The politics of it
My palate is ruined by age, cigarettes and decrepitude," declares author of Resident Alien, Rian Malan, as he takes his seat at Grande Provence restaurant.
He is in town to talk at the Franschhoek Literary Festival. And we are here to drink. And eat. We sip the Grande Provence Sauvignon Blanc 2010. "Bloody good. Reminds me of Springfield Estate," I chirp. "Are you a wine snob?" he asks with disdain. "God no, I live on Odd Bins. I love secretive wine." He relaxes and removes his hat, a good-looking charcoal fedora.
We sip the Grande Provence Chardonnay. "Too blonde," snips Rian. "Yeah," I add, "she's wearing white-washed jeans and jangles a Toyota key ring. Pass." We discuss what type of women go for Chardonnay and agree we'd refuse to date them.
For lunch we drink the Grande Provence Shiraz 2006. I waffle on about it being a merry, jubilant wine you'd perhaps drink on hearing the news that Mugabe was dead. "No, no," Rian scolds. "This is consolation wine - deep and melancholy to be enjoyed in the midst of dark conversations on how doomed we are."
And here we sit under an oak tree like colonial pigs on a fantsy-pantsy heritage wine estate as old as 1694. The food is outrageously decadent and divine. It is served like fine works of art, architectural and sublime.
Rian speaks about his father, an Afrikaner Nationalist who discussed Bob Dylan and Che Guevara, had long hair and did drugs, "and I thought, yes, that was for me!" He speaks of cool stuff like "ancestral memory" and the overarching truth in his life being race, "a force of destiny that has shaped every aspect of one's life".
The oak tree listens closer. "And where would Julius Malema be without me to complain about him?" He balks at the notion of the rainbow nation. "I'm always sceptical about the room temperature of the rainbow nation idea. I think it was invented by the advertising industry."
But he is ambivalent, and refreshingly so: "When I strip my moer and foam at the mouth about the ANC, am I being objective about South Africa? I don't know." We agree to swop books through the post. "I'll send you Heidi Holland's Dinner with Mugabe," I say. "And I'll send you Jacob Dlamini's Native Nostalgia."
To soothe his anger, Rian is a musician and songwriter. His CD, Alien Inboorling (Alien Native) has been expressed as, "dusty, weary, a stream of consciousness for the Afrikaans ‘tribe'".
Literary festival director Christopher Hope described his music as being "kinda crotchety Leonard Cohen... Cheered me up hugely". To which Rian muttered, "Like all white males of my generation we have a mid-life crisis wanting to be a rock star." Alien Inboorling was listed as number 23 on Afrikaans newspaper Beeld's list of Albums van die Dekade. Buy it you banana-heads!
Over lunch they play the Shirley Bassey re-mix - looped!? I learn that Blade Nzimande digs Led Zeppelin. We have pudding - delish shots of what Rian says tastes like "vodka custard". He is horrified I don't smoke cigarettes and lopes off to stand under another ancient oak tree, inhaling long, deep and hard, as if his life depends on it. Perhaps it does.
Suzy Bell runs Red Eye Creative, curating contemporary cultural projects in Cape Town (www.suzybell.co.za). She will consider doing lunch with anyone who dares invite her. Email her at suzybell@iafrica.com.
