Dream by the Blue Gums
by Herman Charles Bosman
In the heat of the midday – Oom Schalk Lourens said – Adrian Naudé and I were glad to be resting there, shaded by the tall blue gums that stood in a clump by the side of the road.
I sat on the grass with my head and shoulders supported against a large stone. Adrian Naudé, who had begun by leaning against a tree-trunk with his legs crossed and his fingers interlaced behind his head and his elbows out, lowered himself to the ground by degrees; for a short while he remained seated on his haunches; then he sighed and slid forward, very carefully, until he was lying stretched out at full length, with his face in the grass.
~
‘It’s not so bad for you, Neef Schalk,’ Adrian Naudé went on, yawning. ‘You’ve got a big comfortable stone to rest your head and shoulders against. Whereas I’ve got to lie flat down on the dry grass with all the sharp points sticking into me. You are always like that, Neef Schalk. You always pick the best for yourself.’
By the unreasonable nature of his remarks, I could tell that Adrian Naudé was being overtaken by a spell of drowsiness.
‘You are always like that,’ Adrian went on. ‘It’s one of the low traits of your character. Always picking the best for yourself. There was that time in Zeerust, for instance. People always mention that – when they want to talk about how low a man can be …’
I could see that the heat of the day and his condition of being half asleep might lead Adrian to say things that he would no doubt be very sorry for afterwards. So I interrupted him, speaking very earnestly for his own good.
‘It’s quite true, Neef Adrian,’ I said, ‘that this stone against which I am lying is the only one in the vicinity. But I can’t help that any more than I can help this clump of blue gums being here. It’s funny about these blue gums, now, growing like this by the side of the road, when the rest of the veld around here is bare. I wonder who planted them. As for this stone, Neef Adrian, it’s not my fault that I saw it first. It was just luck. But you can knock out your pipe against it whenever you want to.’
This offer seemed to satisfy Adrian. At all events, he didn’t pursue the argument. I noticed that his breathing had become very slow and deep and regular; and the last remark that he made was so muffled as to be almost unintelligible. It was: ‘To think that a man can fall so low.’
From that I judged that Adrian Naudé was dreaming about something.
It was very pleasant there, on the yellow grass, by the roadside, underneath the blue gums, whose shadows slowly lengthened as midday passed into afternoon. Nowhere was there sound or movement. The whole world was at rest, with the silence of the dust on the deserted road, with the peace of the blue gums’ shadows. My companion’s measured breathing seemed to come from very far away.
Then it was that a strange thing happened.
What is in the first place remarkable about the circumstances that I am now going to relate to you is that it shows you clearly how short a dream is. And how much you can dream in just a few moments. In the second place, as you’ll see when I get to the end of it, this story proves how, right in broad daylight, a queer thing can take place – almost in front of your eyes, as it were – and you may wonder about it forever afterwards, and you will never understand it.
Well, as I was saying, what with Adrian Naudé lying asleep within a few feet of me, and everything being so still, I was on the point of also dropping off to sleep, when, in the distance – so small that I could barely distinguish its outlines – I caught the sight of the mule-cart whose return Adrian and I were awaiting. From where I lay, with my head on the stone, I had a clear view of the road all the way up to where it disappeared over the bult.
But as I gazed I felt my eyelids getting heavy. I told myself that, with the glare of the sun on the road, I would not be able to keep my eyes open much longer. I remember thinking how foolish it would be to fall asleep, then, with the mule-cart only a short distance away. It would pull up almost immediately, and I would have to wake up again. I told myself I was being foolish – and, of course, I fell asleep.
It was while I was still telling myself that in a few moments the mule-cart would be coming to a stop in the shadow of the blue gums, that my eyes closed and I fell asleep. And I started to dream. And from this you can tell how swift a thing a dream is, and how much you can dream in just a few moments.
For I know the exact moment in which I started to dream. It was when I was looking very intently at the driver of the mule-cart and I suddenly saw, to my amazement, that the driver was no longer Jonas, but Adrian Naudé. And seated beside Adrian Naudé was a girl in a white frock. She had yellow hair that hung far down over her shoulders, and her name was Francina. The next minute the mule-cart drew up, and Jonas jumped off and tied the reins to a wheel.
So it was between those flying moments that I dreamt about Adrian Naudé and Francina.
‘It’s difficult to believe, Francina,’ Adrian Naudé was saying, nodding his head in my direction. ‘It’s difficult to believe a man can sink so low. If I tell you what happened in Zeerust …’
I was getting annoyed now. After all, Francina was a complete stranger, and Adrian had no right to slander me in that fashion. What was more, I had a very simple explanation of the Zeerust incident. I felt that, if only I could be alone with Francina for a few minutes, I would be able to convince her that what had happened in Zeerust was not to my discredit at all.
But even as I started to talk to Francina, I realised that there was no need for me to say anything. She put her hand on my arm and looked at me; and the sun was on her hair and the shadows of the blue gums were in her eyes; and by the way she smiled at me, I knew that nothing Adrian could say about me would ever make any difference to her.
Moreover, Adrian Naudé had gone. You know how it is in a dream.
~
Then it all changed, suddenly. I seemed to know that it was only a dream and that I wasn’t really standing up under the trees with Francina. I seemed to know that I was actually lying on the grass, with my head and shoulders resting against a stone. I even heard the mule-cart jolting over the rough part of the road.
But the next instant I was dreaming again.
I dreamt that Francina was explaining to me, in gentle and sorrowful tones, that she couldn’t stay any longer; and that she had put her hand on my arm for the last time, in farewell; she said I was not to follow her, but that I had to close my eyes when she turned away; for no one was to know where she had come from.
~
It was a vivid dream. Part of it seemed more real than life, as is frequently the case with a dream on the veld, dreamt fleetingly, in the heat of the noonday.
