Chapter 7 ~ Becoming Uprooted

The parkie, the mountain, Mamma and me

Number 772, Meyer Street, Rietfontein, Pretoria. The only home I ever knew, until I left home. Not on the "good" side of town, but not on the "bad" side either. Somewhere in between. My father bought the property with a month's wages as a building contractor. Meticulously drew up the plans, and built a strong, simple brick house, where they spent more than fifty years of their married life and raised four children.

With a bus-stop straight across the street and a traffic circle a stone's throw away, it was not a quiet spot. But the back garden was our haven. It adjoined a "parkie" with swings, a see-saw and a wide stubbly field to ride bikes and play games on. From it, the road (19de laan) drew your eyes up to the Magaliesberg, part of the mountain range that are among the oldest mountains in the world, almost 100 times older than Everest! They stretch for 120km from the Bronkhorstspruit Dam east of Pretoria, to Rustenburg in the west. Then continue to separate the highveld grasslands to the south, from the bushveld savannah in the north.

I can just imagine my Father's delight at finding a piece of land with a "berg uitzicht" (mountain view), coming from the flat lands of  "Noord-Holland".

It was not considered safe for young girls to venture into the mountains on their own, but I had a few adventures "berg-op", during a brief spell as a "Voortrekker" (similar to girl-guides). We learnt "survival" skills, dug for treasure, spied on the homes below with the leader's binoculars, and ate "stok-brood", broken off the stick in steamy crunchy bits and dunked in a jar of jam.

Forty-something years later, I seemed to be on the brink of returning to the mountains. The Amathole mountains, deep in the forgotten province. A poor province, with a rich history and diverse landscape. Only this time no longer a girl-guide, but an unsuspecting pioneer, unaware of the turmoil, challenges and joys which lay ahead.

BEING UPROOTED

“But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint”. (Isaiah 40:31)

The first step was to clear the land of wattle and bramble. This brought us once again to the door of our good-humoured Austrian botanist. He had many years experience of clearing land, and was neither daunted nor visibly enthusiastic. He merely agreed to do it. But unlike the city expectation of wanting everything done yesterday, things moved at an unhurried pace here. It was to be another test of patience. We returned to Pretoria, waiting... Finally two thirds of the property was cleared as agreed, and my husband returned with an expectant heart, to see for the first time what had been hidden from view so far.

There was an audible thrill in his voice when he first phoned me from the newly cleared land. “I wish you were here” he said. “The view is amazing”. And that it is. Our “nest” allows an eagle’s eye view of the three “bristled” Hog mounts straight ahead. In the foreground, slightly to the left (east), Tor Doone rises up from the indigenous forest. To the right of the Hogs, the bluff area, leading up to the sheer drop of a cliff face, allows a distant view of the valley, and the soft contours of forestry land completes the wide-angled sweep to the far right (west). Standing on tip-toe on our front deck with the wind in my hair, still gives me the feeling that I could simply lift my arms and be air borne with the soaring buzzards.

But in all honesty, I was not so taken with the view the first time I saw it for myself. My eyes were drawn downwards to the “devastation” of a recently cleared and burnt land. Yes, the wanton wattles were gone, but in their place lay a gouged, fire-blackened and empty earth, with nothing soft and green to sooth the eye, apart from a lone ring-barked pine tree. Standing sentinel where our cabin stands today.

I looked up at my husband standing a few paces away. His face was lifted towards the horizon – his usual pensive expression softened. I was hoping for some reassurance – a strategy or plan of how this “wasteland” could be turned into something inhabitable. But he was elsewhere. Just that restful look on his face, made me want to be there too.

This still happens. He comes home from work, his mind’s eye filled with the winding road leading up and away from the village to our hilltop sanctuary, the welcoming panorama leading up to the house and dogs overjoyed at the return of their master. Arriving in a tumble of canines and dust, or more often mud, my eyes are inadvertently drawn to his shoes...

(I have often thought that a woman’s curse is not necessarily the pain and labour of childbirth, but a painful preoccupation with a clean floor/house. I am learning to put it to rest, but still too much precious time is spent with a broom or mop in hand, rather than with a raised chin and a grateful heart.)

The rains came - and new growth pushed through the sooty stubble. (And inevitably: the tiny shoots of new wattle trees). We will never look out on a well manicured park and will never be included (thank goodness) on the list of gardens to admire during the Spring festival. But this piece of land has a character of its own. It gives one a sense of freedom from conventional structure and order. Dandelions thrive happily among the tall grasses and shrubs that seem to seed themselves of their own accord. A well-established and more formal garden is soft on the eye, it soothes and calms. Here, it is the wide and unhindered view that lifts your senses, the backdrop of mountains solid and unmovable, even in the calamity of a storm.

Part of the allure of these mountains is the gentle mist that often hovers over or swirls around everything, “shrouding it in mystery”. Or that would be the romantic tourist's view of it. I fell in love with a misty Hogsback. With the way it felt to be in it. With Arum and St Joseph lilies on a veiled canvas. The whole nostalgia trip and melancholy aspect of it suited my sentimental soul. Which is wonderful if you have a day of it, just enough for a bit of healthy introspection. But after almost eight years of prolonged episodes of cold and mist, it has become a friend that is welcome for a day, avoided after three and resented after a week's stay.

