One night at the bar in Springbok

When you travel on your own, you’re often faced with the likelihood of dining on your own. But most times you’ll never be short of entertainment…

It’s late on a Saturday afternoon when I arrive in Springbok, after having spent most of the day driving the back roads of Namaqualand. I head straight for the steakhouse as the street lights flicker in the dusk. It’s winter in 2015 and load-shedding is in full swing. The waitress at the door asks if she can seat me while I “wait for hubby”. “There ain’t no hubby coming, darling,” I feel like saying. But I let it go and head to the bar rather – better to hold up one end than to be a sad solo diner. It’s Super Rugby season (isn’t it always?) and the Stormers are warming up at Newlands for a match against the Rebels. I watch on the big screen as hammies are stretched and ear strapping is checked. A commentator chats to captain Duane Vermeulen about his neck injury, but the sound is low and I can’t hear what Duane is saying. Also, Bob Dylan’s “Mr Tambourine Man” is playing from the speakers behind the bar and there’s the white noise of a generator to deal with. Springbok is obviously being load-shed, but the steakhouse barely misses a beat. Right on cue, barman Eddie tops up my glass of red wine.

At first, no one seems interested in the game. Until the fifth minute, however, when three new customers make a loud entrance. One is middle-aged with a boep

hanging over his black PT shorts. The other two are younger and dressed more appropriately for a Saturday night on the town. Maybe they’re “hubbies”, each with “a better half” waiting over a cordon bleu in the adjacent restaurant section. Or not – they sit down and order a double round of beers. More likely they’re local farmers just “filling up the bakkie” before heading home. Boepie’s short legs dangle marionettelike from the high bar stool. Finally he gets into a comfortable position with a clear view of the TV screen. His elbows settle onto the counter. The camera zooms to a close-up of Schalk Burger swooshing his hair off his forehead. “Lekker, Skalla!” Boepie shouts. “Hey, Eddie, turn up the sound, please man!” Eddie carefully puts down another bunch of Windhoeks and fishes the remote from his jeans pocket. Suddenly a cellphone rings, loudly. It’s one of the young guys’. “Yes, Babes!” the guy says. “We’re just checking the rugby. No, no, we’re at his house. His house, yes. I’m just watching the first half. No, no, they have a generator. Yes, at his house!” The other two laugh at their quickthinking friend. Eddie pushes a bowl of pretzels within their reach and they each grab a fistful. “You know, Eddie, I’ve also been a barman here,” the other young guy says. “I served Minki van der Westhuizen. Right here.” He taps the exact piece of bar counter where he put down Minki’s drink. Boepie snorts. “Ja, right, Wikus.” “Genuine!” “Minki. Here in Springbok?” “I swear, man. She was here to shoot something for TV.” Newlands groans as Siya Kolisi knocks on. Babes stuffs his phone back into his pocket. “What’s with the sad song?” he asks, referring to Bob Dylan’s crooning. “Eddie, what is this music? And turn the TV up, I can’t hear what this ref is lying about.” Eddie presses a button and “We Will Rock You” by Queen comes on. Babes responds immediately, stomping his feet like a gumboot dancer. He’s ready to party, unlike Boepie who seems to be here strictly for the rugby. “Tackle!” Boepie shouts, slapping his palms on his bare thighs. “Ta-ckle! Dammit, Stormers, come on!” Schalk Burger topples onto a Rebels player and the whistle goes. “Come on, klap hom, Skalla!” The ref summons Captain Duane over. Wikus elbows Babes in the ribs. “A friend of mine put a photo on Facebook the other day – he’s posing with Duane Vermeulen. You know, Duane isn’t even that big.” “Bull,” says Babes. “His biceps are twice as big as yours.” “No ways, we basically have the same build.”

Twenty two minutes gone. The score is 3 – 0 to the Stormers. Eddie brings me a menu and I make small talk. It turns out that his name is actually Eduard and no, the bar playlist isn’t his – he’s more of an Aretha Franklin fan. For the first time in the match the Rebels reach the Stormers’ quarter of the field, until Siya Kolisi steals the ball. Wikus burps and picks up his second Windhoek, looking around for Eddie. “Eddie! What are you waiting for? Keep supply ahead of demand!” Then, to his companions: “Bliksem, I just remembered a game we played in Kathu one night. The field was rough! I tackled a guy and we both landed on a cactus.” Eddie rolls his eyes, scribbles down my order and hurries back to his post. Boepie wriggles off his bar stool and pulls his PT shorts up a bit, fighting a losing battle against his stomach. The Stormers pass wide to Damian de Allende, who beats a lone Rebels front-rower and dots down in the corner. “Yeeesss!” Boepie cheers as satisfied applause breaks out. The noise lures a few men over from the restaurant section. Two of the newcomers sit down next to me with their plates of food and glasses of brandy. One is wearing a flashy red-and-pink striped shirt with a name tag pinned to the breast: Calvin de Kock. Calvin and his pal don’t seem like Springbok residents – maybe they’re medical reps. Calvin’s colleague is clearly a Stormers fanatic because he packed his supporters’ jersey for the business trip. They tuck into their buffalo wings and ribs. Demetri Catrakilis converts. 10 – 0. “Jis, jis, jis, let’s celebrate that try!” says Babes with glee. “Eddie! Three Russian Bears!” “Ja, but make sure they’re big bears,” Wikus says. “We don’t want baby bears, we want papa bears.” “I’d rather have Goldilocks,” Babes murmurs and his friend snorts.

Calvin sighs over his plate of chicken wings. “Tomorrow is another early start,” he says to his colleague. “Another long day’s drive. And it’s the weekend. But hey, at least weekends mean overtime.” His colleague doesn’t react – his attention is focused on the screen. Scott Higginbotham from the Rebels stays down after a ruck. The moment of impact is shown in slow motion. “That’s it! Take him out!” Boepie screeches. Calvin glances at the TV, feigning interest. “Where are they on the log?” he asks. “The Stormers? Third,” his colleague says, eyes still on the screen. “I wonder what movie is on now. Jis, last night I watched a lekker movie! The Martian. Have you seen it?” His colleague shakes his head, clearly irritated by any talk that isn’t rugby-related. Higginbotham is on his feet again and the Rebels launch a spirited attack. “So Matt Damon is this astronaut on Mars…” Calvin continues. “On Mars?” his colleague offers halfheartedly. The Rebels are full of fire now. “Ja, he gets left behind, by accident. He has to figure out how to survive. He patches up the space station and… he plants potatoes!”

Eddie presses a button and “We Will Rock You” by Queen comes on. Babes responds immediately, stomping his feet like a gumboot dancer. He’s ready to party, unlike Boepie who seems to be here strictly for the rugby.