Chapter 8 ~ Living the Dream

Barteld and Tjaaktje van Dijken, together with their three daughters, Diny, Janna and Ria, boarded the "Waterman" in April of 1954, in Amsterdam, Holland; to sail for Capetown, South Africa. The vessel was one of three sister-ships known as the "spotless fleet". The manners of the crew were as impeccable as their housekeeping. An old world grace reigned, and it was said to be a happy journey. A gentle interim before the "unknown" was to become a reality. A month at sea, after a life-time in a small Dutch village. There was a stopover at the Gran Canaria part of the Canary islands. Some faded snapshots show the smartly dressed Familie van Dijken in front of exotic old buildings in Las Palmas, standing very close, like deer braving a storm with their young.

Emigrating is to foresee...

The Dutch diaspora, between 1949 and 1970, a direct consequence of World War Two and the economic decline that followed, saw a total of 160,000 Dutch nationals seduced into leaving everything familiar behind to start a new life in a strange new world. Convinced by glowing accounts of emigration agencies and government propaganda. A small percentage of these emigrants set their aim for the most southern point of Africa.

It is in this country where my tender-hearted mother (Janna) was courted by another Dutch immigrant. He was the only one from his family of eleven siblings(!) who chose to emigrate. He came "over" aboard the same ship, and it was rumoured that the romance started at sea, something which I found hard to imagine at the time. Most children probably have difficulty picturing their parents as sweethearts. But looking at their carefree faces in those early photo's and being a parent myself, has helped me to see them in a different light. They married and put down new roots in Pretoria, the administrative capital of South Africa - in a slightly jaundiced soil. It is here where four new shoots were added to their tree. A transplanted tree and a redirected history, oceans away from it's origin.

Pappa en Tante Ria on The Waterman

As a child, I did not try to find answers for all the countless questions I had about my family. I probably did not expect anyone to take the trouble to answer them satisfactorily. I wondered why I was named after a woman whom I never knew, lived over the ocean, and who no-one seemed to have liked very much. I wondered why people treated us differently, and why children laughed at my name and the way I spoke. I wondered why the neighbour's boy said we were dirty Hollanders, when I knew that my mother made us all bath each night, even though I hated it. I wondered why other children's lunch boxes looked so different to mine. Why my parents seem to speak in a different language when they spoke to each other, to when they spoke to us. (The Groninger's dialict). Why my mother and grandfather would sometimes grow misty-eyed when they spoke of the past.

"Opa" continued painting gentle Dutch landscapes throughout his re-settled life. Above our bed hangs a pastoral picture of "voorjaar aan de vliet" - a restful oil painting of a narrow stream disappearing into the distance, flanked by gnarled trees sprouting spring growth. A steeple and the hint of a village beckon in the distance. Putting his memories onto canvas was a comfort to him and serve as precious reminders of our own roots.

Did the country of opportunity not measure up to their expectations? Or was the past simply softened over by a romantic veil, so that they forgot the reasons why they moved away? History won't change if questions all receive answers. But our stories move on, shaped in part by the past, but creating a new history. Let me continue to try and remember a bit more about mine...

 LIVING THE DREAM

"For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the LORD." (Isaiah 55:8)

The reality of actually and finally living in our new home, proved to be more challenging than I had anticipated. The excitement of unpacking and "nesting" settled. It was a thrilling time, everything seemed so fresh, and I spent a frightening amount of time trying to keep it “just so”. My body had moved to the country, but my mind was still configured to a Gauteng city default.

What Country Life magazines (read mostly by dreamy city dwellers) don't show, is the muck. We still had no "garden" to speak of, and mud is synonymous to this hillside existence as sand is to a beach-house. We are surrounded by neighbours who keep free range live stock. Dung appeared in the weirdest places. Another unpleasant discovery was that our canines seem to have a strange attraction to it...

This stinky behaviour is believed to be an attempt at disguising the dog. The suggestion is that it is a leftover behaviour from when our domestic dogs were still wild and had to hunt for a living. If an antelope smelled the scent of a wild dog, jackal or wolf nearby, it would be likely to bolt and run for safety. For this reason wild canines learnt to roll in antelope dung or carrion. Antelopes are quite used to the smell of their own droppings and carrion is common on open plains where many animals live. That means that the antelopes or other prey animals are less likely to be frightened or suspicious of a hairy thing that is coated with that smell, rather than that same visitor who smells like a wolf. This allows the wild hunting canine to get much closer to its prey... But to a human nose it is just stink, one way or the other.

