Quiz Night #2

Triumph.

For the March Quiz night, James was my partner and brought me from dead last to first place. Victory has never tasted so sweet, (especially since the prize was a collection of dark chocolate truffles.) Also, it must be said, that the section we dominated was "Top Chef." In this particular section, you had to taste cheeses, then chocolate bars, and then a custard and identify types, brands and ingredients. Glad to know that we both fully value our commercial candy bars.

South African Roads and Visas, aka hell

And thus ends my day of South African beaurocracy and automotive stupidity.

I am fully convinced, now, that some people will perish in the lead up to the world cup. It's not as you would think—that people will fall prey to crime and/or violent, nationalistic fanaticism—it comes down to the simple problem of South African conceptions of car speed and consular matters.

Car speed: On my way out of Cape Town today I witnessed two very near traffic disasters. The first, involved a closing of lanes that the driver was alerted to only 10 feet beforehand. No signs had been erected to warn the driver that the 3-lane, major highway was pairing down to two

lanes. There was a man waving a red traffic flag, but by the time you caught sight of him, you were already pretty much in your neighbors lane. Screeches all around, but miraculously, especially given the state of most vehicles here, the people managed to accommodate this spontaneous lane shift and slam to a stop.

Relieved to have missed this close call, the cars were chugging along again, at a comfortable cruising speed, very aware of the red cones and the closed lane on the right, when the screech of burning rubber filled the air once again. Immediately in front, the bulldozer that had been working in the closed off-lane, decided to take off across the two open lanes of traffic, (that were almost up to full speed at that point.) The bulldozer was literally jackknifed across these lanes, just watching as the traffic splayed to avoid hitting his giant digging machine.

The funniest thing about this situation was you look at the guys on the side of the road, flabbergasted, and they look back at you with a look of utter blankness, unable to believe that there could be anything wrong with the way that they are sagely directing traffic. And in some ways that is probably true, they really don't understand where their automotive choreography has turned disastrous.

Over the large highways in the country, there are major over-crossings for pedestrians contained by a metal fencing all the way around. People continually wonder why, if these safe, convenient modes of crossing exist, you still see many people chancing their luck to run across 6 busy lanes of traffic. I used to balk at the people's fool-hardy irrationality until I heard a dual explanation that made me blush at my prior judgement. First, many of these bridges are patrolled by thugs, and just like your proverbial troll on the bridge, they exact high tolls for crossing. Secondly, and more pertinent to my recent experience, many of these people have never, ever ridden in a motor vehicle. They know that a vehicle goes faster than they can run, but they just can’t quite conceptualize the magnitude of the speed increase. So when they see cars barreling down the highway, they think that the mechanical boxes can stop as easily and as quickly as a human running at full speed.

This, I would say, is part of the explanation for the flagrant lack of preplanning for the road construction. It is quite possible that some of the guys, namely the guys in charge of sporting the flags, don’t fully comprehend the distance needed for a car to come to a full stop. As the ultimate manifestation of this incomprehensibly lax attitude, as I was leaving the work zone, I saw one of the other flag guys… asleep, under the bridge, with his warning signal draped languidly over his stomach. Great safety precaution he is!

Consular matters: I can and will complain a bit, but to be honest, the South African Home Affairs isn't that much worse than your usual consular service. Much, much dicier and less organized, but certainly no worse. So perhaps that is an over dramatization to say some may perish in these matters of state, but this place is hectic, perhaps even hectic enough to give certain predisposed people a frustration-induced heart murmur.

First off, when you walk into the South African Home Affairs office, you are dealing with a real diaspora. The guy in front of me was from Angola, in back of me from India, and then all around were those hailing from African countries as far north as Ethiopia and as far west as Ghana. Like I said, the people were all nice, but the system was hopeless. There were no tracking systems, no queues, and no numbers, so the only way to keep your spot in line was to shimmy your way up the seats in a sort of consular musical chairs. It was quite comical; every time someone went up to be served, 4 whole rows of people would simultaneously rise up and slide over one seat to assume their new waiting position.

Despite inefficiencies and inconveniences, it all worked out. After a full three hours of seat-shifting my way to the front, I was finally able to leave with my receipt in hand. As I was leaving this place of mayhem, the one thought that kept occurring to me was-- Thank God I didn’t go through here when my visa was expired. Everyone was very pleasant, but I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to be on the wrong side of that line, the slightly dilapidated room seemed as if it could have had any number of dicey containment cells branching from it...

"Cool" Wine Tasting Group

Remember long ago, in those foregone days of yesteryear, when I wrote one of my first blog entries about a Champagne tasting in the valley? I described the seriousness of the setting, the carrying cases of the tasters, and the inordinately expensive bottles of bubbly. Well now, almost 5 months later, I have just attended my second "Cool Wine Tasting Group" event, and though the element of erudition and fuddy-duddy remains, this time around, it was a whole new ball game at which I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

The first glaring difference that made this time unique to that tasting long ago, was that I finally know the others in the group. I can still remember walking into that first tasting, and feeling that I was 10 years too young and 10 shades too green to take part in this very classy affair. Almost all the other participants were (and are) wine producers in the valley, and I felt like like the impostor/oddity who didn't deserve to sit at this "insiders'" table. This time around, however, the intimidation factor was gone and people were no longer their brands, but themselves. While I accept that I am much younger and more ignorant in the typical "wine-schooling" way, I felt at home with my Valley neighbors, (many of whom are my friends parents.)

The second positive alteration arose from the tastings' location, which, conveniently, was Highlands Road Estate. While there was clearly the home-y factor and the home-court advantage, our farm also created an indisputably relaxed vibe that cut through the normal snobbery of the event. Mary did a serve-your-own dinner with delicious olive/caper/prune chicken and cous cous followed by a cheese platter, all of which lent the feeling of a casual french garden supper, (thank you Mathé,) tasty and elegant, but without any great fuss.