Our wooden house is built on a base supported by 54 poles, thick as a slender man’s waist and standing about 4.5 meters tall at the front of the house. It took a team of 8 men to lift each of these poles and hoist them up the hill all the way to the building site. This makes it a cosy nest, a wonderful lookout and a place where breezes blow unhindered. Being lifted so high off ground level has many advantages. But in extreme weather conditions, one can feel a tad vulnerable, and in a thick mist, we are often visibly shut off from what lies beyond the deck.

It was one of those things that could quite easily get the better of me. Creep into my mind and veins like a mild poison. It made me snappy and irritable with my children and lethargic to the point of passivity. And then I would get angry with myself for being so pathetic. A bit more than a year ago, we dealt briefly with how to “overcome” as part of a bible study series. For me, that meant being able to “overcome” in a spiritual sense, deal with trauma and learning to surrender.

I was surprised to find that when Jesus said: “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world”  – it meant everything in and off this world. Including – my inability to “thrive” in prolonged greyness and cold, my irritability with my children, my lack of enthusiasm for the seemingly mundane tasks of every day – everything! It has not happened overnight, but I know the "good work" in me continues. But let me get back to my story...

It took two long years since I first “saw” our future dwelling place, to the time when we could finally pack up all our earthly possessions, and set out to become two tenderfoot hillbillies. But as with everything thus far – it happened at exactly the right time – God’s time.

Those two years may have seemed long, but they were very necessary. It was still a scary prospect – the total removal of our roots from the tamed soil of our familiar home and secure life, to the uncultivated unknown. To a newly fenced and cleared hillside with a view. Like the merciful nine months of growing accustomed to becoming a mother, to the actual shock and delight of being one - we needed that time to get used to the radical change of live-style that we had chosen. As with motherhood, nothing can quite prepare you for the reality of the actual event, but it at least the waiting buffers the shock a bit. But the waiting period also heightens the joy.

My Pappa would have enjoyed this place so much. He loved reading, classical music, soccer, a good "pilsje (beer), a carefully packed pipe, a good bit of dry humour, wide open spaces, a house well-built, and: mountains. It would have thrilled him to bits to know that the house that we live in and love, was built by his own son. But now I’m running ahead of my story...

A restlessness stirred in both of us, we were hungry for adventure. I felt like Ruth leaving all that she knew behind to boldly say: “Where you go, I will go. And where you stay, I will stay”. The difference was, I had my Boaz by my side, and thought that I could face anything as long as we could face it together. This trust was to be tested in many ways, but right then the dream was untarnished and full of promise. I was still to learn that no man can be your Redeemer. 

Shortly after the beginning of 2008, we decided to put our house in the market. It was an emotional decision for me, but I was ready for it. I felt comforted by the fact that it was a buyer’s market at the time, and that there would be quite a “wait”. But then; within a week of the “for sale” sign being knocked into the ground next to our front gate, we had a cash offer! I had prepared myself for countless strangers wandering through our passage and scrutinising all the familiar corners of our dear old house. A young couple with a bouncy toddler were the first to arrive, with a slightly nervous estate agent in tow. They walked through the house, ambled out into the leafy garden, looked at each other and smiled. “You have a lovely home” she remarked. “Yes, I thought, "and why would I ever want to leave it?” But I just thanked her politely, as I heard a door gently close somewhere.

There was excitement, but also heartbreak. We had two Dalmatians at the time, the clowns of the dog-world. Since a few months prior to the sale of the house, I had felt a nagging concern about the male, who was deaf and quite paranoid. He had developed some very disturbing habits, and was rapidly losing his sight and sense of balance. I could not see him adjusting to the rather harsh environment of our future home. The “new” property (sloped at a dangerous angle for a dog that had difficulty getting up or down a few steps without falling), would offer him no familiar comfort, and I lay awake many hours, fretting over his future. But our gentle friend never made the trip with us. His condition worsened to such an extent, that his suffering was painful to witness.

Once again, I stood next to the stainless steel examination table in a vet’s consulting room, while life slipped out of the still body of a loyal companion and friend. We cry hot tears and feel such a tearing when we have to let our animals go, yet we go through it over and over again. Since I can remember, there has always been a furry creature in our home, and I hope that it may be that way until I’m ready to step off this mortal coil.

The one side of the Victorian couch next to our bed was very bare. For many years the spotty pair had slept there, curled up next to each other, his head resting on her rump. She seemed as lost as we felt without his delightfully dopey presence. It was the first of many partings. For the greatest “tearing” still lay ahead.

Things happened rather fast after that. Giddy with the sudden turn of events, I started, very methodically, to pack our possessions and my memories. It was like a pruning, painful but very freeing. Many chains were loosed during that time and finally, after several deliveries to the local hospice etc. our cupboards and walls were bare. The parquet floors lay exposed, freshly cleaned and rolled up carpets resting against the wall.

All the while, through all my busyness and anxiety, there was the gentle hand of God, in so many and often such subtle ways, that I rarely stopped to thank Him for it. There was a purpose, a plan unfolding, but I was busily oblivious.

We had no dwelling, no electricity point or means of getting water, and no proper road. Writing it down made me wonder, what convinced me do it? I never took risks easily. We had been taught to be practical, make choices which were calculated, secure and – without foreseeable risk. This coming from people who left their homeland for a country where lions roamed freely and savages hid behind every bush? (That was the European’s perception of Africa at the time). But perhaps my parents were simply trying to spare us the hardship and uncertainty that they must have gone through.

