Tribute and tribulation, two words so very similar in spelling and pronunciation but vastly different in meaning. The exact difference was brought home to me this past week when I experienced both in the space of twelve hours.
We paid tribute to a man who came into Mozambique at a time when the country was just emerging from a long and horrific civil war which had torn the country apart and brought it to the knees of poverty and deprivation. He came into the country from Zimbabwe, first on regular trips, trading foods and items from Zimbabwe, for prawns and seafood from the coast. The roads were practically nonexistent with the risk of mines or attacks from either of the warring parties along the way. He would tell stories for hours describing the trips and adventures and close shaves he, his family and his friends had in those early days.
The stories of setting up business in Mozambique at a time when legal administrative procedures were nonexistent and everything was done with bribery and corruption as par for the process were amazing. In Beira, at the time, there was no piped water or sanitation facilities, very rarely any electricity and no shops, fuel or basic living commodities. As he and his family were coming through to Beira so often and friends were starting to join them it was decided that a restaurant and camp ground should be built. This was started on a small-scale but its popularity became such that it expanded and grew into a sprawling, thatched roof venue renown for good food and the best view in Beira. That was twenty years ago, this man and his family certainly saw and experienced a lot of change in the slowly awakening country. When he passed away two weeks ago the restaurant was closed for the day in order to hold a memorial service for him. The Service was a tribute to his memory read out and spoken about by various longstanding members of the Beira community. Each of the members of the restaurant staff, some of whom had been with him from the beginning, took a handful of ashes from the box held by his son and threw them into the sea. A fitting tribute as he had loved the ocean.
Then came the tribulation. Half an hour after we locked up and went home we received a call to say the restaurant was on fire. His Restaurant. What an awful shock, what desolation, what bone crushing sadness. You can never prepare yourself for something like this and the ache inside my chest was so extreme at times I thought I would be ill.
Why did this happen? What was the reason? How did it happen? How are we going to survive?
A week later not many of the questions have been answered but I have theories. He loved the restaurant, it was his, maybe he wanted to take it with him. Maybe someone still living decided he should take it with him.
Whatever the reason, the tribulation of suddenly realising you have nothing left out of what was something huge pushed us to a level we did not realise we could reach. Out of adversity comes strength, strength you often do not realise you have. The Old Man built the restaurant through a lot of trial and tribulation on his part, maybe now it was our turn to rebuild and suffer a similar stress and tribulation in order to learn to appreciate what he went through.
In our tribute to him we had to experience the tribulation he had endured as he knew he had left that legacy of strength in his family and he knew they would get through and achieve what he had achieved and love it the same as he had.
My three wishes on 12-12-2012 at 12:12pm
For the Earth
I wish that all human kind realizes the damage they are doing and creating by their lifestyle and greed. I wish for an end to pollution, damage and desecration to all forests and lands and we all learn together to save what we have left.
For the Community
I wish for an understanding and communication. I wish for education and peace and love. We should all learn to work together for our futures and the futures of our children and their children
I wish for a life with more security, more happiness, a home, abundant love, friendliness, success in all my undertakings. Safety and care for all my family and all whom I love. I wish for this Company we have started to succeed and be all that we hope for.
My life is a huge bunch of changes at the moment and I feel discombobulated.
We have decided to sell the restaurant and the house and leave Mozambique to go back to Zimbabwe. It is only a three hour drive from Beira, Mozambique to Mutare, the Zimbabwe border town, but we don’t plan on stopping in Mutare. No, when I choose to do things I make sure I do it on a large and grand scale. We are moving all the way across Zimbabwe right up to the snout of the “pigs head”, Victoria Falls. In my craziness I have opted to pack up the house in Beira, my flat in Mutare, my son’s flat in Mutare as he is joining the venture and transport six cats and two dogs and about six or so various people on a journey which, hopefully, will take two days of slow and careful driving. I am dreading it and whereas, normally, I can picture stages in my journeys and imagine how things will work out, this time my mind is a total blank.
