Wet & Windy
It’s been wet, cold and windy. And then a local reminded me that it’s been the mildest, driest winter for a while yet. It’s possible that being rooted in a place gives one perspective or more likely, he’s the village pessimist and can’t help himself. Either way, it’s been a lesson in cold, wet and windswept winters on the west coast of the holy land. Mostly when I speak to people asking about my present location, I have to quickly interject to clarify I’m not in the west coast fishing village itself but a good hour and then some north of it. Most people then proceed to umm and utter the name of some village on the other coastline a good few hours away. I’ve learnt to say nothing. Geography is not everyone’s bedtime reading and it hardly matters, the regular refrain of ‘we must meet up’ is unlikely to happen. At least not while I am still breathing and far away on the other side of the holy land and almost two hours away from the nearest airport. I’ve learnt that bliss comes in many forms, if we’re open to seeing it.
There is also the occasional caller that’s been past this little village. A few have been to the village on the other side of the bay, famous for its award-winning restaurants and bus-loads of tourists arriving there in the flower season and proceeding through popular vote to declare those eating houses the best in the world. I take those accolades with a sackful of twenty-year Karoo pan-salt. Tourist voters arriving by the busload are not likely the gourmands and epicures you’re looking for. The cuisine of the holy land is as diverse, complex, layered and fraught as the people of this holy land are. There is so much that is little known and even more that remains unknown. To that, add the bulk of the population that’s had their palates and mindsets properly Americanised into the salt, sugar and fat complex. On top of this murderous taste profile, there is sprinkled the usual biases of ‘our culture’ and a global food system designed to keep the population with their snouts firmly in the troughs of ignorance. But let me not to the marriage of true minds seeking that weekend beachside escape from the unbearable heaviness of life, be put off. Please go visit award winning restaurants and rave about them. We must embrace where we are if we are to go any further. And my apologies to Shakespeare (or rather the assemblage of writing that is attributed to him) for putting that line from a sonnet through the wringer.
And now that a fair chunk of holy landers have been suitably pissed off, let me retreat to the bliss of being settled (as much as an itinerant can be) in a windswept village perched on the edge of a series of little bays that open out to the South Atlantic. It’s a cold existence. Add to this the solitude and throw in a lack of creature comforts and you have the ideal conditions for doubt to seed and flourish. Choosing material conditions that are counter to the privileges of my birth village with its steaming hot climate and warm ocean feels daft. Chillingly daft to be exact when watching the sun go down. Icily daft when a breeze hits and totally daft when a rain storm is battering the windows and doors. Let me not get started on the kind of daft that goes through my head when I’m on the two-wheeler trying to get somewhere and the wind gusts start up. No, these are not ideal, nor pleasant and certainly not welcoming climatic conditions to retreat to. Still, I’m here and choose to practice being present where I am, physically and beyond.
On the bright side, the conditions on this coast are mostly stable, so if the day starts off cold and grey, then it’s likely to stay that way for the duration. The benefit of this is that you can dress for the day and remain like that throughout. It’s not like the highveld mining village where you find yourself peeling off layer after layer as the heat of the winter day builds. And then piling it all back on in the afternoon. And it’s not like the east coast fishing village where winter is just an unregarded dictionary entry. Then there’s the wind. It’s icy. Day or night makes little difference to it. It’s constantly icily cold but the upside is that the little bits of gravel and sand that collect at turns and stops on the road get blown away regularly, so you’re less likely to slide on your frozen ass when on the bike and taking a corner a little too enthusiastically. It also means the locals take advantage of the regular icy winds to do things like make shark biltong because — well I have no idea at all why anyone would make biltong out of a shark but I’ve only been here a few weeks. I’ll have to get back to you on that one. The locals also dry out other much smaller and less aggressive fish and if you’re a fan of dried and smoked fish, then you’ll be in your element here. Bokkoms, snoek, mackerel and even mussels get smoked and served up in all sorts of configurations here and mostly, it’s a treat to find smoked fish.