The third unique aspect, and probably the most important, was the way the tasting itself was run. Unlike before, where at the end of each flight everyone had to go around the table and rate the wine from 1-2o, (from which a spreadsheet was made analyzing the overall numeric averages to determine the "best" wines from the tasting,) this time around, the guy presenting simply asked to raise your hand to vote for whichever wine was your favorite. In my mind this is an infinitely better system. The only wines that matter are the ones you love, and there is just no need to assign arbitrary numbers to mediocrity just to show that you can differentiate between a 13 1/2 and 15.2 wine, (which, of course, in reality, you can't.)

This tasting also just proved that any dumb plebian can get lucky and become a "wino" for the night; after all, when the stars align... anything is possible... The fun challenge of the first flight was to match each of the five wines with the 5 main wine regions of France: Alsace, Loire, the South, Burgundy and Bordeaux. Pretty confident that I had NO idea which wine came from where, I decided, hell, I might as well just go for it. Knowledge be damned, by pure chance, when the regions were revealed, I had managed to slot all five correctly. Given my admitted geographical/direction incompetence and my true ignorance with French wines, this just goes to show how trivial this "wine knowledge" can be; if I could get it right, then ANYONE could. I think the trick was, quite simply, that I didn't care. I knew I was doomed, didn't really care what anyone else thought, and committed to simply enjoying the wine, not tasting for an answer. If I smelled something like Eucalyptus or a fresh bread roll, fine. I wasn't trying to prove that "x" or "y" existed in the wine, I was just coming up with personal associations so that I could come back to wines, differentiate between them, and, ultimately, find my favorite. From now on that is how I will do every tasting-- for myself and myself alone.

On this note, it was a pleasure to be able to sip on such fantastic wines, and I was able to find some real favorites. Normally shy of French wines, (as a usual proponent of the "new world" style,) this was a really unique opportunity for me to sample the variety that France has to offer. From the Alsace riesling to the Loire Chenin,

(which was from Vouvray, a wine region I visited with Mathé and Gérald,) there was so much more than the big oakey chardonnays that I have come to expect from France. Throughout the wines, there

was a funkiness that came through, one that you simply don't get in the new world wines. The noses on these things were amazing-- anywhere from a sort of metal or charcoal to a mint or nettle. You kept feeling like you were either in a workshop or a barnyard, and yet, you wanted to be there. These strange noses somehow seemed exciting and natural, and, surprisingly, weren't incongruent when it came down to the tasting. My favorites were the 07 Huet Vouvray Le Mont Sec and the Chateau 06 Olivier Sauv Blanc (Bourdeaux,) not that I will be able to remember those long-name toungue-twisters down the line. It turns out that I really disliked the Burgundy Chardonnay in this line up and the Southern France Grenache Blanc, both too heavy and weighty for me.

Building off the Burgundian Chard from this regional flight, the second flight dove into one region to provide 5 examples of Burgundian "excellence." Since I've never been a chardonnay fan, and I really disliked the Burgundian chardonnay from the first flight, I was pretty confident that I might was well chunk out all of these next wines. How wrong I was! Turns out that the two Burgundian wines that finished off the tasting were probably two of my favorite whites that I have ever tasted. Once again to prove how much crock normally enters into these overly self-aware and self-concious tastings, right after the second flight had been poured, one of my neighbors exclaimed loudly, "number two is the best, undoubtedly the flagship of the group." Though no one outwardly responded, it was clear that everyone had heard his authoritative comment and was making a note to themselves that in case of uncertainty, go for #2 as a sure bet of quality. The poor young Aussie sitting next to me, who has just arrived in Elgin, was pointedly asked only a minute later, by the self-same man, which was his favorite wine of the four. Not surprisingly, the poor boy responded that #2 was far and away the best, what else could he do? Then, as an extension of this little interaction, when the tasting concluded and a show of hands was requested to show personal favorites, over 70% of the people voted for #2. Turns out it was my 3rd choice wine of the group, so I and one other voted for the wine #4. Nothing wrong with the consensus, and it is possible that everyone truly thought #2 was the best, (it was made in a more new-world style which would be the most familiar to everyone present,) but does make you wonder how much of it is just trying to vote for the "right one."

Surprisingly, my favorites of this grouping were by far the most old-world of the lot. I always thought that I liked the new world styles, but these wines had a funk to them that was simply amazing-- I've never tasted anything like these. Probably my favorite was Jayer Gilles, which comes from a random part of Burgundy. Nestled in the hills above, these vines are separated from mainstream Burgundy by a huge forest. This specific location is a lot cooler than the rest of Burgundy below, a fact which allowed the wine maker to do a blend instead of a straight Chard, (a reason I probably liked it a lot better.) But I'm telling you, this wine was something else, with one of the most interesting noses I have ever found on a wine. My other favorite, and more of the archetypal Burgundian Chardonnay, was the Lequin-Colin Charlemagne Grand Cru. I hate it when I have expensive taste, (I much prefer it when my preferences correspond with a camper's pocketbook,) but in this case it was unavoidable.

Grand Crus are always a pain in the pocketbook and this one was no different, coming in at around R900 a bottle. Still, to be perfectly honest, for what you're getting in this, it had more personality, verve and lingering potential than any Napa wine I've tried at the same price (which certainly isn't a lot but...) While a lot found this wine too young and not yet "integrated" I thought it was fantastic-- so, so unique and what it lacked in "integration" or "balance" it more than made up for with a singular spunk that, one day, could turn into a most incredibly unique and perfect wine for all those stuck on structure. Sometimes I like a little fault in my wine, I look for the subtly weird, different, and unusual, and this wine had it all for me.

So what is my overall take-away from the tasting? I need to get myself over to France and give this place another try, and I really really like prune/caper/olive chicken. Yum...

Constantia Fresh

Setting the standard of what an industry show should be, Constantia Fresh is, undoubtedly, the coolest wine show that I have ever attended. Set on the lawns of Buitenverwachting, (one of South Africa's most famous wine estates, located in the middle of Constantia,) it was a cool, casual event that showcased the best of South Africa's Sauvignon Blanc to the best of South Africa's Sauvignon Blanc.