One of the main priorities was (obviously) to build a place to live in. Because of the steep slope of the land, a wooden house on stilts was the most favoured option. As I had witnessed with what ease the building team erected the wooden studio in our Pretoria garden, I felt fairly confident that a project of this kind, just on a much larger scale, would not present too many obstacles... My builder brother offered to have a look at the panelled “kit” which we had chosen. He had many concerns. I remember feeling a bit annoyed, it seemed to be falling into place so neatly... This was just one of the many ways in which God stayed our plans, to unfold His own.

With great relief we accepted my brother’s generous (and surprising) offer to build our home for us. A thrilling time of planning began. The picture of our future home was taking shape, one dimensional on paper, but in marvellous detail in my busy mind. We found a cottage to rent in a scenic setting called “Rainbow’s End”. The builder, the baker and I lived in this ramshackle little house for five delightfully busy months. Like “Rainbow’s End” - many of the properties in Hogsback have names taken from Tolkien’s epic fantasy novel; “Lord of the Rings”. An urban legend claims that it was a visit to this hillside hamlet that inspired him to write it. The story was influenced by mythology, religion, and Tolkien’s distaste for industrialisation. But the dark and raw violent aspect of the trilogy gives one an idea how his generation must have been affected by their experiences during World War I. During which more than 9 million combatants and 7 million civilians lost their lives.

I was as yet, unaware of the spiritual battles that we would be called to enter into. And ignorant of what was happening in the spiritual realm while we were so busy trying to wrap up our city existence and secure a new life for ourselves in the countryside of my dreams.

The day of the “groot trek” was set. The less said about this day, the better. The removal crew was about six hours late. A chaotic chase against the receding light began. After a series of absurd mishaps and accidents, we watched (with singed nerves) the towering shape of the removal van disappear around the corner in the dark. With the contents of our four-bedroom house crammed into an ungainly trailer, hooked onto the back of the truck.

My husband set out the day after, planning to meet up with the move on the other side... But yet another bizarre turn of events followed. The whole lumbering thing was lost. The driver could not be located and an entire day was spent in limbo. I was exasperated. How does a reputable removal company, “loose” one of their vehicles! Their office stopped taking my calls. Late afternoon, I received a phone-call from a very nervous sounding man. “We have found the vehicle Mrs Gladwin” he said. Blessed relief. But then he muttered: “I’m afraid it has been in an accident”. I cannot recall my reaction, but I can’t imagine it was very discreet. The exact location was not clear. My husband bravely set out (from “the other side) to find it. The driver had missed the Hogsback turn-off, and in the process of trying to turn around, the trailer was unhooked without the brakes on. The top heavy trailer with all the Gladwin’s earthly possessions in it, went tumbling down the bank and lay like a slain beast on its side. Abandoned in the rain until first light of the next day.

The morning brought new mercies. A private rescue vehicle was brought in, and a positive turn of events followed. I knew that the Lord was still in control when my husband phoned to tell me that they had managed to pry open the trailer’s door and even though all the pots and pot-plants had been crushed and smashed, the “wedding rose” was intact. This miniature rose was given to us by the pastor and friend who married us, and was meant to represent what our relationship would need to flourish. It withstood this test. I don’t think we are meant to see symbolism in everything, but I felt deep in my spirit that this was our loving Father showing us that He was right there. Like that little rose, our marriage has withstood severe tests and trials. And survived, against all odds. “If God is for us, who can be against us?” 

The final outcome of this near disaster was mind boggling in itself. Apart from the poor potted plants, and a few pieces of unwrapped furniture, most of the contents of that bent and dented trailer was unscathed. Delicate glass cabinets, crockery, mirrors, all came out intact. Here or there was a scratch, which still reminds me of how God can take a catastrophe, and turn it into something that brings Him glory.

Two nights prior to this "disaster" and our leaving, we went to the yearly concert hosted by a brass-ensemble called Atempo. With a jagged lump in my throat, I watched the musicians walk up to their seats. My eyes were locked on the French horn player, a tall, up-right man with silver rimmed glasses, a firm jaw-line and slightly upturned mouth. My brother. Stead fast as an oak, its roots deep and strong. I gritted my teeth each time I felt tears burning at the corner of my eyelids. I kept looking around at the beloved faces in the row next to me, so close, but soon to be so far. A precious friend had also come to say adieu, and although my heart was full and close to breaking, I felt very distant from it all. At the reception afterwards, I remember everything seemed so surreal. I smiled and nodded to people floating in and out of view. Answered their questions and greetings very methodically, as if it had been rehearsed. The avalanche was held back in a cold clump at the bottom of my stomach, until I walked over to give my sister the final parting hug. “What on earth are we doing?” I stuttered through the tears as we stood holding onto each other, both very unwilling to let go.

We drove home in our newly acquired truck (carefully chosen for the rough and potholed mountain roads), sad, relieved, but strangely peaceful. It was just before midnight. We reminisced about childhood experiences, the usually busy road still and stark in the streetlights. We stopped at a red robot, laughing about something that my husband had remembered. I felt our vehicle pulling away gently in the glow of the green light, lost in my own thoughts.

There was a sudden loud explosion next to my ear and I was thrown of the seat into a huddle underneath the dashboard of the vehicle. We were spinning. Confused and disoriented, I heard metal tearing and brakes screeching. Finally we skidded to a halt. Bewildered, I looked up. I saw my husband as if from far away, slumped over the steering wheel. A hand reached for the cell phone in my evening bag. It was mine. I phoned three people before my brother in law finally answered. We had mercifully stopped right next to a huge traffic sign and I could tell him exactly where we were. I called out to my husband, but he only answered with muffled groans. I prayed loud, desperate prayers into the night, calling on the presence of Jesus with my whole being.