I asked Francina where she lived.
‘Not far from here,’ she answered, ‘no, not far. But you may not follow me. None may go back with me.’
She still smiled, in that way in which women smiled long ago, but as she spoke there came into her eyes a look of such intense sorrow that I was afraid to ask why I could not accompany her. And when she told me to close my eyes, I had no power to protest.
And, of course, I didn’t close my eyes. Instead, I opened them. Just as Jonas was jumping down from the mule-cart to fasten the reins onto a wheel.
Adrian Naudé woke up about the same time that I did, and asked Jonas why he had been away so long. And I got up from the grass, and stretched my limbs, and wondered about dreams. It seemed incredible that I could have dreamed so much in such a few moments.
And there was a strange sadness in my heart because the dream had gone. My mind was filled with a deep sense of loss. I told myself that it was foolish to have feelings like that about a dream: even though it was a particularly vivid dream, and part of it seemed more real than life.
Then, when we were ready to go, Adrian Naudé took out his pipe; before filling it he stooped down as though to knock the ash out of it, as I had invited him to do before we fell asleep. But it so happened that Adrian Naudé did not ever knock his pipe out against that stone.
‘That’s funny,’ I heard Adrian say, as he bent forward.
I saw what he was about; so I knelt down and helped him. When we had cleared away the accumulation of yellow grass and dead leaves at the foot of the stone, we found that the inscription on it, though battered, was quite legible. It was very simply worded. Just a date chiselled into the stone. And below the date, a name: Francina Malherbe.
Droom in die Skadu van die Bloekomboom
Uit Mafeking Road
deur Herman Charles Bosman
In die hitte van die middag – het Oom Schalk Laurens gesê – was ek en Adrian Naudé bly om daar te kon rus, daar in die skadu’s van die klompie hoë bloekoms wat langs die pad gestaan het.
Ek het op die gras gesit met my kop en skouers wat teen ’n groot klip geleun het. Adrian Naudé het aanvanklik teen die boomstam met sy bene gekruis geleun. Met sy hande en saamgevlegde vingers agter sy kop en sy elmboë bak, het hy homself langsamerhand tot plat op die grond laat afgly. Vir ’n rukkie het hy nog op sy hurke gesit; toe het hy gesug en versigtig vorentoe beweeg totdat hy met sy volle lengte, met sy gesig in die gras, gelê het.
~
“Dis nie so sleg vir jou nie, neef Schalk,” het Adrian Naudé gesê terwyl hy gegaap het. “Jy het ʼn groot gerieflike klip om jou kop en skouers teen te rus. Terwyl ek hier plat op die droë gras moet lê met die skerp stingels wat my steek. Jy is altyd só, neef Schalk. Jy sorg altyd dat jy die beste vir jouself kry.”
Aan die aard van hierdie onredelike uitlating, kon ek aflei dat Adrian Naudé besig was om deur lomerigheid oorval te word.
“Jy is altyd so,” het Adrian aangegaan. “Dis een van jou lae karaktertrekke. Jy kies altyd die beste vir jouself. Daar was byvoorbeeld daardie keer in Zeerust. Dit word altyd deur die mense genoem – wanneer hulle wil praat oor hoe laag ’n man kan …”
Ek kon sien dat die hitte van die dag en sy toestand, van om half aan die slaap te wees, daartoe kon lei dat hy dinge kon sê waaroor hy later baie jammer sou wees. Ek het hom dus in die rede geval, en vir sy eie beswil hom ernstig aangespreek.
“Dis heeltemal waar, neef Adrian,” het ek gesê, “dat hierdie klip waarteen ek lê die enigste een in die omgewing is. Maar ek kan dit tog nie verhelp nie, net so min as wat ek kan verhelp dat hierdie klompie bloekoms hier is. Dis nou die snaakse ding van hierdie bloekoms, dat hulle hier langs die pad groei, terwyl die veld hier om ons kaal is. Ek wonder wie hulle geplant het. En wat hierdie klip betref, neef Adrian, dis nie my fout dat ek dit eerste raakgesien het nie. Dit was blote geluk. Maar jy kan net wanneer jy wil, jou pyp teen hom uitklop.”
Dit het gelyk of hierdie aanbod Adrian tevrede gestel het. Hy het in elk geval nie met die geskil voortgegaan nie. Ek het opgemerk dat sy asemhaling baie stadiger, dieper en reëlmatiger geword het. En sy laaste uitlating het hy so gemompel dat dit amper onverstaanbaar was. Dit was: “Dat ’n man so laag kan daal.”
Daaruit kon ek aflei dat Adrian Naudé besig was om oor iets te droom.
Dit was heel aangenaam daar, op die geel gras, langs die pad, onder die bloekoms waarvan die skaduwees stadigaan langer geword het, soos die middel van die dag namiddag geword het. Nêrens was daar enige geluid of beweging nie. Die hele wêreld het gerus, met die stilte van die stof op die verlate pad, met die vrede van die bloekoms se skaduwees. Dit het voorgekom of my metgesel se afgemete asemhaling van iewers baie vêr gekom het.
Toe het daar ’n vreemde ding plaasgevind.
Wat in die eerste plek merkwaardig is van die omstandighede wat ek nou aan jou gaan vertel, is dat jy duidelik sal kan sien hoe kort ’n droom is. En hoe baie jy binne ’n paar oomblikke kan droom. In die tweede plek, soos jy teen die einde daarvan sal agterkom, bewys hierdie storie hoe, helder oordag, ’n eienaardige ding kan plaasvind – amper reg voor jou oë, so te sê – en jy mag vir ewig daarna daaroor wonder, en jy sal dit nooit verstaan nie.