When I showed up on Saturday, I was impressed by the array of farms taking part in this show. Primarily from Durbanville, Constantia, Elgin and Hermanus, the event attracted undoubtedly the top Sauvingon Blanc producers in the country

along with a sprinkling of compatriots from New Zealand and France. The name of the show was Constantia Fresh: For the Love of Sauvignon Blanc, and the whole day was geared towards showcasing this singularly celebrated South African varietal. Using the specific and specialized platform of Sauvignon Blanc allowed the show to take on a unique air of industry knowledge, passion and experience. People came because they really wanted to know more about Sauvignon Blanc and the producers came because of their passion for the grape. Where as usually for these shows, you get underlings that come and pour for the "bigger guys," almost every wine farm was represented by the owner, the wine maker or both. On the Elgin table, virtually every wine farm was represented by their owner, and even Paul Cluver, known for never wanting to be caught dead at a wine show, was pouring happily away.

The intimate involvement of the wine farms created a very convivial intra-industry vibe that allowed winemakers to share the best of their crop with people who would truly appreciate it. In this spirit, winemakers pulled out their private reserves for the tasting, bringing out truly unique wines that they usually hold back for themselves and special guests. While the array of wines were truly impressive, some definite standouts for me were the 2002 and 2003 Newton Johnson Sauvignon Blanc and Diemerdersdal's eight blocks. The first from Hermanus and the second from Durbanville, I had never gotten to try these famed Sauvignon Blanc houses and they certainly lived up to their behemoth reputation. The kiwis were also a nice surprise and offered up something very different from the rest, but, at the end of the day, if truth be told, my heart still was caught up in the Elgin wines. Though I'm clearly biased, there is just something about the wines in this valley, some subtlety, elegance and soft pizazz that has me hooked!

And I'm not alone in this estimation; the Elgin table proved to be a stand-out attraction throughout the day. There were six Elgin Valley vineyards represented-- Highlands Road, Elgin Valley Vineyards, Iona, Paul Cluver and Oak Valley-- and they represented the greatest number of labels from any one region. This concentration of fantastic wine farms truly made an impression on people, and the crowds were eager to finally get to sample the "buzz" of Elgin. For the whole of the show, the "Elgin" table was filled with curious wine enthusiasts and our corner of the lawn remained the busiest stretch of green all day long.

As much as we appreciated the crowd's response, I also believe everyone at the Elgin table equally relished the chance to share this experience with their neighbors. There truly is a comaraderie that exists in the valley, and I think that people enjoyed the set-up, when it was just the producers shooting the shit, as much as they enjoyed the show itself. Part of this intimacy stems from the size of the valley, (in which the other producers truly are your neighbors,) but part of it also stems from the nature of Elgin's reputation. In the past few years, Elgin has rapidly been gaining recognition as the up-and-coming-top-wine-region, and people quickly realized that the more great wine farms that are in the area, the more the Elgin name gets put on the map. In this way, we have a unique business scenario in which both coordination and teamwork are rewarded. Everyone benefits from everyone else's excellence, and, since Elgin's repute is our own, the more attention and buzz we can draw to the valley, (by pointing to the superb quality of wines all across the area,) the better it is for us all.

While the wines were certainly the attraction of the evening, the quality of the food was not to be undersold. Each of the regional wine tables were set up to include a chef in the middle who was offering food pairings. From sauteed scallop on a half oyster shell, to plum drizzled duck, to sesame crusted trout and scallion squares, the food was phenomenal and offered a fantastic complement to and respite from the endless row of wines. All of these tasters, however, proved only to be a prelude, as the big picnic at the end rolled out onto center stage. The night culminated in a large BBQ that provided endless fillets of Beef, grills of brats and skewers of fish. Showgoers and exhibitors alike lined up to fill their plates, and then all headed to the grass to enjoy the delicious spread with a glass of wine. The atmosphere was completely relaxed as people lounged on the lawn, and a live band provided the perfect acoustic accompaniment to an already sublime evening.

All in all, Constantia Fresh was one of the most amazing wine events I have ever been to; when the night came to an end, it was all I could do to pack up, jump in the car and leave this little Sauvignon Blanc Eden.

Lost in Elgin

I am quite used to being lost, an unavoidable consequence of my having been being born without a sense of direction. I am also quite used to being lost in Elgin, an unavoidable consequence of living in meandering farmland. But, last night was a truly unique moment in the “direction”-less life of Molly Tokaz.

I had been invited to come to the Wallis’ farm for a braai because they had two English medical students visiting. Knowing how difficult finding these farms at night can be, I received double, even triple playbacks of the turn by turn directions. Past Galilelo then Pink Lady then it’s the right turn to Carmel farm…. I surprisingly knew all the markers they were referring to, and I was fairly confident that this could be my one triumph in valley navigation.

So, following the directions, I turned at Carmel and headed up the road to this fantastic, hacienda style house. There were big intricately wrought iron gates and two giant dogs contained there-in that announced my arrival. Next thing I know, a man with a snow white pony tail comes to the gate—certainly not my desired host, Paul Wallis, who is a big, jovial, Irish farmer. I tried to ask him about the Wallis’ but there was a thick accent impeding our conversation. Curious about the lilt in his voice, I asked where he was from and he responded, "Italia, Roma." I was quite surprised by this response, I was pretty sure that I would have heard about an Italian living in the valley, especially one that lived only 4 or 5 farms away. I would have thought this nationalistic anomaly would warrant some sort of gossip...

And when I say he was Italian, he was REALLY Italian. In typical, shifty, Italian fashion, the first thing he said to me was “ooo…. American accent. So sexy on a women.” Then, after a few moments of chatting, he politely told me he had to go because he had a pot of pasta cooking on the stove. I was next expecting him to jump in his ferrari, flip some pizza dough, and call out to some guy named Mario to shine his italian leather loafers. He made me promise to come back for a cappucino, which, if his coffee is anywhere as strong as his accent, is a pretty good idea. Great to know stock characters abound in this valley: first, Aussie Bob, and now, Italiano Franco.

