RIDE YOUR OSTRICH AND EAT IT TOO

We took off today in the Frat Mobile! Driving stick on the left side of the road didn’t turn out to be the biggest challenge we faced on the road. The thing that took the most getting used to was the fact that we are “driving in a nation of elderly Floridians” as Danny put it. Nobody in South Africa is in a rush to get anywhere. And it makes sense; everything is so beautiful here that you can’t help but slow down and look. Every time we turned a corner I felt like we were in a completely different place. From white sand beaches, to rolling green mountains (looked so much like Middle Earth that I mistook Sophia for Gandalf), to vineyards—the scenery was incredible. But probably the best thing about driving in Africa is that it is very conducive to the best road trip game of all time: Hey Cow. Tracy Davis is the patron saint of road trips and sore throats for introducing me to this game. It’s a little complicated, so don’t feel bad if you don’t get it the first time around. There is a learning curve with this sort of thing. Whenever you see a cluster of cows on the side of the road, you roll down the window as fast as you can and yell “HEEYYYYY COOOWWWW!!!!!!!” at the top of your lungs. For every cow that turns their head you get a point. Sounds easy, right? WRONG. When you are flying down I-5 at 90mph (trying to get through the middle of California before it rubs off on you and you think cow tipping is an Olympic event), the only way a cow is going to turn its head and hear you is if it happens to see a fly in the other direction or pensively tilts his head to better ponder the impact of global warming on rural communities in Vietnam. This would make the game seem pointless, right? WRONG AGAIN. It makes it even better. Now take this already wonderful game and imagine it in Africa. “Hey Cow” suddenly becomes “HEEYYY OSTRICH!!!!” and “HEEYYYY BABOON!!!!” both of which abound on the side of the roads here. And on the off chance you haven’t already seen the reaction of a flock of ostriches when you are driving at an Africa appropriate pace and yell “HEEEY OSTRICH!!!!” out the car, let me tell you—they flip out. Pandemonium ensues.

We finally arrived in Oudtshoorn—a place whose dual claim to fame lies in the fact that it is the ostrich capital of South Africa and also the only city where no two inhabitants agree on the pronunciation. We knew we were there because the signage on highways in this country is great, there is zero room for confusion. Whereas in America, there are the green and white highway signs that denote that gas, lodging or food is available; here the signs kick the specificity up a notch or seven. There are green and white signs with big ass trees to denote big ass trees. And there are green and white signs with people riding ostriches to denote places where people ride ostriches. We pulled over into one of these farms and Danny rolled down the window and said, “Hi, we want to ride ostriches, race them… and then eat them.” Subtlety apparently doesn’t apply to signage in South Africa or Danny at ostrich farms. I want him to take his show to the road and use this winning line at an elephant sanctuary or an orphanage.

Our guide took us out to feed some of the ostriches and shared a few facts about them that might have been considered “fun” in some settings—like bar mitzvahs and funerals, but not right before you are about to ride one. Not only can they run at speeds of up to 85 kilometers per hour, they can also kill a lion with their nail. Then he led us to an ostrich pen with yet another sign that said, “Ride a bird at own risk.” Perfect. Now ostriches can’t even fly, so before this trip, I envisioned ostrich riding as somewhat of a leisurely activity—like riding a pony. I pictured us riding these ostriches sidesaddle with a glass of chardonnay in hand. Not the case. It was less like ostrich riding and more like ostrich drag racing. As soon as you put your legs on either side and grabbed a wing in each hand, the ostrich farmers gave them a big slap on the tush and they sped off like roadrunners dodging ACME anvils. Naturally, I named mine “Kevin” and we became quite close. After we had gotten our fair share of ostrich riding, we watched the professional ostrich jockeys at work. Jockey No. 2 was riding the lovechild of Seabiscuit and Roadrunner and killed the competition. Then we saw a pair of nesting ostriches—the male and female take shifts sitting on the eggs. I didn’t ask, but don’t worry, I’m sure the female still does the cooking, cleaning, and knitting when Sports Center is on. Then we stood on the ostrich eggs (1 egg can feed 20 people, or 1 Taylor Corr) and held them. Afterwards we had a lovely meal of ostrich carpaccio, smoked ostrich on baguettes and ostrich meatloaf. After an accidental 60km detour, we made our way back to Mossel Bay, where we stayed in an old train car on a beautiful beach that had been converted into a hostel. I felt mild pangs of guilt thinking about Kevin and our dinner, but it could have just been the carpaccio.