I remember a weird incident when relatives came to visit. Fresh from the smart side of the fairest Cape, with a little cousin who was born on the same day as our four-month old charmer. The mother was terrified of cats, crawlies and germs; and the older daughter of anything that was not stuffed with fluff. Once we'd gotten the various phobias under control, the focus shifted to the cooing babies, and we all breathed a sigh of relief. Then in strolled our very large, wolf-eyed Husky-cross, frisky and fragrant as a male musk deer in rutting season. It was pouring buckets outside, so my husband allowed him in. I realised at once that the "mud" caking the one side of his body was of a less wholesome origin. We tried to block him off from the lounge, but it was too late. Pooh-dog flopped down a meter or so from the squirming babies, happily swatting mobiles with their little fists. The young mother wrinkled her nose in disgust, dislodged her child's fist from a dangling teddy, and whisked her away to the bedroom. A few minutes later she sent the older daughter to ask for a baby bath and some disinfectant....

With time have I come to appreciate the value of the stuff in a compost pit. Made peace with the piggish behaviour of (some) of our animals as well as the presence of grazing animals all over the village. Our motley crew of dogs and a crazy ginger cat are an unmissable part of our family and (like real family members), you have to accept and try to overlook the annoying bits. And learn to appreciate the unique and special traits of each one.

The Xhosa neighbour's flock of pure white goats, guarded by a dignified patriarch, always make me smile. They totter like "tannies" on high heels at the sight of a vehicle, and seem to regard us with an attitude of superiority and disdain. Nguni cross bred cattle are ever-present pedestrians, as relaxed around the local traffic as street vendors and beggars at city robots. The neighbour's horses are welcome visitors. They are large gentle creatures with soft muzzles and dreamy eyes. When they are around, our apples seem to mysteriously disappear from the fruit bowl - no wonder they love children so much! Most dogs are also "free-range", for not many property owners are successful at keeping their dogs from going walk-about. Dodging tyre-chasers has always been very much part of driving around the village.

The interim period in the rented cottage had been a bit dreamlike.(Apart from the unwelcome bitesy bed-partners...)  Huge trees surround that odd little house. Like our Pretoria garden, it felt sheltered, neighbours were near-by and the surrounding gardens were mostly well established. Walking there was a gentle experience. With old Mr Hogsback's chickens clucking and pecking away among the moulding leaves, and dappled sunlight dotting the well-trodden paths. Over many years the thick, ever replenishing leaf carpet, gave off a rich earthy scent with each rustling step. Lichen and moss are prolific (even on buildings and steps) in many shades of green. Mushroom hunting was still to become one of the marvels of mountain life. But at the time we had to trust the discernment of a local lady, who surprised us with pine-rings and parasols and even a bag of chestnuts once. These offerings came with their respective "recipes", in halted English, accompanied by a wide gap-toothed smile. The taste of wild mushrooms have cured me forever from buying Denny "buttons", and the sweet-potato flavour of roasted chestnuts simply smacks of nostalgic tales from childhood storybooks.

Our cabin on the “wild side” was none of that. In order to have the widest view and be secluded from the access road, my husband settled on the highest south-eastern point of 1.78 ha of sloped, untamed land as our building site. My feet were used to tiled, tarred and paved surfaces, escalators and lifts for going up or down, or even-spaced steps at the extreme. Open-toed, soft-soled and high-heeled shoes were shelved, and I became "lass-in-boots".

I  was equally surprised by the mass invasion and tenaciousness of what we (up to that point) had considered to be "weeds". After the "invaders" had been cleared and burnt, I was expecting a natural indigenous garden to sprout around us. Instead we had to face up to a botanical slum.  I loved our nest, but it took many years before I truly accepted the whole “package” as my home. I shifted between a sense of wonderment, living among such majestic scenery, to feeling resentful towards the unyielding nature of our immediate surroundings. I secretly missed the way a cool springy lawn feels under your bare feet. The friendly flowerbeds and the shady canopy of the Stinkwood and Camphor trees in our Kloofsig garden. And then I would feel confused and guilty for not being content, now that we were finally living what I had dreamt of for so long.

