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“Look for a large rock and a cattle grid. That’s your place. Turn off the road there.”
These simple instructions promised the end of a hot but fast journey from Durban to my old home of northern Zululand. As we drove, the landscape had changed from one of suburban shopping malls to a green monotony of sugar cane fields, before becoming the open acacia woodland I remember so well. In the distance, the dark smudge of the Lebombo Mountains slowly gained a reassuring definition. We left the swift highway as the town of Mkuze faded in the rear view mirror and the Jozini Dam stretched, blue like a strip of torn sky, towards Swaziland. A dirt road led through a Zulu village and up into the hills. These rose in endless repetition until they fell off the horizon. My trust in the directions began to dissipate, but we drove on, into the hills.
Ten minutes later, my remaining trust was rewarded: a track met the road, its entrance marked by a small, rust red cattle grid and a rock. After testing the integrity of the grid, we directed our trusty Opal Corsa through the gate and rolled down the track. Mature aloes lined the road, their proud crowns topping rigid stalks, making a fierce floral parade and drawing us deeper into the bush. Long grass had overcome the marker stones and from both sides the woodland pressed upon the imposed symmetry. Life was in abundance, but there was no sign of living.
Ignoring my instinct that this was not the right place, we continued down the track; gateposts leant uncorrected and vegetation crept unchallenged. The house that came into sight was still whole, the roof aquamarine tin and the bricks blood red. Glass remained in the majority of the windows, framed by iron, only a couple of panes smashed. The net curtains hung grey. Though this place was obviously no longer a home, still I called my presence, my shout a rejection of the sadness that emanated from the buildings. If one looked quickly, the abandonment of the farm seemed recent, but the creeping return of nature told another story. A telephone call confirmed that this was not our destination, but by then the sadness had infected me, darkening my outlook.
Our intended destination was not far from this digression; it was another abandoned lodge, the yellow thatch of the main building standing distinct on the steep incline of the hill opposite to where we now stood. Negotiating the rutted track, we drove down into the valley and climbed up to the correct rock and cattle grid. As the lodge drew closer, my black mood dissipated. Here, though the thatch was in need of repair and gunshots had shattered the glass pane of one large door, there was life. Fine Nguni cattle moved through the trees, lowing in the increasing dusk. The area bore the marks of current living: food in the kitchen, ash in the firepit and people. The car drew to a halt and I turned to face the valley.
I did not see; I just felt. No longer standing firmly on a hillside, instead I was suspended in space with all the land below me. The hills, through which we had recently travelled in rough and slow progression, now appeared soft and inviting, their dark olive shades giving way to the valley below. There the trees thinned, sharing their space with the lighter grassland, and the road stretched a grey ribbon back to Mkuze, the lights of the town clustered around the base of Ghost Mountain. Though the sun had set behind the hill on which I stood, there was still light and colour in the sky enough to be able to make out the lake, upon which the flat topped Lebombo Mountains appeared to float. To my left and right the hills formed a barrier to peripheral vision. I had only this view; for that moment I needed nothing more.
I was of course wrong; I needed much more. What was the story of these hills? I needed a guide, a storyteller who could give life to the stories that lay in pieces around me. And I did not have long to wait. The sound of his arrival, the chug of a Land Rover in low gear, carried through the night long before the intermittent beam of his headlights danced into view. By that time, the fire had caught hold in the pit and beers were frigid in the cool box. The stage was set.
The storyteller was my old boss, my original guide to both the elephants and the social fabric of Zululand. He is a Zulu and his life is dedicated to the wildlife and the people of this place, although he is white and carries a Cornish name. I believe him to be truly a man without prejudice, but he understands and does not judge those who are not. He is a man of science, but he carries in his vehicle the charms of the Sangoma, the Zulu interlocutor between the living, the dead and those who are yet to live. His eyes are an intense blue, the colour of the lake at midday, wrapped in skin sun-marked from too much exposure; his hair is the parched grass in August. Although his years are uncertain, his boots are strong; he stomps through life with enthusiasm and does not just tell stories, but rather recreates them, drawing his audience into the scene he describes. He is also the new custodian of the property in which we sat and so was well placed to tell its story.
The people of the abandoned land had been Afrikaans farmers, granted occupancy when the Nationalist government came to power in 1947. Though a beautiful setting, it was hard land to farm: the rainfall was unreliable and the cattle they raised were often subject to death from disease. So they were forced to diversify, hosting hunting safaris and opening guest houses. It was an existence that demanded the dedication of a whole life, not just a career. This dedication was given unquestionably by the first generation, inherited by the second and expected of the third, even though they still enjoyed an enchanted childhood amongst the aloe-filled hills. Then, in 1994, the nationalist government fell. The process of national reconciliation that followed legislated for land to be claimed by those who believed that they had been wrongly dispossessed. Claims were levied on the hills above Jozini. Though they were fought, the Lands Claim Tribunal decided in favour of the claimant; the farmers lost their land and lost their homes.