Nou ja, soos ek gesê het, met Adrian Naudé wat ’n paar voet van my af gelê en slaap het, en met alles so doodstil, was ek op die punt om ook in te sluimer, toe, in die verte – so klein dat ek amper nie die omlyning daarvan kon onderskei nie – het ek die muilkarretjie raakgesien. Dit is juis op sy terugkoms waarop ek en Adrian gewag het. Van waar ek gelê het, kon ek die pad duidelik sien tot waar dit anderkant die bult weggeraak het.
Maar terwyl ek so getuur het, het ek my ooglede swaarder voel word. Ek het aan myself gesê dat, met die felle sonskyn op die pad, dit nie vir my moontlik gaan wees om my oë veel langer oop te hou nie. Ek onthou dat ek gedink het hoe dom dit sou wees om toe aan die slaap te raak, met die muilwaentjie nog net so ’n klein entjie van ons af. Dit sou nou amper dadelik by ons halt roep, en dan sou ek net weer moes wakker word. Ek het vir myself gesê dat dit dwaas sou wees – en, natuurlik, het ek aan die slaap geraak.
Dit was terwyl ek nog vir myself gesê het dat die muilwaentjie binne ’n paar oomblikke in die skadu van die bloekoms sou stilhou, dat my oë toegeval het en ek aan die slaap geraak het. En ek het begin droom. En hieruit kan jy aflei hoe vlugtig van aard ’n droom is, en hoeveel jy binne ’n paar oomblikke kan droom.
Want ek weet presies op watter oomblik ek begin droom het. Dit was terwyl ek baie stip na die drywer van die muilwaentjie gekyk het, dat ek skielik, tot my groot verbasing, gesien het dat die drywer nie Jonas was nie, maar Adrian Naudé. En langs Adrian Naude het ’n meisie in ’n wit rok gesit. Sy het geel hare gehad wat ver oor haar skouers afgehang het, en haar naam was Francina. Die volgende oomblik was die muilwaentjie by ons, en Jonas het afgespring en die leisels aan ’n wiel vasgemaak.
Dit was dus in daardie vlietende oomblikke wat ek van Adrian Naudé en Francina gedroom het.
“Francina, dis moeilik om te glo,” het Adriaan Naude gesê terwyl hy sy kop in my rigting geknik het. “Dis moeilik om te glo dat ’n man so laag kan sink. As ek jou vertel wat in Zeerust gebeur het …”
Nou het ek my begin vervies. Francina was mos wildvreemd, en Adrian het nie die reg gehad om my op so ’n manier te beswadder nie. En des te meer, ek het ’n baie eenvoudige verduideliking gehad oor die voorval in Zeerust. Ek het gevoel dat as ek net vir ’n paar minute alleen met Francina kon wees, sou dit vir my moontlik wees om haar te oortuig dat wat in Zeerust gebeur het, my geensins tot oneer strek nie.
Maar net toe ek met Francina begin praat, het ek besef dat dit vir my onnodig was om enigiets te sê. Sy het haar hand op my arm gesit en na my gekyk; en die son was in haar hare en die skaduwees van die bloekoms was in haar oë; en op die manier wat sy vir my geglimlag het, het ek geweet dat wat Adrian ook al oor my mag sê, nooit enige verskil aan haar sou maak nie.
Buitendien was Adrian weg. Jy weet mos hoe dit gaan in ’n droom.
~
Toe het alles skielik verander. Dit was asof ek geweet het dat dit net ’n droom was en dat ek nie regtig onder die bome by Francina gestaan het nie. Dit was asof ek geweet het dat ek eintlik op die gras gelê het, met my kop en skouers wat teen die klip gerus het. Ek het selfs die muilkarretjie oor die hobbelrige deel van die pad hoor skud en stamp.
Maar die volgende oomblik was ek weer aan die droom.
Ek het gedroom dat Francina aan my verduidelik het, op ’n sagaardige en sombere toon, dat sy nie langer kon vertoef nie; en dat sy haar hand vir die laaste keer op my arm geplaas het, in ’n afskeidsgroet. Sy het gesê dat ek nie agter haar aan moes kom nie, maar dat ek my oë moes sluit wanneer sy wegdraai; want dit was vir niemand om te weet van waar sy gekom het nie.
~
Dit was ’n helder lewendige droom. Gedeeltes daarvan was werkliker as die lewe self, soos dit nogal redelik algemeen die geval is met ’n droom in die veld, ’n vlugtige droom, in die hitte van die middaguur.
Ek het Francina gevra waar sy gewoon het.
“Nie ver hiervandaan nie,” het sy gesê, “nee, nie ver nie. Maar jy mag my nie volg nie. Niemand mag saam met my teruggaan nie.”
Sy het nog steeds geglimlag, op daardie manier wat dames lank gelede geglimlag het, maar terwyl sy gepraat het, het daar ’n uitdrukking van sulke intense smart in haar oë gekom dat ek bevrees was om haar te vra waarom ek haar nie kon vergesel nie. En toe sy my gevra het om my oë te sluit, het ek nie die krag gehad om beswaar te maak nie.
En natuurlik het ek nie my oë toegemaak nie. In plaas daarvan het ek hulle oopgemaak. Net op daardie oomblik toe Jonas van die muilkarretjie afgespring het om die teuels aan die wiel vas te maak.
Adrian Naudé het op dieselfde oomblik as ek wakker geword, en Jonas gevra waarom hy so lank weg was. Ek het van die gras af opgestaan, my ledemate gestrek, en oor drome gewonder. Dit was ongelooflik hoe ek soveel in so ’n kort rukkie kon droom.
En in my hart was daar ’n vreemde weemoed omdat die droom verby was. My gees was gevul met ’n diepe gewaarwording van verlies. Ek het aan myself gesê dat dit gekheid is om sulke gevoelens oor ’n droom te hê: Selfs al was dit ’n besonder helder droom, en selfs was gedeeltes daarvan werkliker as die lewe self.