Having left little Italy, I headed to the next entrance, also Carmel. My confidence dwindled quickly, though, when I saw the main road fork into three, equally plausible routes. Trying my luck, I choose the far left until I arrived at a large white house. Once again, a troop of dogs alerted the house-owners to my arrival, and once again a man I'd never seen emerged with a quizzical look on his face. (Not many farms get random 8pm visits...) Luckily, he said that I was almost in the right place, and that the Wallises were his next-door neighbors. So, I pulled my 10th U-ey of the night and headed back down the middle path. The first place I saw, though, had a closed gate and looked to be empty. Thinking I was wrong, again, I flipped another 3 point turn and descended past this house into orchards. Much to my chagrin, the neighbor heard my aimless driving and came to fetch me on his 4x4. (Another advantage to being in the country- it's quiet enough for people to hear you when you get ridiculously lost.) So, led by my knight on a 4x4, I was literally taken up to the gate and led to the very entrance of the house.

While farm navigation at night is clearly not my forté, the confusion is definitely worth the crazy introductions and interactions.

Oh, and as far as the braai goes, the food was amazing, but the Englishman was an infuriating, irritating bit of pomposity. As only a Brit can do, he carried on for most of the dinner alternating between stories of his greatness, admiration for the UK, and mockery of the US. He literally said, the problem with America is that it thinks what happened 60 or 100 years ago is history. I responded that the problem with the UK is their history stops 234 years ago, when they were still a victorious nation. I, too, would want to forget the last 100 years of power-slippage if I were a British "historian;" it's what we call "selective-memory."

Grape Picking

Over my time here, I have become increasingly self-conscious of my Tom-Sawyer, fence-painter syndrome. No matter what it is on the farm, all someone has to do is hand me the paintbrush and I will spend the rest of my day doing someone else's hard labor. So, just as it was with plum picking, I took to the fields this week with unusual pep and excitement to start the grape picking. While everyone around me viewed this as a laborious chore, I was more than thrilled to lend my hand to work in the fields.

To begin, grape picking is infinitely more glamorous than plum picking. Unlike with plums, there are no picker "purses" that you have to awkwardly lug around as the harvest weight pulls you down. Instead of having to sling the nylon picking satchel, in the vineyard you simply move a little crate from stalk to stalk.

Second, you don't have to worry about bruising grapes. No matter what pressure you exert on the grapes, it is is nothing compared to the extreme amount of roughness the bunches are subjected to in the press. You can hardly do the squash-ready grapes any harm, and, what's more, a little bit of jostling probably just tenderizes the fruit for the impending juice extraction. With the plums, you had to worry about bruising; with the grapes, you are footloose and fancy free!

As a third accolade for the grapes: when picking, every little cluster counts. Where as you have to cherry pick plums according to specifications of size, color and texture, all grape clusters are good grape clusters. In plum picking, only about 1/5 of your picks are selected for sale into the supermarkets whereas with grapes, virtually 100% of your picks end up in the bottle-- a very satisfying thing indeed.

This leads to the last extreme advantage that grape picking has over plum picking-- the final product. No matter how you cut it, plums picked for a fruit basket will never be as romantic as grapes plucked for wine. There is something exciting and even empowering knowing that what you're picking provides the first step in the winemaking process and that your simple fruit contributions form the organic foundation for Bacchus' elixir. Even the smell of the grapes lends to this feeling of direct romanticism; the juice of the grapes leaves a sweetly pungent aroma on your hands that I can't help but associate with the cellar.

Invigorated with the uniqueness of the grape harvest, I was to undergo an evolutionary initiation into the world of the pickers. On the first day, I was the complete oddity in the vines, the temporary fixture that fascinated and burdened the workers in equal measure. The pickers felt they had to take care of me, and, for every stalk I approached, there was one person who proceeded me, thinning the vine foliage to reveal the clusters beneath; one or two across from me supporting my shears; and one who followed me, moving my crate along the vines. I felt like the silly molly-coddled American who wants to "pick" but doesn't want to actually break a sweat. By the second day, my entourage had been cut in 1/3 and though I still had someone who moved my crate when it was full, I was responsible for the slow transport of the

crate from stalk to stalk. Though improved, I still had one guy, a young man named Anele, who would appear randomly throughout the day, with a huge smile on his face, clear off all the leaves in my path. While I felt I was becoming less of a burden, shedding one of my entourage, it was clear that I was still being "indulged." Finally, though, when I arrived on my third day in the vineyard, I felt a change beginning to unfold. I could feel the slow but sure transition from "fixture in the fields" to "member of the picking squad." Not only was I left to thin my own vines and carry my own crate, I even gleaned a picking partner who remained with me for the whole day. It was here, when I finally had my picking "mate," that I got to glimpse the coordinated satisfaction of the vine tango. One of us took up residence on each side of the stalk, and, as the day progressed, our picking developed an unflagging rhythm and silent cooperation. As we worked our way down the rows in tandem, we would stop only long enough to snip the hard to reach spots for our "mate" across the way. In this way you began to anticipate where those cross-over bunches would be, anticipating your partner's need, so that you could swoop in, unasked, for that unique snippet angle to ease their picking burden.

By the end of three days, our Sauvignon Blanc harvest was finished, but I have to say that I was not disappointed in the least. While my interest never flagged, picking is EXHAUSTING EXHAUSTING work and I was happy to be done. On friday, to celebrate the end of the SB harvest, Justin invited all the boys to the deck for a glass of Rosé. Here are some of boys in all their glory! (Freddie, Anele, Chokies, and Emen-- sorry for the spelling!)

