Soaring on African Wings

By Hendrik Erasmus

The prologue of this autobiography gives an idea of the flowing, almost esoteric, prose and original poetry which surfaces throughout the story.

A highly authentic and richly textured account is given of life as a white English- speaking youngster raised in rural South Africa during the 1960's and 1970's.
A vivid account is given of life in the military, duty in the jungles of the Caprivi on the Zambesi river and political awareness attained at Law School. Employment as a banker,salesman, cabdriver, wine-maker, goldminer, labourer, legal man. Surviving encounters with knifemen, wild animals and beautiful women.
The South American diary chronicles an extraordinary backpacking/cycling saga, taking the reader from the jungles of the Amazon into the lives of the vibrant South American people in the raw 1980's.

Travelling, teaching English and experiencing the rich cultures of Greece, South Korea, and Thailand. Unforgettable experiences in Laos and the Philippines. Near death in Taiwan.
There is true depth and honesty in the writing which is easy to read and digest, with real humour and pathos presented in the telling. The strong friendships that are formed, and the life lessons that are learned, are presented with love for the people and increasing self-knowledge.

The writer keeps the reader entranced by skillfully juxtaposing different periods in time, thereby establishing a theme of motion which never lets up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jan 13, 2006
• ISBN: 9781412230117

Hendrik Erasmus

The author is a South African of European descent. He was drafted into the military in 1974, and after attending law school he backpacked around South America in1986. In the 90’s he taught English in Greece, Korea and Thailand. His travel autobiography; SOARING ON AFRICAN WINGS was published in 2004. His subsequent travelogue DRIFTING INTO A SIDE-STREAM is based on a Cape-to-Cairo trip, and travels through Southeast Asia, Nepal and India. His second travelogue HOBO is based on travels in Korea, Southern Africa, Morocco, Turkey, China, Vietnam, and Southeast Asia. Currently, he is employed at Dongseo University in Busan, South Korea.

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© Copyright 2004 Hendrik Erasmus.

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ISBN 1-4120-4318-2

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Contents

PROLOGUE-

PART 1: A VAGRANT SPIRIT-PRE-1967

PART 2: A SOUTH AMERICA DIARY-1986

PART 3: IN THE SPIRIT OF ADVENTURE-1968

PART 4:INTO THE HEART OF THE AMAZON-1986

PART 5: LEGENDS-1970 TO 1973

PART 6: PARAGUAY-1986

PART 7: LIFE AFTER SCHOOL

PART 8: ARGENTINA-1986

PART 9: THE RAND AFRIKAANS UNIVERSITY-1976

PART 10: CHILE-1986

PART 11: THE CAPE OF GOOD HOPE-1979

PART 12: PERU-1986

PART 13: DARK AND DEEP-1980

PART 14: ON A PESO AND A PRAYER-1986

PART 15: THE FAIREST CAPE-1981

PART 16: BREAKING FREE-1987

PART 17: TEACHING ENGLISH AS A FOREIGN LANGUAGE

PART 18: ASIAN KARMA

PART 19: IN THE TROPICS

PART 20: AT THE END A NEW BEGINNING

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A SPECIAL WORD OF thanks to Deborah McConnell, Linah Ramoshaba, Sharon Haddock, and Eun Young for their assistance in the course of producing this book.

I would also like to express my gratitude to my editor Matt Routon, and to the Kiwis; Nigel Robson for his eagle-eyed proof-reading, and to Paul Forde for his invaluable technical contribution.

PROLOGUE-

SOUTH KOREA-2004

THERE WAS A TIME in my life when I was little that Johannesburg, the city of gold-or Igoli-as it is called, seemed to be the centre of the world. At its heart lies Hillbrow, that vibrant racial melting pot, rising high above the skyscrapers of the danger tinted inner city area, the two towers and trademark bread loaf-like mine dumps. I used to think that if you had been there, and had also followed the old way to the seaside, winding through the natural splendour of the wild Drakensberg’s green velveted heights, to descend into that sub tropical coastal mystique of the Kwa-Zulu/Natal Indian Ocean way, you had pretty much seen it all.

Since those pleasant days my world is still expanding. An ever-distant destination has always seemed inevitable, and now, here in far-off Korea in my late forties, I find myself at those familiar old, mysteriously shrouded, crooked crossroads of life once again.

So here I am catching a breeze up at my favorite spot up on the roof of Seo Kwang Officetel. Around me Changwon City’s night lights are sparkling with that uniquely Korean-fractionally Chinese flavoured splendour of unfathomable oriental neon artistry. The balmy evening breath is wafting evanescent whiffs of its subtropical fragrance in my face. Overhead in a restless sky, the stars are blotted out by a swirling turmoil of animated cloud; there’s a marauding typhoon churning up towards us from somewhere down there in the malevolent Pacific.

Below, the streets of Jung Ang Dong throng with late night revelers. Mostly, Koreans having a bowl of noodles in the pojangmatchas after a night out on the town, or just knocking back the drinks in the soju tents. Some foreigners move along the main drag from one friendly place to the next. This is downtown Changwon. This is where it all happens.