This change was decided two months ago as we have a friend who owns a restaurant in The Falls who has gone through a huge amount of bad changes himself suddenly and was ready to give up his dream and life’s work due to all of his problems. My other half has been constantly moaning about his lot in life here and wanting to change things, so I suggested why don’t we join up forces with the Falls contingent. The offer was leapt upon!!! I was quite amazed at the response as from listening to both parties moaning for a couple of months this thought had been in my head for a while and to my way of thinking it was a natural conclusion. Why hadn’t they thought of it? Within a weekend we had planned it all. Both my sons also needed to change their lives so were giving up what they are doing and coming into the business with us. We were going to sell the house and the restaurant here and invest in various things that side starting a company in the process and everything was go, go, go and we were all very excited with plans and dreams.
This is Mozambique, don’t make plans or deadlines and expect them to be kept. Due to seriously dumb administration it turned out that both the house and the restaurant weren’t actually owned by my other half. We couldn’t find out who owned it at all. No deeds had been drawn up, no papers signed, no transfers. I was amazed. Never in my existence had I ever heard of someone owning a piece of land for twenty years but not owning it!! Paying taxes and rents and dues etc but having absolutely no paperwork showing ownership!! Unheard of and unbelievable and so, so stupid in any country in Africa, never mind one that is not your birth country. Land here can be taken away from you on a whim and if any of the power hungry politicos heard about this gross mess, we would certainly be out on our ear. Luckily – we found a very good lawyer and with much “under the table financing”, slowly things have progressed and maybe, maybe, another two weeks.
I am not even thinking about it. I have stopped packing and am living out of the boxes I had already packed. I refuse to jinx the whole operation again by hoping and planning so I have stopped and moved over to a path where I sort of wander along daily trying to keep myself busy.
Christmas is coming and every year I craft and decorate and love celebrating Christmas. This year my craft stuff is mostly packed with some in Mutare and as I am so determined not to think anything negative or plan anything, I have kept a few crafts out and am crocheting and sewing things for little nephews and nieces. Cannot say if they will actually get them as I probably will pack them and forget where but anything to keep my mind busy.
The Change!!! Why the hell is it happening now? I had a hysterectomy nearly twenty years ago and have had a very hormonally crazy life since then, but I thought I had missed The Change, The dreaded mad Menopause. Now, going into the hellishly, hottest months in Beira, when I am trying to plan and coordinate a huge move and start of a new life and have to have all my wits about me as the males in my life sincerely aren’t the brightest lightbulbs, my body has let me down. I am breaking out in horrific sweats, my joints ache, I can’t sleep and lie awake panicking about the future and I have turned into a forgetful, snapping witch.
Over the past couple of weeks I have watched in astonishment as my middle area suddenly ballooned and I developed a roll!! For no reason that I could see. I wasn’t eating any different or behaving any different and yet my jeans wouldn’t do up. If anything I was eating less as it is too hot in this place to eat. I upped my running, yoga and other exercise and kept as busy as possible. Then my body seemed to pack up, my joints started to ache and pain, sometimes continuously. I thought I was overdoing the exercise so I cut right back and only did yoga.
The pain has continued though and some days I cannot rest at all as my ankles are so sore. Nights are a nightmare, I wake up in a bath of sweat and realise I have pain in some joint, either my ankles or my back or my shoulders and then I cannot get back to sleep again as I start worrying about things. Really pointless, stupid worrying about totally mundane ideas that suddenly develop into huge mental problems which keep me awake trying to solve and sort. I read somewhere that not sleeping enough can make you fat so as I lay not sleeping I worry about that as well, and of course don’t sleep.
Days have become a an exhausting cycle of battling to get up in the morning and then struggling through the day with aches and pains popping up everywhere and sweating, always sweating. Its actually so hot in Beira that I often cannot figure out if I am sweating normally or from a hot flush. I have lost all my energy and mojo and to do anything is an exhausting trial, even to think about doing something exhausts me.
For months now I have been scratching. I thought I had an allergy, then excema, maybe the stress, the heat, I have spent hours on the internet trying to see why I am scratching. I have had to rub tonnes of cream on to prevent myself scratching my skin raw and bleeding. What really worries me though is my mind has been taken over by aliens, my memory is now a sieve and I have lost what little intelligence I had. When I first noticed this happening I was seriously worried that I was developing Parkinsons or Alzheimers or some such age disease.
