Koppies in all directions. Lowslung mountains with milky purple coats. Verges of tufted fynbos, knobbly Karoo herbs and an occasional scrunched Coke can. Ry-gos interrupt you with an enforced break for a stretch and a waft of the cigarette smoke from the rally dudes in the logo-spangled 4×4 in front. Giant trucks grind past, blowing you back into your car as the blanket-wrapped marshal lady steps out of her booth and moves the Stop sign, waving you to go.
The silliest thing about a braai is the moment when the man with the beer boep and the silly grin cracks open a can of beer and pours it over the flames, while the guests suck in a breath and let out the deep sigh of those who know their dinner is going to be late. And possibly wet.
VAMPIRES slunk into dark corners on sight of the caramelly whole roasted garlic as I took them from the cinders and unfurled their shiny foil blankets. Hard to imagine that I had lived for 20 years before even tasting the pungent, plump cloves. Now I eat them whole, though not quite raw, and movies like Twilight and Nosferatu the Vampire no longer frighten me.