On the third floor of the Seo Kwang Officetel the legendary International Pub is a pulsating orb; its patrons, a crowd of hard drinking engineers from all over the world, Englishteachers, and the more adventurous Koreans. Working the bar, are my old friends, the irrepressible Soon Young and the girls, while Big Jason is rocking at DJ.

On the dimly lit dance floor crazy Kiwi Paul and’Laura’, his lovely Korean girlfriend, are blending in an eye wizardry of funky off-beat bopping, with Brooks and Jaromey fast-stepping into their classy routine, while big Joerg is having a close encounter of the nicest kind. Propped up against the bar are regulars like Nigel, JP’ (Jean Paul), Ravi, Louis, Yannick, and Iain.

This is a pub you’ll never forget, the birthplace of legends, a place where people judge you on what they hear and see before them. It’s around the bar where that old magic kicks in-the roll of international marriages originating from here reads like a’who’s who’ of the Changwon romance chronicles. The laid back ambience reeks of local foreigner history, which dates back to the early 1990’s when most of the customers were engineers, with just a handful of frazzled English teachers. Many of the engineers were grizzled veterans of the Korean and Vietnam Wars.

Korea has been good to me. It has revealed glimpses of its mysteries, and I have wallowed and near drowned in the eternal mystique of its exotic women-yet it’s time to move on.

We live in a world of caged people, for human freedom is a paradox as one cannot outrun the love and burden of your family, nor forget the security and comfort of the office prison and its pension plan.

KAPSIDA (Korean for: Let’s go together.)

Why don’t you place your trust in meand take my handthat I may lead you down a path thatfew will ever understandwhere the winding way wends throughblue burnished mountainsat the bewitching twilight houra silky silver satin threadweaving the wake of the sunken sun’sonce mighty power.

Aloft on surging wings, the soaring eagle kingssurvey the weary wanderers’ distant destinybeyond desultory mountain peakswhere winking stars beckonfrom the heavens’ shimmering majesty.

In the dancing moonbeam forestwe’ll tap into the enchanted oakwithin the shadowed spirit glenand from the golden book’s cherished chroniclesselect that hallowed dream which all believers yento enter the sacred realmwhere pleasant peals of laughter linger lightlyin the palace of eternal funfreed from the bonds of mortalityjoyful souls sing and dance in harmonywith the celestial moon and sunrejoicing in the ecstasy of life’s purest Lovein the absence of pain and strifein a world where worship ofthe universal Holy Oneis a way of Life.

THE SCATTERLINGS OF EUROPE-POST 1600’S

We come from afar, lured by the promise of eternity held within the ancients’ call. When we enter the pagan kingdoms and follow the path of the sun, myths and legends of fallen deities abound; Inti, Pachamama-earthmother, Quetzacoatl-the feathered serpent, Viracocha-the creator; where have you all gone? As we pass through the nether world into the realm of illusion, we meet wailing wraiths of incorporeal beings, disembodied spirits howling in the twilight zone, and hardest of all-withstand the devilry of Satan. Under the burnished night sky the lingering passion of Venus, faded goddess of amor, inflames our hearts with impossible yearnings after a nivarna of delectable feminine delights. But it is at the very centre of the universe we find that Zeus, supreme god of Olympus, Hermes, Aphrodite, Athena and many more have been tamed by the passing of the moon and the sun. Then we come upon a herd of holy cows in the enchanted valleysof the east, and like fantastical hallucinations in the evening mist, the Hindu gods appear; Vishnu, Brahma, Siva, swirling within a vast host of mystical delusionary demi-deities. Further to the east, the pale moon lights upon the gigantic, golden, brooding Buddha’s, thronged by gentle people in search of spiritual enlightenment. We marvel at the teachings of Jesus and Mohammed, and seek to ask them so much more, but they have long since departed to the sacred realm of celestialdom. When we approach the great divide between East and West, we hear a tumultuous uproar, and then our eyes fall upon the followers of the Christian’s God and Islam’s Allah, involved in unholy wars.

We flee, southward bound as the old world seethes and turmoil sweeps the troubled lands .Winds of destiny fill the billowing sails, driving us through the pounding tumult of the whipping Atlantic waves.

As we enter the raw-balmed tropics, Africa looms, an enigma of danger and mystique. From deep within the green foliage fringed heart of darkness, rings the primitive jungle deity Nduru’s savage siren call.

At the farthest extremities of the vast unknown we encounter the realm of Tsui-Goab; Supreme Being of the ill-fated Hottentots.There where Umlindi Wemingizimu, that cloud cloaked, table topped mountain guards his secrets within the incomparable beauty of the Cape of Storms.

When the Colonial masters reach out to subject us to their will, we set forth in chariots drawn by hardy Afrikander oxen, to enter the south eastern wild lands; the world of Unkulunkulu the Creator, where Chaka Zulu reigns supreme. In greeting, a hundred thousand blood-thrilling Zi—gi-di’ Zulu battle cries thunder through the misty hills.

In the trails of our most trusted scouts we rest our smoking rifles, to shoulder those creaking wagons through secret passes of the towering Drakensberg mountains dizzy heights.

So it is that ours is to search for freedom in the northwards lands, to conquer or to perish, as the raven new world that we seek to tame feeds upon our blood.