This morning I woke up and just lay in bed wondering how I could get up and try to do a bit of yoga, or even just get through the day. Friday is my grocery shopping day but the thought of trying to go round hot smelly crazy town just drained me. I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t even seem to open my eyes! I just lay there for maybe an hour just trying to be, you know the feeling, just be, at one with the bed and the cool air conditioned air. Then as I felt another hot sweaty flush starting to roll over my body, I suddenly thought to myself “Duh, you stupid woman, its the menopause”. It was like a flash in my brain.
I googled all my symptoms, I googled menopause, I googled menopause blogs, I googled treatments, natural and medical I googled everything remotely related. It all matched up! The knowledge doesn’t help me much as living where I do there are no doctors to speak to, I am going to have to wait until I get to civilisation to get it all confirmed and sorted. I am not sure when that will be so I have searched the town for some of the more natural products I saw on google. Not much luck there either surprisingly as I had thought with the number of Chinese and Indians we have here that surely I would find some natural remedies. You can buy any drug you want here over the counter and without a prescription so this was quite disappointing. It’s a males town.
I am going to have to learn to live with the discomfort and keep as positive as I can and take it slow and easy. One step at a time. What an awful phase to go through though and I hope it ends soon. Any advice would be appreciated.
I was attacked this week. Not badly, I wasn’t hurt much and never had anything taken away from me but I feel violated, exposed, used and invaded – and so, so angry.
I walk just about every morning. I am a morning person and love that time of the day when the whole world is waking up and because there are not many people about, I feel as though I am a discoverer, an explorer. Wherever I have lived or wherever I have visited, I go on early morning walks. I never go the same way two times running and vary each and every journey with an unexpected twist or turn as to my whim. In more remote or unsafe areas, I never wear jewellery, never carry cameras etc and I always carry a stick of some sorts. The stick is mainly to ward off the dogs which often chase me!!
No matter how early you get up in Beira, there are always fishermen out on the ocean trying to earn their living; their wives and often their children as well, waiting for them on the beach, curled up together, asleep under their kapulana cloths if it is still too early and dark and chilly. The fishermen follow the tides. They lay out their nets and leave them for a turn of the tide, then row out in their small canoes, often made from a hollowed out tree trunk and retrieve their, hopefully, laden nets after the tide has turned.
Their wives and families wait on the beach and then clean the nets of the sellable catch, chucking the unwanted jellyfish and other inedible ocean occupants onto the sand. If these can survive until the tide reaches them again then I always hope they make it to live another day, but often I come upon piles of dead and dying jellyfish mixed with crabs which were too small and were left on their backs so could not burrow back into the protecting sand. This angers me as it seem such a waste of life and some days I spend hours trying to return some of their catch back to the sea.
The buckets of small fish and shrimp the wives take to the roadside markets to sell, it is the staple diet in Mozambique. If the tides are low and the sun is right they spread part of their catch out in a patchwork quilt on the beach and leave it to dry before gathering and selling in the markets. From our house we can smell the days when the catch has been good or when the sun is right for drying – the strong smell of ocean fish drying carries inland on the breezes.
Once the sun has risen and the canoes have not yet come in, the women dig for clams along the tide line. Long lines of upturned sand disturbing the glassy smoothness of the tide washed beach. Clams can only be dug in the mornings and must be kept as fresh as possible and they are also sold on the roadsides and in the markets, but only in the mornings. If they are still for sale in the afternoon you know they are no longer edible. Most of the clam sellers boil and eat them themselves by lunch time, which creates another market and roadside business for the ever enterprising peoples of this town.
I get on very well with the fishermen and the women and we greet each other happily as I look over their catches or check what is in their baskets. I have been walking the beach here for four years now and have never felt threatened or had a problem. Every morning is such an exciting experience for me I glory in the happiness.
Occasionally though, I have started taking my camera with me. When I know the tide is going to be out and the beach more interesting, the sunrises and sunsets are so stunning, the scuttling crabs pose so comically, the wave ripples and swirls so beautiful that I just have to try and capture the moment. I take it once in a while and try never to pull it out of my pocket when I am on my own, I normally use it when the beaches have awakened with people.
