Ukuthula to Tarlehoet

The firm of Van Deventer and Le Roux, one as clumsy as the other, tackled a major project with hammer, screw drivers and a tiny manual drill. The name Ukuthula had to be removed. It’s a pretty name, but impersonal. A heavy piece of blackwood, with the new name Tarlehoet etched on it, had to take its place. Tarlehoet was the name of our home in Dan Pienaar, Bloemfontein, where we lived happily for twelve years, from 1980 to 1992.

But what is the meaning of Tarlehoet (Tarlehoek, or even Tarentaal, for some who did not give the name a proper glance)? Until 1980 we also did not know. Then we bought from the late Bontie Bonthuys, well known sign-writer, his large slate-roof house at the top corner of Gen. van Schoor and Cmdt. Senekal Streets in Bloemfontein. Bontie was a North-Westerner, and infatuated with the Afrikaans author Elizabeth Vermeulen’s stories of his heimat, such as her book Temmers van die Noordweste. (Tamers of the North-West). He named his house Tarlehoet in memory of a Bushman character in one of Vermeulen’s stories. The name was etched on a copper plate above the front door. The little Bushman, kneeling with his bow and arrow at readiness, had also been immortalised in a stained-glass panel next to the front door, and on a piece of slate stone behind the post box.

Bontie wanted to remove the name. The new owners felt it should remain. It was part of the house. Like the image of the little Bushman. It wasn’t long before Tarlehoet meant more to us than a strange Bushman. It earned its meaning: “A place where we are happy”. When we bought Ukuthula – a home we simply knew that was going to have a special place in our hearts – Tarlehoet was the name that immediately came to mind. A man from Melkbos with a cowboy name and a great love for beautiful wood, Dick Turpin, etched it into a magnificent piece of blackwood.

To remove the name Ukuthula was quite a job

When we had to drill with our inadequate little hand drill, the two “carpenters” with five thumbs on each hand were just about in favour of tossing in the towel. Rina tried to give advice sympathetically. Herman retorted: “Rina, I’ve been doing this job … for the past half an hour.” In the end we persisted. Eventually, Tarlehoet was fixed to the two poles which had served for years as an anchor for Ukuthula. We posed for photos next to the new name – Herman and I, Tokkie and I, Rina and Tokkie.

At that very moment a warthog trotted past. Rina took aim and “shot” – with her camera of course. Truly a fitting souvenir of a memorable day. Van Deventer and Le Roux were deservedly proud of a job well done. That evening, we enjoyed beer and coffee in the swimming pool. “It was Tokkie’s birthday and we gambolled in the moonlight in the swimming pool,” was how Herman recorded the event in the guest book.

The next day, with my brave ex-colleague as team-leader, we walked the hikers’ trail from beginning to end – another fascinating discovery. But we walked too fast and talked too much. We only learnt at a later stage: on the hiker’s trail you walk at a snail’s pace, every sense finely attuned.

The Tuesday before we left, Tokkie and I made a last inspection. I proudly observed Herman’s and my handiwork. I gave the piece of wood a possessive pat. The next moment there was a groaning sound and our sign hung at an akward angle. A cruel discovery: the nameplate was loose. Shamefacedly, Tokkie and I carried it home and I called in the help of the office. They had better tools.

Sentimental as I am, I took the heavy piece of wood in the boot back to Cape Town. I phoned Jean Smythe at Fish Hoek and secretively said to her: “I brought you something from Sabiepark.” “Oh, Hennie, how nice, come and have a cup of tea. How about tomorrow?” So next morning we drove to Fish Hoek. I had difficulty at first in finding her address. At the correct front door, we were ecstatically welcomed. Excitedly the previous owner enquired: “What did you bring me?” I took “Ukuthula” proudly from my car – and was quite disillusioned by the look on her face. “Old Mike (her late husband) isn’t with us anymore,” she said. “Use it for firewood.”

We did not burn Ukuthula, but had the kiaat highly polished. It is now a smart clothes horse in the entrance hall of our daughter, Marisa’s, home. To Tokkie I said later on: “I’ll haunt you if you should ever do something like that to me. At least light the fire yourself.” Buying Ukuthula Gives Independent Viewing of Game Parks In South Africa