Tanya and I left Mossel Bay this morning, and took a detour from the Garden Route to check out the Highgate Ostrich Farm. The tour began with a look at how they make feather dusters and boas, how to discern real ostrich leather from imitations, and how they incubate the eggs. I interrupted our guide Carloyn numerous times, for I became obsessed with the strange birds (they’ve replaced camels as my favorite bizarre animal). I first wanted to make sure that we would be able to ride them. She laughed at my impatience and assured me we would. Race them? “No, that’s too dangerous if you’re not trained.” I also asked about how they pluck the feathers and get the leather, and if the butchers chop off the necks and legs in one quick motion, leaving a flapping lump of feathers. A Belgium lady in the group gawked at me in disgust, while Carloyn explained that they call it a “process” instead of a slaughter. She left me unsatisfied by saying that the “process” occurs somewhere else, and that they have nothing to do with the “process” at their farm.

Up next we got to feed the ostriches. We were instructed to pour a mound of corn kernels in our palms, and hold our hands out flat near the fence. Carloyn demonstrated, proving that they don’t peck at your hands or any other part of you if there aren’t kernels. That they don’t even have teeth. I then inquired why there was a wire fence separating us, and she responded, “They do not have teeth, but they have very strong legs and a very sharp toenail. See it there? If it feels threatened by you coming at it head on, the ostrich will lift its leg up to your height, sink the nail into your skull, and rip you open down the center like a zipper. That is why.” Fair enough.

At first, I was hesitant to get too close. The force of the peck was shocking. By the end of feeding time, however, I was posing with my back against the fence, palms face up near my shoulders, and ostrich necks reaching over to snatch the kernels. Tanya dared me to sprinkle some in my hair, but Carolyn said to do it only if I wouldn’t mind being bald.

We drove to another part of the farm where we got to stand on developing eggs. The parents strutted around in the same enclosure, and, although Carolyn told us they were tamed, she asked me to carry a large thorn bush branch just in case they got dangerously close to anyone. It was an honor, and I took the job quite seriously.

The eggs were heavier than I expected, and warm from mommy’s feathers. They will soon be baby ostriches, not breakfast (which reminds me – one ostrich egg is equivalent to 24 chicken eggs!). Carolyn kept on referring to Japanese tourists in telling us what not to do. “Please do not shake the eggs like the Japanese do.” “I don’t know what they are thinking, but the Japanese like to jump on the eggs. Please don’t do that.”

The highlight of the day was definitely riding them. They don’t usually allow people to ride without a jockey holding on, but I think Carolyn wanted to see if question boy could handle it. I climbed the little ladder, sat on the red square of plastic, and listened as the jockeys told me what to do: grab the wings firmly, cross my legs under the ostrich, and lean back. They then removed the bag from its head and off it went, sprinting around like a maniac. All of the other ostriches began running around as well, the way AYSO tots all swarm around the soccer ball. I nearly fell off multiple times, but managed to regain balance by pulling on its wings even harder. Carolyn admitted that she was impressed.

My riding skills were nothing, however, compared to the 3 jockeys who raced afterwards. It was a close one, but my guy, number twelve, won by a neck.

It would be hard to top the Highgate Ostrich Farm. The plan was to explore the Cango Caves next, but, as Tanya and I approached the entrance, we agreed that if you’ve seen a few cool caves – you’ve seen ‘em all. Instead, we ate ostrich burgers at the restaurant there.

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