Net toe ons reg was om te vertrek, het Adrian Naudé sy pyp uitgehaal. Voordat hy dit kon stop, het hy afgebuk om die as uit te klop soos ek hom uitgenooi het om te doen voordat ons aan die slaap geraak het. Maar dit het so gebeur dat Adrian Naudé nooit sy pyp teen daardie klip uitgeklop het nie.
“Dis baie snaaks,” het ek hom hoor sê toe hy vooroor gebuk het.
Ek het opgelet wat hy aan die doen was, en gekniel om hom te help. Toe ons die ophoping van geel gras en dooie blare aan die voet van die klip weggekrap het, het ons ’n inskripsie daarop gevind, wat, hoewel verslete, tog nog leesbaar was. Die bewoording was baie eenvoudig. Slegs ’n datum in die klip uitgebeitel. En onder die datum, ’n naam: Francina Malherbe.
Lore of the Wild
From No Outspan
by Deneys Reitz
The moment Parliament rose, the new Board of Trustees held its first meeting, and we set to work with a will. There was much to do. In the Kruger National Park there were as yet no roads, no bridges, no pontoons across the rivers, and the sole means of access was on foot or by pack donkey.
The Low Country lies east by west from the Swaziland border along the Komati plains, thence over the Crocodile, the Sabie and the Olifants Rivers up towards Tzaneen and the Zoutpansbergen, a distance of about three hundred miles. South to north it is held between the great escarpment of the Drakensberg and the Lebombo range, a breadth of a hundred miles. This great area was still little known, and the larger portion of it lay inside what had now been proclaimed the Kruger National Park. Within its confines were elephant and lion, hippo and giraffe, roan and sable antelope, zebra, sassaby, kudu, wildebeest, waterbuck, and a great variety of other fauna such as probably no other portion of the world, of equal size, can show.
Our mandate as a Board was to create a refuge where henceforth the royal families of all the mammals could live in peace; our mandate was to put a stop to hunting and poaching, and to open up the Reserve so that the public could visit it and learn the beauty of the wild life of South Africa.
At the conclusion of the meeting it was decided that the Members of the Board – there were eight of us – should proceed in twos, each couple to take stock of a different portion of the Reserve, to prepare the ground for the laying down of roads, the building of rest camps and, above all, to provide crossings over the rivers.
Paul Selby and I were deputed to the Crocodile River area along the eastern borderline of the Park. He was an American by birth and a mining engineer by profession, and he had spent most of his vacations in the Low Country studying its animal life and taking photographs. For these reasons he had wisely been nominated to the Board. He was a man of resource. He had started ahead of me, for I was detained, and when, ten days later, I alighted at a railway siding nearest to my destination in the Reserve, I found that he had succeeded in towing his car through the Crocodile River, the first car that ever entered the Park, and that he was at a spot known as ‘Dead Man’s Bush’, so called after three poachers who had recently been shot there.
He had discovered a suitable spot at which to place a pontoon, and already he had made blueprints for its construction and had mapped out a road to the Sabie River on which a gang of workers were hewing down trees and blazing the trail. I enjoyed the life and saw much game. Giraffe, sable, wildebeest and buffalo fed in sight of our camp, though lion were not as plentiful as they have since become. We spent many hours taking pictures.
In those days game photography was in its infancy. Few people had realised how little attention wild animals pay to motor cars, and it was a novel experience for us to find that we could drive up to a troop of waterbuck or a herd of wildebeest while they grazed unperturbed. We thought at first that our success was due to the pains we took to cover the ancient Ford from stem to stern with boughs and foliage, under which we sat crouched behind an old-fashioned box-camera swivelled on a universal joint like a machine-gun. Since then we have learned that these precautions were unnecessary, for game seems to register no emotion on the appearance of a car; but at the time we went to great trouble to camouflage our vehicle, and as we rattled and jolted over antheaps and fallen logs, we thought we were very clever when we manoeuvred ourselves near enough to take a shot.
At present, every second tourist in the Park takes photographs of lion and other animals from his car with a pocket kodak, but Selby was the pioneer. His studies received wide notice, and I basked vicariously for having helped him.
There was a troop of buffalo in Dead Man’s Bush led by a bull whose horns we considered to be a world record. We spent much time trying to photograph him, but he always hugged the deeper shadows.
For many years, poachers from the adjacent Portuguese territory had been raiding over the frontier to shoot game. They were generally half-breeds in command of gangs of Shangaans. Their practice was to come with pack donkeys and, after shooting all they could, they loaded the meat and decamped across the border. A sort of sporadic guerrilla warfare had been carried on against them with frequent casualties on both sides.
Selby and I planned the development of this section of the Park and I like to think that our labours have borne fruit. At all events, visitors now run in and out by car, and they go to Lower Sabie and Skukuza in a few hours by the roads we laid down where it took us a month to hack our way through the jungle.
This was my first expedition as a Board Member, but I was to go on many another similar journey. In time I learned the lore of the wilds, I learned to track game, and I even became somewhat of a lion hunter.
Increasingly, I became a devotee of the Low Country.
Wysheid van die Bosveld
Uit No Outspan
deur Deneys Reitz
Net ná die parlement ontbind het, het die nuwe Raad van Kuratore hulle eerste vergadering gehou, en ons het dadelik skouer aan die wiel gesit. Daar was heelwat om te doen. In die Krugerwildtuin was daar tot nog toe geen paaie, brûe of ponte oor die riviere nie, en die enigste manier tot toegang was te voet of met pakesels.
