interesting concept. To begin, you have a product which is highly valued by a large percentage of the adult population (especially the well-fed, well-educated, well-paid adult population,) and which reflects the high-flown conceptions of its consumers, and, yet, to actually sell your wine, you are like any other used-car salesman forced

to tout your own horn. You may know you have a great product, but many of the buyers just aren’t that interested in getting to know or really test the quality of your wine. Many would rather be sold on a concept or a name, (hence the importance of Robert Parker,) than actually have to sit down and taste for themselves. In a store full of diamonds, it is hard to prove just how specially cut yours is unless you take them outside to see how it looks in the sunlight, and very few want to leave the comfort of their cozy, little stores.

That said, I came across quite a lot of very interested, very knowledgeable people in Stellenbosch—though knowledgeable may be the wrong word, and interested is probably the only important adjective. Following on my diatribe before, the second fascinating thing about wine is that though it is highly specialized and, hence, only intellectually interesting to a small segment of the population, it is sold to people at large. It’s a bit like asking a Comparative Literature doctorate student to sell their thesis to a group of people in a restaurant. Invariably the information would be inaccessible and completely unimportant to about 98% of the population, and within that 2% of the population, you would find as many assenters as dissenters. People would much rather be given the highlights from the dissertation and be told the value of these insights for the progress of modern society, than actually have to pick out those nuggets for themselves. In the same way, most people would like to be given good wines and told their value without having to go and expose themselves in a personal search for their favorites. No different really than literature, art or music, (where there is always a right book, painting or song even though all the above are highly, highly subjective,) there is always a right or better wine; the trick is finding the person to tell you which it is.

After all those comments on the difficulties with wine, why is it that I love this industry so much?—for the interesting people I got to meet today. Though not all are equally enthusiastic, selling wine to the right audience can be quite fun, like being an art broker instead of the used car salesman. To those who are interested in discovering new things and really testing things for themselves, you can become the positive bearer of uncharted frontiers. Once they’ve tried the wines for themselves, it may or may not be their new favorite Sauvignon Blanc, just as you may or may not buy the new painting in the gallery, but even if it isn’t 100% to their taste they can still appreciate the chance to experience something different. With good books, you may have 10 favorites and 10 more you just love, but there is always a place for new, undiscovered treasures. This is the space I would always choose to operate in, as the “peddler” of treasures from a wine trove instead of the greasy salesman out of Detroit. At the end of the day, I love our wines, and I hope they will too, but, almost as much, I hope they will enjoy the foray into new wine territory.

So at the end of the day, my first venture as a wine "peddler" was not all too bad, now let's see how the next round goes when I have a kilt to back me up.

This Little Piggy Went to the Market

It was a rag-tag team that Highlands Road sent out to the market today. Justin was in charge of making the sandwiches while I was in charge of telling him to do it faster. Pretty great division of labor if you ask me. We made quite a motley serving crew, serving as the perfect contrast to the experienced-market stands that flanked us. To our right was the cupcake woman with perfectly formed cupcakes that were covered in icing grass with icing animals peeping through. Perfect in every way, her cute confectionary creations sat ensconced between giant red bows that had been used to cover the whole table. The kids couldn't get over it, she was like a giant unwrapped present waiting for them to discover. I'm thinking about asking her to create these cupcakes for me:

That said, there was no competition with the cupcake lady or anyone else-- I had the bee cupcake and Emily had the turtle and mouse, and they were oh so good. That is the really great thing about Elgin, (and perhaps someday a potential hazard,) EVERYONE KNOWS EACHOTHER, and I mean seriously, everyone, so how can you compete with you next door neighbor's best friend's dog walker? If you tried to undercut the cupcake lady, stealing a octopus from atop one of her perfectly delectable creations, she would know exactly whose car to key.

In this spirit of everyone knowing everyone, you can imagine what a strange anomaly the appearance of a Texan in the valley would be. The other day, when I was filling up the car at the local gas station, someone called to me from their open car window. "Oh, you're the Texan who just moved to the valley! You met Sally sue anne-- (can't quite remember the name)-- and she has told me all about you!" First thing, I don't quite know what these people can be saying about me considering that the only thing most of them know about me is that I have a funny accent. I'm sure I've just morphed into a character from the show Dallas or a daughter of Bush in their minds. And the second thing, do you have any idea how hard it is, logistically, to be the only new fish in the sea. I already have my mom's name-amnesia disease, but now to be inundated with a whole valley of "familiar" faces!