The claimants were the Gumbi people, a local Zulu clan, represented by their chief, Nkosi Gumbi. The success of the claim entitled the Gumbi people to return to the land, potentially threatening its continued existence as open woodland. Instead, Nkosi Gumbi stated his wish that the land remained as it was and managed for the purpose of tourism. Acknowledging that nobody among his people had the knowledge or experience to do this, he invited my old boss, as the head of an organisation dedicated to landscape conservation and social development, to assume that responsibility.
“So now I find myself with an old lodge, high expectations and not much money to play with. I am thinking of running a competition to discover the most original ideas!”
The laughter with which he ended the statement stopped abruptly as he leant forward and said with fervour. “But there is something very special about this place. We must do something with it.” Alarmed or intrigued by his use of the word ‘we’, I was about to interject when he continued.
“I was making my way up here one day – dawdling along in my usual manner – when I noticed a white family, what seemed to be three generations of them, sitting by the side of the road having a picnic. You understand that this is not a normal sight, so I stopped and greeted them, asking if they were ok.
The old man replied to me in Afrikaans that yes they were fine. He then said that they were the family who used to live at the lodge. They now lived in town and had come back up to the hills to remind them of when times were good. I of course invited them to come up to the lodge to enjoy their picnic and stay as long as they wanted, but the old man said no. He said that the Zulu’s will know that they are there and will make them leave again. But, eventually, after a lot of persuading, they got in their vehicle and followed me up to the lodge. They got their picnic out again and began to relax.
Half an hour had not gone by when – would you believe it? – I see Nkosi Gumbi approaching in his blue double-cab. I don’t know if it was coincidence or whether someone had told him, but there he was. The family had spotted him as well; they fell quiet. ‘We better go,’ said the grandfather. ‘No man,’ I said, ‘it’ll be fine. Just wait a little.’
After greeting Nkosi Gumbi, I introduced him to the family, finishing with the youngest, a girl of about eight, and explained how they used to live on the farm. He greeted them all, invited them to continue enjoying their picnic and added that he hoped the family always felt welcome to return.
Ach, this was too much for the grandfather. He shouted: ‘welcome to return? How can we ever feel welcome to return? You have taken our land from us! I have worked here all my life and what do I have to show for it? A small house in town and the few rands that the government says the farm was worth. I would have handed this farm to my son, so now he also has nothing. My granddaughter here used to so love to play in the gardens that she has not been able to get over having them taken away from her. She is eight, but already she has to see the school psychiatrist. You did this and now you invite us to visit?’
Man, the situation was tense, but old Gumbi was just quiet. He went over to the little girl and put out his hand; she took it and we all waited. Eventually he started speaking, but quietly, so we had to strain to hear.
‘I remember being the same age as your little girl. I wandered all over these hills looking after my father’s cattle. That was hard work, as you well know, but I was also a child and so I had my favourite trees to climb, the ones whose fruit was always sweetest. I had my secret dens and knew which rocks would always become warm in the sun. I knew everything about this place; it was my life. If you would have told me that one day I must leave, I would have laughed and thought you mad.
But that day came too quickly. One night I was woken by the sound of lorries approaching the kraal. I remember the noise of the engines; I remember the smoke and the lights. They had soldiers who shouted at my father, telling him we had ten minutes to take want we needed and to get on the trucks. The trucks took us to a town far away that I later learnt to call Vryheid. Not all of my family were taken to that same place. I too know what it is like to lose your childhood.’
I could see that Gumbi’s hand was not clenched, but the little girl did not let go. He continued, looking around the group as he spoke.
‘I did not claim this land for myself, or to remove you and to cause you harm. I did not claim this land so my people can uproot the trees and grow mealies. I claimed this land so it would be recognised as the land of the Gumbi and managed in a way that is good for my people, for you can see that we are poor, and benefits the region as a whole. That is why you will always be welcome.’
And do you know what Mark? They actually listened to him. They relaxed and they stayed. Sure, I am not saying that everyone was best pals, but they talked and they listened. The adults I mean, the little girl was off into the garden before she could be asked twice!”
For one glorious, fleeting, moment I knew with utter certainty that this story encapsulated what these hills, this farm and this lodge could be: a place for voices. Here, perched high above one of the most beautiful of African valleys, one is presented with both perspective and the immediate reality of shared loss. It is the story of this region and even South Africa itself. From the view, it is easy to understand the urge to own, but the story teaches the potential to share; opposites are reconciled.
I do not know if this conviction, etched on my memory, will ever find a physical form. Although I think it must if the promise of a shared future is ever to be achieved.
Copyright © 2009 Mark Gillies
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