PART 1: A VAGRANT SPIRIT-PRE-1967

1

EARLY DAYS

IN THOSE LONG DISTANT days Europe simmered, seethed, heaved, and overflowed. Too many hot spices, too many diverse ingredients and of course too many cooks. Revolutions, wars, and religious persecutions were the order of the day. Rumors abounded of new worlds, a fresh start and untold wealth to be had.

The bold pioneers, the persecuted, adventurers, chancers, scum, whole families, intrepid travellers, all set out to seek their fortunes in the unknown, most never dreaming, many never caring how they would impact on the lives of the natives in those far-off lands.

It was Africa that attracted my forefathers. South Africa, a raw savage land where individual European identities soon became excess baggage as the settlers blended into two distinctive groups; the English speakers, and the ‘Boere’, of whom the Dutch farmers formed the majority.

As it is from this concoction that I was spawn, it is not surprising that I was born with restless genes. It would be great if one could go back in time and meet your ancestors, to try to understand how much you are part of what they were.

A study of my ancestors shows them to be people who were not daunted by the prospect of change or travel. It also reveals that I’m a bit of a mongrel. My father’s parents were descendents of solid Dutch people, who first fled from the religious persecution in Holland, to the Cape in South Africa. They then left the Cape on ox wagons, many via Natal province to escape English tyranny, and finally moved northward, to the Orange Free State on an arduous ox wagon trek over the Drakensberg mountains to leave the bloody battles against the Zulu’s behind them. This legendary movement of white Europeans settlers migrating into the wild lands of Southern Africa was later called the "Great Trek’. At a stage, they of course encountered the black African tribes migrating southwards, and it was from then on that the struggle for control of the country began.

On the other side, my mother’s parents were Greek and English respectively. My Greek grandfather, Nicolous Matzopolous, remains an enigma, his early days cloaked in a cloudy mystique. Sadly, he died when I was a child of about ten, and all I inherited from him were itchy feet and a taste for Calamatta olives. He was born in the Greek village of Vasiliki, which is close to the Albanian border. He left home at the age of eight, (my Greek relatives swear it’s true) and later surfaced in the city of Alexandra in northern Africa where he was a cook for the British army.

My Greek family knows very little about his north African escapades, other than that he wandered as far as Timbuktu, and later got a working passage on a ship bound for the Far East. After the ship rounded the Cape of Good Hope and berthed in Durban harbour (on the south east coast), Grandpa, and a fellow Greek countryman must have found the sight of Durban, with its balmy sub-tropical ambience, very tantalizing. Between them, they had enough cash to secure the discharge of one man, so in true Greek fashion they gambled and Grandpa lost. After dark, he dived overboard and entered South Africa as an illegal immigrant, carrying nothing other than the clothing he was wearing. In my own wanderings, I once lived in Greece illegally for almost two years, and at the time marveled at the irony.

As a child I got to know Oupa (grandfather) and Ouma (grandmother)-Dad’s parents-quite well. They lived in Harrismith, a jewel of a town situated in the curl of a long, curving, cliff-topped mountain called Platberg (flat mountain) in the Orange Free State.

Oupa once showed me the former family farm where he had grown up. It’s situated in the heart of the Drakensberg Mountain range near the border of the mountain kingdom of Lesotho. To me it looked like paradise. Oupa’s family fought against the British in the turn of the century Anglo-Boer war. He pointed out a mountain ridge from where he and his older brother had spotted an English patrol, and had shot an English officer off his horse when they were teenagers. The Brits responded by burning the farmhouse and destroying the grain silos.

IN SEARCH OF THE DRAGON SPIRIT (The Drakensberg Mountain)

Bagba, carefree spirit of the wild, god of the untamed winds, freely roaming forsaken jutting peaks, buttresses and pinacles, where-frozen in all its former glory the fallen dragon lies.

Ukhahlamba barrier of spears, awaken to the Zulu war drum beat. Rekindle that slow pulsating reptile pulse, heed the call of Fa and Wuni-gods of destiny, feed the fevered flame.

From afar, Mponjwane, Champagne Castle, Giants Castle, Mont-aux-Sources, Cathederal Peak, Thabana Ntlenyana, Injasuti, mountain legends, framed forever in the azure deep blue face of Ndjambi, god of the African skies.

The towering Amphitheatre, cradle of creation, succourer of blooming Agapanthus, window to a billion stars, playground of Chango, god of fire, light and booming thunder. In the rolling echo’s you can hear the gods call out your name.

Ouma was one of nine daughters. She was a softly spoken gentle soul; an absolute wizard at making jams, preserves, dried fruit, and so on. Her milk tarts were famous in the district, as she usually won first prize at the annual local agricultural show.

Ouma was a direct descendent of Dirkie Uys, one of the Boer heroes in the Zulu wars. The legend goes that his father, Piet Uys, was leading a small patrol through rugged terrain in the Natal province, when they were ambushed by a Zulu impi (a group of African warriors). In the chaos that ensued, some of the Boer horsemen managed to burst through the Zulu lines, and on looking back, amidst the heat of battle, they saw Piet Uys going down with a horde of assegai-wielding (short stabbing spear) Zulus upon him. Seeing his father’s plight, Dirkie returned to the fray, using his single shot rifle as a club. He died at his father’s side, amidst the chaos of red bathed, stabbing steel blades andthe heart chilling cries of Zulu warriors at the kill. That was the way of Africa: brave men killing other brave men, as culture’s collided.