We socialised tentatively, and tried to entertain as we would have done prior to our "new life". Not many were willing to brave the "scary" road. This, with time, gave me the space to once again find peace in solitude. Just recently a friend described our driveway as being “epic”. I laughed, remembering my own nervous navigations during those first few months. Another lady commented to her friend as they were trying to back out of the infamous entrance: “I guess they don’t get too many visitors...” The window of their little car was open, and I winced, knowing that even if I was not meant to hear that comment, it was true. When we first arrived, strangers “popped” in from all over the village, mostly to "check out" the newcomers, but some with a warm welcome and friendly encouragement or advice. A few nervous drivers had to be rescued from a muddy roadside or banked against the wattle barrier flanking the steep side of our driveway. One older lady lost heart half-way up two narrow cement strips on a steep incline, and simply let her car slide slowly back to where it eventually got stuck between a bramble bush and a tree-trunk.

But as the weeks passed, there was fresh gossip to be found, and eventually people only came when there was a real occasion or an emergency. This has come to suit me over the years, but at first it sorely accentuated the remoteness of our new home.

I  had a few skirmishes with a young quince tree close to the gate, but quickly learnt the secret of reversing out of the driveway in one smooth arch. About halfway down, visible through the left rear view mirror, a straight smooth stone juts out of the bank on the passenger’s side of the car. This is one of the four cornerstones of our property. My husband pointed out that if I kept my eye on that marker, I could gauge exactly when to start turning the steering wheel to stay on the “safe” side of the road. It is an actual  marker of one of the four corners of our land. But for me it was also a solid reminder of Jesus, the precious but rejected cornerstone of our spiritual temple. Who helps me to stay "on track" as long as my eyes are on Him.

(“Because you are no longer strangers and foreigners, but fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God, having been built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ Himself being the chief cornerstone, in whom the whole building, being fitted together, grows into a holy temple in the Lord, in whom you also are being built together for a dwelling place of God in the Spirit” – Ephesians 2:19-22.)

I adapted, one small step at a time. Learnt to let things be. My husband spent prolonged periods of his childhood on a family farm near Nieu Bethesda, so he slipped into our new lifestyle like a well-worn pair of jeans. An experience which, although challenging, gave me new perspective, was was when my husband had to go to the farm in the Karoo for a memorial service. I felt a bit apprehensive about being on my own in "the wilderness", but tried not to show it. The second night after he left it snowed. Not a gentle frosting this time, but deep drifts of freezing whiteness. Once I got over the initial shock of the cold, I felt an irrepressible tingle of excitement at the spectacle of soundless snow falling, creating a completely altered landscape. I swaddled myself in many layers of warm clothing, and ventured outdoors. It is difficult to put into words the wonder of snow. The way it envelopes and purifies everything. The way it crunches and gives way under your feet, the pure perfection and newness of everything around you. I hauled firewood from the woodpile outside. With snow-flakes melting on my red gloves, I stoked a goodly fire, made Gluwein and snuggled in front of the wood stove with my animals. But the magic melted and the aftermath was rather an anti-climax. A bit like walking out of an enchanting cinema experience into a glaring parking lot. Feeling almost a sense of loss, but cherishing the memory nonetheless.

It helped me to realise that I could be independent and strong again, even though I was removed from the comfort and familiarity of our city home and the support of family and friends. By the time my husband returned, I could lug firewood with “popsicle” toes, was able to start a roaring fire in record time, walk briskly to our gate and back without my legs cramping; and most importantly, sleep peacefully through an ink-black night. Without the close proximity of a neighbour. I was not alone. On my own perhaps, but not alone. The same Shepherd who saw me through many a dark and restless night in the city, was with me in this wooden house. He still led me beside quiet waters and made me lay down in green pastures when demons were at the door. His name drove all that brought fear or uncertainty away and His rod and His staff pulled me from the thorns when I became entangled in the enemy’s lies.

My hands bore the marks of  physical work. No longer the manicured digits of a council secretary, but criss-crossed with small cuts and with dirt ingrained under broken nails and rough fingertips. Winter seemed endless and the mild days of a Highveld winter seemed a continent away. Spring in all its beautiful abundance was evident in nature, but the temperature did not match the sweetness of the season. A golden day or two would be mistaken for the final arrival of summer. Only to be followed by a freezing night and more bleak windy days. The newly cleaned stove would once again be lit and jerseys pulled out from the back of the cupboard. But I was starting to find a new rhythm, and with each passing day, it felt more natural and familiar.

Hogsback weather could be summed up with the words on a sign at an African street-side barber: “Anything can happen”. Even those who were born here, who have roots going back to previous generations, cannot predict the weather. We have had four seasons in a day – a Vivaldi symphony played out in nature from beginning to end and then back to front again. It takes getting used to. Firewood is kept nearby through winter and summer and blankets remain within reach for when cold takes the night in its grip unexpectedly. My children especially, have taught me much about how to “thrive” regardless of the weather or circumstances.