There’s thankfully also a healthy fish and chips tradition in these west coast villages, and mostly it’s super simple fresh fish and a crisp perfectly seasoned batter. Bliss in a waxed paper wrapper. Sometimes though, you get sideswiped and the locals will serve your snoek or hake with slaptjips. That idiosyncrasy of the holy land. Slaptjips is a pile of half-cooked potato chips to accompany the fish. Again, I’ll have to get back to you on the slaptjips because, like shark biltong, it’s a question why in the name of all that is holy would any sane human choose half cooked, soggy potato chips. It might be that I am mistaken with using sane and human in the same sentence. It matters little because along with the regular fish, you can also get battered and deep fried fish roe or kuitjies(sp?) as the locals call it and this makes up for the soggy bottom boys fan club. Apologies George. Clooney, not Harrison. Ohh, nevermind.
Leaving behind your clogged arteries in the operating theatre, there’s always pickled options to be found and the grilled choices have also been consistently good so far. Allegedly, there’s a version of sole in the local waters that’s delicious but as with many other parts of the world, it’s being overfished and becoming increasingly difficult to source. I’ve seen plates piled with crustaceans going past and in general, the locals seem to enjoy their frutti di mare. To this tradition they add their wine making skills and I’ve been told the locally grown white varietals are up there with the best. If I’m here when the weather is a little warmer and good company permitting, I’ll explore the truth of this allegation and report back. So far, what I’ve seen is lots of locals gathered around TVs, making the oddest noises and chugging the standard factory made lager. But to be fair, this loud, large, factory beer chugging, TV-glued, profile can be found in many parts of the world and it would be wrong to assume they account for the taste profile of this wild west coastline. He said with a straight face.
The other obstacle to a happy life here, above the howling winds that is, has been the coffee. Again, to be fair it’s always a challenge finding a decent coffee in a country of milk drinkers and sellers. So, it has been with more than a little trepidation that I’ve uttered the fateful words, ‘an americano please’ and then waited in terror at what would arrive in response. Mostly it’s a tankard (not a cup) of overheated water lightly touched with what was once possibly an entire single coffee bean. It’s a tricky thing, coffee. The land of the free and home of the brave has turned this humble and beautiful thing into a freak show. Oh wait, my bad. They do that with everything. Now add the holy land obsession with price and filling a cup up to the brim. You get it. Or you don’t. It matters not. I have little need and even less desire to converse with milk drinkers about coffee.
But in life as it is in Heaven, you will eventually walk into a spot or two where the server, barista or owner either gets it and after you utter the fateful words; they smile at you like a fellow pilgrim at an oasis in the desert. It’s enough to make you light up with a smile; you’ve been heard. After miles of trudging through the desert of milk drinkers deaf to your words and mute to your raised eyebrows. After so many times looking down at the muddy muck before you with tears in your eyes. After so much despair and resigning yourself to disappointment. After all that anguish, you are heard; seen. Your body literally tingles with the excitement and expectation of what is to come. It’s the days of yearning and waiting when a date with your lover has been fixed and you must sit still until another dawn and dusk passes, rushed into a few minutes. You can hear the grinder above the buzz of milk drinkers you’re forced to share the space with. The hum of the machine as the pump gets up to full pressure. Sometimes it’s the tinkle of a spoon against the glass of the french press. The aroma of the grind or the brew itself reaches you. You’re on a plateau now. You can keep yourself there for the rest of the day if you want. Then, the coffee arrives and it’s accompanied by a smile, of a human who shares this quiet, beautiful little moment. La vita è bella. You sip, and like that first kiss after so long, it’s ambrosia and suddenly all those times you suffered at the hands of Fate and for the art is remembered, thanked and then told most politely to duck off.
Maybe someday, predictive text and spell check will learn that we never ever mean duck.
Wet & Windy is a breakthrough from a drought spurred by traumatic climatic conditions and the lack of good coffee. As ever, we give thanks for reading this far!
© Jesh Baker, 2022 AD
