"I don't have 'work' clothes and 'good' clothes," Varty says, humoring my inane interest in his wardrobe but ever so more interested in the Black eagles that he just spotted on a distant hill. "I just have clothes."

Philippolis is far from Milan. However, this town closest to the tiger sanctuary (about 20 miles) has, on its graveled main street, a fashion stronghold called the Boetiek Elegant. Having finished my grocery shopping — I've developed a taste for South African staples such as Rooibos (red bush) tea and rusks (hard, dry biscuits) — and having attempted to do my banking (a teller will come fetch me in an hour or so when my dollars have successfully changed into rands), I feel compelled to shop.

Suzanne, the middle-aged owner of the boutique, greets me on the porch and invites me inside. I'm her only shopper. When she finds out I'm working at the tiger sanctuary, she makes a beeline for one of two sparsely filled racks and pulls out a pantsuit of a leopard-print material. She says she bought it special when she found out about the tiger sanctuary. She figured that people who visit it might enjoy dressing the part.

I doubt that it's my size, I say. Her challenge, she admits, is having a small shop that must cater to not only "fat old women and fat young women but also slim women, young and old." She invites me to the other side of the shop where local handmade items are featured.

I purchase a quilted baby bib on which wild animals of the bush march gaily around its perimeter. It's for James, the owner of the Philippolis Lodge, a hotel/pub that anchors the main street. Actually it's for his unborn baby, due later this month. James proudly announced in the pub last night that he found out it was a boy: his third.

"Well on your way to a soccer team!" one patron deadpanned.

James yawned. He and his wife had made the long, dusty trip to Bloemfontein earlier in the day and waited at the government hospital for a free sonogram and then to reserve a room in which the baby could be born.

"If you don't make a reservation, what happens," I ask. "Would they turn you away after you'd driven for two hours on bumpy dirt roads?"

James shrugs and slides me my usual: a Greek salad and a bottle of Castle Lager, whose label proclaims it "The Great South African Beer."

James is a pale, good-natured man with a dry wit. He used to let patrons pour their own drinks until recently when some trouble-makers started pinching entire bottles of his best spirits. The story goes that when he told the town policeman, the cop retorted: Well what'd you expect?