Bob Watch #5: Cupid's Walking Shoes

As a wizened and weathered traveler, Bob scoffs at the idea of Romance. Roses and ponies are the trinkets of the more sedentary, but for the minimalist Aussie, only the necessary makes the journey. Thusly, it was not too surprising that when I brought up Valentines Day on Thursday, Bob snorted and made some comment about the commercialized waste of this "business holiday."

While I understand his view of this Cadbury/Hallmark day, this conception doesn't quite fly when you have a little lady sitting at home-- which Bob does. I have waited to divulge this detail of Bob's life until there was an equally romantic story to couch it in, but good 'ol Aussie Bob is dating our closest farm neighbor, a woman aptly named Bobby. Bobby lives right above our farm, in a small cottage, literally a herculean stones throw from Bob’s own house. A divorcé, she moved into the valley only about a year ago and Bob and her have been dating ever since. Every night, at about 6 pm on the dot, we hear Bob’s truck sidling up the pot-marked dirt road to the top of the hill where Bobby lives. Once there, Bobby fixes a dinner for the two of them, which they share until about 9 pm, at which point we hear Bob's truck retracing it's tracks to his cottage down below.

Though the actual state of their relationship is unknown to me-- sometimes there are substantial lapses in the nightly, dinner routine-- I was fairly confident that Bobby did not share Bob’s blasé Valentines sentiments. So, for about 20 minutes after Bob's Valentines comments, I prodded, nudged and lectured Bob on his call to duty for this particular holiday. I informed him that, though he may see Valentines as fruitless and frilly, she certainly didn’t, and it was his prerogative to use this day to show her that he cared.

I was pretty sure that my lecturing had fallen on deaf ears. Though Bob is a softy, he is also first and foremost the stoic, worldly Aussie. So, imagine my surprise when I walked into the office on Friday to hear Bob mumbling under his breath something about Valentines Day.

When I asked Bob what he was talking about, he sheepishly replied that he was booking two spots for the romantic, four-course Valentines lunch that we are having at Highlands. I ran up, gave him a huge hug, and told him that he was a regular Valentines Don Juan.

That night, Bobby also came over for summer sundowners. Bob was not only showered, with slicked back hair, but he had put on a shirt without holes, (something truly rare for Bob,) and jeans (which I didn't even know he owned.) In other words, in Bob speak, he had brought out the whole shebang. My conclusion: the romantic in Bob has finally emerged and Cupid has hung up his walking shoes.

Quiz Night Solidarity

As an odd bit of continuity from my life in Boulder, Quiz Night has been resurrected in the Valley, except that the Wednesday night pub venue in Colorado has been swapped for a Tuesday night vineyard in South Africa. Minor difference, really.

Of all the hidden little gems of the Valley-- spinning classes, Wednesday night rugby happy hours, book clubs, art societies-- this might top the list in terms of both originality and notoriety. Joris and Natalie, the owners of a BEAUTIFUL winery called Almenkerk have made the monthly quiz night into quite a fixture on the valley calendar. While the purpose is purportedly a bit of jeopardy, the night almost always ends with people going down the fire-pole in their cellar. This is in large part due to one of the central traditions of the night, everyone brings their own bottle of wine. In a place where most people are in the wine business, the chance to have wine from another vineyard is never taken lightly. People load up on other winemaker's goods, slightly fatigued of their own stock, which is always within arms reach. Lately, the enjoyment of the Valley wine got to such a state that people not only slid down the fire-pole, they hosted a competition to see who could shimmy up it.

Now don't think that this little bit of wine-induced mayhem keeps people from taking the business of the quiz very seriously. People in the valley can multi-task, and as serious as they are about their wine, they are equally serious about all other methods of, ahem, intellectual expansion? Maybe not, but I do know that it takes each "quiz master" at least 6 hours to write these questions and, from someone on the losing team, they are flipping difficult. This most recent quiz was written by a guy named Chris and contained around 50 questions with tangential google answers, (the one's you have to go to the third page of "page hits" to find.) The categories ranged from History and Geography to Songs to Sports to Name That Billionaire, (a section I was particularly abysmal at.) I was on a team with Shereez and Liesel, and though we all complemented each-other with diverse knowledge, we didn't culminate in an ultimate wisdom. Sad but true, we ended with a cumulative score of 14. The winning score was 22 1/2.

What was particularly cool about this quiz night, though, was that it acted as a moment of renewal after a weekend of nightmarish proportions. The Almenkerks woke up on Saturday to find a fire descending on their vineyard. There have been a couple of terrible fires raging in the hills these past few weeks, but this was the first to descend upon a nearby vineyard. The conflagration seems to have spontaneously erupted, and the authorities still have no idea where the flames originated.

However, from every tragedy arises a pheonix of hope, and it took this calamity to showcase the true beauty of Elgin Valley. Within minutes of the fire, neighbors had descended onto the

farm from the furthest corners of the Valley. Everyone had brought their tractors, water pumps, or just themselves, whatever they could find to help fight the flames. I'm very sad that I wasn't here to see the Valley at it's best, to see all the neighbors converging upon Almenkerk in a mass of farmer solidarity. I do like to imagine the swarm of buckies, coming from all the branching farms, kicking up dust clouds on the dirt roads, rushing to the dam with an open trunk carrying a water pump of their own device.

All in all, I believe about 15% of the vines were lost, a tough loss indeed but far from the catastrophic numbers that could have been sustained. What the farm will have to worry about now is smoke damage. The remaining 85% of the vines were engulfed in smoke throughout the fire-fighting process, and there is real fear about what that means for the grapes. Such delicate fruit, grapes soak in flavors from all around them, and smokiness is not typically a characteristic that you look for in Sauvignon Blanc. Everyone in the Valley is really pulling for the Almenkerks, but the real damage will only be revealed come picking day.

Bob Watch #4: Nightmares

Bob just popped in, or, more accurately materialized at the side of my couch.

After his typical, "How's it Molls," he said something truly memorable, even by Bob standards.

"The worst dream i ever had was that Dolly Parton was my mother and I was only bottle-fed. Worst bloody night of my life."

Thank you Bob, now I have nightmares all my own.