On Tuesday I took my camera and got some lovely pictures of the crabs and the dawn of the day. I had a lovely walk. My whole day held a feeling of happiness and joy because of my happy experiences of the morning.
On Wednesday I, very stupidly, took my camera again and followed the exact same route as for Tuesday. As soon as I walked onto the beach I felt a bad feeling inside me. I did not feel happy or excited, I felt… wrong.
The beach stretched welcoming and calling. The tide was at its turn and the waves were small gentle ripples in the bronze grey light of the dawn. Beira’s beaches are divided into portions by eroded and wave washed stone and concrete retaining walls called groins. The stretch of beach I was on was deserted but I noticed one other person two groins up from me digging on the beach. As I noticed him I felt the unsettling urge to move back to the road rush through me again. Looking back down the beach in the other direction I noticed about five groins away the fishermen launching canoes and getting ready for their day. The sun was not yet risen so everything was bathed in its pre-dawn bronze gold. It would be ok, I would take my shoes off and walk fast down to where the fishermen were.
Against the unaccustomed displeasure at my surroundings swirling through my body I walked down to the water line and started towards the fishermen. I remember feeling very disjointed and overly aware of everything around me. About half way to where I was heading I turned to see where the other beach walker was and noticed he was walking in the same direction as me and seemed to have gained ground.
At the same time as noticing him I saw the sunrise!! It was beautiful, stunning and orange. The beach was bathed in a rippling blanket of fire. Without thinking I took my camera out and happily clicked away. My intuition practically hit me over the head, but I paid no attention, put my camera back in my pocket and carried on walking. Fast.
I glanced back again and now saw this man running parallel with me, between me and the road. When he saw me looking at him he turned and ran straight for me.
My instinct really took over then and everything slowed down like a disjointed, jerky movie reel. I knew he was coming for me, I knew what he wanted, I knew what he was going to do but I felt absolutely powerless and fear froze me. He came right up to me, right into me space and spoke in Portuguese. I didn’t understand him and realised I had to act as if I wasn’t on my own. I side stepped away from him and pretended to wave and call to someone behind him up on the road. I tried to put space between us as if I had somewhere to go and someone to go to, just glancing at him, smiling and then calling to my imaginery friend. At first he believed me and looking up to the road moved away but just when I thought maybe I would get away he realised what I was doing and came at me again, this time throwing punches and grabbing at my shirt and my breasts. I started screaming!!
I screamed out of fear as I suddenly realised I was in a situation I had no control over. I realised I could get seriously hurt and I realised I had been very stupid not to act on my intuition.
I screamed with all my might, I shouted and then started hitting back. My walking stick is heavy and solid and I beat him as hard as I could on the head and shoulders. I screamed and shouted, beating and pushing and even kicking. Suddenly I realised I wasn’t scared anymore, I was angry. I saw in his eyes that I was hurting him but he was determined to get my camera. My small $30 happy snappy camera!! Somewhere inside me I realised that he was very confused by this unexpected anger and retaliation. He had not expected confrontation, he had expected an easy target. He had not expected the stick, the screaming and then he noticed that my shouts had now brought spectators. This was not what he had wanted. He started moving away, tried to start running, but now I wouldn’t let him go. I was so angry at him for messing up my beautiful morning experience that I was determined to make him suffer. I threw my shoes at him, threw my stick at his head, I chased after him, my adrenalin pushing me. But he made it away.
It took me a long, long time to calm down. I was shaking so much I could no longer stand so just sat down in the sand. My heart was beating very fast and the adrenalin was pumping through me. I sat there calming my breathing, staring out to sea, my whole body was shaking, watching the morning wake up but not noticing.
Slowly I came back to reality and noticed my stick and shoes had been placed beside me on the wet sand. I noticed people walking back and forth around me, but no-one seemed to be paying any attention to me. I could no longer see my attacker but I still felt threatened and very sad. My lovely morning ritual was spoilt, ruined. I would never feel safe doing this again.
Slowly I picked up my stick and shoes and walked back to the road where I sat on the pavement to dust the beach sand off my feet and put my shoes on. I had a half hour walk to get home but I did not feel like doing it. I felt so low and sad and disillusioned. I sat and watched the world go by me, glancing at each person feeling one of them may have been my attacker. Slowly I got up and made my way home but as I walked my disillusionment and fear turned to anger. I arrived home seething with anger. Anger at the man for spoiling my day, anger for missing out on a beautiful morning ritual, anger because I knew it would never be the same again and mostly anger at myself.