Die laeveld lê oos-wes van die Swazilandse grens al langs die Komati-bosvlakte. Daarvandaan verder noord oor die Krokodil-, Sabie- en Olifantsriviere in die rigting na Tzaneen en die Soutpansberg – ’n afstand van omtrent driehonderd myl. Vanaf die suide na die noorde is dit tussen die groot eskarpement van die Drakensberg en die Lebombobergreeks, ’n breedte van ’n honderd myl. Hierdie groot gebied was nog redelik onbekend en die grootste gedeelte daarvan lê binne die deel wat nou as die Krugerwildtuin geproklameer is. Binne sy grense is daar olifante en leeus, seekoeie en kameelperde, bastergemsbokke en swartwitpense, sebras, basterhartbeeste, koedoes, wildebeeste, waterbokke en ’n grootverskeidenheid ander diere in sulke getalle dat daar seker geen ander plek in die wêreld van dieselfde grootte is wat dit kan oortref nie.
Ons mandaat as die bestuur was om ’n toevlugsoord te skep waar die vorstelike families van al die soogdiere voortaan in vrede kon leef. Ons mandaat was ook om ’n einde te bring aan die jagaktiwiteite en wildstropery, en om die reservaat aan die publiek oop te stel om die skoonheid van die natuur- en veldlewe van Suid-Afrika te leer ken en geniet.
Aan die einde van die vergadering is daar besluit dat die lede van die Raad (daar was agt van ons), in spanne van twee, ’n voorraadopname van verskillende dele van die reservaat moet neem om die aanvoorwerk te doen om paaie aan te lê, ruskampe te bou, en bowenal om die riviere van oorgange te voorsien.
Ek en Paul Selby is afgevaardig na die Krokodilrivier-area al die langs die oostelike grens van die Park. Hy was ’n Amerikaner van geboorte en ’n myningenieur van beroep, en hy het die grootste deel van sy vakansies in die laeveld deurgebring waar hy die dierelewe bestudeer het en foto’s geneem het. Dit was om hierdie redes dat dit wys was om hom te nomineer as ’n raadslid. Hy was ’n vernuftige persoon. Hy het voor my begin, want ek was vertraag, en toe ek tien dae later by die spoorweghalte naaste aan my bestemming in die reservaat, afgeklim het, het ek gevind dat hy daarin geslaag het om sy kar deur die Krokodilrivier te sleep, die eerste kar wat ooit die Wildtuin binnegegaan het. Hy was op ’n plek wat bekend gestaan het as “Dooiemansbos”, wat so genoem is nadat daar drie wildstropers, nie lank gelede nie, daar doodgeskiet is.
Hy het ’n geskikte plek ontdek waar daar ’n pont geplaas kon word en hy het alreeds konsep planne ontwerp vir hulle konstruksie. Hy het alreeds ’n pad na die Sabierivier gekarteer en ’n span werkers was besig om bome af te saag en ’n pad te bou. Dié lewe het ek geniet en ons het heelwat wild gesien. Ons kon kameelperde, swartwitpense, wildebeeste en buffels naby ons kamp sien wei, hoewel leeus nie so volop was soos hulle deesdae is nie. Ons het baie ure deurgebring deur foto’s te neem.
In daardie dae het die fotografering van wilde diere nog in sy kinderskoene gestaan. Min mense het besef hoe min aandag wilde diere aan motorkarre skenk, en dit was vir ons ’n vreemde ervaring om uit te vind dat ons tot by ’n trop waterbokke of ’n kudde wildebeeste kon ry terwyl hulle ongestoord aanhou wei het. Ons het aanvanklik gedink dat ons daarin geslaag het omdat ons moeite gedoen het om die ou Ford van voor tot agter met takke en blare te bedek waaronder ons op ons hurke agter ’n ouderwetse bokskamera gesit het, wat op ’n kruiskoppeling soos ’n masjiengeweer rondgedraai het. Ons het sederdien geleer dat hierdie voorbereidings onnodig was, want dit lyk nie asof wild enige emosie toon wanneer ’n kar verskyn nie; maar toe het ons baie moeite gedoen om die voertuig te kamoefleer, en soos ons oor miershope en stompe gerammelstamp en geskud het, het ons gedink ons was baie slim om onsself so naby genoeg te maneuvreer om ’n skoot in te kry.
Deesdae neem elke tweede toeris foto’s van leeus en ander diere vanuit hulle karre met ’n sakpas-kodakkamera, maar Selby was die pionier. Daar is wyd kennis geneem van sy studies en ek, as die assistant wat hom bygestaan het, het ook in die aandag gedeel.
Daar was ’n trop buffels in Dooiemansebos waarvan die leier horings gehad het wat gereken was as ’n wêreldrekord. Ons het baie tyd deurgebring om te probeer om hom af te neem, maar hy het altyd die ruier skaduwees opgesoek.
Jare lank reeds het wildstropers vanuit die aangrensende Portuguese landsgebied oor die grens gekom om die wild te skiet. Oor die algemeen was hulle basters in bevel van ’n bende Shangaans. Hulle gebruik was om met pakesels te kom en, na hulle alles geskiet het wat hulle kon, het hulle die vleis opgelaai en verkas na die anderkant van die grens. ’n Soort van sporadiese guerrilla-oorlog was aan die orde van die dag, en daar was dikwels ongevalle aan beide kante.
Ek en Selby het die ontwikkeling van hierdie gedeelte van die Wildtuin beplan, en ek voel dat ons harde werk nie vrugteloos was nie. In elk geval deesdae ry besoekers gemaklik in en uit met hulle karre om Onder-Sabie en Skukuza te besoek. Dit neem hulle net ’n paar uur op die paaie wat ons gebou het, dieselfde paaie wat ons ’n maand geneem het om deur die digte bos oop te kap.
Dit was my eerste ekspedisie as Lid van die Raad, maar ek sou later op baie soortgelyke reise gaan. Mettertyd het ek meer wysheid van die bosveld opgedoen. Ek het geleer hoe om spoor te sny, en ek het selfs ’n soort van leeujagter geword.
Ek het al hoe meer verknog geraak aan die laeveld.