So the market was the perfect storm for the Molly-Texan siting. Quite a few times people came up with the similar tag line, "Oh, Molly, the Texan. I heard about you from so-and-so who met you at the tomato aisle of the grocery store etc.etc" which was promptly followed up with the inevitable "so how the hell did you end up in Elgin?" I enjoyed it of course, the people in this valley are amazingly friendly and I feel like I've stepping into Lockhart as it must have been 50 yrs ago. The only difficulty is that my valley debut happened in very high style--wrapped in an apron. Keeping with the whole Market idea, I was encouraged to wear the stripey apron, but I couldn't help but feel that I should have complemented this with a rolling pin in one hand and a bit of flour stuck in my hair. And how much better would it have been if I had an apron and a cowboy hat? Then I could have been the complete eccentric...

haha I love this picture, who knew you could do model shots in an apron. And are they standing in front of an office building? Weird. It looks like they took one of those pictures used on consulting websites, with the young eager professions standing in front of the modern, all glass office, and just replaced the briefcase with a tray and the ties with an apron. Once again, weird.

Anyways, the market was quite fun, but surprisingly tough. Elgin Valley as a whole is just beginning to come into its own as a destination in the wine lands, and it will be interesting to see how something like the Farmer's Market will fare. Though we have no grand uniting Frenchiness-- which defines the shops and streets of Franschoek-- we have a bunch of really fantastic folks who are eager to bring their conviviality to the Valley visitors. I guess that is why I so love Farmers Markets, for that short saturday morning you can shop with a wicker basket and not feel silly or anachronistic. For that little while, Farmers not only own the world, they set the style and the tone. It is the one step back in time that not only works, but is fashionable. Now, if we could only get people to return to the old ways of dancing and resurrect the Jitter Bug.

Oh and as a last note, though Highlands Road may have been 1 hour late in the set-up of our stand and run by two crazies, we did have one great thing going for us-- Hygeine. I believe we were the only stand that used gloves in the food preparation; I almost want to create a little gold sticker award that says "Made by gloved hands." I said we, but to be fair, Justin was the only one in gloves, which was a pretty hilarious thing to see. He looked like a really creepy food surgeon lurking behind a hundred bunches of poppies.

The Trip to the South African Slammer

Saturday started out in very high style as we headed out of Stellenbosch to the famed Robertson vino festival: Wine on the River. Who was to know that a day which began in such a classy way would end with me sitting in the crime room at the Robertson station. Of course, to keep it tantalizing, the story of my run-in with the fuzz will have to wait until justice has been done (no pun intended) to Robertson and it's wines.

About an hour and a half from Stellenbosch, Robertson looks more like East Texas than Napa. As you drive north from Stellenbosch, the lush hills and mountains of the main wine region are replaced by the short shrubbery and flat plains of the Robertson environs. Driving through this rather prosaic, arid land, it is hard to imagine that great wines can be squeezed from the land, but looks can be deceiving! Sad to say that the tasting part of my day was less than stellar-- after a late birthday night, wine was about the last thing on my list-- but I did push through and taste some Robertson wines. Overall, what I liked most about the festival was the extremely relaxed vibe of the place.

Approaching the festival, the land is dominated by a series of white tents-- almost like a mirage of harems out of the flat lands. As you get closer, you realize that there are around 400 people with wine glasses strung around their necks and more wine than blood coursing through the veins. And yes, I am serious about the wine glass around the neck. The festival organizers, realizing that most people would be unable to hold their glass by the end of the day and deciding that the beer helmets weren't classy enough, rigged up these wineholders that you sling around your neck so that your glass of wine is never more than 2 feet from your mouth. It is amazing to see en masse-- the complete tourist managed to keep a camera, binoculars and the wine glass all in balance around their neck.

All of the snobbishness that is known to arise at

wine gatherings was thrown three sheets to the wind. There were tons of kids running around (with their wine glass bedecked parents in tow,) and the riverboat became the proverbial party boat with people standing on the upper deck, yelling to those lounging on the river shores to stand up to do the "WAVE." Sadly, they didn't get much of a reaction because it is kind of hard to make sudden movements with a wine glass around your neck-- something the festival committee clearly didn't consider... maybe wine helmets will win out after all.

