Recording and reminiscing; with occasional bokdrols of wisdom, one hopes.
Random, un-chronological events and memories after meeting Trish, marriage, children and sundry other catastrophes.
NO PERMISSION GIVEN to Artificial ‘Intelligence’ wannabes or LLMs to steal content. Don’t steal other people’s stuff, didn’t your mother teach you that!?Shame on you!
bokdrols – like pearls, but more organic. Handle with care
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Note: I go back to my posts to add / amend as I remember things and as people mention things, so the posts evolve. I know (and respect) that some bloggers don’t change once they’ve posted, or add a clear note when they do. That’s good, but as this is a personal blog with the aim of one day editing them all into a hazy memoir, this way works for me.
Sheila worked at Fugitives Drift Lodge with David and Nicky Rattray for a while and met many interesting people and characters from all over the world. She should write about the weird folk she met – the judges and military men and colonial types and rich folk and historians and chief constables and all the other titles the Breetish Empire invented.
While there, she organised for the five of us – her old Swanie ‘nuclear family unit’ from Harrismith in the sixties – to have a family weekend there with her – the youngest child – as our guide. One afternoon she took us out to the Isandlwana battlefield in a Landrover and got lost on an off-road excursion. Her sense of direction was imperfect, but she was unfazed and soldiered on like a lost Pom fleeing a battlefield. She had the Buffalo River on her left (or was it right?) and was headed in a direction she thought might get us somewhere sometime. Like Douglas Adams wandering around at the end of the Universe, she was in Don’t Panic mode.
– start of the fugitives trail at isandlwana –
So we’re bouncing over the veld, Sheila driving the ponderous old Defender, and our 85yr-old ‘ole man’ uncharacteristically sitting in the back, getting fidgety.
After a while the bouncing got to his ancient bones and he groaned and – forsaking the old stiff upper lip – moaned about the bumpiness – sort of a geriatric ‘Are we there yet?’
Sheila whipped round and said, “Keep quiet and sit still. Don’t make me come back there and sort you out!” then grinned triumphantly and crowed, “I’ve waited fifty years to say that!” Now that was hilarious!
– isandlwana –
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We drove over to the waterfall where ‘Lord’ Chelmsford made a monumental cockup for which he suffered no consequences, as connected people don’t.
– the family at Mangeni Falls – – where Robbie and I did a re-enactment . . – – . . from many years before –
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While sitting on the hillside opposite the Isandlwana kop listening to the tale of the famous battle in which the homeland-defending Zulu warriors knocked the shit out of the wicked invading Poms, a fascinating tableau played out below us.
A minibus and two sedans pulled up. People piled out and one in sangoma dress – one who can channel the ancestral spirits – was holding a small branch of the buffalo thorn tree umLahlankosi, “that which buries the chief. ”
They had come to fetch the spirit of an ancestor who had died at the great battle of Isandlwana in 1879, and take him home.
I have not been this excited about a book since Tramp Royal, by Tim Couzens. Well actually, Trader Horn and Ethelreda Lewis’ The Ivory Coast in the Earlies, and then Tramp Royal.
My own The First Safari by Ian Glenn just arrived and it’s beautifully made; a real old-fashioned book, hard cover complete with elegant dust jacket, map, real paper – dry matt, not glossy – a proper book! Full of fascinating detective work on the trail of its subject, Francois Levaillant, explorer of the unknown-to-Europe (well-known, of course, to the people who lived there!) interior of the Cape Colony back in 1781.
I’ve only just started but already I have to rush to report: I have a little thing about how a lot of these guys wrote how they went here and they went there and they shot a bloubok; and how often – almost always – they were actually taken there by local people with local knowledge. Their routes, their water holes, their finding animals for food and animals, birds, reptiles and plants for specimens was mostly done by, and thanks to, people who lived there. These local people weren’t ‘exploring;’ they were earning a living as guides. Here’s just one good reason explorers often took along a host of local people: Getting back safely! Not getting lost.
So here’s what I learn in Chapter 1: Far from an intrepid lone explorer, Levaillant actually had plenty of assistance on the quiet: A wealthy collector in Holland sponsored him; He put him in touch with the local VOC ‘fiskaal’ – like a magistrate – Willem Boers; Boers obtained the release of a prisoner jailed for murdering a Khoi woman. This man knew his way around and could act as a guide and helper for Levaillant.
This prisoner’s name? Swanepoel! A criminal ancestor of mine lucked out and got to go on an amazing adventure – the First Safari!
– The First Safari – – just wow! – all books should be like this –
Later: OK, so now I’ve read it and re-read it. If you’re at all interested in exploration, birds, and early Africa, you’ll be fascinated. Learn how the Bateleur got its name. In addition, if you’re interested in fairness, giving people a fair shake, you’ll like it – Levaillant was criticised and his contribution to ornithology was downplayed, probably mainly because those critics were English or American and he was not. If you like mystery, there are things not (yet) known, still to be discovered;
And lastly, if you like detective stories, this is like searching through caves, Indiana Jones-style, but with far more interesting treasure. The caves are museums and the treasure is real old Africa, not mythical stuff. You’ll love it. My kind of book!
Buy local: raru books – ISBN barcode 9781431427338 – hardcover around R220.
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You could also try to buy a copy of Levaillant’s amazing book on African birds in six volumes – LEVAILLANT, François (1753-1824). Histoire naturelle des oiseaux d’Afrique. Paris: J. J. Fuchs, An VII (1799)-1808. Asking price if you can get one – around R250 000.
Tom delivers a hot-off-the-grill rare steak, a breadroll and a lovely green salad with blue cheese dressing to me at my desk.
Plonking it in front of me he announces decisively: The kids have booked the lounge for tonight, Dad.
Have they paid a deposit? I ask.
Here it is, he says, planting a fond kiss on my cheek.
I’ll accept that in full payment, I say.
I was going to watch the Sharks’ game, but I’ll happily miss it.
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The pic is a different day, same year. His mate is Francois. Both of their Dads are named Peter Swanepoel.