By the time my sister and her man arrived, the place was crawling with people. The scene resembled something from an action movie, numerous circling and flashing lights casting an eerie glow over everything. An ambulance, police car, tow truck and a few other vehicles were parked in a protective circle around us. For the first time, I noticed the other car involved. I saw the fearful faces of a woman and a man, changing colour as the emergency lights reflected off their windshield. She was clutching something in her lap. I felt strangely sorry for them, even though it was clear that it must have been their car which caused the accident. 

A young woman paramedic had made her way over to us, and I reassured her that I was fine - anxious for her to see to my husband. A night of horrors followed. We had cancelled our medical aid a few days before. The memory of those hours spent in a blood-stained, stacked emergency ward at the out-patients of the nearest public hospital (it was after midnight on a Saturday night...), still makes me shudder. But my sister and “swarie” where there, and my husband was coherent again. I felt a quiet strength which was not my own, and it was well with my soul. Four hours later, we were taken to our empty home, holding onto each other and deeply grateful. My husband had suffered a mild concussion and I was a bit bruised and tender. But we had each other. We fell into a deep, peaceful sleep on two borrowed mattresses on the bedroom floor, with a sheet draped over the moonlit window. Our animals were snoring around us and we rested, in the shadow of the Almighty.

Our newly registered truck was “totalled” and a replacement had to be found – quick. My husband found a rather “old”, but well-looked after, four wheel drive Isuzu “bakkie” - after quite a search. The paper work was finalised in record time and we were “set to go” again. “ And we know that in this, as in all things "God worked for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”  The Toyota that was “lost” in the accident only had a differential lock, which provides slightly increased traction. This would not have been sufficient for the road conditions on our hillside... The Isuzu is equipped with a full four wheel drive, and this has been a necessity and saving grace through rain, ice and snow. Old DZD has many scratches and dents, but she's still going strong. We have all (the animals especially) come to love the purr of the diesel engine, announcing the return of the head of our home each day. We have conveyed, explored, slipped and slid in this tough old workhorse of a truck. At the time of purchase the double cab was a luxury, but as our family expanded rather unexpectedly, this turned out to be yet another “God sent”.

(Another mind-boggling detail was the fact that when the road accident fund finally paid out after four years of our application, it covered, almost exactly, the purchase price of the Isuzu. And it came at a time when we desperately needed it!)

The morning of our departure was fraught with the final packing of our car, getting the animals sedated for the long trip and taking leave of a life which had been so rich, and was so hard to let go. A dear, dear friend and neighbour came to see us off and we stood sobbing in the middle of “Doris Street”. All the memories from our years of sharing - being crazy and single together filled those emotional moments. We pulled away with a jolt, the "Volla" (VW Beetle) hitched to the back with a custom made steel A-frame. We turned the corner and as I looked back for a last time, she was still standing in the middle of the road. Our dancing days were over, and a hill lay before me, which I was “apprehensively” ready to climb.

There were four more passengers on this journey, Anske, the female Dalmatian and a sweet Border collie pup, their noses pressed against the canopy window, and two cats in separate and secure carriers on the back seat. (They were not best friends...) It was not a trip we would wish to undertake again, but we all made it safely to the other side. Exhausted, relieved and deeply grateful. We arrived in the mist, and the first thing that I saw, was like a caress to my weary eyes. The warm glow of a lantern appeared before us on the narrow lane leading to our cottage. It lead us to a safe place to park and I was duly introduced to the “light bearer". A charming toothless Xhosa man with twinkling eyes took my hand.  He was none other than Mr Hogsback himself, a cornerstone of the community.

I still don’t know what his real name is, but he proved to be a colourful character, and became invaluable to us in the months to follow. He just seemed to know everyone on the mountain and in the valley settlements. He helped us assemble a prospective building crew from out of nowhere. My brother arrived a few days later with a huge suitcase, buzzing with enthusiasm for the project ahead. He too fell in love with “Hoggies” as he liked to call it, and a part of him will always live here, in every nail and screw, so meticulously put in place and overseen.

He insisted that ALL the building material be brought down from Pretoria, and a huge yellow truck delivered each panel, plank, and beam which was to become our home. Another amazing blessing was that there was an old warehouse on the property, which the owners let us use for storage at no extra cost.

For me, life at our little corner of the world at Rainbow’s End, was fairly uncomplicated, and the neighbours at “Middle Earth” were kind, eccentric, and very hobbit-like indeed. I prayed for the safety of the builders each day, provided sustenance, and explored our new environment at leisure, with my dog-friends on the back seat of old Liesbet (the Beetle), their ears flapping, and tongues lolling in the wind. Thrilled to be in dog paradise. I went for long walks along the leaf-strewn lanes around the cottage, and rummaged in our boxes for things familiar to fill our rented space.

One by one, I got to meet more of the “locals”. Hogsback has a very diverse community, with many non-conformists who pride themselves on being “different”. Sadly, the harder people try to be different, the more they tend to copy some ideal of what it means to be different. And then end up being part of a “clique” who all seem very similar again... If we could truly understand how unique our Lord has made every man and woman, and how He longs to be reflected though each one of us in our own individual, wonderful way – we would be freed from both wanting or not wanting to conform. Visitors to Hogsback often describe our village as “quaint” – having an old-fashioned attractiveness or charm; oddly picturesque... The Hogsback that I have come to love is beautiful, but also somewhat wild and raw in places. There is a lot here that would not look so pretty on a postcard.

