Protection Racket: AIMEE ROBERTSON, #3

PROLOGUE

NJOVU

THE PAFURI, MEETING place of three countries: South Africa, Mozambique and Zimbabwe, harks back to an Africa before colonial rule, when the great continent was still unexplored and mysterious. Always feral, the region was once occupied by outlaws, thieves and big game hunters. No one has ever been able to fully subdue it. Today, it falls within a transfrontier park but is as inscrutable as ever.

The mighty Limpopo River, a silvery sheet between sandy banks frequented by hippos and crocs, forms a natural boundary between countries. During dry seasons and droughts, it shrinks to a narrow channel visited by geese and long-legged storks. When one looks across the banks from the view site at Crook’s Corner in the Kruger National Park, one senses the vastness of Africa extending away to the north.

Here, the mopani woodlands and grassy plains are dotted with ancient, statuesque baobabs - the ‘upside down trees’ that inspired African legends. The Limpopo and its tributary, the Levuvhu, support riverine forests with giant trees: fever trees with yellow-green trunks, marulas bearing the fruits elephants crave, coconut and lala palms, their leaves like green fans, enormous wild figs, jackalberries, sausage trees, tambotis and many more besides.

This is the domain of iconic African fish eagles, whose distinctive calls echo over the bush.  Rare vultures perch in dead trees or circle in thermals, seeking carrion on the ground. Smaller birds flutter in the vegetation or forage on the earth, eating berries, seeds and insects. Wild animals abound: giraffes gracefully crossing plains dotted with thorn trees, chattering vervet monkeys and baboons, antelope tiptoeing through shady glades, secretive leopards draped across branches, camouflaged and somnambulant in the muggy heat.

The forest is also the preserve of ponderous, grey elephants. Their enormous ears flap slowly, keeping the massive bodies cool.  These huge animals drink daily and the rivers draw them with their promises of refreshment, along with a herbivore smorgasbord of leaves, twigs and bark, shrubs and grass. Draped between two curved ivory tusks, elephants’ trunks contain a staggering 150 000 muscles and nerves. As they cross the veld, their massive feet leave wrinkled spoor bigger than dinner plates in the dust. 

But some elephants are special. They are descended from the ancient lineages that spawned mastodons and mammoths, and bear massive tusks that may weigh as much as forty kilograms apiece. Should one of these pachyderms survive into its sixties with its tusks intact, these appendages may reach the ground. Such tusks were once used to frame a doorway to a chieftain’s hut or adorn important buildings.

Njovu was one of these elephants. Sixty years old and over three metres tall, the lone bull made his way along hidden pathways in the densest parts of the Levuvhu’s forest.  His skin was brown with river mud, wrinkled and reminiscent of parchment. Golden-brown eyes scanned the brush for tender morsels. Elephants have six sets of teeth, replaced as they wear down, and Njovu was on his last and final set. He instinctively opted for tender shoots and softer vegetation.

He had been born into a herd of twenty females and their calves, shepherded along by his mother and interacting with other young elephants. He had cautiously eyed the boisterous young males, even as he grew and learned how to be an elephant, to respect the boundaries between herd members, and that the matriarch was queen, to be followed and obeyed at all times. He learned where to find the most appetising trees and plants, which places provided forage in the dry season, and which rivers and dams would reliably supply the water elephants craved. 

He recalled great droughts, when rains were absent, rivers dried and the land shrivelled beneath a relentless sun. At those times, the matriarch would lead the herd on long marches through scorched countryside, to rivers of sand, where the elephants dug for water, drinking from the resulting muddy pools. The herd would be harassed by scavenging jackals and watched intently by vultures in dead trees, poised to descend if any elephant expired. But sometimes digging did not yield water and the elephants moved restlessly on, their hides dulled by dust, plodding patiently across empty plains. At those times, Njovu learned what it was to mourn for those who succumbed to thirst, hunger, the exhaustion of the long marches, or the scourge of deadly anthrax.

Njovu left his herd when he was fifteen. He and three of his male compatriots banded together to form a small bachelor group, for company and protection. They missed the companionship of the large herd, which had grown over time, but not the irritability of the females, who shunned the precocious young bulls. Njovu had known in the depths of his being he was ultimately destined to be alone.