But undoubtedly one of the greatest things about Bob, besides his lack of verbal filter, is the complete paradox of his comments-- one minute he is bar-room chap, the next he is philosophizer, and the next he is my concerned granddad. You can laugh uninhibitedly at a comment like that, because you know that, in the end, Bob is the most harmless softy of them all. His crassness is just Aussie bravado, but underlying it all is the sensitive grandfather who never got to be...

Shortly after the Dolly stint, I went to go have a coffee with Bob. As I had said, no one has really talked to me about Luwatha since his death. The event has been shrouded in saddened silence, but Bob turned the tide and was able to open up freely about the man. Remaining true to memory and avoiding glorification, Bob started by saying simply that Luwatha was "the best of them." Luwatha never smoked and never drank in a community that relishes both, and he was a father of three who never skimped on a day's work. When I asked if Luwatha had been a leader of sorts, I think Bob gave him the greatest tribute of all by saying "no," a refutation that recalled the man and not some extolled version of him.

He said that far from leading, Luwatha lived a life on the outskirts as a bit of a loner. Something in the way Bob talked about the man's isolation made you feel a respectful closeness that must have existed between the two. From Bob, there was an understanding of this simple, reliable man, who, in many ways, probably fringed his society in the same way that Bob has for years. Bob respected Luwatha for who he was-- a solid, even-keeled guy who never worked himself to death, never pushed the envelope, but was constant to the end-- and when all is said and done, this man of quiet stoicism had touched his life. Before he left, Bob looked down with his clear blue eyes and slowly shook his head: "shame, such a bloody shame."

Like I said, Bob is the greatest softy of them all. If only he had had a little grandchild to bless with his stories and his wisdom...

Tragedy Befalls Highlands

I came in from a trip to Cape Town yesterday to find the whole vineyard enshrouded in the proverbial dark cloud. Dismal expressions rattled every face and all eyes were trained on the ground. I was unfortunately late for our PR meeting, so it wasn't until over an hour later that I heard the source of all of this adumbration.

It came as quite a shock when Justin said, by way of explanation, that one of the workers had just died. This initial news was a jolt, and I struggled to get a handle on the situation by grasping for the facts. In response to my inquiries I received a jumble of details-- he was given sugar water, he was at the doctors, he had heart palpitations-- but everyone was in such a chaotic place of grief that no coherent story arose. As often happens in these cases, the mortal confusion of death had truncated the story and obscured the facts in a dismal shadow. It was only today, a full 24 hours later, that the events began to come together.

The man who passed away was named Luwatha. Though the tragedy obviously touches us all, (as he was a member of the Highlands Road clan,) this dolor falls particularly close to home, as he was permanent staff, both in the cellar and in the vineyards. Yesterday morning, he went into the hospital with intense pains, and by afternoon he had died. The first I heard was that he had a chest infection, then a heart attack-- both of which seemed dubious explanations-- but I just heard from Justin that it was an aneurism. Beyond this medical diagnosis, I am still pretty much in the dark. The shock and the pain seem a bit too recent, and no one is ready to talk about it; I will have to wait for the information to sift down as time passes. I don't even know if there is a memorial service or if there will be one...

What I do know, however, is that I am left with a singular feeling of desperate responsibility. Though it is absolutely no one's fault, there is still this lingering sensation that, in some way, I could have done something. I think most of this feeling of desperation stems from the death occurring in the third world. Though I know an aneurism in any country is deadly in its expediency, I still can't help but wonder if this tragedy could have been avoided in another place. If this were to happen in the first world, would death still have been the ultimate outcome?

Though South African doctors are extremely well trained, (especially for a "third-world" nation,) this strange feeling of guilt intensely echoes an experience my mom and I had in Nepal. On our way out of Mustang, we encountered a small group of hikers who had been forced to abandon their longer trek into the Dolpo Region because of an unexpected fatality in their group. When I asked

what had happened to their compatriot, we were given two completely conflicting explanations: "he died of altitude sickness" and "it happened all of the sudden, one moment he was having trouble breathing, the next he dropped dead." Much like in this occurrence, the line between the malady, the symptom, and the diagnosis was shaky. There was an extreme disjuncture between the observed physical reactions and the supposed explanation, and it made you wonder, if the cause couldn't be determined, was there ever a chance of finding the cure? These are the moments at which you are deeply and ashamedly aware of the blessing and the comfort of having, by chance, been born in the first world. While the scenario is different here, as an aneurism anywhere is likely fatal, you still wonder if he might have survived in an ambulance rich country.

In the end, I am left feeling quite helpless. I don't know what I can do, if anything, to assuage the pain of this situation not just for the family, but for the farm as a whole. To lose someone in such unexpected, rash circumstances affects the community in a peculiar way. Day to day activities take on a decidedly morbid cognizance and undertone, and there just isn't that lightness of life anymore. In time, of course, things revert back to normal, but until then, the wake of disaster is dark and wide indeed.

What's in a Label...

The farm frenzy has recently switched locations, and it is a bit disorienting. The mayhem of the bottling truck, parked out in the front of the cellar, has closed it's doors and packed away, and now the activity has shifted to the back door of the cellar, where the labeling machine hums away. Many of the same nuances of the bottling truck

can be attributed to the labeling line-- the same bottle waltz, the same rhythmic teamwork between the workers, the same constantly mesmerizing clink of bottles-- but somehow there is a different feeling to it all. Everything is vastly simplified in the labeling process, for starters there are no more levers and everything is horizontally driven. Gone are the dip down spouts that fill the individual bottles and the lifts that bring the bottle to it's cap; all is cleaner and simpler. The bottles now have a much shorter runway on which to strut their stuff before they are twirled and slapped with their predetermined label. Life as a wine bottle is hard.

Still, it is quite amazing to see these unfinished, mysterious pieces of craftsmanship emerge as commercial-ready products. There is something intensely intriguing about an un-labeled bottle, but seeing as how un-labeled is un-branded, such things will never last...