It has become home to many who feel that they would simply not fit in anywhere else. The outcast, odd, lost and lonely flock to the mountain. It is also a haven for people who see the earth as their mother, revere her above all else. In the hope that they would find peace and redemption for their souls through a severing from the “system” and reconnecting with nature... We also came here with many hopes and dreams. Thinking that we could run from the unrest in our hearts. And running right into the source of it.

Another volume could be filled with the trials and triumphs of the house that “boet” built. I marvelled each day at his resourcefulness, his great capacity for fun and laughter (and braaivleis!) , regardless of how tough the day had been. We have huge folders of photographs that follow the amazing progress from a barren hillside, to the outline of a wooden skeleton against the sunset, to the silver sink panels of the roof being nailed into place in the glaring sun. Together with my husband and a motley crew of locals who had no, or frighteningly little building experience, the dream took shape and was becoming a reality.

The building process was fraught with challenges, mishaps and inevitable delays. But it is the triumphs that stand out in my memory - how our Lord helped us to “keep it light” and see His hand in everything. The weather held when it had to, and the crew’s spirit was kept high under my brother’s watchful twinkling eyes. Anecdotes from that period are still used in our home and we laugh at the memory of things which seemed like catastrophes at the time.

After months of fruitless efforts to get the local municipality to assist in making our access road accessible, we had but one option: (as with much else in Hogsback) to do it ourselves. A TLB (Tractor-Loader-Backhoe) was secured (with difficulty), and we all waited with “bated breath” for it to arrive. When it finally did, slowly ascending the first impossible hump of “Wattle drive”, there were many cheers going up. Like a large prehistoric animal, it crept forward, engine labouring. About half-way up the first incline, it veered to the left, leaned over at an alarming angle - as if to get a peep into the wattle forest - and toppled over. The cheers died on our lips and all rushed toward the injured monster. But it was, as our boys like saying – kaput. The driver was rather ashen faced, but unhurt.

Our road is still not a gentle country lane, but we can (mostly) get up and down it, and that’s good enough for me. I can now also add four wheel driving skills to my resume, should I ever need one again... It would certainly have a few interesting entries besides 4WD skills! After a few more years, I may be able to compile “From Yearning Yuppie to Happy Hillbilly - The Manual”.

With mixed emotions we saw my brother off for the last time as our building project manager. We were on our own. With still many final details to be seen to on the building site, we started preparations for the final shift into our new home. With a wistful sigh I locked the higgledy-piggledy, pale pink cottage, which had been our home for almost half a year behind me. Once again with a cat carrier in each hand.

I do not know how I manage to grow so attached to people and places in such a short time. But load by load, the stuff that makes a house a home was taken up the now familiar long and winding road. My husband in “Diezel and Dust” (DZD) the Isuzu, and me hopping along in Liesbet (LBT) the Beetle. On the way up, a wide blue sky with puffs of cloud lead the way through the leafy avenues. I felt the nip of a chilly wind when I got out of the car with my kitties. They were set down on the bed, and let out to explore. I turned back toward the window... It was the first day of September and - it was snowing! I had to blink a few times to register what I saw. My husband and I walked out onto the deck, still a bit bewildered. A friend told us a few days later that they had been walking on the bluff at the time. She recalled looking up to our cabin and noticing a strange white frosting on the freshly painted green roof. The village did not have snow that day... 

Our home had been “anointed” and the next phase of the new frontiers’ adventure began...

Chapter 6 ~ Becoming a Country Lass

From very young, I dreamt of living in "the countryside". I was a suburban lass, born wailing out a hearty cry to the busy world around me. Stories of my parents' and grandparents' pastoral past in rural Groningen, of landscapes with wide horizons and roads or waterways flanked by swaying "heide" always filled me with a strange longing for something that I could not quite place.

During my early teens my parents took us to a cattle farm in the Limpopo region for our annual holiday. It was one of those things that really surprised me about them, especially my Father. I thought I had them “figured out”, but once in a while, they’d do something so completely out of the ordinary, that I got to see the people behind the folks who were trying to raise me from such a seemingly pragmatic and practical distance. I think “Pappa” also had a longing. He never completely left his “Vaderland”, the deep-green country and it's old masters, canal towns, polders and windmills. He missed his family, and the wry Dutch humour and culture, which was not quite understood or appreciated in his adoptive country.

I was the only child left in the nest and my cousin went with as company. I loved the gentle feel of wide open spaces, not packed with sun-browned bodies and beach umbrellas. Our sea-side holidays were fun, but this was so real. Nature breathed slowly and softly here. My Father liked telling us (probably when we asked for something they could not afford), that they were so poor, that even in winter time, the children would walk bare footed through the snow to get to school. They would sprint across the frozen fields, occasionally stopping to bury their stiff toes into steaming cow-pats for warmth. I imagine it must have been a rather pungent classroom...

It was a hot December and we had fashionable “tekkies” on our feet, but I had to try the “koeie-plak” (cow-pat) experience for myself. It happened so, that one of the bulls took offence to us hopping in their droppings in his field, and we got chased off in a tumble of giggles and smelly feet.