Later, of course, the Zulus, who had either decimated or absorbed the other black tribes they came upon, were in turn defeated by the Boer and British armies. Then from 1899 to 1902 came the "Boer War’ in which the Boers eventually conceded defeat, in the shadow of the mounting deaths of Afrikaner woman and children in the concentration camps. Thus the British gained control of the whole of South Africa.

The extraordinary hardships the European farmers suffered in those early days moulded them into a unique entity; a hard-core Euro /African tribe’ called The Boere’. Dutch was no longer the spoken tongue, as "Afrikaans’ was born from a blend of (mostly) Dutch, French, English, German and African influences.

When the Boere eventually gained political freedom from the British in the early 1960’s, there was no way they were going to hand the newly acquired power over to the seemingly subservient African tribes, and thus the doctrine of Apartheid’, or separate development’ was born. The black tribes, of course, had no history of democracy, as each tribe had an autocratic king, who ruled in accordance with their tribal laws.

Dad went to school in Heilbron, a small town in the Orange Free State where Oupa worked at the railway station. After school he joined the Standard Bank, the only company he would ever work for in all his many years of employment.

Although Dad was a Boer, he was an unusual Afrikaner in the sense that he sought out English speaking South Africans as his friends. For a long time there was a strong anti-English sentiment in rural South Africa. At the outbreak of the Second World War there was even an armed rebellion when Jan Smuts, the South African leader, declared war against the Germans. Dad joined up and volunteered to fight the Germans. Eager for action, he was disgusted when he was not sent to Europe, but was stationed in Cape Town.

Upon his discharge, the Standard Bank transferred Dad to their Nelspruit branch in the lowveld of the far eastern Transvaal. There Dad distinguished himself as an all-round sportsman, excelling at rugby. That was also where he met Mom.

2

ON THE MOVE

MY OLDER SISTERS, DIANNE and Lorraine, were born in rapid succession, after which Mom found out what it means to be married to a company man. Dad was transferred to a small town in the Orange Free State called Jagersfontein. Mom was pregnant with me at the time, and it was while they were visiting Oupa and Ouma, who were stationed at the small town of Goeie Hoek (Good Corner), that her time arrived. They rushed Mom across the Transvaal border to the town of Vereeniging where I was born.

All that I remember about Jagersfontein are Wagter, a protective, big, vicious black dog, along with the old pepper tree in the yard, and finally, Martha our cleaner and my babysitter, the plump African woman who used to hug and tell me she loved me, and who cried so bitterly when we left.

The town of Delmas in the Transvaal province was our next stop, followed by a not-too-distant town called Balfour. It was there that I ‘came of age’ and joined Dianne and Lorraine in the only English class in the school. As it was rural South Africa where English speakers were a rarity, they put all of us in one classroom, right through from grade 1 to Standard 5. At that stage it was uncommon to have English speaking children in a rural school, so education was conducted solely in Afrikaans. Our teacher, a Mrs. Coetzee, could speak English well enough, and readily took on the challenge of our education. That was teaching for you!

My first day at school was an ordeal. At that time the assembly hall was still under construction, so everybody gathered under the shade of a huge tree. There the introductory ceremonies were conducted. As a newcomer I found thatperfectly acceptable, until matters were closed on a religious note. Dominie ‘Langpreek’ (pastor long sermon), as he was known, concluded matters with a one-hour long religious ceremony.

I did not readily take to school and after the ordeal of the first day, my first question upon reaching home that day was when do the holidays start?. That first day at school my mind was filled with the mortality of mankind-but at a point when I felt so alive! Mortality seemed almost impossible.

School was not kind to me. It was there that I discovered that I was a ‘Rooinek’ (red neck). All English speaking South Africans were called that by their Afrikaans speaking counterparts. It dates back to the Boer War when white-skinned Englishmen had their necks burned red by the African sun. When I was older, we retaliated by calling the Afrikaans people ‘Rock spiders’ or merely ‘Rocks’-Rocks are very dense after all.

As it was, I was a slightly built 8 year old, and regularly found myself surrounded by bigger Afrikaans boys who would knock me down, all the while wanting to know from me why I didn’t go back to England … and so on. I was hurt and confused, besides, I didn’t even know where England was (neither did they), but I was vaguely aware that it all had to do with something called the ‘Boer War’.

We were completely unaware of the irony of the situation-here the son of a Boer, whose family had faced the English on the battlefield, was being knocked around by descendants, (probably) of some low-life Afrikaners who had shirked any military responsibility-as a great many Afrikaners had done at the time. Dianne, my ‘big sister’, proved that these bullies came from the latter category. One day, while surrounded by bigger antagonists who were intent on beating me up, she burst through their ranks and walloped the leader on the ear with a wild blow. He sank to the ground in tears! That burst their bubble-never again did they team up against me at that school.

At Balfour Primary some of my grade 1 classmates included Dennis Usher, Grant Mac Nab and little freckle-faced Joyce McCatty; my first girlfriend. They all lived on surrounding farms, as did many of the children in our class.