I was so angry at myself for not trusting and following my intuition. It was my fault this had happened, I only had myself to blame. The angels, the universe, buddha, the ocean, the earth, everything, had all tried to warn me. That is what intuition is all about, and I had not paid any attention!!
I have been writing since I was about eight or nine. Short little stories to read to my younger siblings about the animals or trees and life on the farm around us. As I grew older, my writing became romantic with poems and love letters to my heart’s desire and passionate stories about my knight on his white charger.
In the days of pen and paper I used to communicate with penpals from around the world. I used to write long and newsy, and often made up, letters about my life in the tiny farm where I grew up. We were in a remote area of the African bush and it was rare to have visitors or see anyone. we used to go on a holiday to the seaside every year where we spent the first few days in silent, awestruck and often fearful wonder at the different world around us. My penpals opened up such a realm of exotic places and lives, their letters always sounded so exciting and full of fun. I couldn’t compete with that in my tiny farmhouse where we had no electricity, constantly had visitations from snakes, scorpions and other creepy crawlies, had wild animals wondering into the yard and around us, rescued baby elephants, impalas and anything else wild from bush fires or poachers so I used to make up a lot of my news. Now I look back and think “stupid, stupid, stupid, that was such an exciting, adventurous life, why didn’t I savour it more!”
As life and marriage and babies moved on, my writing became personal, rambling journal entries talking mainly to myself, about myself, short empassioned stories about what a terrible life I led. When I read over them now I think what a silly person I must have been with all my dreams and sulks and moans. I also used to collect quotations, sayings and poems which I wrote out in my journals. I have a lot of journals now tucked away in a box and I wonder what I should do with them because some of the entries should definitely not be allowed out in public!
Now in the computerised, technological age we have reached, my writing has grown and I write stories and download stories and copy quotations and poems from magazines or download them from the internet. I spend hours delving into other peoples lives through their blogs and sites. Unfortunately the internet has also opened up for me the world of how I should be writing, what I should be doing according to all the online professionals. What a good thing I never tried to print anything I wrote, I would have been rejected and hurt! The way I wrote and what I thought were good stories were perhaps not. They were immaturely written and lacked proper grammar and style and even the content was boring. So maybe I wasn’t a writer and all my years had been wasted. There was no way I could compete with what I could see on the internet, I was no good.
I started joining writing workshops and taking courses and worrying and feeling embarrassed about my style and lack of knowledge. I have read copious amounts of instruction and printed and memorised numerous help pages from bloggers and writers online who helpfully shared their ideas with me. I have changed a lot of my stories to try and copy the way others have done theirs. Maybe now I should try and get it published, it looks and sounds just like the article “professionalwriter.com” just published on his site so why not go for it?
Wait, stop! Who wrote this? It looks just like “professionalwriter.com” why are they writing under another name now? This is their style and their format and yet the article has a different author name. Why should we publish this, its obviously someone trying to copy “professionalwriter.com”? Its a blasphemy, a joke, ban this author, denounce them to the world. Never allow them to publish anything as they have stolen the work from “professionalwriter.com”
I have my Ouma’s bed in my flat now and cannot remember a time in my when the bed wasn’t somewhere in my life.
As family history goes my grandparents were amongst the first pioneer column treks into Southern Rhodesia in the late 1800’s.They were young teenagers at that stage, my Oupa or grandfather being fifteen, which was already a man in those times.The eldest of seven children he was already used to working the fields and tending the animals and crops on the farm they had had. His father and he were now the only ones to look after the small herd of cattle plus look after and maintain the four ox-wagons the family were driving on the arduous journey from the Cape of Good Hope through the Southern African Republic and into the newly discovered country of Southern Rhodesia. He had four younger sisters and two younger brothers and the responsibility for their care rested heavily on him.