Universities
By Herman Charles Bosman
You can only know a university if you have attended classes in it as a student. Otherwise you can only prowl around it as a visitor, and that, of course, doesn’t count.
I have frequently prowled around Oxford as a visitor, but I was not able to gather much about the place except that it was conveniently situated in fairly close proximity to Morris-Cowley’s motorworks. I thought that this was rather useful, because if an apprentice to the motor industry found that the task of turning out brass screws of various intricate dimensions on a lathe was beyond the range of his intelligence, he could switch over, instead, to the University, and learn something easy, like Latin and Greek.
Every time I returned from a visit to Oxford I felt glad that I had not gone there as a student. Because I was satisfied that I would never have been able to learn anything there. I would have been too much impressed with the buildings, which were not in any way what I had expected them to be, but were all low unto the earth, with rough-looking walls – real mediaeval bricks covered over with a yellowed mediaeval plaster.
~
I have seen many a stately pile, heavily encrusted with history, thick with dust and tradition, sanctified through the intimacy of its association with a nation’s fortunes, through the centuries a silent witness of dooms and splendours – I have seen such a building, cathedral, abbey, palace, mausoleum, and I have not been impressed.
But because the walls of Oxford did not tower, but seemed sunk into the earth, almost, and because with what was venerable about the masonry that had lasted from the Middle Ages there went also a warmth and richness of life that time could not chill, I realised that if I had gone there as a student, I would never have been able to do any work in the place. I would have gone to Oxford and spent too many years in the more idle kind of dreaming.
~
Then there is Wits. I was a student at the University of the Witwatersrand in the early days, when there was still the smell of wet paint and drying concrete about the buildings at Milner Park. There was something in my eighteen-year-old soul that revolted at all this newness. When I went there recently, to attend a play in the Main Hall, I was still appalled at the feeling that Wits had not acquired any of the external characteristics of poise and suavity. The girl who sold me the programme was gauche.
When I was a student at Wits I had a contempt both for the buildings and the professors. I could not reconcile myself to the idea that any really first-class man from Europe would bring himself to apply for so obscure and – as I then thought – Philistine an appointment as a professorship in a South African mining-town university where the reinforced concrete slabs were still wet inside.
Needless to say, my views in this regard have since that time undergone a very profound change. I have seen some of the things that first-class men get reduced to doing in this life. Myself included. And I feel only a sense of humble gratitude towards those men from overseas who came to the University of the Witwatersrand when it was first started, bringing with them that vital breath of culture that includes the Near East and Alexandria and the Renaissance, that rich Old World of thought in whose inspiration alone the soul of man can find a place for its abiding.
~
It is strange how the past all looks like the other day. Before they erected the main gate you could wander all over without knowing when you were inside the University grounds. I remember once when I went to look for a department that was housed away from the main building. I must have got to the wrong place. Because I asked a man in charge there: ‘Is this the Wits Philosophy Department?’ And he said: ‘No, this is the filling-up section of the Lion Brewery.’
It was only then that I noticed all those bottles stacked around, and I realised that not even a philosophy class could get through that quantity.
~
It all depends, of course, on what your view is as to what a university should be. If you believe that a university is an institution where you go to acquire technical knowledge, then it does not particularly matter what the buildings and their surroundings are like. On the other hand, if you believe that you go to a university in order to have things done to you that will make you useless for the requirements of practical life, deepening and enriching your spirit in the process – and either view of the functions of a university is legitimate – then the atmosphere of the place in which you are to spend a number of years is highly important.
There must be tall, old trees through whose branches the sunshine falls dappled on the walks. There must be winding lanes and unexpected vistas and sequestered nooks. There must be mildew and ruin and dilapidated facades. There must be aged and crooked corridors and aged and crooked professors. All these advantages – or disadvantages – will no doubt accrue to the University of the Witwatersrand in time. For while there are two schools of thought on the question as to whether or not a university that is a non-technical seat of learning should be lousy – and I can quote highly venerable authority in this connection – it is unanimously conceded that it should be mouldy.
The University of the Witwatersrand will grow mellowed with the centuries, with the generations of men and women passing through the doors, and I wish that its future may be fortunate, that the enduring things of the mind may remain, the imperishable nobilities of the spirit that will live on, when the gold mines of the Rand have been worked out and forgotten, when the mills that crushed the ore have fallen into a long stillness.
And those solecisms about the University of the Witwatersrand that distressed me as a student will belong with the unremembered past, also.
Universiteite
Uit A Cask of Jerepigo
deur Herman Charles Bosman
Jy kan slegs ’n universiteit leer ken as jy daar as ’n student klas geloop het. Anders kan jy slegs as ’n besoeker daar rondslenter, maar natuurlik tel dit nie.
Ek het dikwels as ’n besoeker by Oxford rondgeloop, maar ek was nie in staat om te veel van die plek te wete te kom nie, behalwe dat dit gerieflik redelik naby Morris-Cowley se motorwerkplaas geleë was. Ek het gedink dat dit nogal nuttig was, want as ’n vakleerling in die motorindustrie agtergekom het dat die taak om koperskroewe van verskeie ingewikkelde dimensies op ’n draaibank te voort te bring, te verhewe was bo die perke van sy intelligensie, kon hy in plaas daarvan maklik oorskakel na die universiteit toe, en iets maklik soos Latyn en Grieks leer.
Elke keer wat ek teruggekeer het na ’n besoek aan Oxford, het ek bly gevoel dat ek nie daarheen gegaan het as ’n student nie. Omdat ek tevrede was dat dit nooit vir my moontlik sou gewees het om enigiets daar te leer nie. Ek sou te beïndruk gewees het met die geboue, (wat op geen manier is wat ek verwag het hoe hulle sou wees nie), wat laag op die aarde was, met mure wat ’n ruwe, growwe voorkoms het – opregte Middeleeuse bakstene bedek met ’n vergeelde Middeleeuse pleister.
