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A Moment to Remember

By Cindy-Lou Dale

I had travelled from London, with my two small children, to Cape Town and from there, hired a car at the airport and headed along the infamous Garden Route towards my parent’s farm in the eastern Cape. We had not seen each other in two years, so there was great excitement all around.

Jordan and Amy were agog as I told them of Hogsback, our destination. I explained firstly that Granny and Grandpa’s farm was in a mountain much higher than Table Mountain and that in winter it snowed, bringing scores of tourist from all over the country to ski on the slopes. But now, in summer, it was lush and green, like a tropical rainforest. I described the dinner-plate sized mushrooms to be found on the hills. Jordan convinced his younger sister that fairies sheltered under the mushrooms from the rain.

“Why is it called ‘Hogsback’, mummy?” asked seven-year old Jordan.

I explained that in Xhosa the word meant ‘red clay on the face’ and that the red clay is used during initiation rites by the local tribes.

“Granny can see the three ridges of Hogsback from her front veranda”, I continued. “She says they look like the bristles on a hog’s back.”

Jordan asked if there were indeed hogs in the mountains and I confirmed that there were far too many that evaded the cooking pots of the local people. Satisfied with this explanation, he proceeded to tell Amy about what they would do with the dogs and Grandma’s other animals. He even threatened to teach Amy to swim in Granny’s pool.

I passed a treats bag, filled with nuts and dried fruit, to the back seat as I drove on in search of a nice restorative cup of tea and a banana sandwich. Eventually, a road sign indicated a roadside service centre was some ten kilometres ahead. 

At the services we decided to forego the customary banana sandwiches and instead bought several large pieces of ‘biltong’ and Rooibos tea in Styrofoam cups. Biltong is a great South African delicacy which constitutes tough strips of dried raw game meat that looks even worse than it sounds. But we love the stuff. In fact Amy cut her teeth on biltong.

Jordan, Amy and I were sitting on the sidewalk next to my car, doing battle with our respective pieces of biltong when a busload of camera wielding blue-rinsed European old folk drove by. I wondered if they were gaping horror-struck at the sight of the kids and me, sprawled comfortably in the gutter or where they were staring at the repulsive looking things we was gleefully tearing at? Needless to say, we were undeterred.

Against the backdrop of the hulking Langeberg Mountains and a crimson sunset, I continued our journey and drove through endless oceans of golden wheat fields, swaying in the lazy breeze. Immense farms extended from the road verges to beyond the horizon, with only border tree lines to mark their edges. Here and there was a scattering of farm houses and outbuildings.

Several hours later I took the turnoff directing me to Hogsback. The 12km drive to the base of the mountain that eventually lead to Hogsback itself was dangerous due to randomly crossing cattle, goats and farmyard fowls. The tarred road gave way to gravel tracks that had been washed away in places - the vegetation dense.

I drove slowly and rounded a corner to find the road ahead blocked by several cattle. I pulled over and waited for the herdsman to direct his cattle, waking the children for the unusual sight. On our right was the moon kissed slopes of the great Amatola Range, overlooking the rivers and beautiful farm lands of the Tyume Valley.

“Enkosi, mamma,” said the herdsman in thanks as he passed. The children smiled and waved and Jordan stuck his arm out to stroke a passing cow.

There was much chatter and excitement as we turned into ‘Somerset Farm’. The veranda security lights came on as I drew up outside my parent’s rambling farmhouse. Jordan hurriedly got out of the car and ran up the steps to meet his Grandpa who was already halfway down. Granny soon appeared heading directly for Amy, who was still strapped into her seat. “Oh, my little girl, your Ouma missed you so!”

All the farm labourers and their families came out to greet us and soon Jordan and Amy were whisked away by the picanins (young children) whom had made a ‘tent’ in the dining room with upturned chairs and numerous blankets. There was much laughter and shrieks of terror as they exchanged ghost stories and told stories of the witch that lived with the hogs.

Later that night, much later, after the children were put to bed, surrounded by my mum’s dogs, my parents and I sat in the kitchen – where all social gatherings took place. My father stoked the log fire while my mother directed him.

“Keep your bedroom door closed tonight otherwise Ugly will join you. She sleeps there you know,” mum warned. Ugly was the ‘house’ chicken that my mum had adopted when still a chick.  Conversation focused on farm life, animals, new staff and crops. Mum told of her ailing horse that was in recovery and who cleverly used her poor condition to illicit sympathy and sugar lumps from dad.

“He’s a sucker for her doe eyes, he is”, mum berated.

“Rachel, don’t make as if you’re so Holy, I saw you the other day with her too. Giving her ice cream,” dad responded. This was my family. Wine farmers that don’t drink wine and a farm yard full of animals that would die of old age before being eaten.

Eventually my dad’s secret reserve of lethal home brewed apricot brandy made an appearance, together with our respective tobacco pipes. It was that precise moment that would be stamped in my memory forever. In that instant I realised what a precious gift I had in my rather eccentric parents and how I loved this very Africa.

http://www.travellady.com/destinations/africa.htm South Africa

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