My Ouma or grandmother was in the same pioneer column as my Oupa but as there were over 100 wagons and thirty families it was many days and many miles before they first new of each other. My Ouma was twelve years old and travelling with her mother, her mother’s parents and an uncle and his family. My Ouma’s father had died a year previously so there was just herself, her mother, an older brother of thirteen and an older sister of fifteen. The whole family was moving to start a new and better life in the new country. They had all their worldly possessions packed into six ox-wagons, the one wagon was for Ouma and her small family and in the middle was the double bed. Well not quite the double bed, the base and mattress were on top of the ornately scrolled wooden head and base board and packed tightly all around were the rest of their possessions.
On the long journey, my Ouma spent many hours playing quietly or reading, snuggled deep into the downy softness of the voluptuous mattress.
They had apparently travelled for eight months before they reached the Great Limpopo River. Although there had been many obstacles on their trip, people being hurt or killed, families deciding they had reached the place they wanted to live and staying at newly built homesteads along the way, this was the biggest problem so far.
All along the journey many tales had been told of this great river crossing. They met numerous travelers turned back once they had seen the expanse of water, the leaders of their column had crossed the river before though so were confident they knew what to do.
Ouma told me the story of her first sight of the wide expanse of slow flowing green water. It was a hot, humid day and the flies had driven her to burrow deep under the covers on the bed when her mother called her urgently to come to the front of the wagon. They had stopped on an escarpment overlooking the huge river valley. Lined up for miles on either side of their wagon were other wagons and people were climbing out and walking down to the river’s edge. She cannot remember how many people but she said there must have been a hundred, there were a lot she said. Further back from where the wagons had stopped a small wagon town had built up of people who had come this far and did not know what to do next so had just camped out.
As my Ouma climbed down and followed her brother and sister down the steep slope she noticed a young man on a horse ahead of her. He seemed to be having a problem with the beast and it was snorting and jiggling against his rein. The young man was trying to quieten the animal which seemed almost too big for him to control and it was taking all the youth’s strength to hold the horse’s head in.
Suddenly, with a sharp neigh the horse bucked and the young man flew into the air. The horse started galloping madly down the slope and straight for the water. Everyone started shouting and people were either running at the horse waving their hats to try to stop it or, the wives and children ran to get out-of-the-way of the charging, red-eyed, frothing monster. Screams broke out as they noticed the young man, his leg still stuck in the stirrup was bouncing along the ground behind the horse!!!
My Ouma says it was like watching everything in slow motion but it all happened so fast. The horse leapt into the slow-moving river and started swimming, dragging the poor young man with it. Everyone watched in horror expecting to see his drowned body float to the surface of the muddy brown water. Next thing, as the horse was about a quarter of the way across they saw the young man surface next to the horse and slowly pull himself onto its back. The horse carried on swimming but although the man pulled at the reins and shouted and tried to force the horse to turn, it refused and continued heading for the other bank.
There was nothing anyone could do but watch and pray. The horse was a large and strong beast and seemed to be coping well with the swirling current of water and after the initial fighting the young man obviously realised he was to far into the river to turn back so it would be better to just carry on. He now bent over the horse’s head shouting encouragement and pleas. The crowd on the bank took up the cries and everybody was urging the horse on to the far bank. Then someone noticed what they, at first, thought was a log, floating steadily in the water aiming for the horse. He shouted to alert the people around him and then they noticed a couple of floating logs – crocodiles!!!.
The crocodiles were still closer to this side of the bank then the other and people started shouting and throwing rocks and stones at them and firing shots. This must have spurred the horse on because he was now nearing the other bank. Everyone went silent, my Ouma says even the birds seemed silent. A lot of people had realised if there were crocodiles on this side of the river, there must surely be crocodiles on the other side. The crowds of people were still and silent as with one silent voice they urged the horse and its young rider to safety.
They made it. The cheer that rang up as the large beast pulled his exhausted body up to the safety of the bank on the other side was heard for many miles. The young man still clung to the horses back but seemed unconscious at first, as he did not move as the horse clambered up the steep cliff. They reached the top and everyone could see the two joined in the silhouette of the setting sun.