~
Ek het al menige imposante geboue gesien, swaar bekors met geskiedenis, dik van stof en tradisie, heilig gemaak deur die intimiteit van hulle assosiasie met die nasie se lotgevalle, deur die eeue stille getuies van onheil en rampe en prag en praal - so ’n gebou, katedraal, abdy, paleis en mausoleum het ek al gesien en ek was glad nie beïndruk nie.
Maar omdat die mure van Oxford nie uittoring nie, maar liewer die aarde insink, amper, en omdat, daarmee saam, wat eerbiedwaardig was oor die messelary wat van die Middeleeue af in stand gebly het, daar ook ’n warmte en rykheid van die lewe was wat die verloop van tyd nie kon verkil en demp nie, het ek besef dat as ek daarheen as ’n student sou gegaan het, dit vir my nooit moontlik sou gewees het om enige werk in dié plek te kon doen. Ek sou na Oxford toe gegaan het en te veel jare in die lediger soort droomwêreld deurgebring het.
~
Dan is daar Wits. Vroeër dae was ek ’n student aan die Universiteit van die Witwatersrand toe jy nog by die geboue by Milner Park bewus was van die reuk van nat verf en beton wat besig was om droog te word. Daar was iets in my agtienjarige siel wat teen al hierdie nuwighede in opstand gekom het. Toe ek onlangs daarheen gegaan het om ’n toneelstuk in die Hoofsaal by te woon, was ek steeds ontstel oor die gevoel dat Wits nog nie enige van die uiterlike karakteristieke van statigheid en hoflikheid bekom het nie. Die meisie wat die program aan my verkoop het was lomp en taktloos.
Toe ek ’n student aan Wits was, het ek ’n minagting gehad vir beide die geboue en die professors. Ek kon myself nie vereenselwig met die gedagte dat enige ware uitstekende man van Europa homself sover sou kry nie om aansoek te doen vir so ’n obskure en – soos ek toe gedink het – kultuurlose aanstelling as professor in ’n Suid-Afrikaanse myndorp-universiteit waar die gewapende betonblaaie aan die binnekant nog steeds klam was.
Onnodig om te sê, my sienswyse in die opsig het sederdien ’n diepgaande verandering ondergaan. Ek het sommige van die dinge gesien wat uitstaande mense verplig was om te doen. Ek sluit myself hierby in. En ek beleef slegs ’n gevoel van nederige dankbaarheid teenoor die mense van oorsee wat met die aanvang en opening van die Universiteit van die Witwatersrand hierheen gekom het. Hulle het saam met hulle handjiesvol kultuur gebring, en dit sluit die Nabye Ooste, Alexandrië en die Renaissance in – daardie ryk Ou-Wêreldse filosofieë – en in hulle inspirasie kan die siel van die mens ’n plek vind om te volhard en om voort te bestaan.
~
Dis vreemd hoe die ganse verlede soos nou die dag lyk. Voordat hulle die hek by die hoofingang geïnstalleer het, kon mens die hele kampus deur ronddwaal met die wete dat jy in die gronde van die universiteit was. Ek onthou op ’n geleentheid het ek na ’n departement gesoek wat nie in die hoofgebou gevestig was nie. Ek het verseker by die verkeerde plek uitgekom. Want ek het die man in beheer gevra: “Is dit die Filosofie Departement van die universiteit?” En hy het gesê: “Nee, dis die vul- afdeling van die Lion-brouery.”
Slegs toe het ek oral daardie opgestapelde bottels opgemerk, en besef dat selfs nie eers ’n filosofie-klas deur soveel bottels sou kon kom nie.
~
Dit hang alles natuurlik daarvan af na wat jou siening is van hoe ’n universiteit behoort te wees. As jy glo dat ’n universiteit ’n instelling is waarheen jy gaan om tegniese kennis te verwerf, dan maak dit nie eintlik saak hoe die geboue en die omgewing daar uitsien nie. Andersyds, as jy glo dat jy universiteit toe gaan met die oogmerk om iets met jou te laat gebeur wat jou nutteloos sal maak vir die vereistes van ’n praktiese lewenswyse, maar ’n verdieping en verryking van die gees in die proses sal veroorsaak – en beide beskouings van die funksie van ’n universiteit is legitiem – dan is die atmosfeer van die plek waarin jy ’n aantal jare sal deurbring, hoogs belangrik.
Daar moet hoë, ou bome wees, en deur hulle blare moet die sonstrale op die wandelpaadjies val. Daar moet kronkelende lanings wees en onverwagte vistas en weggesteekte hoekies. Daar moet verouderde en krom gange wees en bejaarde en krom professors. Al hierdie voordele – of nadele – sal sonder twyfel mettertyd by die Universiteit van die Witwatersrand toeneem. Want terwyl daar twee denkrigtings is oor die vraag of ’n universiteit wat ’n nie-tegniese instelling vir studie is, vrotsig moet wees – en ek kan hoogs eerbiedwaardige deskundiges in dié verband aanhaal – word dit eenparig toegegee dat dit muwwerig en beskimmeld moet wees.
Die Universiteit van die Witwatersrand sal, met die geslagte mans en dames wat deur die ingange beweeg, deur die eeue getemper en ryper word, en ek hoop sy toekoms sal van geluk kan getuig, dat die duursame geestelike waardes behoue sal bly, en dat die onverganklike adel van die gees sal voortleef wanneer die goudmyne op die Rand uitgewerk en vergete is, wanneer die meule wat die erts vergruis deur ’n langdurige stilte vervang word.
En al daardie onbehoorlikhede van die Universiteit van die Witwatersrand wat my as ’n student so gepla het, sal ook aan die verlede wat vergeet is, behoort.