When the fences between private game reserves and the Kruger National Park were removed in the mid-1990s, enabling animals to disperse more widely, he had moved into the Greater Kruger area. He attached himself briefly to matriarchal herds in the breeding seasons, following elephants in oestrus to sire calves. He felled trees, turned waterholes into dams, left piles of dung where lesser creatures foraged for seeds, and did all the things elephants do.

Njovu had lived long enough to remember when there were fewer tourists in the Park, when all the roads were gravel and rest camps little more than clusters of thatch rondawels. As he aged, he became more solitary, and found the increasing tourist procession extremely trying. At the height of the season, he took to heading north to the Levuvhu, a less frequented part of the Park.

Of late, however, perturbing changes had come to this far-flung region and he intuited that they would shatter his tranquillity. As he bathed in the river, the mud painting his hide reddish-brown, and wandered in search of soft vegetation, he saw evidence of human activity in odd places. His nostrils flared as he smelled the sweaty, musky odour of people. He puzzled over the remains of a small campfire, the tattered rags of a forgotten shirt, crumpled cardboard boxes and food remains overrun by fire ants.

At night, Njovu would surreptitiously ascend grassy knolls where ancient baobabs bore buffalo-weaver nests aloft in their branches. From these eyries, beneath the light of a full moon, he watched bands of people furtively slipping along game paths and dry stream beds. He would hastily descend into thick bush, moving with surprising stealth, as elephants do. Like most of his peers, his eyesight was poor but he could discern the movement of these silent bands, the moonlight glinting on rifles, machetes and axes. He knew these men were hostile and he took cover in the densest reaches of the forest, moving as soundlessly as a ghost.

One afternoon, Njovu was meandering along the Levuvhu, listening to birds calling and the river muttering to itself. He was mercifully unaware that, not far from where he browsed among the wild fig trees, his future was being decided.

IT WAS HOT AND MUGGY, temperatures approaching forty degrees Celcius, but air conditioning kept the boardroom pleasantly cool. The meeting, attended by Kiamba Private Game Reserve’s management and lodge owners, had been scheduled to take place between the morning and evening game drives, for those who had to attend to tourists. The participants were responsible for managing Kiamba and liaising with other Greater Kruger reserves. Attention spiked as George Wilson, committee chairperson, said, The main topic on the agenda, as you all know, is our winter trophy hunt.

Everyone shifted in their seats, regarding George expectantly. He crossed to a mounted whiteboard and uncapped a marker pen.  I’m sure you’ve all received the results of this year’s game count. We need to decide what special animals we’ll be offering for this year’s event.

The trophy hunt was a source of mild friction within the tightly knit lodge community, with opinions on both its merits and disadvantages the subject of private debate. The hunt was not publicised beyond a select circle and reserve management ensured the event took place in the vast wilderness areas, well away from prying eyes, with hunters and outfitters staying in luxury lodges that never featured in glossy tourist brochures or online booking sites.

The men avoided one another’s eyes. A raptor screamed outside, the sound jarring in the quiet room. Carel Klaassen took off his cap and rubbed sweat from his forehead before replacing it.  "George, is this strictly necessary?  I know we say it is but..."

Carel was a relatively new owner, having bought Combretum Lodge from Danie Bester just six months before. George shrugged. Actually, it’s essential. The tourist season’s not been great this year - and we need funds to maintain our anti-poaching programmes, our roads, fencing, manage the veld...  You’ve been to these meetings before; you know what the issues are.

Carel nodded unhappily. All right.

Grant Richardson explained patiently, Trophy hunting brings in massive money - money that’s ploughed back into conservation and reserve management. It’s the only way we can remain viable. Tourist dollars aren’t coming in like they used to - and it’s a minor revenue stream for the reserve anyway. Lodge and tourist levies simply aren’t enough.

Dick Salisbury said candidly, I never took you for a bunny hugger, Carel.  We’ve always used trophy hunting to help cover costs. Anti-poaching is taking almost half our revenues these days.  We’re losing rhinos every day. Greater Kruger lost about eighty elephants last year too and it’s escalating.  Every year, we lose more.

Alan Venter from Mopani Lodge added, And that’s just the popular animals. People from the communities sneak into the reserve and set snares.  It takes days to find and remove them all.  We have to put down injured animals.  The whole thing’s out of control.

