Volume 06
The view to Roundstone from Kalmoesfontein. photo joneberlinfoto
African ramblings.
The room is painted avocado green, luminous, a pulsing green rim, yellow green core. Weirdly, hypnotic. The keys, two, with a plastic key ring, rounded at 9 and 3, pinched upwards at 12 and 6. 1970’s green, somewhat faded with a label machine tag, “AVO”. Two queen beds next to each other, 12 pillows, white sheets pulled tight. Eight towels neatly stacked, four face clothes on each of the two stacks. At the head of the two queens, a large 10 by 8 rendition of a Jacobus Hendrik Pierneff landscape. On the vanity, two pairs of white sunnies and a multicolored post-it pad.
Delicious, crushable, Chasing Ether Wine here!
Later, maybe an hour, I am sitting with Strawberry, Clementine, and Jess at Adi Badenhorst’s pizza night. Capetiff’s and sodas drowned, and by my count, twelve bottles of Sadie Family, AA Badenhorst, and Chasing Ether on the table. Clementine has a cigarette in her hand and a Chenin trucker hat on her head, courtesy of Craig Haarmeyer. There is laughter, conversation, wide eyes full of love and affection. Conversation, connection, the glowing rectangles are nowhere to be seen.
The 80’s music is kicking in, and we are starting to zag and then zig.
Hunting Chenin! And hoping Adi brings more Sherry.
Offspring. photo joneberlinfoto
Early morning, around five, the body has not adjusted to the transatlantic flight. I can hear the seagull screech and smell the cold, salty, kelp-ridden Atlantic. In the opposite direction, Table Mountain. The granite Isthmus rises into the tablecloth clouds through the window above the bed. The taxis have started the horn symphony as the “Kaapenars” make their way to work. Specific hand signals, up for town, down for Khayalitsha, sideways for Langa. 12 people to a minivan careening to their destinations. No guarantees of making it. Welcome to Cape Town, This Is Africa. TIA.
Heading south to Cape Point, up Boyes Drive overlooking the surf at Muizenberg and Kalk Bay. Muizenberg, where I learned to surf in the slow, plump, sand-bottom rollers. Long, easy rides, perfect for finding my feet. Kalk Bay is bigger, steeper, faster, more hollow, and shorter. Intense and shallow. Training grounds for Hawaii. Further south to Simonstown, my old Naval base and childhood beach house. Check for Penguins under the car before leaving. Into the Cape Point nature reserve, hiking out to the point, a bluebird day. Down the narrow track away from the tourists, down to the point. Standing together, taking it all in. No matter how many times you see it, it still takes your breath away.
Cape Point. photo joneberlinfoto
Out the front door onto Kitchener Street, uphill and right at the junction. Searching for coffee, four flat whites. Two whole, and two with oat. Weather is moving in, out of the southwest Atlantic, placing in doubt in the Hope of The Good Cape and an exclamation in the Cape of Storms. Sheet rain greets us as we head north towards the Swartland. The black land is so named for the Rhenorsterbos (rhino bush) that turns black late in the season. The rain pools and does not drain off the highway. The visibility is terrible at best. Heads down, concentrating, we continue.
The Frenchman greets us, thief in hand, barrels at the ready. This is one of three reasons we are here. The thief is dipped, samples drawn. We taste through a very impressive set of wines. Chenin, both barrel and tank fermented, Semillon, and Grenache Blanc. Forty-year-old vines from Stellenbosch on Koffie Klip (coffee stone) soils and granite. Smells like fynbos, the Atlantic, white flowers, home.
Late afternoon, I think it was March, 1999, Le Pommier restaurant perched just below the saddle of the Banghoek pass. Clive and Rita, the chef and owners, baby blue Datsun parked under the oak tree. They had lent me the car so I could get to work while my ‘73 Mercedes was in the shop. Long, hot, late summer days in service.
Outside on the porch, a table of winemakers, French, Italian, and local. Purple hands, seemingly unwashed and unshaven, the woman included. Tired eyes, but still bright, content, and satisfied. Wines passed around, engaged questions, and thoughtful answers. No smoke blowing, no BS. I was paying attention.
Fine! Call it eavesdropping.
“This vineyard’s pH was higher than expected, but still tasted fresh.”
“The tannins were so hard in the vineyard, but supple in the tank.”
“I could totally f that up, and the vineyard would still shine through.”
Why do certain memories stay with you? Seemingly irrelevant and unimportant at the time, but in bright focus so many years later? A frame caught in the memory, never fading.
Why do we photograph, to prevent death?
“Take the Landy, and the plastic porta tank. You know where Rustenburg is? Ask for Adi, he is expecting you,” said Bruce. Three hundred and fifty odd gallons of Sauvignon Blanc were the reason.
Sure, kinda, maybe.
We met on the crushpad. Twenty years on, he is still the same man. Thoroughly South African, in love with life, a life as an African. So friendly, engaging, making you at ease. Making you want to be nowhere else. Adi. He won't remember the meeting, but I do. A raw, green, cellarhand full of excitement and passion. Him fully established, about to launch. An open hand, making me somehow feel part of something. Grateful.
Tasting Sherry with Adi, Andrea, Strawberry, and Clementine. photo joneberlinfoto.com
May 2004. Perched, again, perched.
Up, midships, on Howell Mountain. My first real gig.
F….n winemaker guy!
Reading through intern applications. Eish! I need one, maybe three. Two fifty-odd tons, one Mexican, Muarillio, and me. Seems like a great way to end a friendship.
Wait. Harvest in South Africa? Check. Harvest in the Rhone? Check. Sure thing, Andrea, you have a job! Little did I know!
Turns out Andrea Mullineaux. (Nee Kozlowski) was the real deal. Turns out she may be making the most singular, profound wines in South Africa today. Twenty years on.
So when Strawberry, Clem, and I reached out, and she suggested a field trip, we were all in. Sebastien at Beaumont, but Adi first.
F….ing Adi!
F….ing Andrea! I wish I could claim anything here, but I can’t.
Re-entry is a thing, back in the US of A. Strawberry and I are talking, thinking of shared experience.
As usual, she gets it.
“It is like a braid, three strands of hair, pulled tight, separate but together, wrapped over each other, separate but together, touching, sharing, telling secrets. Separate but together. A life worth living.”
Strawberry! What a pleasure to show you my Africa.
