episode 10 – Plaas toe

Three years ago I took my Laksmi to the farm, although we have done the trip a couple of times since including flying there that first trip always stays with me.June 2004 Last weekend we drove through the eastern Free State. The veldt so stark, so so dead in winter so different from the evergreen of our coast. In the distance from the R26 you could see the Maluti mountains. From Ladybrand the majestic golden sandstone rock cliffs of the mountains. Ladybrand a town so different from the other plattelandse dorpies. A tolerance fostered through a hundred years of living next to our Lesotho neighbours and Maseru .Onto Ficksburg. I told you how the cherries blossom all along the road in spring, now they were only naked branches. But you could see the buds on them even while passing in the car. Promises of pink, promises of Spring. Asparagus, I told you how they grow asparagus here. Rows of heaped up sand.Clocolan, Hobhouse, Smithfield, Ficksburg, Fouriesburg. In Smithfield Laksmi bought a box full of Mediterranean style preserves, Mushrooms, dried tomatoes Harrisa paste. A group of black women sold hand made pottery. They were sitting in a circle, waiting for a sale, playing cards. How amusing funny I found it that they were using a deck of cards, each card a different picture of big breasted topless blond women.Clarens. Clarens oh my Clarens. How could you let your soul be invaded by overworked Jo burg weekenders that came to buy your little small sandstone houses. How could you let the art dealers pock marked you with their grand ateliers. Wasn’t the quiet the loneliness the tranquillity you had when I first saw you, not good enough for you. So you desecrated your heart with restaurateurs and coffee shop owners, retired bankers and wannabe artist. My Clarens is now a monstrosity of a flee market filled with second grade kitch craft and over priced art.Bethlehem, Tweeling and then it was already dark. The turnoff to the farm doesn’t have proper signage. So we drove slowly looking for the turnoff. The night is freezing even with no wind our nose tips and ears are cold.My mum hug me and you, Laksmi. The joy of seeing us. You are so fortunate to have your family so close to you. I sometimes feel so sorry for her, my mom seeing so little of me and my sister far away there in London. Going for her fourth year now. Every year she says this year I am coming back but every year is one more.Strange how this trip was a sort of a home coming for me. I travelled this route many times before but maybe because I brought you with I was more aware of everything, maybe I was also looking with your eyes. What would interest you, what is interesting? To the many places I have been before and it was only me and nobody to share the experience it is only half a memory and quickly fade. Now every sight is sharpened as if I see it with two pairs of eyes.Memories are like that too. What can I tell you about my life here, what memories would entertain which ones would give you a window into my soul. So I dig up the memories too. Telling you where I came from.I did not grow up on the farm. I grow up in the eighties in Sasolburg, an industrial town just inside the Free state along the Vaal river. Ralf Rabe, Johannes Kerkorrel as most now know him went to the same High school as me. We lived middle class lives. A stone throw from Sharpeville. How unknown the struggle was, how distant somewhere. Slovo, Govan and Mandela was only names of whom I did not see a photo until possibly many years later. Indians could not stay in the Free State and only had shops across the Vaal in Vereeniging. Blacks were somewhere in the townships and only the maids and gardeners with dompass venture into our clean suburbs, fenceless with wide open green lawns.My parents retired on the family farm, the same land now in the hands of the sixth generation. Now that I lost most of my jungen angst the farm life is actually very appealing. I think it lost the connotation it had for me of being “boer” and “boorish”. I suppose that vryburger blood stil flow in my veins. Ironically my Mother who married my Father on condition that he promise that they will never farm (I think my mother had enough of a life of dependence on the rains from above, drought and poverty) today she continue the farm on her retirement. As did my Grandmother before her and as my sister probably will after her even though I am the oldest son. An unique maternal linage. I showed you all the old photos of my ancestors, we walked amongst their graves. The Dutch bible with all the names written in the geslags register. We sit in front of the Kaggel vuur till late and the plank vloere kraak all the way to the groot kamer where we got under a pile of real egte dons komberse made by my ouma nog. Lying there and listen to the noises of the big old farmhouse settling in. Die volgende dag spierwit dou op die gras en hanslammertjies wat melk kry stamp stamp so met hul nat snoete teen jou. Jou vrolike lag en opgewondenheid. Pa gaan wys ons die Nguni ’s wat hy gekoop het, die bulletjies sulke gespikkelde goed sproete oor hul velle. Die bakkie skud en stamp oor die veld en die honde hardloop ver agterna.Hoe lekker gesels jy en Ma albei sukkel sukkel oor die taal grens bietjie gebroke afrikaans en ingels.Then the farewell tears glisten close in my Mum’s eyes a stewige handruk van Pa. “Moeinie die karmenaatjie vergeet nie” se Ma Weet enige iemand nog van die oudste word wat dit beteken? Skaapboud gevries en dik toegedraai in koerant papier vind plek tussen al ons bagasie en jou flesse inmaak goed van Ma kwepers, pere, rooi kweper jellie. Die lang pad terug Kaap toe.So it was that I took my Laksmi to the farm to show her of where I came from only to re-discover some of it myself to.