I think you’ve been here long enough to know this, said Erik Stein, a German immigrant who had settled in South Africa years before. Hunting is not a nice thing to have to do but we have to ensure the reserve is sustainable going forward. There are more people on the western borders of Greater Kruger now, Mozambicans coming in from the east...  It takes money to combat these things.

Carel held up his hands. I get the picture.

George interposed, If we can just move on...

Sure. David Willowmore shrugged, fiddling with a pen and looking at his cell phone screen.

George told the group, The game count showed we need to remove a few thousand impala - and there are zebras, wildebeest, kudu and giraffes to be taken off as well.

Grant said, We need a lion. They’re always popular. There’s an old male that’s been booted out of the Wanetsi Pride...

Alan snapped his fingers.  Oh, yes! What’s his name - Oliver Twist?

Ja. I reckon he’s not going to last long on his own.  He’s a bit scarred but he’s got a nice full mane. He’ll make a good trophy.

Dick grimaced, That pride’s in my concession, man. I’ve been following Oliver Twist for years. Isn’t there another lion we could look at?

Carel eyed the group intently. George said, Anyone got a better idea? At least this guy’s not with the pride anymore.

Dick said, He came off badly in that fight with another young male - Aslan. The researchers tell me Aslan’s killed three of Oliver’s cubs, so he’s clearly planning on making an impression. I just want to give the old guy a chance, see if he can make it.

How much is he likely to bring in? Colin wanted to know.

Alan said airily, A big male like that, about thirty thousand US dollars.

Carel did the conversion and whistled softly. George wrote: Oliver Twist - USD 30,000 on the whiteboard.

Grant said, There’re a couple of kudu on my patch, very nice horns - two and a half turns.  They’ll fetch about three thousand each.

How many have you got? George turned to the whiteboard. According to the game count, we could take off five or six.

I’ve got three big guys on my concession.

I’ve got two kudus, smaller ones. We can probably get two thousand for each. Erik said. 

The meeting continued with more animals being selected, George writing species and figures on the white board. He had just finished noting down two hippos which would net the reserve around ten thousand US dollars each, when David said, looking at the tally, We need something else, something bigger. And if Dick won’t give us Oliver Twist...

You can tell he used to be a fund manager; he’s all about the numbers, Alan joked and the others laughed.

David flicked through an information sheet the managers and lodge owners had been given. We haven’t got any elephants yet. They’re big earners - we can charge from forty thousand US. The game count says we could take off six.

Erik pointed out, There’s a lot of poaching pressure though. I’m not sure we’ll get a permit.

David said thoughtfully, We keep hearing rumours about that big tusker that’s supposed to be moving between here and the Pafuri.  Some tourists saw it the other day on the road that runs next to the Levuvhu.

They did? Alan sounded surprised. That elephant’s so secretive, it’s like a phantom. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories. It’s supposed to have tusks that touch the ground.

Grant shook his head dismissively. You ask me, it’s just tall tales. How many big tuskers are left in the Kruger anyway?

Erik said, They’re so shy, it’s hard to know.

Carel put in, Conservation services say they’re all gone and this is probably the last one.

David’s eyes gleamed. Imagine if we could offer a big tusker? Do you know how many trophy hunters would line up for it?

Does this elephant ever come to Kiamba?Alan asked, looking uneasy.

David shrugged. It could. The tribe up north who’ve got that lodge concession sometimes see it.

So they say, Erik said sceptically, adding, On a practical note: what would we get for a big tusker?

David said, The ivory alone must be worth a fortune. I’d say at least seventy K, maybe even up to a hundred.

Carel looked troubled. Would we be allowed to offer one of these elephants?

George said, We’ve had elephants on the list before, you know.

But not a big tusker, Grant said.

George glanced at the expectant faces. It would pay for a lot of our anti-poaching initiatives. We could fund more teams, improve our fencing, maybe buy a helicopter or two...

Alan nodded. I say: add it to the list.

George noticed a few reluctant expressions. Let’s put it to the vote. All in favour, raise your hands.

After a moment, nearly everyone raised their hands. Carel said firmly, I’m not in favour.

Alan looked exasperated. Oh come on, man, you’re the only one. Didn’t you lose two rhinos to poachers on your concession the other day?

Carel rubbed his jaw. Ja, I did, but I’m not sure this is the way to go.

Grant said, Don’t be such a damned bunny hugger! This is a great opportunity.

For us.