It was in those days that Dad bought his first car, a little green VW Beetle which was his pride and joy. I’ll never forget our first ride around town, with the car jerking as Dad murdered the clutch and bruised the gearbox, while working his way through the gears in deadly earnest.

From an early age I developed a healthy liking for the outdoors. Most of the family friends were farmers, or lived out of town, like our close friends, the Argyles. Pam and Di and Tony and Lolly were about the same age, while Glenda was a year younger than me. The six of us used to roam the kopjes, or rocky hills, around their home.

After the Argyles left town, Tommy Dell became my best friend. The Dells lived on a typical country farm amidst rambling fruit orchards, sheds, tractors, grain silos and haystacks. Tommy had inherited fantastic toys from his older brothers: several wooden go-carts and a zinc canoe-what bliss.

Another character who arrived around about that time was our Fox Terrier, Chippy, who became a regular family member. Chippy used to specialize in taking on dogs many times his own size, and was already a battle scarred veteran at an early age. His other ‘faults’ included chasing after bitches, and cats. There are many stories to be told of Chippy’s jousts with cats. . The most infamous story about Chippy and the Chemist’s big black cat, I will not repeat, out of respect for old Chippy.

Although I never liked school much, learning how to read and write fascinated me, and upon discovering the magic of the town library, I lost myself in a world of mystery and adventure, a world of Enid Blyton, the Bobbsey twins, Hardy Boys, and so on. Adventure stories absolutely captivated me, and throughout my school days I was often enveloped in a cloud of fantasy, which from time to time I tried to turn into reality.

One day big news was broken to us: the Stork was to visit our home! Nine months later, we had a new family member-David Roy-He is what you call a ‘laat lammetjie’-in English: a late lamb.

Balfour was typical of rural S.A towns of the time, with its black suburb or ‘location’ as it was called, lying about a mile out of town. Every night at 9 p.m., a siren would gooff at the local police station, and if any black person was found in a white area after that time, he had to produce his Pass Book and give a valid reason why he was there outside of curfew.

Our house was attached to the actual town bank itself. As our home had no indoor toilet, we used to share the bank’s facility outside. We also had a couple of fruit trees on our premises, and Mom used to make the most delicious apricot jam. Dad taught me how to grow vegetables in the garden. I loved watering them, but picking spoils when no one is watching was the best.

At that time, South Africa was politically still a Union with the English Queen at its head, so our currency was based on that of England, with the Ticky (2 and a half cents), Six-pence, Shillings, etc. With one Ticky, a kid could buy a small paper bag full of sweets at the corner café, containing liquorice pipes, Chappies and Wicks bubble gum, Lucky Packets, etc.

A craze was sweeping through the world and eventually it even reached Balfour-Beatle mania. Dad couldn’t understand why his little girls would want adorn their bedroom walls with pictures of men with long hair, ‘Ducktails’, as he called them.

Whilst living in Balfour, one of our regular family excursions was to visit Grandpa and Grandma, who were then living in an apartment in the south of Johannesburg. Grandpa was a skinny, white haired old guy, with an iron-hard stubble beard.He hoarded delicious, black Calamata olives, which we, as children used to steal out of the pantry. Hearing that I was an avid reader, he liked to give me big, thick, ancient, detective stories to read. Apparently, he was a snooker player of great repute, but still an unsuccessful gambler.

After spending most of his life in Africa, Grandpa returned to Greece one last time. He came back with loads of gifts; Greek "worry beads’ for the girls, necklaces, and for me-a plastic doll in the shape of a Greek sailor. At the time it was my most precious possession. I often wonder now what became of it.

Mom told me that on his death bed in a Pietermaritz-burg hospital, Grandpa was seen in deep consultation with his oldest son. The visiting family members supposed they were discussing his estate matters. However, the following day, upon my uncle’s return, there was a great hurrah from the sick bed-Grandpa had won a rare and final jackpot at the horse races!

One night, Dad stunned us with the news that the Standard Bank had transferred him to a big town called Middel-burg. It even had an English Primary School! A few weeks later, many tears flowed as all the members of the dwindling English class came out to wave goodbye when we were collected from that school for the last time.

3

HARRISMITH AND CHRISTMAS AT BLOEMHOF

THE HISTORIC OLD ORANGE Free State town of Harrismith lies in the shadow of Platberg, my boyhood paradise. The mountain, which curls around it protectively like a prostrate dragon with its head raised, peers toward its sire-the distant Drakensberg Mountains, which separate the Orange Free State from Natal province and the kingdom of Lesotho.

Named after Sir Harry Smith, a former English colonial governor, it was a natural throughway for those Boer Trekkers, including my ancestors, who breached the formidable Drakensberg Mountains via Van Reenen’s pass with their ox wagons. Even before the area was settled by Europeans, it was reportedly the resting place for King Chaka Zulu’s impis, or warriors, on their way north when planning to attack the Swaziland Kingdom.

Dad’s sister, my Auntie Ina, married Christo Kunz, whose family farm ‘Bloemhof’ lies just south of Harrismith somewhat off the Natal bound road. In those days they were rather poor, so Auntie Ina had a job in town while Uncle Christo, a ginger haired, debonair, gentle mannered man, farmed that wild jewel of Africa with the help of the local Zulu workers.

