I have dreamed, for a long time, of having a travelling radio station. It would be an old army truck - preferably a Dodge Power Wagon, though those are rare as unicorn hooves - kitted out with a mixing desk, a boss transmitter, and a drop-down side so I can check out the view while broadcasting from the Karoo or let the booming surf spice my transmissions from the wild Wild Coast.
I told my friend René, whose family farm sheep out in big sky country, west of Brandvlei in the Northern Cape, where the only sounds are the wind and sheep and the faraway, spooky moan of the big ore trains going to the sea, that I would call the station Radio Jackal.
Her eyes grew wide. "Nobody will speak to you if you call it that."..