Erik said persuasively, Listen, these old elephants - their teeth wear down and they can’t eat properly. They’re often on their own and they haven’t got any herd support. They eventually die from starvation. Going like this will be much kinder.

Carel sighed heavily. I’m still not sure we should be doing this but, okay, I’ll agree.

Alan, sitting next to him, patted the hesitant lodge owner on the shoulder. You’ve done the right thing, Carel. You’ll see.

What happens now? Carel asked George.

We run our list by the Kruger Park management and a couple of government agencies and departments. They’ll look at it and give the final go ahead. Usually there are no problems. Then we contact our preferred hunting outfitters and tell them what we’re offering and the prices. The hunters come any time from about June or so, when the season opens.

Carel nodded. Okay. He closed his diary and looked at his watch. I’ve got a game drive to prepare for, so...

There are some elephants at Zeyeri Pan, Alan told him. Your traversing intersects with ours, so take your guests to see them. I’ll tell Reuben - he’s on duty today - to expect you.

Taking car keys from a pocket, Carel said, Thanks.

The meeting broke up and everyone went out into the baking afternoon. Yellow-billed hornbills were pecking at seeds in the dust and one lunged at a grasshopper, catching it in mid-flight. The men shouted their goodbyes to one another and got into their dusty safari vehicles, jeeps and bakkies. As Carel drove back to Combretum Lodge, he felt a vague foreboding settle on him. He was not happy that an old, noble creature would have to die to fund anti-poaching efforts. He wished he knew more about these things. He stopped to allow a giraffe to cross the road.  Two giraffes were on the trophy hunting list. He sighed, knowing the bad taste in his mouth would not disappear.

AIMEE

CHAPTER 1

I SAT AT MY DESK AT The Lowveld News, a regional paper based in Mpumalanga’s capital city, Mbombela, which most of us still referred to by its former name of Nelspruit. My colleagues, Shaun and Laura, were on their phones. It was school athletics season and Shaun was making arrangements to cover an event on the outskirts of the city, while Laura was talking to someone about a land claim on his farm. The third member of the team, Chamina Patel, did the paper’s social and event pages and she was out interviewing restaurants about their Valentine’s Day menus. Our editor, Nonisa Khoro, was ensconced in her office with an advertiser, the door closed.

I’m sorry, I really don’t have any more information for you, I said to a distraught Clara Sullivan on the phone. Believe it or not, I know as much about your husband’s whereabouts as you.

A local beauty, Clara was married to Brendan Sullivan, an agrochemical salesman who had previously worked for GreenCorp. He’d gone missing almost eighteen months ago, after I had launched a journalistic investigation into a deadly pesticide the company had released onto the market. Several people had been hospitalised after using it and some had even lost their lives to agricultural poisoning. 

Clara Sullivan had never wavered in her quest to find her missing husband, despite the fact that this was the Mpumalanga Lowveld, a somewhat hazardous part of the country. Dangerous wild animals sometimes broke out of the Kruger Park. The region bordered Mozambique and criminals crossed the border with impunity. Fatal road accidents often occurred. In short, Sullivan could have been anywhere. He might even have crossed illegally into Mozambique or Zimbabwe, which people regularly did, despite having to run the gauntlet of lions, hippos and crocs, raging rivers and electrified game fences.

Clara was beautiful, with long blonde hair and huge blue eyes, and rumour had it there was no shortage of suitors eager to supplant Brendan Sullivan. Having tangled with the man and experienced first-hand what he was capable of, I had no idea why Clara clung to the belief that he would return to her. I found conversations with her taxing but she persisted in badgering me. I had taken to avoiding her calls and messages. But sometimes Thabisa, the paper’s receptionist, forgot to screen and I ended up speaking to the distraught woman about her persistently missing husband.

Once again, she said, I can’t understand why you don’t know anything!

I responded tartly, I honestly don’t. I’m sure a lot of people would like to find him but no one has.

If you find out anything, you’ll let me know, won’t you?

Wearily, I said, Yes, Clara, I will. I told you before. I passed a hand over my eyes. Haven’t the police found anything?

Oh, Aimee, the cops are really not interested. Do you know how many people go missing in this area every single day? I tuned out as she rattled on.

When she paused for breath, I said, Clara, I really need to go. I promise I’ll call you if I hear anything, all right?

