The Route 62 is not a road it’s a time warp. A blue vein mapping its way through the Overberg’s dusty net.  Black and White ROUTE 62 signposts, a bold Brand promising even more chargrilled coffee, windmills and Karoo Oysters served with a side order of Lipitor. Things grow slowly here. Like weeds, steeples, cactuses, superstitions. It’s a region ruled by Isuzu KB’s carving their way through small town archipelago’s with names from a Voortrekker bedtime book. A hard clean light beats a landscape with enough rocky formations to write your geography masters. Strong-backed brandy bleeds out of straggling vines hardened by years of blinding midday sun and thick Afrikaans accents quoting Ezekiel 18 verse 27.

Nothing happens on the R62. The last big event was a Tectonic movement. The local export is time. Everywhere, people farming time, harvesting time, brewing time, bottling time. Locals collected scrapyards full of it. Every crossroad leads to a small town adventure ending with a double klippies and coke. Met ‘eish.

Co-Pilot: The @foodie_za