A Southern Hen Night

While the phrase is never used in the states, bachelorette parties in South Africa, the UK and most of the rest of the English speaking world are referred to as Hen Nights or Hen dos. Appropriately named if you think about it-- this is the last time that said hen gets out of the coop before she settles in for a long period of egg incubation. So much like the metric system, the logical name "hen do" has been scoffed in the states, but after my experience on Saturday, I fully intend to resurrect this fantastic bride-to-be name along with many of the traditions that go along with it.

The day started innocuous enough. The theme of the evening was to be "Glitter, White Safari," so I headed over to my friend Liesel's to prepare. After exhausting her full supply of glitter powder and glitter stars, we packed up our gifts and headed over to MoFam, the starting place for our hen extravaganza. Arriving, we were greeted by a large green punch bowl and glasses

with special straws. Nothing like starting off your early afternoon with a bit of cream soda concoction.

The first official activity of the party was the bride-to-be dressing. With all the attendees dressed in white, it was our prerogative to make Zaren, dressed all in black, stand out as much as possible. Everyone contributed to the ridiculousness and we ended up with this (see picture to the left.) Thank god Zaren is an amazing sport, she was able to rock the hat, the garter, the shot necklace and all the rest in classy, elegant style, (or at least style...) Not wanting Zaren to feel completely exposed in her conspicuous get-up, we all decided to step up our game with some face paint. Everyone chose a phrase for their cheeks and forehead. There were many different slogans ranging from Wild to Mother of the Bride, but by far the best was "Kaptein." An inspired forehead tattoo, these words came to be the mantra of the night, and every time that Zaren blew her whistle, all the ladies and anyone else who had been taught would yell out in a chorus worthy of admiration, "kaptein." (Also doesn't hurt that this is the chorus of a very famous South African song that I have taken quite a liking to: Kapetein span die seile...)

From here, it was a very steep jaunt down to the bottom of the hill where our chariot

was waiting. Playing on the safari theme, and just to make sure we knew we were still in Africa, Shereez and Tash had organized an overlanding truck to be our transport for the night. As if this high, two decked bush vehicle wasn't eye-catching enough, they expertly adorned all the windows with special, anatomically creative cut-outs and put a giant banner across the back. Definitely the most inspired action of the evening, the banner read "Hot Bride, etc, etc" and also included Zaren's cell phone number. For the rest of the night, we would turn down the music every mile or so to take a call from someone stuck behind our slow, lumbering safari bus. You really couldn't have chosen a better bachelorette for all of this, Zaren was hilarious as the bride-to-be secretariat!

The first stop of the hen-mobile was a little pizza place in a small town called Bot River. Perhaps even more country and back-woods than Elgin, you can imagine the local diners' surprise when a giant safari bus rolled in and 11 girls in varying bachelorette array descended upon the wooden decks of the pizza parlor. I think all of the locals were amused by this band of women, but none as much as the three guys who happened to be occupying the other side of

the deck. Turns out it was one of their birthdays, a visiting Canadian winemaker, and he thought it was a pretty great magic trick to turn their 3 man birthday party into a 14 person all-out bachelorette bash.

Having sufficiently shaken up the pizza place at Bot River, (conveniently and appropriately named the Shunting Shed,) we headed back onto the road to head over the mountain to Hermanus. Certainly larger and more cosmopolitan than Elgin or Bot River, this is still a rather small beach town that largely serves as a weekend getaway for Capetownians. So while it was not quite as shocking to have a bachelorette party in Hermanus, I still wonder how often they get such a spirited group arriving in complete African safari style.

True to my pledge as a participant in the bachlorette party, little else needs to be divulged except to say that we loved Hermanus and I'm pretty sure Hermanus loved us. Except for one last eventful stint on the bus (wink), we spent the rest of the night dancing through the bars and clubs. There is really nothing quite like a giant, impenetrable ring of women in white with a bachelorette twirling in the middle.

All in all what a fantastic night! As often happens with these things, the best times were in the bus transit, when loud music and free-flowing karoake ruled the day. Even when in the clubs or the bars, it was truly being with the girls that made it so fantastic-- the venues just provided us with great music and a big dance floor! What an amazingly singular night, it certainly will be hard to ever top this Hen Do!

Plum Picking

I left the comfort of my lap-top today for a sojourn out in the orchards. Big Grand-dad would have been proud, as this was my first foray into the world of the "harvest." While I like to imagine that I slipped into the folds quite inconspicuously, I'm pretty sure I stuck out like a sore thumb with my pale arms, my novice hands and my american accent.

Jacob, the person in charge of the picking crew, said I looked like I was shopping in the orchards. Everyone has these canvas harvest

bags with a wide strap and a distend-able bottom so that when your satchel is filled, you can unlatch the bottom and let the plums tumble out into the bins. Most of the women and men wear the heavy bags slung over both shoulders or with the straps balanced on their head, (which surprisingly is how the Nepalese bore their harvest burdens,) but I took a slightly different approach. I put the strap on one shoulder, thinking that having one side free would allow me a greater range of movement when reaching for those high-flying plums. What I didn't realize was that this bag posture made the utilitarian bag look more like a personal, casually slung shopping purse. I can only imagine what I must have looked like out there, walking slightly dreamily through the rows, scanning the trees for the big, red plums and then reaching out to place my new picks into my little hip-slung satchel.

However, for all my out-of-place oddity, I absolutely loved spending the day out in the orchards. As with all things new and novel, I was enthralled with the whole process of the picking line; it’s amazing how much we relish what is different. Having spent all my working life behind a computer, doing something physical and present in your surroundings is immensely satisfying. I loved the fuzzy, dusty residue that was left on my hands at the end of the day, and I actually enjoyed the down-ward tug of a full picking bag. How great it is to work with something that has weight and shape!