And so my dream of living somewhere where life was unhurried and real, gained momentum. At first I thought I would marry a farmer and become a “plaas-tannie”. I would learn to ride a horse bare-back, milk cows, and cook jam, and this all before daybreak! But then I have never been an enthusiastic early riser, prefer the front end of a cow and dislike the smell of fruit cooking.

I considered becoming a country vet, but was discouraged by my biology teacher as well as relatives, who thought I was not “tough” enough. My options were running out. Impressionable and still rather insecure, I let people convince me that my dreams where immature and unrealistic. So I settled for mediocre and safe, in the stead of challenging but rewarding.

I was raised with the belief that common sense is next to holiness. "Wees prakties en doe gewoon" - the family creed... "How do you solve a problem like Maria?..." Lah-dee-dah. I did not know how to be practical. It was a concept as foreign as generosity to a miser.

When the possibility of marriage came along, it seemed like one “practical” way to get out of having to decide what to do with my life – or to let others dictate what my future should look like. I did not even know how to drive a car, or cook a decent meal. But I had found an escape from indecisiveness, boredom and uncertainty, and ill-fated as it proved to be, it seemed good enough at the time. 

Everyone except for me, was surprised that it lasted as long as it did. Thirteen years later, things fell apart. I made a desperate but futile attempt to be reconciled to the man whom I thought I would grow old with. But my efforts were unwelcome and unsuccessful. When a tree clings to a crumbling wall, both the wall and the branch are bound to come down. With a sense of deep loss and failure I realised: I was about to become a thirty something divorcee.

After a period of disbelief and shock, I started discovering things about myself that had been suppressed for so long, I did not even realise they existed. A new strength and confidence started growing, like the first trickling after a desert thunderstorm.

Some time before the split, a longing to give God the rightful place in my heart had begun. What I rebelled against as a youth was beckoning for me to return. The clear ringing of church bells on a Sunday morning seemed to echo the hollowness of my spirit. I started reading my bible again, the hunger growing. I was baptised shortly before our marriage relationship started deteriorating. In retrospect, I can admit that this was probably where the division started. It initiated a spiritual battle in our home, which neither of us understood or was mature enough to deal with.

But with God at the helm again, and wounds healed to gentle scars, I discovered my “wings”. It was tentative flight at first, but like with any fledgling there was no holding back once I’d stepped out of the “nest”. I obtained my driver’s licence (on the first attempt "nogal") at the age of 34! With the kind help of my family, I bought a dear old VW Beetle. Purring down the freeway with the wind in my face, I felt the sweet elation of being independent for the first time in my life.

It would have been a harsh and hard time without the persistent love of my family and friends. I remember my first birthday on my own, when a group of precious woman drew around me to make the occasion beautifully memorable. We laughed, cried a little and probably cried a little more, when my sister arrived with an enormous bunch of scarlet gladioli, amazingly similar to the second bridal bouquet that rested in the crook of my arm many years later... People made sure that I never felt forgotten, drew me into their social circles, offered lifts while I was "wheel-less", cooked meals and gave financial support when I was “down and out”.

During this time I re-connected with my sister and a deep friendship developed, which has stood the test of time and distance. I am so much richer for having her in my life. My two brothers are like the stern and starboard of a schooner, total opposites as far as character and appearance are concerned, but both a vital, meaningful part of my life.

Four years of the charms and challenges of being single at the age when friends were raising children, passed. At times there would be an unexpected ache, as I watched young couples with their small children, caught up in the happy chaos of family togetherness.

But I grew to cherish who I was, without someone to boost or bash my self-worth. I discovered that my life was valued by God and therefore invaluable. I had sadly not come to a full realisation of the eternal value that was placed on my life. Or the dear price that was paid at the cross to attain it.

I continued basking in the glow of being a married woman again. I was with someone who valued me enough to commit himself into a binding and sacred relationship. This sustained me to the dangerous extent that I lost sight of the fact that he was still a fallible man, and the deep need for my Redeemer was pushed to the background.

BECOMING A COUNTRY LASS

"Enlarge the place of your tent, stretch your tent curtains wide, do not hold back; lengthen your cords, strengthen your stakes”. (Isaiah 54:2)

My husband and I continued working at the same parastatal company, but found our work situation to be frustrating. On top of that there was too much compromise as far as the work ethic was concerned. I found various ways to “lift” the numbing monotony of secretarial and administrative duties. Creativity was another layer of the “new me” that I was discovering, and it flourished with the muse of love in my life.

I was given some mosaic and custom jewellery assignments. It was then that we resolved to take our first bold step towards freedom. After what seemed to be a lifetime of office-work - I resigned. A spacious wood-built studio went up in our leafy garden and “Maya’s gems” was born. I felt like a soda fountain, dizzy and light with bubbles rushing into all the old stale places. It did not bring in as much income as we hoped, but it was deeply gratifying. I was free!

A while before this came to be, my husband (fiancee at the time) suggested a holiday to a remote mountain village in the Eastern Cape, which he had “happened upon” during a business trip. He has always loved discovering places, and is a mental traveller of note. We both felt a tantalising thrill at the onset of a ramble into the unknown.

We turned out to be the finest of travelling partners. The journey to anywhere has since always been an unmissable part of the holiday for us (although more challenging since travelling with two small additions on the back seat...)

