Its been so long since I’ve written. I have been intensely
busy with my job at the Trust; a fierce transition from the northern suburbs of
Melbourne to the Greater Timbavati bushland. The rains arrived two weeks ago,
transforming the parched savannah into rich sprouting greens and dark red
earth.
Driving through the coal mining belt of Carolina, Ermelo (a town deserved of a special kind of loathing, with its street signs that send you the wrong way), it's a tough job warding off the depression that sinks down from the blue skies fouled with black smoke to see the stark reality of what has become of South Africa. It is wasteland, valuable infrastructure crumbling before our eyes, whilst we busy ourselves with the Zuma/Malema circus, too distracted to acknowledge that neither has noble or good intentions – just look at the landscape around you if you haven’t quite grasped the malevolent and dark forces they embody and broadcast.The ruin that South Africa has become.
It has by no means been a restful seven months. Apart from
project managing the launch of the Leadership Academy, and working
closely with founder and CEO LT on a myriad of campaigns,
issues and the daily running of 1700 hectares of bushveld and the lion and
animal populations within, my personal life took a wild turn into the brilliant
raspberry coloured fields of love. Yes, a deep and delicious love that I have
been waiting and praying for all my life finally arrived here, on my doorstep,
carried by a pale blue hire car resembling a toaster, the mighty
form of my beloved-to-be within.
He lives in Durban, a twelve hour drive from Timbavati, so we
meet every second weekend in a town halfway between our homes. As I tear down
the tar road intersecting the Timbavati bushland, my phone locates signal and I
ring him, “I’ve left my darling, I’m on my way!” I let him know. “Good, my
love, good, I’m driving towards you,” he replies.
We meet in Wakkerstroom, one of the few intact country towns
littering the South African landscape. Unfortunately, most towns do litter the
landscape, literally – they are tragic, decrepit sentinels to what was once
functional; infrastructure aimed at serving the few, but now
a nasty testament to the vindictiveness that pervades South Africa, which
allows everything to fall, beautiful old buildings to decay or be stripped of
any value. All over the South African countryside are stripped hertiage buildings –
interesting that the walls and piles of brick and rubble are left, not pulled down in a gesture of an ending and a beginning, just left, almost as a careless "fuck you" to what once was. Laconic, utilitarian living surrounds us.
These sad little towns once stood proud with roads
intact, pavement proudly swept and mended, streets free of litter, devoid of garish
advertising in a nod to polite aesthetic or rigid order, take your pick. Towns like Volksrust where you can see the shadow of
a town with history – a key strategic town in the Boer War and no doubt Afrikaner history. These towns
adjacent to the townships, which are looking more miserable than ever, with the
pathetic excuse of RDP housing which bears striking similarity to the
housing put up by the apartheid government. Some with plots so small they can’t
even plant a tree.
Driving through the coal mining belt of Carolina, Ermelo (a town deserved of a special kind of loathing, with its street signs that send you the wrong way), it's a tough job warding off the depression that sinks down from the blue skies fouled with black smoke to see the stark reality of what has become of South Africa. It is wasteland, valuable infrastructure crumbling before our eyes, whilst we busy ourselves with the Zuma/Malema circus, too distracted to acknowledge that neither has noble or good intentions – just look at the landscape around you if you haven’t quite grasped the malevolent and dark forces they embody and broadcast.The ruin that South Africa has become.
Twenty kilometers from Volksrust is Wakkerstroom, a rare haven in the rural landscape, sitting in a bowl of beautiful mountain ranges. It is one of those seachange kind of towns that well-off people retire to, and has the blessed absence of craft shops - mosaic-ed crucifixes and garden ornaments with cute or religious sentiment made of chicken wire, lace and glass beads. It has two strikingly good restaurants, one run by a chef whose brilliant cooking is accompanied by a slow sozzling no doubt through the day, so that by 8.30pm she is thoroughly shit-faced and slurring, but jolly. Her mushroom gnocchi make this instantly forgiveable. Wakkerstroom's heritage buildings are intact, the streets are clean, there is peace in the air. It is not on a main route, which would be a factor in retaining its dignity, and there are no chain stores to numb the citizens. There is nothing to do, save eat excellent food and go for a stroll or birdwatch, which suits my beloved and I just fine as we hunker down in a badly decorated cottage where he immediately removes the deeply offensive burgundy tassled lampshades, and we climb into bed to stave off the icy weather outside, to read to each other and be in the oasis of love.
