What A Great Life We Had In The Wild!

A bushy beard, different variations on the theme “bush wear”, and walking sticks with “character”. These are three symbols of the wild that help to identify and define a special brotherhood of bush-people – a rare species with the wild in their veins.

I once experimented with a beard, a luxuriant grey one. And as coarse as hessian. When a Cape friend, Pierre van Manen, saw a photo, his immediate commentary was: “If you had a horse, I have a pair of green underpants to give you.” That connotation did not strike a happy chord – I’d fall off the horse (as did that other man with a beard and green underpants, the right-wing AWB leader, Eugene Terre’Blanche)!

The khaki outfits in my bush wardrobe are really my “best” wear for expeditions to Skukuza or Hazyview, and reserved for church or business. In Sabiepark my dress code is: the older, the better. Formal clothes don’t feature at all. My only suit, tie and formal shoes are earmarked for funerals. One never knows when it might become necessary. The axe bites deep, and the activity nowadays seems to be concentrated in my part of the bush.

Walking sticks of all shapes and sizes are plentiful

One of them is a masterpiece. A friend from Bloemfontein who is a master woodworker, Jan Scholtz, used Transvaal kiaat to make it. The handle is the curved tooth of a huge warthog. Tokkie took photos on Tarlehoet’s stoep of the ceremonial presentation. Since that day this particular walking stick and I are inseparable. But that very same facility gave me a fright on our first holiday after I received it.

Tokkie and I were walking to the picnic spot. On the way, it hit me like a bomb: “Where’s my walking stick?” I did not see it anywhere at home and no, my wife did not know either. With every step my unhappiness mounted. Eventually, I could no longer doubt it. The Jan Scholtz creation so dear to my heart had been stolen. Perhaps for muti? Rhino horn is presumably potent medicine for a languishing libido. That claim is well-known. So why not warthog tooth?

At the picnic spot, the tension reached breaking point. I had to go back home and search immediately. Soon I trotted. Tokkie protested and gasped for breath. I shouted over my shoulder: “When you get home, you can have a dip in the pool.” I burst in at the door. I searched behind the bookshelf, moved away cupboards and glasses. I even looked up at the roof. In the wardrobe, I pulled aside Tokkie’s Tarlehoet clothes. Safe and sound, in the corner, was my valuable piece of kiaat. We must have decided the previous holiday that such a valuable item had to be hidden well. We almost hid it TOO well. But then, our memories – present company in particular! – are no longer what they used to be. Since then the walking stick has a permanent hiding place. I can go there with my eyes closed.

After the joyous reunion, I gently rubbed my lips against the smooth warthog handle. Tokkie, always the opportunist, took the gap. Would I have been as pleased if she was the one in the lost-and-found-incident, she wanted to know. Next question!

Civilization is only three days deep, is an old bush adage.

It means: after three days, all stress is forgotten. Tension disappears. Worries seem less severe. Life is a ball – with a capital L. An important element of life in the bush is the change-over from city child to nature child. To wait on the stoep for game to come by. To carefully pick tracks and examine manure. To listen intently for sounds. To admire the trees – make sure all your nameplates are intact – and enjoy the flowers and seeds. To prepare the campfire each night.

Tarlehoet has a large stoep with a high thatched roof. It is a sociable place. A place for visiting – “om te kuier, ” as we say in Afrikaans. All day, all night. On a bright full-moon night Tokkie and I decided on a “night-watch”. Like my full beard, we only tried it once. The silver moon through the branches was fascinating. But all around us Tarlehoet was silent as the grave. Before midnight, the winter cold on the stoep was bone-chilling – quite a surprise – and my patience sorely tried. What was left of our fire was extinguished, and we went to bed. Shortly after 04:00 our consciences woke us. We went for an early morning drive, a fruitful one with plenty to see. It made up for the lost sleep.

Part of our stoep’s attraction is a small “swimming pool”; primitive, but magic! In the merciless summer months, the cool water is refreshing. A life-saver. From the bed into the water, from the water into bed – that’s Life, my friend! In the evening, with a few floating candles on the surface, the pool is a pretty picture.

Jean Smythe told us: “In the course of time we never went to the Kruger any longer. We’d offer our car keys to friends: “Take the keys. Go for a drive – we’ll stay on the stoep.” On a dull piece of road, south of Skukuza, I once asked Tokkie whether she remembered Jean’s words. “My goodness,” she replied, “do you read my thoughts?”

To be anchored in Sabiepark? No, we are not candidates for that. We are both too fond of the Kruger, which we visit twenty, thirty times during our winter vacation. But the stoep of Tarlehoet is the number 1 for total unwinding. And that’s a fact.

Not only Tarlehoet’s stoep, either. Sabieparkers become quite competitive when they start comparing “stoep notes”. One boasts a visit by a leopard, another had an elephant as spectator when having a dip, and yet another brags about a very rare bird, high and dry on an overhanging branch. The prize for the most exceptional “stoep tale” must surely go to the journalist Martie (Retief) Meiring and a friend. Their observation was, in Martie’s words, “unique, but very tragic”. From the large flat roof of the Meiring residence, Meiringspoort, the two women once watched refugees from Mozambique trying to cross the river. They saw a baby fall into the water. The two women were powerless to stop the little red bundle just disappearing. Later, soldiers found some of the refugees’ belongings that had also fallen into the water. Among these were photos of the family in front of their hut in Mozambique. The baby’s body was never found.