Reluctantly, she said, Okay. Thanks. Apparently oblivious of the irony, she added, You’re the only one I trust, you know. Everyone else is giving me the run around.

I finished the call and glanced up to see Laura grinning at me, her conversation with the farmer finished. Was that Clara Sullivan?

How did you guess?

She said, Painful as the woman is, I do feel a bit sorry for her. It sounds like Brendan was the world to her and he’s vanished into thin air. It’s been, what, about a year and a half or something?

About that. I would love to know where that man is - and how he vanished so completely. I can’t believe he hasn’t turned up.

She shrugged. He probably swam across the Limpopo River and is selling agrochemicals to unsuspecting Zimbabwean farmers, or running a game lodge in the Okavango or something.

Africa - the golden land of opportunity, I said ironically.

Shaun had also finished talking to the organisers of the athletics event. I’m surprised you and Logan never pressed charges. You could have had him up for assault, attempted murder, kidnapping...  And your husband’s a lawyer too.

I said lightly, We need to find him first, Shaun. Logan’s working himself silly on this class action in between general litigation work. I referred to the class action case Logan and one or two other lawyers had instituted against GreenCorp.

Are you still taking statements and typing affidavits?Laura asked.

I sighed. I am. I wish he could afford a secretary.

At lunch time, I returned to White River, a small town outside Nelspruit, where Logan and I lived. I covered the paper’s environmental beat and we’d arranged that I could work from home to some extent to save on commuter costs. However, wildlife poaching was ramping up and there were constant media briefings and court cases to attend, so I was going into Nelspruit more often. Nonisa also liked me to be in the newsroom on Thursdays, when the paper went to print.

When I got home, I heard Logan on the phone in a spare bedroom we’d turned into an office, sounding annoyed. I waved to him from the doorway and went to boot up my laptop and pour myself a soft drink.

I’d stopped at the post office on my way home and was sorting the post when he entered the room, kissing me in greeting. Most of it was his and I handed him a bunch of correspondence. He sat down in my visitor’s chair as I logged onto my e-mail. I saw Anton van Deventer today, he said, slitting open envelopes and not looking at me.

Oh, I said unenthusiastically.

Just a few months after Logan started his practice, we’d discovered self employment did not suit him. He liked to be part of a team and hated hustling for business every day in a tight market. It was not long before he was considering partnering with another lawyer. He and Anton had been working closely on the GreenCorp case and Anton himself had suggested he and Logan team up.

The trouble was: I did not like Anton van Deventer. I felt there was something vaguely shifty about him. Logan, however, did not feel the same way and the issue lay between us, a source of vague discomfort and outright friction. I had rather been hoping Logan would find another lawyer to partner with.

Logan said, glancing at me, He’s really keen to work out a deal. I have expertise he’d like to draw on. We can better attend to the GreenCorp case if we joined forces. And he’s got staff, infrastructure.

He was working hard to persuade me. I said, trying to keep my tone neutral, Are you going to take him up?

We’re having lunch the day after tomorrow, he told me, avoiding the question.

I eyed Logan across the desk. It’s a big step. Are you sure?

I know you don’t like him, he said, sounding slightly exasperated, but I’m finding it very difficult doing everything myself. He caught my expression and added hastily, You’ve been a big help but you’ve got your work for the paper and your freelance commitments too.

I’d been working as Logan’s unpaid secretary in my free time but, as Logan’s practice got busier, it was making for exceptionally long days and I was getting tired. And that’s your only option?I asked, still uncomfortable with the idea.

He shuffled his post together and said irritably, You know perfectly well nothing else has panned out.

Logan seemed determined to partner with Anton. I hoped my hunch about van Deventer was wrong. I teased, Will you get a secretary if the deal comes off?

Of course.

Then I’m all for it, I said and he laughed.

I thought you’d say that. He came around to my side of the desk and rubbed my shoulders.  Thanks, babe.

I just hope it works out for you.

He said a little defensively, There’s no reason why it shouldn’t. There’ll be a signed agreement at any rate. After a moment he added softly, I’ve appreciated your being there for me.

That’s what wives are for.

He kissed me the top of my head. I love you. He drew back and headed for the door. I’d better keep going; there’s that awful accident claim. The family can’t get their hands on the settlement fast enough.

I grimaced. I’ll leave you to it. He went out and I returned to my inbox.