Thus, having thoroughly enjoyed an afternoon on the river, I am brought to the crux of this entry-- the run-in with the Po Po. I had decided to take a mini snooze in the guest house while my German friend Ale went for a short spin in the rental car. About 5 minutes later, I'm phoned to say there has been an accident and that, though she is o.k., the front of the rental car has been smashed. We had been driving one of those tiny little Japanese cars they are so fond of in SA, and I found myself wondering what a smashed version would look like-- lilliputian to begin with, it was hard to imagine that the body of the car could truly compress into any smaller size. Turns out, I was wrong. These teeny cars not only feel flimsy, (a strong gust of wind can fly you across an open gorge,) they literally are a piece of sheet metal stretched over a tooth-pick car body. So, a small bump in one of these is like touching an oragami balloon, it just immediately crumples in on itself.

Needing to follow up this accident with a report, we were taken into the police station. Turns out the station is the happening place on a Saturday night, the waiting room was absolutely bustling. We were ushered into the back corner of the place to a room with a printed sign on the door which read: THE CRIME ROOM. Printed on your standard 8 1/2 x 11, the top half held the text in all caps while beneath there was this small picture showing two people cooperatively leaning over a desk. Clearly an inserted piece of clip-art from Microsoft word, complete with the overly granulated colors and the nearly faceless people, I found myself wondering which model of Microsoft Office came complete with pictures of a police bureau. Then, even better, I got to wondering if this picture, cleverly used to represent the complicit team work of crime-solving, was actually from the "Business" section of clip art and was currently in use by numerous Power Point presentations all over the country.

As we sat down with the officer, he began to take our information. A lovely man and very good at his job, he was still a bit confounded by the dual necessity of a license and a passport. Upon further questioning, we found out that in his 6 years at the Robertson police headquarters, he had never had to file a report on someone from overseas. It got you to thinking that perhaps we should offer to pose for mug-shots wrapped in our national flags, so that the policeman could forever remember the visit from their international renegades. And, to have a German and an American, check that a Texan, together at one go-- what better villains could you ask for?

Though I could go on and on about the fascinating intricacies of my experience at the station, (and if I ever do get around to writing a book about my time here I promise to dedicate a full chapter to the lovely men of the Robertson Police Department,) the most interesting and "South African" part of the whole excursion involved a bit of fingerprinting. As we sat there, waiting for the line of police officers curious about these foreigners to pass through, two young boys came in with one of the gentleman. They looked about 8 and 12 and were smiling with an almost giddy excitement to be in the CRIME ROOM. As a first action, the police officer put a gob of ink on a thin metal sheet and then handed the younger boy a small paint roller, like those you use to paint a bedroom. Excitedly, the boy took the paint roller in hand and began to spread out the ink on the metal sheet. Immediately Tom Sawyer popped into my head and I could see this little boy painting a whole fence with the roller, happy to do a job that was by now terribly mundane to the police officer. The child's mirth at the novelty of ink "painting" was quite cute, and I was totally convinced that this young boy was a police officer in training.

After the prints were taken, one of each of his 10 fingers (throughout which the boy's seeming enthusiasm never flagged,) the older boy took the roller and proceeded to also paint the piece of metal with ink. By this time I was absolutely convinced that I was watching a very cute bonding moment between two brothers and their policemen heros. I could imagine the same little boys going next saturday to the fire station and climbing up and down the fire trucks with the same excited anticipation with which they were currently taking their own fingerprints.

As sanguine hopes can sometimes cloud normal judgement and dramatic irony is a fantastically powerful tool, I am sure that you have all already realized that this was no normal saturday night youth outreach program at the local jailhouse. And you would be right. Turns out my budding community protectorates were actually a pair of incredibly effective criminals. They had been caught stealing, and we aren't talking cookie jars or bikes; these two young boys had broken into two separate houses and taken off with more than 30K worth of jewelry. Clearly shocked by this revelation, my first reaction was what the hell do these kids even buy with that amount of money. It's not as if they can jet off somewhere or buy fancy liquors, they shouldn't even be old enough to stay up past 9pm. And the strangest thing of it all is that the kids just seemed so damn happy to be there; they were joking around with all the cops the whole time as if this was a much anticipated saturday outing. And to think that these kids were going to have to spend a night in the jail...

