Where the sakkie-sakkie hits full volume and the potjiekos steams. Dixons Tavern is like watching an extended family get progressively drunker, louder, friendlier and more hopeless at darts. As the jokes got longer and the children dropped off to sleep in the bed alongside the mirrored bar, the sakkie-sakkie turned to tinny disco. Bodies writhe, people clap hands. Pofadder is letting down its short back'n'sides.
Veins stand out on temples, sweat glistens on foreheads.
The smoke hangs heavy. Earlier that afternoon we'd been to Kanoneiland on the Orange River. Now we were in a place where people were unwittingly blowing themselves up with strong drink and red meat. Caught in the eddy of a shrinking gene pool and permanent semi-drought, it's no wonder Pofadderians are preserving themselves in alcohol. This is a place that gets as much rainfall in a good year as most European cities get in a morning.