It is a balmy afternoon in mid November in the redundant
South African province of the Eastern
Cape . The distant rumblings of thunderheads can be
heard in the far North. They gradually become louder as the storm moves towards
the farm, away from the Drakensberg and towards the sea. As it does so the wind
starts to pick up ahead of the approaching roll cloud, and the first drops of
rain can be heard hitting the tin roof of the room that serves as my office.
Just a few days ago I completed exactly forty years in southern
Africa , years that have shaped much of my
life. The approaching storm is typical of the summer storms that frequent the
region. The rain becomes harder, louder. Soon it will be too loud to stay down
in this end of the house and I will soon be forced to move to the lounge, to
work from an armchair. This room I am in now is known as the lighthouse room,
named so by Liz on account of the drapes and artifacts that depict so many of
those phallic edifices. The rain is steadier now, and is accompanied by that fragrance
that is so often found when the first of the rains meet the oh-so-dry ground.
I move to the lounge and, by Murphy’s Law, the storm peters
out, as so often happens with storms that come from that direction. Our two summer residents returned from their European home a few weeks ago – coincident
with the equinox. This is their fourth visit, and is usually accompanied by a
complete makeover of last year’s home. This year, as yet anyway, they seem to
have decided not to rebuild. This pair of Lesser Striped Swallows chat to each
other from a perch I made for them just outside out front door. On previous
years they have had to rebuild their home, but this year they just seem to be
spring cleaning the old one and using the two tunnels that serve as both entrance
and exit. I am expecting that the female will soon be sitting on eggs – last
year there were two fledglings. The male will spend most of his day catching
insects and bringing them home.
The summer temperatures have kicked in – the other day it
hit 95 in the shade, and at nearly 10.00 p.m. it is still in the high 70’s. We
have had 170 ml of rain in the last few weeks – that’s 4 inches - much needed
here in the Eastern Cape, where there has been a winter drought lasting several
months. As a result, what was a parched and sun-burned lawn has suddenly burst
into life, the kikuyu grass six inches high in places and a brilliant dark
green. My gardener is a local man called Headman – a retired railway worker I
believe. He rents a house from the railways at the old Martindale station and tells
me he pays just R10 a month. He recently bought himself a Isuzu bakkie or truck
and has been using it as an illegal taxi. I get the impression that this new
role has made him too important to cut grass for the likes of me. However I
understand that his truck is undergoing repairs in Port Elizabeth , so maybe I can get him to
come and cut the lawn next week.
I have decided to start selling off some of the larger items
of furniture that remain in the house – after all there is no way they are
going overseas once it is sold. I have dropped the asking price on the house as far
as I can. Now that Liz has a job and a car, there is no longer anything to keep
me in this country. Much of the house is already boxed up and awaiting the
freight company. I can’t wait for the day when I can say “I had a farm in Africa , at the foot of the Kapriviersberge hills”. Whoever buys will be getting the bargain of the Century.
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