For obvious reasons I was really bothered by all of this and still don't quite know how to process it. It is hard for me to imagine exactly what sort of home life would drive kids this age to do something like this. I just wanted to take a kid in each hand, tell them to apologize to the homeowners and the policemen, and walk with them to the nearest sweet shop to have a milk shake and a piece of cake. I just feel like if these kids were simply allowed to be kids....

South African Birthday

This is mainly for all my family in Texas and D.C. who are worried that worlds away from home, my birthday just won't be the same. Which is true, I miss you all tons and tons and wish you were here to help me with my birthday candles (everyone knows asthmatics never get that damn wish, especially when there are 24 candles to contend with-- yeesh I'm getting old), but you should know that I'm being well taken care of on this October 16th.

I was given two birthday wake-up calls-- one at midnight, to be the first birthday wish, and the other at 7am to be, well, don't quite know why I was given that early morning call. Mary and Justin, as always, have made the morning superbly special. I was given my favorite breakfast of eggs benedict, a gift of magnolia scented bath things (Magnolia bringing in the scents of our Southern homeland), and a gift of a beautiful bottle of wine. Mary even went so far as to stand in for the crazy Tokaz/Bowers/Sleeth birthday musical tradition, singing "Happy Birthday" on repeat, with an attempted Texas accent and country jig. Glad to know that our craziness runs in Scottish families as well.

So know that you are all missed but that I was awoken with a sunrise over the vineyards-- not a bad way to start my 24th year.

Oh, yes, and in breaking news, the UNDIES HAVE BEEN FOUND!! Thank the lord, I was really really starting to panic and considering fashioning new undergarments from a spare pair of sheets. I came in to talk to the maid in one last, desperate attempt. Once again, I made the sign of the bag, to which she shook her head no, but then I dauntlessly pressed on. I went to Mary's room, and pointed to a pair of undies, hoping that props would help in my otherwise unsuccessful miming attempts. It worked! Her face suddenly was alight with understanding and recognition, at which point she walked over to Justin's armoire, and reached into the back to pull out my beloved plastic bag. No need to comment further on the location of the bag or why she decided to put them there... Karen had a great thought. Maybe the maid was worried that those were the undergarments of a lady-friend of Justin's and she was just trying to cover for him; to which Justin responded that she just might be the best help they had ever had.

The Attack of the Principals

Sadly, I have no appropriate pictures to mark this momentous occasion (to account for this I have put a picture of the tasting room so you can see where the following events unfolded). Never has Highlands Road had so many academic minds fluttering around the estate at one time and never before has Justin disappeared so fully. Turns out that a gathering of 30 School Principals is not Justin's kind of party. Too many rulers taps as a child, I would guess.

Luckily, the weather played a perfect host to this gathering of amazing folks. Most of them come from farm schools in the area, small institutions that take it upon themselves to educate all those who would otherwise go untended. Though I do not know the state of all the schools in the district, the farm school at the end of our property is a true testament to the singular dedication of its helmsman. Although only a small, basic building, the principal has painted the walls with bright murals that liven up the otherwise barren plot of land. The children of all the farmhands in our immediate vicinity attend the school, and they are a historically neglected bunch. Poverty has kept these children from school for much of South Africa's recent history, and these schools are the necessary first step towards providing a more universal or at least accessible education.

A truly inspirational group of people, I wish they could have left business behind and stayed for a glass of wine! I wanted to pick their brains for stories, but I guess that will have to wait for another day.

As a closing note: breaking news on the case of the undergarments. They are not yet found. Turns out that the maid did not bring them back to her house and says, rightly, that I never actually handed her the bag. Desperation is slightly mounting, but no panic yet.

The Dual Disasters

As part of my next blog about Highlands Road, I thought I would introduce a little excitement. Here is an introduction to the dual disasters that have befallen me on the farm and that are unfolding as we speak...

First Disaster: The damn dam

We enter this drama/disaster a media res, that is to say that this misfortune is inherited and has been the sad lot of Highlands Road Estate for the past two months. Though I'm not quite sure why the dam construction began or the exact reason for the dam nuisance, all I know is that the normal entrance to the estate is in a rubble pile at the bottom of the dam ditch. What does this mean-- one, the deli has been closed for over a month now, and two, the only entrance left to us goes over the dirt road around the bend and through our neighbor's property.