My second cousin Fanie’s first language is Zulu-courtesy of his parent’s Zulu maid. He speaks such classic Zulu that he embarrasses his Zulu employees with his proficiency, while his older brother Chris is equally fluent.

As Dad was a banking nomad, it was Harrismith that we always returned to. Dad once used to work there for the Standard Bank, and even played scrumhalf-his favourite position-in the town’s first rugby team. It was to Harrismith that Oupa and Ouma had retired, to a home with a big garden and a chicken-run. On most visits, Mom and Dad stayed with them, while Di, Lolly, and I were out on the farm.

Of course Uncle Kassie or ‘Kaalgat Kallie’-(bare-ass Kallie) as Dad used to call him, was always present. A bachelor, Uncle Kas like Dad, was one of those rare Afrikaners from the countryside who spoke English better than most English speakers. Uncle Kas’s strongest points were the warmth of his personality, and his easy manner-it was impossible not to like him. His weak point? He loved the booze too much.

Christmas was a big affair in our family. In those days, the morning revels would begin at Oupa’s house, where we kids would be up at the crack of dawn to open our Christmas presents. Of course, the house was always done up with all the usual Christmas decorations including a tree. From there all would proceed to Bloemhof for the main celebrations.

In my mind Bloemhof is the most beautiful farm in the world, that is if you appreciate stunning mountain vistas, mystical little forests, and outbuildings and kraals built from rock. I make special mention of this impressive farm, for Bloemhof and the Kunz’s played an important role in our lives-but I’ll tell you much more about that later.

Inside the old stone walled, thatched roof farmhouse, the whole family gathered around a few long tables shoved together with Oupa at the head. The tables were laden with food, and everyone put on those ridiculous paper hats while downing a few drinks. Then Oupa would make a long speech with many of the male members shouting hoor-hoor (hear-hear), after which Oupa said grace for several minutes. Then, of course, there were several toasts, as Uncle Christo’s two half brothers (still young, hard-drinking bachelors) Vis’(Fish) and Gans’(Goose) concentrated on the booze, with Dad and Uncle Kassie not giving an inch.

At one of those earlier festive occasions, I accidentally had my first ‘drunk’ at the tender age of 8, when my younger cousin Fanie and I mistook the punch (Auntie Ina had made a marvelously fruity, very alcoholic punch) for cool drink. Under the (as yet unfamiliar) influence of alcohol, I decided that the party was too rowdy for me, and decided to go home. High-stepping along the farm road, I was halfway to the main Durban-Harrismith highway when Dad arrived. He was quite amused until I threw up all over the back seat of the car.

Coming from the relatively flat Transvaal, Platberg Mountain fascinated me from an early age. Its imposing bulk totally dominates Harrismith. Dad could be a strange guy: usually he was far too protective, yet shortly after one Christmas celebration when I was about 12 years old, I jokingly asked if I could climb Platberg, and he agreed to it-he even gave me a lift up to the end of town. Ouma had been horrified and had assured me that there were many bandits in the mountain and armed me with Oupa’s ‘kierie’(a knobbly walking stick). Ascending Platberg that first time, on my own, was an awesome experience, which triggered all kinds of adventurous possibilities in my mind, but that would come later-dealing with deadly snakes, big aggressive baboons, having to take overnight refuge in caves from inclement weather, near disastrous duels with deadly cliffs, and so on…

PLATBERG MOUNTAIN.

Demi animistic god, fossilized relic of distant ages pastlanguorous regal reptile, mysterious, aloof and vast.

Temple of the young one’s dreams, symbol of faith andhopewhere towering cliffs and the azure vault of heaven elope.

Haven, home and heaven to serpent, beast and birdfrom dawn to dusk their joyful cries can be heard.

Within a protected enclave the town folk abidea natural fortress in the valley of the mountainside.

In the morning mist the fertile hills and vales eagerly awaitthe radiant rays of the summer sun to caress and stimulate.

Encrusted in the icy breath of its distant dragon sireborn by the winter wind, frosty flakes of frozen fire.

High above, on resounding crags, the soaring eagles nestechos linger in the haunted heights where ancient spiritsrest

Down below, like anthropoidic ants, it’s mankind and hismatewho ultimately will determine the magnificent mountain’sfate.

4

MIDDELBURG

A WILDLY EXCITED ERASMUS family arrived in Middelburg in Dad’s treasure-his newly acquired Ford Cortina station wagon. Our new house in Hoog Street was an idyllic property, as it was enclosed by a 12 foot-plus hedge with a large orchard, and bordered an adjacent empty lot.

As our house was a fair distance from school, Dad bought me my first bicycle-a little red Hercules model. Middel-burg Primary School was a whole new ball game. In the first place it was an English school, which even had dormitories for out of town kids. It was also the first time that Di, Lolly, and I were split up, with each of us joining the class for his or her different grade.

While exploring our surroundings, we came upon the Kruger dam, which was just a few kilometres from our home. With Mom’s consent, but unknown to Dad, we spent many happy hours there. Di soon taught me to swim, and the woods around the dam were inviting and mysterious.

