A New Home



New home. Seemed like a good place to come to because I already have two acquaintances here (albeit not the most regular of bloggers are you and you?

Will blog when I feel like it again.

If I ever feel like it again.

Oh, I'm sure I will feel like it again.














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You Give God a Bad Name [Part 2]

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Leon and I sometimes spend a few days in summer at a hunting lodge near my old hometown . Summer is a good time to occupy a hunting lodge - there are neither hunters nor dead animals around and one can enjoy a kind of pseudo-pastoralism without any of the annoying work of real farm life. Also, I don't know if I'd want to do Molteno in winter again, having acclimatised to the much milder Western Cape a long time ago.  Of course it always leaves a lingering sadness that we have to go and stay on someone else's farm. But hey, ons het almal op ons manier 'n plaas verloor , get over it. So we invited Anton to drive up from East London and share our little pastoral fantasy, and the vast old sandstone house, for a weekend. His eldest son would join us. I was on my way into town when I met them driving out to the farm and pulled over.  A small, grey man got out from the passenger side of the Landcruiser. He was hunched over and holding onto the front of his loos...
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Ontheemding

  Dis wanneer ek só voel dat Buurman se .270 baie aanloklik begin lyk waar hy in die kluis toegesluit staan. Die wanskape misvormdheid voor die computer kan nie skryf nie. Die ding sit op die stoel met 'n klip in sy maag, 'n krampagtige gevoel wat eers herinner aan opgewondenheid, tot die gedrog besef: dis vrees wat so voel. Verlammende vrees vir wanskape wees. Die wanskape wese vrees sy eie wanstaltigheid. Ek soek woorde in die HAT, want hierdie wanskapenheid bestaan buite die kring van naamgewing, soos 'n brandsiek township-hond wat aan niemand behoort nie. Die lelike ding wat niemand wil sien nie, wat almal van wegkyk; nie van wil weet nie. Wat mens sommer wegskop wanneer hy 'n oorlas van homself maak.   Op die laaste dag van September stuur my suster twee vars foto's van ons ma. Sy vra eers of ek wil sien, want sy is gaaf en het begrip. Ek sê ja en laai die foto's af. Dit vat my weke om die foto's oop te maak. Ek kyk skrams, sonder om te sien. Ek raak ga...
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Ek het niks hier verloor nie

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  The title of the story will be “Ek het niks hier verloor nie”. The title will be ironic.   A Farm with No Name   I will write about how there’s nothing left of the homestead I grew up in, nothing to go back for. How Africa is reclaiming the garden, and how it is fitting that way. Nature takes over from neglect and erases my father’s footsteps from the farm. It demolishes my mother’s vegetable garden and the exotic mulberry tree that fed my silkworms. I listened to Springsteen's Magic while driving the roads of the Eastern Cape earlier this year: "This is what will be, this is what will be".   Entry to the Vegetable Garden. There was an enormous mulberry tree next to the gate. My mother bred Boerboel dogs and Landras pigs, and found time to nurture an alcohol addiction in between. My dad ploughed fields and drank a lot of coffee. There used to be this ad in the Huisgenoot , it showed a big clock with a cup of Ricoffy at every hour. I think my fa...
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