There is something really memorable about passing through small towns and watching the changes and shifting moods of the landscape through a dusty window, all adding to the authenticity of road travel. Fragments of other people’s lives drift by. Someone’s laundry aflutter in the wind. At times allowing an intriguing glimpse into the occupants' lives or livelihood. People decked out in their finest stepping lightly in the dust or ambling along in the hope of a lucky hitchhike. Children and scrawny dogs hugging the roadside for want of a better place the play. "Padkos” is another roamer's treat, and after many years of journeying together, we still prefer home-made "sarmies" with a flask of dark “koffie-kapitaal” to One-Stop meals.

A faded sign finally signalled the way toward our mountain destination and we turned onto the road less travelled. Negotiating cattle, goats, sheep, donkeys, African dogs and stray swines is an unavoidable part of the final stretch leading up to village. The Xhosa people still place great value on keeping livestock, even though the majority of these are “free-range” - herded and left to forage in a free and unstructured way.

I think too many episodes of Heidi and memories of Maria singing on the slopes of the Untersberg in the “Sound of Music”, shaped my expectations of what I would encounter once we reached “the top”. The dusty road seemed endless and I was waiting for my vision to be filled with majestic peaks and undulating green hills. I was therefore more than a little surprised when we arrived at a cheerfully painted sign announcing: “Welcome to Hogsback”. The road was level as a librarian’s gaze and the mountain itself still hidden from sight.

We wound our way over potholed roads with tree canopies intertwining overhead to form leafy tunnels. I was road-weary and seat-sore, and my first impressions were of a lush wildness rather than a pristine mountain landscape. Apart from the main road, there was little evidence of "human habitation". Gates and entrances were gaping mouths down which you could see tree-lined drive- and pathways, but few dwellings. I was to discover that this is in fact the very nature of Hogsback. Much of the heart and life is hidden. It does not give away much, like the secretive smile of the Mona Lisa. This mystery is heightened by frequent mists, varying in degree from gossamer swirls to smothering fog.

Since I was still oblivious to all this, I remember feeling pangs of disappointment. It seemed so remote – a bit “harsh” for my suburban tastes. Our holiday cottage still afforded no view of the mountains. It lay nestled in a small glen, with a tall bank of trees rising up on the one side of it and some struggling specimens on the other, bent over at odd angles due to the high winds.

We were met by one of the owners, bare-chested and perspiring. He paused briefly from mowing the grass, to greet and welcome us. His down to earth but kind manner and quirky sense of humour made me smile inwardly. He briefed us on a few practical issues and his last remark was: “Should you run out of gas and find yourself naked in an ice-cold shower, you may scream as loudly as you like, no-one will hear you...”. I was won over. This was going to be different, and that suited me just fine... Little did I know that this dear and gentle man would become our neighbour, and that our friendship and his proximity would be sustaining and “cheering to the extreme” (borrowing his own phrase).

The rondawel proved to be compact and homely – just what we needed and no more. It had a fireplace, which I did not think we would have a need of in the middle of October... Since the property was quite a distance from the village itself, it was secluded but very tranquil.

The nights were sooo dark, something this “gall” from the suburbs struggled to get used to. It made no difference whether my eyes were open or shut, I could see just as little either way. There were no burglar bars, the only door was a third glass, and I found it hard to fall asleep. The night closed in slowly with an alien silence, the type of silence that seemed to pierce your ears with the absolute absence of sound. A sudden, "tinny" sound very near to the cottage almost made me jump out of my skin. It was like a bizarre ring tone, and I was already imagining a night stalker, come down from his liar. Drawn by the smell of city-chutzpah and affluence. (Would have been a rather foolish one though, who forgets to turn his cell phone off whilst on the prowl...) I finally fell asleep from travel tiredness and by reciting Psalm 23 (The Lord is my Shepherd), a trusted and fail-proof way to keep fear at bay.

The next day I enquired rather furtively about the “noise in the night” and the owners smilingly confirmed that it belonged to none other than a rare type of a chirping frog. I felt more than a bit silly and decided to put my city fears to rest for the time being. That night we sat outside in the moonlight with our djembe drums, and I danced a fire dance under the starry dome. It was an endless roof of burning lights that stretched from horison to horison.

The following morning I woke up ever so gently, and lay drinking in the sweetness of the new dawn. There was the lowing of cows in a distance, the cocky crow of a rooster and the sound of water tumbling over rocks. I felt tears trickling out of the corners of my eyes onto the pillow, and I choked with a longing to wake up like this for the rest of my life.

We visited most of the places marked on the visitor’s map, and even with that limited experience, we fell in love with all of it. We followed a leaf- and moss covered path flanked by giant redwoods, leading up to the indigenous forest, thick with vines and alive with the calls of birds and monkeys. (We still love the forest and the birds, but have become less charmed by the monkeys and baboons...). Water seemed to trickle around every second twist and bend. A forest like this lights up your senses, makes you feel at peace and sheltered.

The main road appeared to be “littered” with signage, sticking out at odd angles from the bushy roadside. It seemed like every establishment in this village had staked its claim to announce its proximity to the weary traveller. Crossroads had motley collections of boards giving the names of dwellings in varying degrees of legibility. Like with many small towns – you pass the “hub” of the village before you thoroughly realise that you are in it.

Even during our brief stay, we saw the Qabimbola (the Xhosa name for Hogsback) from quite a few angles and in many different moods. It was never the same once. (Qabimbola means “red clay on the face” referring to the use of the red clay found in the area to smear on the faces of the Umkwetha - young initiates, during initiation rites).