Dad came home one night with the bad news that our house had been sold, and that we were to move to the further side of town. Our new house was in Kogel Street, and was far from our school and the centre of town. During the winter months, boy, does Middelburg get cold!, Di, Lolly, and I used to have an agonizing bicycle ride to school, asour woolen gloves offered scant protection against the big freeze.

Once again, politics reared its ugly head. To get to our school, we had to pass by an Afrikaans school. Getting past this school became a real problem for me, as the Afrikaans speaking boys would often block my way and shove me around. This upset Dad very much, and he even called on the school’s headmaster, but it made no difference as the harassment continued. But then again, kids are like dogs, if you leave them to sort out their differences themselves, they usually will. One afternoon cycling home, I came upon one of my main antagonists, a boy called Christie Beitel-on his own. As it was a chance meeting we were both taken by surprise, but I jumped off my bike and onto him. It didn’t take long before he shouted quits and asked if he could fight me another day as he had a stomach-ache.

My second antagonist, Willem Botha, was two years older than I and lived over the road from us. One day, to my delight, Dad bought me a little green tent which I set up on our lawn. Willem almost went green with envy, and as I was pushing in the pegs I heard an Afrikaans voice saying Hello Rooinek, is that your tent, hey? There was Willem peering hopefully through the hedge. As I still had few friends, I was a little lonely, so I invited him over. That was fortunate, as Willem was so excited at the prospect of sleeping in a tent, that he was quite prepared to overlook the fact that I was an English speaker. As for me, I spoke Afrikaans well enough. We soon became best friends, and he let it be known at his school that nobody was to bother the ‘Rooinek’ again.

Christie Beitel had his own ideas however. About a year later Willem and I encountered him and his friends on the street. Christie was very confident as he had joined a boxing club, and he seemed to function even better with an audience in attendance. He had indeed improved as a fighter, and he gave me a hard time until I landed a big uppercut on his chin. By that time, several cars had pulled up so we had a bit of a crowd. Christie, lost again, and his mother later came over to complain about me! When Willem and I arrived home, with myself carrying all the marks of battle, I was very apprehensive about Dad. There turned out to be no problem, and with Willem giving a blow by blow account of the fight, Dad was all smiles.I went over to Christie Beitel’s home the next day and offered him my hand, and strangely enough, we even became friends.

One day, Willem suggested that we stop speaking Afrikaans and only communicated in English in future. I was amused, as his English was really poor, but he stuck to it, and within several months he was speaking fluent English. His astonished English school teacher even called his parents about his English grades, which were skyrocketing.

Willem and I formed a partnership, which was to terrorize the neighborhood throughout the following year. In typical South African adolescent tradition, we were master fruit thieves, as most people had fruit trees on their property. Our hobby was playing ‘Tok-tokkie’: we would knock on people’s doors and run or hide away-the fun lay in that sometimes an athletic adult might try to catch us. When we felt lazy, we would simply toss a few stones onto somebody’s roof and run for it. Always short of cash, we discovered that instead of milk coupons, many people left cash for the milk man; that money would often fall prey to our grubby hands. Our parents were early sleepers, so we would wait till after lights out, climb out through our windows, and sneak off into the night-searching for mischief.

The 5th of November, Guy Fawke’s Day, was always an eagerly anticipated occasion. Using whatever old clothes we could lay our hands on, we would stuff them with paper until we had shaped an authentic looking man who would be ‘Guy Fawkes’. In the evening we would prop him up with a pole and build a huge bonfire around him. After Dad lit the bonfire, the fun would begin with the fireworks.

Enjoying our first Guy Fawke’s celebration together, Willem and I pocketed several ‘bomb’ crackers, and after lights out, once again, proceeded to terrorize the neighborhood. Cruising around, we noticed a house with its lights still shining. Peering surreptitiously through a window, we saw that a group of people were watching a home movie of some guy who was stalking a lion. At a critical stage, as the lion became aware of the hunters presence, I slung a burning bomb cracker through the open window. What a shambles! Judging from the screams and chaos, it soundedas if we had let the lion loose in the room. I think we were very lucky that they never laid their hands on us, as some people just don’t have a sense of humor.

It was with many tears that Willem and I said our goodbye’s when his family was eventually transferred to the Free State.

Until then, I had only been exposed to the local Afrikaans-English situation. A newly arrived addition to my class from Scotland expanded my mind considerably-that is until he swore that mosquitoes in Scotland were a foot long! However, I was totally intrigued by his English speaking foreignness. It was so exciting to think of a world out there where everybody spoke English like him-despite the mosquitoes. Then another boy joined our class, this time from Canada! It was mind expanding. He was so cool about it all that I supposed Canadians were rather superior-until I saw his two older sisters-goddesses! Then one of them gave me a Canadian stamp, which inspired me to become an avid stamp collector for many years.

Middleburg’s Public Library was my private wonderland. There were more books than I had ever dreamed of and there was never enough time to finish reading.

