TransNamib: Dimensions of a Desert. Gabi Christa

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      The best remedy against tiredness is Coca-Cola. While I go and buy it at the filling station, Uwe disappears into the adjacent butchery, buying biltong. Meanwhile, the sun has started piercing the clouds and the temperatures are rising. This significantly lifts my mood. With the ice-cold cokes in my hands I stand at the locked car. I can hear Uwe’s voice from the shop, mixed with the bell-like laughter of a female voice. On the stairs to the shop sits a big Boer[1], smoking, unshaven for three days, who focuses his eyes on me curiously. His stare is glued to my legs. I give him a friendly greeting in Afrikaans and go past him, up the stairs. His assessing glance rises from my ankles to the hem of my skirt and gets lost somewhere in my long hair. Inside the shop, I am greeted by a radiant smile. Nineteen-year-old Veronica is very beautiful and tall and is fascinatingly proportioned. But, alas, neither time nor funds were invested to get her skew front teeth adjusted during childhood. Veronica is just explaining that, due to the humidity, the biltong cannot get dry and hence cannot be sold now. In fact, like wet cleaning rags on a line, the meat slices are hanging on the wall.

      Biltong is a unique delicacy of the South African cuisine. In general, it is made from beef or Ostrich, but can also be made from game like Kudu, Springbok, Eland and Oryx and this variety is a treat. The raw meat is cut along the fibres into inch-wide straps and afterwards rubbed with a spice mixture of coriander, salt, pepper and some vinegar, every South African farmer’s wife keeping her unique secret recipe. Then, the meat strips get hung up to dry, thus losing about half their weight. This only works in very dry air. When the process is complete you can cut off the tiniest slices with a sharp knife. They do it more roughly for official sale, when a chopper cuts it into bite-size pieces.

      On the desk there are beautiful pictures of the wild flowers blooming in the Northern Cape. Veronica tells us that the pictures come from her father’s farm, about 300 kilometres from here, close to Garies. Veronica’s father is running this biltong and meat shop to provide for the area and for passing motorists. Beautiful Veronica presents her hands, which are full of cuts and have broken fingernails, and I shudder. What might yet happen to this young woman when she is not attentive enough when handling the sharp butcher knives? Veronica knows exactly what to do on the weekend. She explains that here, up country, there aren’t many options. Young people listen to music, go to the movies and have parties. Veronica opens up during the conversation, full of energy and happy to be able to exercise her few German phrases. After this nice chat we buy blood-orange honey and leave the modest shop. While we are driving away from the yard, Veronica, smoking, steps out of the shop and, shoulders drooping, sits down on the stairs with the big Boer.