Which brings me to event one in the dam saga: unable to use the normal entrance, a giant truck carrying a full load of chickens to the farm next door got stuck in the mud of the rained-out dirt road. Luckily there were no chicken casualties but our secondary entrance was filled with chicken squacks and molting chicken feathers for the remainder of the morning. A small happening in the life of the valley but quite an event for all of us who saw a jack-knifed chicken truck in the middle of the road. How often do you get to see a whole load of chickens askew?

Second Disaster: The case of the missing undies

Being here in the valley, one sometimes forgets that you are in Africa. That is why I need moments like this to remind me that, indeed, I am still on the continent where anything can happen and a laid-back, adjustable attitude is not just advisable, but necessary for your survival.

I got up this morning realizing that I was overdue in the laundry and had almost nothing clean to wear. Desperate, I headed over to the Hoy's where I was more than a little bit relieved to meet the woman who does the cleaning for the house. Though she speaks Afrikanns and Koza and I speak only English, I was pretty sure that my lunatic hand gestures of washing were delivered in a common language. So, I leave the bag filled with my clothes (of which I have very few as I am still living out of the small duffle I brought for my days in Malawi) by the kitchen and head down to the tasting room.

I come back in the afternoon to see no clean clothes anywhere and ask Mary. She too has not seen my bag. Further inspection reveals that the clothes are neither in the washing room or on the line or in Emily's room. My clean clothes, for which I can't emphasize enough that I am DESPERATE (seeing as how they contain my full store of undergarments) have disappeared. Theory one is that the maid thought that my cleaning gestures were, in fact, my non-verbal way of offering a gift. Mary says she will phone tomorrow to try and retrieve the invaluable undergarment bag, we will see what develops.

For now, I have little hope that I will ever see those precious undies again, but the updates will persist as breaking news hits the scene.

And so it begins...win

Pinch. Yes, this is my new life and this is where I will be living for the next nine months.

Perhaps I should backtrack. I have just moved into Elgin Valley, a historically fruit growing region of South Africa about one hour from Cape Town, an hour from Stellenbosch (the Napa of the SA wine industry), and twenty minutes from the coast. According to my preliminary assessments, there are about 10 people close to my age that live in this valley full time-- of those I have met about 3, all of them guys. I am told that there is a girl my age working at the local school, but up to now, I'm just going on what others have said, but have yet to meet an Elgin 20-something girl in the flesh. So, yes, I have landed myself firmly into farming country, my granddad would be proud! Besides being the home of Appletizer (a famous sparkling apple drink famous everywhere but the US) this is a fantastic boutique wine growing region whose cool climate makes it ideal for Sauvignon Blancs and Pinot Noirs. More wine credentials to come... suffices to say that this is no ordinary farming valley, it is home to some of South Africa's finest winemakers and, though I'm obviously biased, finest wine farms. Given this, there is the greatest mix of traditional farmers and your wine gurus, a fascinating mix of high-brow society with the salt of the earth.

The first question everyone who hears my American accent here asks is invariably, "how the hell did you end up here in Elgin Valley?" Valid question, and probably the next place to start. That I came to Malawi for medical work, went on Safari with my family, came to the Western Cape and just couldn't leave this place seems a bit of a cheap response, but so true. Coming into South Africa brought back memories of Napa-- some of my best memories to date-- and coming to Elgin brought back memories of tours around the Santa Cruz mountains with our informal Stanny wine tasting group (thinking of you Claire, Nids, X and Mariana!) So, I went on the internet to look for job openings here, found Justin's posting for someone with marketing experience, shot off a resume AND a month, a trip out to Elgin and a move from Stellenbosch later-- here I am.

At this moment, as I write this blog, I am sitting in our tasting room overlooking the dam, a glass of Rosé in hand to finish off my day. "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay" just came on and I'm thinking two things-- how exactly did I get here and Damn. Wish you all were beside me so here is a picture of exactly what I'm looking at. Imagine yourself beside me on the couch, a wine glass in hand, nod your head three times and you will be here with Otis Redding and I, finishing off another day on the farm.