Day 234: Pedi Trustland

The mountain had me. Its power over me was magnetic. Deep in Pedi Trustland, I didn’t notice the temperature, had no idea what time of day it was, the year, my name . . . I was like the gentle breeze itself and the mountain was calling me closer. Gently tugging me. When the road split it made logical sense to go straight. Follow the road. But it curved away from the mountain so I turned right instead.

The sun is beginning to cast long shadows when I see some workers at the side of the road. It must look odd – a woman with a backpack, here, in the middle of nowhere, camera protruding from her chest. This can’t happen very often. I stop to chat and they ask me where I am going. Forward, I say and they smile. They are working on a pipeline that will supply water to this area.

A little further I come across women carrying firewood on their heads, a daily chore accompanied by banter and easy chit-chat. My offer of help makes them laugh, but when they find out that I am South African the questions come flying. They want to know where I am staying that night. I have no idea, I answer. They are vexed. ‘No, you can’t do this. Especially as a woman!’

There is much underbreath tsking. Much shaking of heads. Just one of the women seems to understand. She comes up to me, takes my hands, looks into my eyes and nods. It feels like a direct infusion of peace, right into my veins.

After a kilometre or so of walking together they veer left down what looks like an animal track, while I carry on straight through the small village of Pax Intrantibus. When the children there spot my camera, their excitement translates into instant high jinks – various different poses are struck without any encouragement from me. Two youngsters in school uniform walk with me. We hear a car approaching from behind and they suggest I put my thumb out – they want to see how a mlungu hitches a ride. Not only do I stick my thumb out, I also cock my knee and dangle my leg into the road to amuse them, which has them bent double with laughter.

The red car swerves slightly as it comes to a halt in the thick sand next to me. Through the open passenger window the driver enquires where I am headed, confers in Pedi with the woman on the back seat and then offers to take me as far as they are going. And so I meet the seemingly forbidding Solly, his wife, Jacqueline Matlou, and two-year-old Moloko, who eyes me suspiciously from her mother’s lap. Solly asks my business and I tell him my story. After eight months on the road my explanations are well oiled. Again he speaks with his wife in Pedi. They offer me a lift to their village.

As we drive I sense that something is weighing on his mind so I sit quietly next to him and wait until he has formulated his questions. Eventually he turns to me. I sense sadness, anger and frustration. ‘Why is it that you, a white woman, can come here into this area . . . into our area . . . and you know that you can go knocking on any door and that somebody will take you into their home? Yet, if any person from here should go knocking on a white person’s door, they would not be welcome. Why is that?’

I tell him that I don’t have an answer. Some of the thoughts in my head are: Maybe we still have a lot of brainwashing to undo . . . of concepts like Die Swart Gevaar and ‘Kill the Farmer, Kill the Boer’. I think of the madala I met in a North West township, who was of the opinion that crime fosters artificial hatred among people and that the government is feeding off this animosity. He felt that, one-on-one, South Africans get along really well, but that crowds have the tendency to bring out a mob mentality. As we sit there, I get the sense that it’s okay to not have the answer. We can meet in question instead.

Eventually we get to their beautiful home in the small village of Berggerecht. Solly is working night shift and must eat before he leaves. While Jacqueline makes pap he tends the braai of impala meat. Later, when we eat, Solly asks, ‘What do white people cook in their homes? What kind of food do you guys like?’

Yet again I am astounded and a little saddened by how little we know about one another. Around their dining table we tell each other a little bit about our cultures. We seek to narrow the gap.

When Solly has left, Jacqueline fetches a pair of binoculars and we look at the mountain. She says it is called Blouberg. She loves watching it change shape and colour with the movement of the sun.

Not long afterwards Solly’s neighbour, his uncle, comes over. As one of the village elders he feels it is his duty to welcome me, as is the custom. He thanks me for coming, assures my safety in the village and tells me that I am in a good home where all my needs will be met. If, however, there is anything I need, I am free to come and knock on his door.

Little Moloko is niggly. She does not like me very much. Her mother says that she does not like anyone besides her parents. When she sees me in the house she says, ‘Tsamaya! Tsamaya!’ The next morning she has still has not warmed to me and I decide it is best if I leave. My intention is not to upset anyone – even a toddler.

Later that day two white farmers picked me up and took me part of the way to Makhado (Louis Trichardt). When I told them that I had just spent a night in Pedi Trustland, they looked at one another and then pelted me with questions, ‘What kind of house did they have? Was it made of bricks? What did they feed you? What kind of food do they like?’