The Love Potion
From Mafeking Road
by Herman Charles Bosman
You mention the juba-plant (Oom Schalk Lourens said). Oh, yes, everybody in the Marico knows about the juba-plant. It grows high up on the krantzes, and they say you must pick off one of its little red berries at midnight, under the full moon. Then, if you are a young man, and you are anxious for a girl to fall in love with you, all you have to do is squeeze the juice of the juba-berry into her coffee.
They say that after the girl has drunk the juba-juice, she begins to forget all sorts of things. She forgets that your forehead is rather low, and that your ears stick out, and that your mouth is too big. She even forgets having told you, the week before last, that she wouldn’t marry you if you were the only man in the Transvaal.
All she knows is that the man she gazes at, over her empty coffee cup, has grown remarkably handsome. You can see from this that the plant must be very potent in its effects. I mean, if you consider what some of the men in the Marico look like.
~
One night I was out shooting in the veld with a lamp fastened on my hat. You know that kind of shooting: in the glare of the lamplight you can only see the eyes of the thing you are aiming at, and you get three months if you are caught. They made it illegal to hunt by lamplight since the time a policeman got shot in the foot, this way, when he was out tracking cattle-smugglers on the Bechuanaland border.
The magistrate at Zeerust, who did not know the ways of the cattle-smugglers, found that the shooting was an accident. This verdict satisfied everybody except the policeman, whose foot was still bandaged when he came into court. But the men in the Volksraad, some of whom had been cattle-smugglers themselves, knew better than the magistrate did as to how the policeman came to have a couple of buckshot in the soft part of his foot, and accordingly they brought in this new law.
Therefore I walked very quietly that night on the krantz. Frequently I put out my hand and stood very still amongst the trees, and waited long moments to make sure I was not being followed. Ordinarily, there would have been little to fear, but a couple of days before two policemen had been seen disappearing into the bush. By their looks they seemed young policemen, anxious for promotion, who didn’t know that it is more becoming for a policeman to drink an honest farmer’s peach brandy than to arrest him for hunting by lamplight.
I was walking along, turning the light from side to side, when suddenly, about a hundred paces from me, in the full brightness of the lamp, I saw a pair of eyes. When I also saw, above the eyes, a policeman’s khaki helmet, I remembered that a moonlight night, such as that was, was not so good for finding buck.
So I went home.
I took the shortest way, too, which was over the side of the krantz – the steep side – and on my way down I clutched at a variety of branches, tree-roots, stone ledges and tufts of grass. Later on, at the foot of the krantz, when I came to and was able to sit up, there was that policeman bending over me.
‘Oom Schalk,’ he said, ‘I was wondering if you would lend me your lamp.’
I looked up. It was Gideon van der Merwe, a young policeman who had been stationed for some time at Derdepoort. I had met him on several occasions, and had found him very likeable.
‘You can have my lamp,’ I answered, ‘but you must be very careful. It’s worse for a policeman to get caught breaking the law than for an ordinary man.’
Gideon van der Merwe shook his head.
‘No, I don’t want to go shooting with the lamp, he said, ‘I want to …’.
And then he paused.
He laughed nervously.
‘It seems silly to say it, Oom Schalk,’ he said, ‘but perhaps you’ll understand. I’ve come to look for a juba-plant. I need it for my studies. For my third-class sergeant’s exam. And it’ll soon be midnight, and I can’t find one of those plants anywhere.’
I felt sorry for Gideon. It struck me that he would never make a good policeman. If he couldn’t find a juba-plant, of which there were thousands on the krantz, it would be much harder for him to find the spoor of a cattle smuggler.’
So I handed him my lamp and explained where he had to go and look. Gideon thanked me and walked off.
Half an hour later he was back.
He took a red berry out of his tunic pocket and showed it to me.
For fear that he should tell any more lies about needing that juba-berry for his studies, I spoke first.
‘Lettie Cordier?’ I asked.
Gideon nodded. He was very shy, though, and wouldn’t talk much at the start. But I had guessed long ago that Gideon van der Merwe was not calling at Krisjan Cordier’s house so often just to hear Krisjan relate the story of his life.
~
Next morning I rode over to Krisjan Cordier’s farm to remind him about a tin of sheep-dip that he still owed me from the last dipping season. When Lettie came in with the coffee, I made a casual remark to her father about Gideon van der Merwe.
I didn’t take much notice of Krisjan’s remarks, however. Instead, I looked carefully at Lettie when I mentioned Gideon’s name. She didn’t give much away, but I am quick at these things, and I saw enough. The colour that crept into her cheeks. The light that came in her eyes.
On my way back I encountered Lettie. She was standing under a thorn-tree. With her brown arms and her sweet, quiet face and her full bosom, she was a very pretty picture. There was no doubt that Lettie Cordier would make a fine wife for any man. It wasn’t hard to understand Gideon’s feelings about her.
‘Lettie,’ I asked, ‘do you love him?’
‘I love him, Oom Schalk,’ she answered.
It was as simple as that.
~
When I saw Gideon some time afterwards, he was elated, as I had expected he would be.
‘So the juba-plant worked?’ I enquired.
‘It was wonderful, Oom Schalk,’ Gideon answered, ‘and the funny part of it is that Lettie’s father wasn’t there, either, when I put that juba-juice into her coffee. Lettie had brought him a message, just before then, that he was wanted in the mealie-lands.’
‘And was the juba-juice all they claim for it?’
‘You’d be surprised how quickly it acted,’ he said. ‘Lettie just took one sip at the coffee, and then jumped straight onto my lap.’
But then Gideon van der Merwe winked in a way that made me believe that he was not so very simple, after all.
‘I was pretty certain that the juba-juice would work, Oom Schalk,’ he said, ‘after Lettie’s father told me that you had visited there that morning.’