The Lowveld winter is mild and short. Barely three months. The local inhabitants, the Shangaans, name the months of June, July and August “Khotavuxikae, Mhwawuwani and Mhawuri” – the time which holds winter, the rush of the wind, and the month of strong winds. During this period, when people in the south freeze, Sabiepark is bustling. Almost every house sports a few lanterns and the smoke of a campfire. Owners come from afar, also from overseas, to enjoy the pleasant winter climate of the Bushveld for as long as possible. Traditionally, in mid- July, a large army tent is erected on the river bank, to house the annual general meeting. After hearing reports, forwarding motions and talking the hair off a dog’s back, a social get-together, a so-called “bring-and-braai”, takes place. Sabiepark provides large fires, thick porridge and “sheba” (a tasty tomato and onion delicacy). This is the climax on the Sabiepark social calendar.

That someone should wish to visit the Lowveld during winter, everyone can understand. That people visit in summer, is surprising to the uninitiated. “Don’t you suffer in the heat?” I have to answer that question hundreds of times. Dear friends, allow me to explain again. Have you forgotten what it is like when the southeaster blows in the good old Cape? During November, December and January, it blows and blows. It’s mhawuri, mhawuri, mhawuri, all the time. This is when the bush is at its most beautiful – a deep-green paradise. Granted, the mercury reaches almost 50 degrees Celsius in the shade on the hottest days. The humidity can reach 100. But if you are fortunate, the sun hides behind the clouds for days. In November (and also December, one of my favourite months in the bush) the numerous new arrivals in the animal kingdom are a bonus. And there is exceptional activity of birds: of the African paradise flycatcher flashing its orange garb through the trees, and the woodlands kingfisher who’s song never ends. I can add other special December joys: when the earth is drenched with good rain, the sounds of thunder during an electric storm, or the rain singing a soft lullaby on the thatch of your bush dwelling. And it is absolutely exhilarating to splash in the pool while the raindrops keep falling on your head.

The sun is not a scorcher every day in sabiepark

No, in December the sun is not a scorcher every day. Ask the thousands of hopefuls who flocked to the north in December 2002 to watch the eclipse of the sun. A thick band of cloud obscured the hopes of many. Of ours too, but we do not complain. On the stoep of Tarlehoet we had an unforgettable experience when, in mid-morning, the bush suddenly hushed in the sudden dusk. Leading the line past us were the guineafowl searching for a tasty evening snack, their screeches, sad and mournful. On their heels followed confused impalas, zebra and wildebeest in formation, probably looking for a place to sleep. Even the troublesome mosquitoes misread their watches and started their premature nightly buzzing. Then, to the surprise of all, day returned, as suddenly as it had gone. Good morning again!
When evening does come normally (at a civilised time!), the fading light is a warning to all, man and beast, to be doubly alert. Animals instinctively sense: we must be careful. Humans with common sense realise: after dark is not the time to go for walks; predators – especially leopards and hyenas – could cross your path at any time.

Should a crisis arise after hours, there is an emergency number Sabieparkers can dial. But what does one do when your front door slams shut at night and your cell phone, keys and the rest are locked inside? Such a predicament confronted two of Sabiepark’s most senior citizens, Louis and Annaria Theunissen of Apiesdoring (erf 335 in Apiesdoring Avenue). They had no option but to walk a kilometre to the gate in the pitch-dark. The two had one torch and one broomstick. Annaria, the fittest, took the lead, torch in hand. Louis held on to the broomstick for dear life behind her.

(All kinds of emergencies can happen in Sabiepark. One of quite a different kind once made the fire-fighting team scurry. A Mazda 323 overturned directly in front of the gate and burst into flames. The team quickly had the fire under control. All thirteen – thirteen! – passengers were unscathed.)

Sabiepark doesn’t have street lights. The houses do not have electricity – out of choice. The bush atmosphere must be retained and protected. People who love the wild gladly “suffer” the inconvenience. A microwave oven, TV set, electric hairdryer, computer, kreepy-krauly or whatever, are items one can do without, if one really wants to. Paraffin, gas and solar energy – cheap and dependable – are stalwarts in their own right. In addition: one can make a plan, even with a computer, when the call of modern communication becomes too strong.

My Honda CRV came out with a picnic table that doubled as a floor in its boot, even with a hole in the middle for an umbrella. I did not expect to use this table much. But I was proven quite wrong. During the Honda’s first Sabiepark holiday, the table was used virtually every day. Not for picnic, but as a desk for my computer. I took it along to the changing room at the communal swimming pool next to the office complex, where electricity is installed. It became a convenient work-station, with a plug at hand, a built-in seat and an electric light.

I must admit that there were complications. In the first place, the presence of a greying man behind a computer was obviously an inhibiting factor to men who need to use the facility for whatever purpose. Some explained apologetically the purpose of their visit – like asking permission. Others retreated, unrelieved. Some comments arose when the news leaked (if you’ll pardon the pun). I was told that because my book was written in that particular place, it was no wonder it was a s..t book.

These days, I have the pleasure of typing happily away on Tarlehoet’s stoep, thanks to an inverter that my son-in-law, Brent Claassens, has suggested. This little wonder box converts 14 volt into 220. The stoep is a much more congenial workplace than a changing room. Tea is even served from time to time, and strangers do not drop in!