Christmas in Elim

Well, town is an overstatement, really. Village, dorpie, or settlement are words that better describe this enclave that, until fairly recently, had no tarred roads leading to or from it. The older folk like to say that a lot of trouble arrived with the tarred roads. Before, when there were just a few dusty paths and not too many people passing through, they had no problems with alcohol and drugs. It was the new roads that brought civilisation and its social ills bang into the homes of a previously more isolated community.

What I will remember is the village shopkeeper who loads the Christmas gifts patrons have bought in his shop onto his bakkie and in his trailer and delivers them to the children. I will remember how the whole community becomes involved . . . how some of the mothers rally to help others pay for their presents. I will remember the tolling of the bells in the very impressive church built in 1835 . . . and my hosts AB and Annlien . . . and their Christmas lunch 
. . . and watching flieks with Annlien. I will remember the children’s Christmas carols evening . . . their serious expressions as they concentrate on singing all the words in all the right places.

Annlien’s face shows her concern on the morning I make ready to leave. She worries that I won’t find a lift on this public holiday (they refer to it by its old name, Boxing Day), so she walks me to the road and keeps me company for a while. When she eventually leaves me, her face wears a forlorn expression. As soon as she is far enough away I, too, begin walking. The walking stages of my journey are like a healing balm on the raw wounds of my bittersweet farewells.