Apart from the sheer physicality of it, the energy in the orchards was palpable and was like stepping into a different world. Unlike in the winery, where the product is already bottled and labeled, in the field I was working on the ground stage. Everyone with me was a worker on the farm, and it was nice to be in the minority. One of the hardest adjustments for me, when I first got to the Western Cape, was the inverse homogeneity of the people around me. In Malawi, I was normally the only white westerner around, while, in the Cape, I am almost exclusively surrounded by white South Africans. In this country, there are large separations between the cultures-- from the whites to the blacks to the coloreds (the names they use to refer to their own racial/cultural heritages)-- so it was nice, even if for just a moment, to get to sink into another sphere.

Of particular interest in this new world of the farm, was an older woman who led the team in my row. An expert picker, her hands seemed to flit from branch to branch with a speed and assuredness all their own. While I would pick one individual fruit at a time, relying on my sight to find the red in the undergrowth, she would dive into each plant, using her hands to search out the crop. The speed of her picking never faltered, and she seemed to be possessed of an inexhaustible store of meticulous energy. She had the most exquisite face, with crevices and textures of epic story, and I got to wondering how many harvests she had gone through.

For a long time, I fell into step behind her, trying to sink into her measured rhythm. I got to wondering-- what, if anything, does she daydream about?

While the women manned the lower part of the trees, picking the low lying fruit by hand, the men carried ladders to clean off the upper reaches. From top to bottom, man to woman, there is a great sense of humor shared by all the workers, a hilarity which is punctuated by the gender-bifurcation of this picking scheme. The men stand from their ladders, and call out jokes to one another, occasionally stopping to heckle one of the ladies below. They talk about the plum trees as females, and a constant rallying call among the men, when talking about the thickly laden branches, is "get up under those skirts, you never know what surprises you will find."

Like with the women-- who range in age from late teens to late seventies-- there is an amazing mix of the young and old amongst the men. From your weather-worn pickers of the older generation, you have your young fellows who saunter from tree to tree with the ladders jauntily slung over one shoulder. The demarcation in the generations can be seen in their head-ware. Two of my favorite young guys, who were particular "jowlers," wore an All Blacks hat and a NY yankees hat, while one of the most interesting older man wore a hat that he had made out of a springboch-- complete with horns and all. We think the older man may have been a witch doctor, but, even if not, his animalistic headdress was certainly a presence in the vineyard. The stark contrast between this home-spun, indigenous originality and the commercial, globalized baseball caps of the other boys was certainly a visible proof of the gulf that exists between the generations.

All in all, I was enthralled by my time in the orchards. I realize that I have an overly romanticized, reflective account of my time with the plums, but it really was a glimpse into a part of the farm life that had been, hitherto, hidden. At the end of the day, as in Malawi or Nepal, I found that what I took away from this short orchard jaunt was my impressions of the people. Hardworking and all too often care-worn, each seem to hold such a wealth of stories and experiences. Though there is a disappointingly sharp language divide-- they speak Afrikaans which I am only just, just beginning to learn-- there is more than enough in the faces and the interactions to keep the cultural observer utterly entranced.

Lazy Sunday

If you haven't noticed, there has been a big empty spot in my blog for the weekends. Chalk it up to not having very good internet in my little cottage or just not having enough time in front of the computer, but I thought that I would break with tradition and share a snippet from this past weekend.

Sunday was one of the nicest days that I have had in the valley thus far. Elgin's normally relaxed vibe ascended to a whole new level at the Gower's vineyard. Though most of the valley is enwrapped in a country charm, no estate has quite as much carefree charisma as the Gower estate. You drive up to do a tasting and wonder if you have trespassed onto a quaint family farm. The tasting house, (and I purposely used the term "house,") is filled with the an endearing hodge-podge of personal memorabilia that you would expect to find in someone's living room, and you can always expect a tasting to be drawn out to include drop-ins by the whole family. True to the intensely laid-back hospitality of the winery visits, the family put on a sunday afternoon luncheon amongst the trees.

I walked up to the winery not sure what to expect, and was greeted by the sweetest sound of all-- banjo cords raising a southern call. Though South Africa has a wide range of music, it falls decidedly short in the arena of Bluegrass and acoustics. You can imagine my surprise, then, when I heard not just a banjo, but a picked guitar and a harmonica floating on the summer haze. I had to pinch myself for a moment, to make sure that I had not been transported to an oak-filled lawn in Tennessee or thereabouts. The band's name is The Blacksmiths, and they are one of the few bluegrass bands in the country. While I was equally impressed by all, I came to find out that their banjo player is internationally recognized for his adroitness with a finger pick. For the whole of the evening, I was enwrapped in their music, and I kept trading chairs in order to get closer and closer to this transportive four-some.

After the music stopped, I went up to thank them for their playing, and, to be expected, they were thrilled to hear my American accent. I spent the next half an hour with them, going through my library of bluegrass music on the i-phone and discussing the merits of festivals like Strictly Hardly and Telluride. Although, I'm sure they would have preferred a toothless North Carolinian, straight off the slat-wood porch, I think they settled for an overly enthusiastic Texan.

With the amazing soundtrack in place, the mood was set and there was no where for this

party to go but up. The weather cooperated gloriously and there was a dappling of sunshine through the trees along with a cheerily ginger breeze. Big wooden tables had been set up in the small clearing and each was laden with a spread of cured meats, wheels of cheese, fresh bread, home-made spreads, fresh summer salads and, of course, in South African style, plates of freshly braai-ed meats. Suffices to say that this was a pure dionysian retreat-- there was no shortage of food, wine, or fantastic company. Everyone was in a posture of complete adherence and satiated laziness. Slung back over the chairs, people sat with their wide brimmed country hats and let the music and the charm of the afternoon hold sway.

Arriving at 1 pm, I didn't know what to expect, packing up at 8 pm, I didn't want to leave. It was truly one of those glorious days that float by in a perfectly lilting bliss; we watched the sun dip behind the hills wondering where the hours had gone. So, with a short dip in the dam and one last sip of wine, I went on the road home, pleasantly drained by a lazy sunday afternoon.