So a little while back, 2008 probably, I had just started my first job as a travel trade journalist and had to trek out to the Northern Cape for a few days.
At the time, I was confused as all hell as to what I was actually going to see out there. Honestly, I thought it was a province all about the dry sand and ox wagons.
Well, I was wrong, and actually it is really gorgeous (a story for another time though about that), but most of all it is a province full of single men.
Now one of my dearest friends, Pascoe Pants, is all about the boys from the farm (insert witty retort about milkshakes and farmyards here). She’s always on about hot farmers like white on rice and I’ve always kind of been a bit ‘meh’ about them.
Anyway, there’s a tiny town in the Northern Cape called Springbok, population: who knows, but it isn’t a lot. There isn’t too much to do except ponder the mysterious blood-coloured stains in the hotel’s bathtubs and go to the sports bar. After a long day of travelling, beer is an excellent idea, while staring at discoloured porcelain: not so much.
Being a travel agents’ educational tour we were on, naturally it was mostly girls between the ages of 20 and 25. Keep this in mind, because a group of 40 girls don’t go unnoticed apparently.
Sitting downstairs in the sports bar, discussing what tragedy had caused the stains in the baths, I noticed the bar tender, who was working solo, frantically calling whoever knows. We figured it was him calling for help because there were so many of us to serve right?
Within 20 minutes, the bar was swarming with men and their khakis. And I literally mean swarming. Like a herd of bison-like bees, they descended on that bar as if it was the last chance saloon from matrimonial hell.
So if you don’t drive a flashy sports car, wear label clothing and drink single malt whiskey, what do you do to impress a girl? I know! Tell them how big your farm is.
Turns out that the Northern Cape is running low on eligible females. They all move away to university and stay in the cities, while the guys toil in the harsh sun and learn the family trade.
And of course the evening became a competition to see who could get chatted up by the guy with the biggest property. I managed 8 000 hectares worth of sheep farm, just in case you were wondering what I’m worth in agricultural currency.
So what I’m basically saying is, if you’re on the hunt for a husband, it’s time to head North towards the Kalahari and decide what size farm would suit you…