All during that first long winter, my love-hate relationship with our new home continued. There were days that were so rich and varied, yet so beautifully simple. But then there would be days when the simplicity became dull and my heart longed for my family and friends. Familiar voices and places. Variety. Comfort. Security. All the lures and trappings associated with the “good life”. Even though our lifestyle was much simpler, it was certainly not easier. Seemingly small things, like the lack of fresh fruit and vegetables, or the shortage of amenities that we took for granted in the city, caught me off balance. There were times where the fuel supply on the mountain ran out, and those that did not have enough petrol or diesel to get down to the nearest town (Alice) were stuck. There was no auto-teller – so no cash. Few places accepted cards. After each storm, fallen trees and branches over the power lines would leave us without electricity. During dry spells our water ran out. The roads took their toll on our vehicles and repairs were costly and frequent at times. In our former garden, I could stick anything in the ground and it would flourish. Here, the acidic, clay soil as well as prolific weeds and brambles defied my attempts at making a garden... I could continue listing the things we did not or do not have, but if they were to be placed on a scale with all we did have and have gained since we moved here, the scale would tip away from what we gave up each time.

It took me a while to realise that I actually relished many of the perceived difficulties of this new lifestyle. No longer did I take things like warmth and comfort for granted. It was a luxury, a gift. Worth a little bit of toil. I learnt new ways of gardening – an informal hit and miss system. This has resulted in the lush growth of a loosely cultivated and obstinately wild garden, which still continues to soothe as well as frustrate me. Depending on the time of year and the level of care it gets amidst all the other priorities. My husband’s “toils” were focused on completing a huge wood fired bread oven – which would become the heart (and hearth) of our existence for quite a few years.

Seasons blended into each other, each marked distinctly by the changes in nature. The hostile piece of land was becoming more and more familiar. We both found favourite spots where we could escape to, on and off the property. A small bakery grew around the newly completed oven. Among much excitement and flour dust the first bake was produced. I will never forget the way that smell wrapped itself all around us, as my husband pulled loaf after golden loaf out of the hot belly of the oven. Initially his movements were swift but nervous. I kept getting in the way, trying to pass baskets of risen dough without getting my head lobbed off by the long handle of the “peel”, used to slide the little pale mounds into the oven. With time he found a natural rhythm, which was always a marvel to witness.

The aroma of sourdough, both the “starter” and the final product, is something all to its own. A sourdough starter smells of slightly over-ripe fruit in the sun, a strong smell, with a bit of a nutty undertone to it. A little wild, but never unpleasant. During the long fermentation process involving a complex breakdown of flours into sugars, a depth of flavour develops which simply cannot be achieved by using commercial yeasts and accelerated proving methods. Fresh baking always smells homely and inviting, but the smell of sourdough bread tantalises the senses until you simply cannot wait to sink your teeth into the rich caramelly crust and the slightly moist crumb inside.

The local community welcomed the crafted breads with much enthusiasm. Every Saturday we took our bounty down to the weekly market wrapped gently in layers of sheets on the back seat of a headily fragrant car. The market was set up under a huge oak tree (with a yellow ribbon around it...) at the local bistro. People would swarm to the table where the baker could not unpack the still-warm, beautiful breads fast enough. Many of the loaves (especially the baguettes) would not even make the parking lot in one piece. It was always fun to watch the different reactions as people walked away with bulging brown paper bags tucked into a basket or held possessively close to their bodies. Few could resist a sniff or a squeeze. Or to nip off a piece of crust with a slightly guilty look. And another, and just one more...

I realise that it was incredibly hard work for my husband who saw to the whole labour intensive process on his own. Not even I could fully appreciate the effort it took. The day-long preparations, nights without sleep, followed by patiently answering countless questions and meeting demands at the market. With little financial reward. But what I could appreciate and do sorely miss, was the riches of being a true artisan baker's wife. It was another one of those luminous threads in our tapestry, which I will always treasure, regardless of the challenges it presented.

It sadly often takes a glimpse backward to recognise how special things truly were. I have diminished many a blessing by comparing it to the way things used to be, or by longing for something still to come. A friend recently said when I made excuses for our unconventional existence: "It is what it is". And it was what it was. Not a dream come true, but a reality that was unfolding, bit by bit, to form part of a far greater and grander plan. The worst and the best was yet to come, and I was still mercifully blind and deaf to both...