Back at school, I became best friends with Leonard, a tall blue-eyed, blond haired, farm boy who was really easy going, taciturn, and extremely strong, even for his lanky size. The Suttons lived on a small farm a few kilometres outside of town. The first weekend I spent there was an eye-opener to me. Everybody was so casual about everything. Middelburg is situated on the South African Highveld, and the winter nights are bitterly cold, with a thick frost often blanketing the veld. Though it was early winter, Leonard merely told his mother, in passing, that we were sleeping outside. Have fun she said, without turning a hair. Then we headed into the veld accompanied by their two big dogs, Rover and Hitler, and armed with two catapults, or catties’ as we called them, a pellet gun and two empty maize meal bags-mielie bags’-for covers. After sunset we stalked the roosting guinea fowls, and Leonard shot one-which promptly fell into the icy river.

With Leonard claiming to have done his bit, there was no recourse for me other than to strip and fetch it. Plucked and salted, together with a couple of pigeons, we had a scrumptious wood fire braai (South African style barbecue) with the brightly burning fire lighting up the surrounding bush. We were nearby a stream, which held water that was good for drinking. Later that night and in the early morning, I became acquainted with the pitfalls of roughing it in the African veld. With the temperature dropping below zero, our wood supply soon ran low, and I also discovered that the mielie bag was too small to fit into and only covered about two-thirds of my body. Hitler and I were doing a back to back, when he wouldn’t get off the mielie sack so I booted him. He got up, stretched and pissed on the sack-just to complicate matters.

There were a few black African families living in huts nearby the Sutton farm house-where the men worked on the farm. At weekends, Leonard and I often used to wait till late at night when their fires were burning brightly and the drums going ‘a-boom-a-boom-a’, while the dancers stamped and lifted their melodious voices into the night, before unobtrusively joining in with the fun. We were still too young to partake in the vast quantities of homemade, African-style beer they loved to drink.

We often wandered for miles through the forests and veld, relying entirely on our natural sense of direction, and seldom had a problem finding our way back. However, one day while well off the beaten track, we had a good scare. Coming upon a bend in an unfamiliar path, we were confronted by the sight of a small group of chanting African men running swiftly in our direction. Wearing only loin-cloths with their painted faces, they looked and sounded very fierce; also, they were armed with spears and shields. We turned around and ran like hares for a long way, but could not shake them off. At last, in desperation, we scrambled up the embankment of a nearby railway line, determined to make a last stand, as there was a plethora of good throwing stones. The ‘impi’ came and passed by without even taking the slightest notice of us. They were embarked on some tribal initiation rites. What utter fools we felt. Dad, later, almost laughed his head off when I told him about it.

Middelburg is situated right in the centre of the South African highveld, and therefore experiences some of themost awesome thunderstorms imaginable. Once, while we were taking refuge from one of these magnificent natural occurrences at the Sutton home on Long Street, Leonard and I were out on the stoop. Reveling in the force of nature, a bolt of lightning struck in our vicinity, leaving us both flattened and greatly shaken up. Later, we claimed that Leonard jumped over it and I dived under it, but we really had had a pretty close call.

To reach the Sutton Farm was fairly simple-one would leave Middelburg on the north bound road, later turn right, and follow the dirt track road for several kilometres. However, Leonard and I were into shortcuts. The first one was fraught with the danger of being arrested, for we had to ride our bicycles through the front gate of the big military camp lying to the east of town, hurtling through camp, and exiting at a side gate before the gate guards could stop us.

We were very successful at this, until one of the humiliated guards took matters into his own hands. While passing through in our customary manner, we were greatly alarmed when a burly soldier on a racing cycle took off after us in hot pursuit with the apparent purpose of arresting us. This particular military camp lies on the banks of the Little Oliphant’s River. The spot where we usually left the camp leads onto a natural path following the course of the river.

At one crucial stage, this path is dissected by a deep gully. With our pursuer rapidly gaining on us, Leonard showed his leadership qualities. As we approached the gully, he gave me a thumbs-up, and indicated that I must slow down. Jumping off our bicycles, since this stage of the path was hidden from the approach, we hurriedly wheeled them through the gully, mounted again, and took off. The soldier was almost upon us, but he failed to see the gully before it was too late. There was a hellavu commotion behind us, but we didn’t dare return.

The alternate short cut proved to be potentially deadly. In this case, we had to fjord the Little Oliphant’s river. That was not a big deal, but on one particular day it had been raining heavily for some days previously, and the river was in full spate. In fact, it had become a raging torrent.

On inspecting the river bank, we saw that we had about seventy metres of river bank where we could possibly cross it. After the next bend, there was a potentially deadly series of rapids. Leonard went in first, swimming frantically until he reached the further side about fifty metres downstream. Then it was my turn. With the roar of the flood in my ears, I dived in, striking out with all my power. The force of the current was unbelievable, and I lost all sense of time and distance, as I fought my way through.The bend in the river came up at an accelerated pace. I desperately clawed at a rock in the swirling turmoil, then an iron grip fastened upon me and Leonard plucked me out.

Middelburg had one movie theatre. The big attraction one weekend was a Dracula movie. This was not to be missed. With Leonard’s parents away for the weekend, we cycled slowly into town in time for the second show. It was bad. It scared the living daylights out of us. When the movie ended just after midnight and everybody left, we stood there at our bicycles, no longer two conquering heroes, but two very scared, eleven year old boys.

The steep hill outside town didn’t even slow us down. It was only when we reached the now spooky looking farm house, and Leonard loaded his father’s .303 rifle, that our courage returned. That was until his older sister, Sandra, and