Suddenly the horse started neighing and jumping up and down and bucking again. He must be mad, the heat must have gotten to his brain!! The young man had slid or fallen off and standing holding the horse’s head he calmed it down. By now people were shouting instructions across to the young man checking on him and Ouma could see who she realised were his parents and family standing in a huddle comforting each other. The young man replied he was ok and it was all decided he would have to make a camp as best he could and in the morning the operation would begin to cross the river to join him.
The young man, who Ouma had now found out his name was Stanley, started un-saddling his horse and drying it down with dry grass. As he pulled the saddle off he suddenly shouted in shock and dropping the saddle seemed to be jumping and stomping, very similar to how the horse had been acting!! Under the saddle had been three scorpions!! The poor beast had been tortured by their stings and that was why he had gone mad. That night Ouma slept in the bed with her mother and her sister as normal, with her brother under the wagon. Talk of the young man had circled the camp around and around and his bravery and courage were praised.
The following day people prepared and readied themselves as had been discussed with the column leaders at the onset of the journey. The wagons were unpacked and stripped of everything including their huge metal wheels. The flat wooden wagon beds were gently lowered into the river – they floated!! Their wooden poles and planks had been oiled and treated back in the Cape just for this purpose, so they could float across the river.
Six big men climbed onto one of the floating wagons and slowly they poled themselves across the river. What a miracle, what excitement, everyone was laughing and crying at the same time. Stanley on the other side had been calling encouragement to the floating men and when they landed that side they all hugged cheerfully. They had taken some ropes across the water with them and these they anchored to some large trees then they tethered the horse on a long rope to the side of their bed boat and slowly entered the water again, at first having to tug at the horse’s rope to get him to enter the river again.
All day there had been young people and children shouting and throwing things at any crocodiles they had seen and this seemed to have frightened them into hiding, so the journey was made back with no “floating logs” and no problems. Stanley, was lauded and applauded and hugged and kissed and you could see he was quite proud of himself. My Ouma says he did not even notice her watching him from the edge of the crowd around him, he says he did.
The next day early the first of the families and their wagon beds were loaded onto the water, any livestock they had, had been tethered to the ropes and people started across the river for the transfer which was to take three days before everything was safely on the other side, including a lot of new families and wagons who had been camped. Some animals were lost to drowning and crocodiles, my Ouma thinks she remembers two people falling off and drowning but otherwise they seemed to make it.
After a week of resting and putting everything together again they carried on their journey, some of the column started off again, but some stayed behind. There had been much discussion amongst all the leaders and they had all decided to go in different directions.
Almost a year and a half after setting out, my Ouma and her family and three other families including Stanley’s reached an area not far from their river crossing which they decided was where they wanted their future to be and they left the column there. By this time everyone was good friends and Ouma says Stanley and her older sister seemed to becoming good friends.
After a couple of months’, Ouma’s mother remarried a man whose wife had passed away on the journey and they had three children together over the next four years, all born in the wooden double bed which had pride of place in their bedroom.
Stanley never proposed to Ouma’s sister and Ouma and Stanley had become very friendly. he used to talk to her a lot and take her riding and exploring the land around their farms. He showed her a place on a small hill he told her that he was going to build a house there for her.
He did, and when my Ouma was about eighteen they got married and moved to their house on the hill. All the furniture was handmade and it was very basic. The bath was filled from buckets heated on an outside fire and the toilet was half way down the side of the hill, a small building on its own overlooking the bushveld.
As a wedding present they were given the wooden double bed with its carved bed posts and patterns.
My Ouma had six children in the bed, two died and then after my mother got married the bed was given to her.
She didn’t have any children in the bed, as there were hospitals by then, and she and my father actually didn’t sleep in it much and it was kept in the guest bedroom. My mother had never really liked the bed, probably because she had been born in it.
I was the oldest of four children and loved the bed. I used to cuddle down into the soft mattress and read and play with my dolls and dream of handsome men on horses. My Ouma came to live with us after Oupa died and she stayed in the room with the double bed and I used to sleep with her often and she told me the stories about it.
When I became a teenager I demanded the bed as mine and have had it since then. When I married it wasnt our marriage bed as my husband didn’t like it, and I never had any of my children in it, but now I have it in my flat. I love cuddling down in it and reading and I spend hours oiling and polishing the wooden scrolls and swirls on the head and base board and wondering what stories it could tell me.