Circa 1973. My father was the tallest and handsomest man I had ever seen. He used to put me on his knee and bounce me – I loved it. In those days, smoking was still fashionable and he had both a pipe and cigarettes. The aroma of cherry tobacco and the sound of a wooden pipe being tapped out still evoke the warmest memories for me of comfort, laughter, safety, cohesion and closeness.
There were only four of us in the family: my dad, my mom, my older brother and me. On my father’s side is a host of Boer cousins and I remember my gentle Ouma with great love. She wore an apron every day and in the front pocket, kept a fresh roll of XXX-Mint sweets to hand out to a passing grandchild. I watched her long, delicate fingers reach in that deep pocket with delight for it meant a sweet for me. Each time I gave her a kiss, she seemed to smell of sweet mint.
Their name is Bezuidenhout. A proud Boer name, known for fierce courage under fire and insurmountable determination. This is the Boer spirit; courageous, united, kneeling before God only, and hard-working. We have endless kindness, the ability to build a nation, a home, a farm, a life out of dry and inhospitable soil. We yearn to create gardens of Eden in the wilderness – this is the blood and fire that runs in me.
Today I live in the Little Karoo – a semi-desert region known for its fruit and nuts. I am building a little cottage and creating a food garden on the rocky, dusty mountainside. It may not look like much to an outsider, but it is heaven on Earth for my Afrikaner heart.