Donald Fagan, features editor at a big New York daily, had written that they’d heard about the abalone poaching on South Africa’s Cape coast and could I write a feature? Their counterparts across the Atlantic had run articles and they wanted a report with a human interest angle. The money wasn’t bad - and we needed it. I went to chat to Logan.

He said immediately, Is this going to be dangerous? It was in the Sunday papers a few weeks ago and they warned people not to approach these gangs.

I’ll be careful, I said reassuringly.

Aren’t these fishers operating outside the law? They’re not going to be happy having a journalist poking around. I raised my eyebrows. Can’t you take someone with you? he persisted.

I don’t think so.

What about one of your colleagues?

Unlike Logan, I had no qualms about working alone. Some have already covered this and they won’t do anything more unless there’s new information.

I’d be happy to come myself but... he gestured at his cluttered desk. I’ve got a lot going on and now there’s this opportunity with Anton. There’ll be negotiations...

I said, I can do some preliminary research from here but I’m probably going to need to go to the Cape. Don wants a human interest story, so I’ll interview the fisheries department, some fishermen...

That’s the thing. He kept his tone level but I saw tightness around his eyes. He hated it when my work placed me in tricky situations. I can’t pick up the pieces, like I did with Sullivan. Brendan Sullivan had taken his displeasure at my coverage to extremes. His actions to prevent me working on the story had literally almost killed me. Logan had come to my rescue.

"That was ages ago, I argued. I haven’t been in any trouble since."

Does that mean we’re due for trouble? I can’t help you if something happens all the way down there. If the situation with Sullivan hadn’t been local...

I interrupted, Let me see if I can’t find someone. I’ll need an introduction. I can’t go in cold.

He looked relived. I don’t want you accosting poachers on a lonely beach. These areas are very isolated if anything happens.

You couldn’t be an environmental journalist living near the Kruger National Park and not know about the hazards accosting poachers presented. Although I saw Logan’s point, exposing wildlife crime was part of my job description. I e-mailed Don to tell him I’d take the assignment.

CHAPTER 2

TWO WEEKS LATER, I was in a coffee shop at OR Tambo International, checking e-mails on my phone. I’d spent the night with my sister, Felicity, who lived in Johannesburg, and had elected to avoid the early businessmen’s flights. I checked in with Logan, who was meeting Anton again after an initial meeting. I still had reservations but Logan seemed determined to persist with his plans. My flight was uneventful, the plane half empty and the sandwiches stale. 

February was Cape Town’s ‘secret season’, when festive holidaymakers had left and everyone had gone back to work. I collected my hire car and drove to the city. The metropolis sprawled beneath an azure sky, the sea turquoise and Table Mountain’s cloudy tablecloth partly hiding the massif, which dominated the landscape.

The fisheries department was located in a seedy area near the docks. I found their nondescript building and interviewed a spokesperson for the fisheries’ department in his spartan office. He told me officials found to have been re-selling confiscated abalone, known as perlemoen in South Africa, back to poachers had been suspended pending disciplinary action. He harped on the fact that the country’s fishing quotas had been amended to improve the situation for traditional fishers - men who had looked to the sea for their livelihoods for generations.

I met a marine biologist at an aquarium on the V&A Waterfront to find out about the life cycle of perlemoen.  I learned the molluscs foraged on kelp beds in colder waters along the South African coast. The young sheltered in sea urchins but, as conditions changed, Cape rock lobsters were moving east, adding the prickly creatures to their diets, and it was not known how this might affect the abalone. About the poaching scourge, the scientist was tight-lipped, saying off the record that, in her opinion, abalone populations could well crash in the foreseeable future if the exploitation pressure continued at its current rate.

I spent what remained of the day at the African penguin colony in the pretty hamlet of Simonstown further down the Peninsula and later checked into a backpackers’ lodge in Newlands, a middleclass suburb with a well-known stadium, where cricket and rugby games were played against the mountain’s magnificent backdrop.

I WOKE IN THE GREY dawn, the birds just starting to sing. The mountain loomed over the metropolis, the last of the stars twinkling beside a slipper moon. I left sleeping tourists to their dreams and joined the city’s early risers driving freeways still relatively empty at this hour.

The sun rose as I drove east towards the Overberg and the village of Hermanus, the craggy massif of the Hottentots-Holland Mountains rising in the distance. I turned off the N2 highway and drove