On a walk through the surrounding forest, we wandered (by chance) onto private property, where we met with a friendly stranger, who happened to be the owner of the land we were on, as well as unintended keeper of all that grows in the village. He showed us around his nursery, and his pride and joy; the azaleas. These “alien” shrubs thrive in soil with a high acidity level, and a moist climate. With a bit of nurturing, azaleas took to the acid soil of the mountain like home. The village is known for its beautiful park-like gardens, and azaleas are a striking feature of both the gardens, greens and road-sides. Garden enthusiasts from far and wide are drawn to Hogsback to view the gardens during the annual Spring festival, when the village is decked out in all her most dazzling colours and textures.

The quiet Austrian (and his wife) who took so kindly to two city slickers straying onto his property, are two of the mountain’s longest standing residents. Some used to refer to him as the godfather of his beloved hillside village – a suitable, well-earned name.

Our fascination grew daily, and by the third or fourth day we drove up to a bright yellow house which housed the estate agent. Just out of interest, we both agreed... Our hosts had mentioned that the property adjoining their's was for sale, and this knowledge was like a tantalising tingle at the back of my mind.

At first the exact location of the property seemed to be a bit of a mystery, even to the estate agent. But finally a map was found and we set off to “view” the piece of mountain land for sale. The first time we had to access the property through the neighbour’s fence, since he was the only one who seemed to have an idea of where it was. We “bundu-bashed” our way through a wattle forest, the trees packed densely and brambles scraping and hooking onto our clothes. The neighbour must have sensed my disappointment. He peered through the trees with eyes fixed on an imaginary horizon. Then he looked over his shoulder at us and said: “Judging by the lay of the land, there should be a lovely view from the place where we are standing”. “Well, maybe if you could fly” – I thought...

There was nothing truly memorable from that little expedition that could have made an impression on us. But there was that still, small voice... Back at our cottage, we both agreed, without too much thought or discussion, to make an offer to purchase. It was turned down. Our hopes were blighted. Half-heartedly, we enquired about other properties on the market, but that turned out to be another dead-end. We tried to put it behind us and enjoy the rest of our holiday, but some of the lustre had gone out of the days. When we left a few days later, I had a painful lump in my throat. We turned onto the Happy Valley road in silence and I peered out of the window with a heavy heart. The Elandsberg sloped gently to the left of us, and there, just about right at the centre of it, a heart shape stood out clearly on the face of the mountain. I stared at it in wonder, trying to hide the tears from my husband. In a rather sentimental moment I thought to myself: “that is my heart, it shall stay here, while I return to the smog and strife of the city”.

Life went on, as it always does. We got up each day, went to work, came home, cooked a nice meal, read our books, and simply went back to enjoying what the city had to offer (at a price). I can’t honestly say that I disliked living in Pretoria. It is a beautiful city. We lived in a parquet-floored old house in the small suburb of Kloofsig. Its central location and proximity to parks to walk the pooches, as well as shopping malls and highways, gave us access to much in the way of entertainment and ease of living.

At times, as I paged through one of my favourite “Country Life” magazines, I would feel a lump in my throat again, along with the familiar longing that I had known since I was a girl. I told myself that it was simply not meant to be. How often are dreams or promptings pushed to the background, because we fear to be either disappointed or embarrassed. I was still the little girl watching my mother build a thousand piece puzzle with itching fingers, but not confident enough to trust that I too, could to be part of a bigger picture.

About six months later, I was sitting at my grey corner desk, with the muffled sound of traffic in my ears. The office phone rang and I answered it, short and businesslike. It was a familiar voice and I recognised the lazy lilting tone of the lady estate agent from Hogsback. “Are you by any chance still interested in the property you looked at when you were here?” she asked. I was blown away. A window was thrown open wide somewhere and a kiss of mountain air brushed my forehead. This time it did not shut in my face again. It was time... God’s time.

Things seemed to happen rather quickly from that point on. Our offer was accepted. After a few hitches at the bank and the agonising delays of legal procedures, we received the title deed to Portion 42, Farm 4, Hogsback. We had bought ourselves a wattle forest!

I felt like the dog who had been chasing after the spinning wheels of a car, and once it came to a sudden stop right there in front of him, had no idea what to do with it. We went back a few months later, with still no real clear plan or idea of how to approach the taming of a wilderness. The property could not be accessed by car, the road being a craggy strip, ripped hastily out of the mountainside without much forethought. We parked our city car at the bottom of it and set out to explore what was now “ours”. My husband has a natural sense of direction, (unlike his wife, who could get lost in the bathtub..). We packed a simple picnic, and even discovered a small clearing, big enough to stretch out on and be lost in the sweetness of being together on the place where we dreamt of building a future.

When faced with how to make this become a reality, it seemed so overwhelming. I was tempted to withdraw again. Patience was also not a virtue which I could claim to possess. The romance seeped out of my rosy picture and left it looking rather bleak.

Fortunately my husband has always been level-headed and methodical. I was already dreaming of a quaint country cottage in a gently terraced garden, with potted herbs outside the back door, and the deep and marvellous peace of dusk in the mountains...

On Inesi - after clearing,
where our house now stands

But there were still some jagged rock faces to climb before we could realise our dream. It was a time of looking up, breathing deeply and "eating the elephant" one grisly bite at a time.

I’m still learning to “look up”. It remains a choice. There is always a wider view. A greater plan. And a sustaining love so deep, so wide, so high and so immeasurable, that there are no adjectives to describe it.