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R.S.A,Namibia,Venda
[Some of you here may know this area and its people/traditions..]

Spirits


Pretorius was in trouble, and he knew it. Ever the adventurer he knew that he would run into difficulties sooner or later. And not just a mechanical breakdown or getting lost or some such mundane trouble. Which was just as well. For his course of action at that point could have had wide ramifications and even dire consequences, not only for himself, but for an entire villiage.

Vendaland lies in the north-eastern corner of South Africa, hemmed by the majestic Limpopo river to the north, and the Kruger National Park and the Soutpansberg mountain range to the east and west. It is one of the few pristine places left in Southern Africa. The BaVenda had settled in the area almost eight centuries before. Their culture survives to this day, uninflected by the many influences that have shaped the sub-continent. Their ancestral lineage goes back beyond the kingdom of Mapungubwe, back into the mists of time. And remarkably they have retained their cultural heritage, which makes Venda the land of myth and superstition. And that is exactly what Pretorius found irresistible .

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If you believe in co-incidence you will off course have a rational explanation for the events that I am about to describe. But if you are an African you will know the truth. And a shiver will run down your spine.

Pretorius was exploring in the Thate Vando forest, hoping to come close to the mystical Lake Fundudzi, which is shrouded in secrecy. As always he was in his 1958 Jeep, bundu-bashing. The forest is punctuated by many massive indigenous trees, including Jakkalsbessie and Yellow wood. In this forest a select number of woodcarvers are granted permission to responsibly harvest some of these trees, which serves not only as a source of income for the remotest people, but also as a perpetuation of the Venda culture. And it was just such a woodcarver that Pretorius encountered that day, deep in the Thate Vando. A sudden shower came down and he invited the old man into the Jeep where the soft top gave a semblance of protection against the driving rain. The woodcarver identified himself as one Patrick, resident in a secluded but nearby village. He had come to collect a few boughs from which he would carve some walking sticks. But Patrick was a troubled man.

confided that he needed money for the funeral of his second wife, who had been taken by a crocodile in a pool adjacent to their village. But she was not the only victim. Before her a child had been taken, and quite a number of livestock and dogs. The village was being terrorized by an evil spirit that had taken residence in the crocodile! Patrick begged him to find and destroy the crocodile, and so destroy the evil spirit.

Now Pretorius knew that the Bavenda have a very special relationship with crocodiles. Some of their most fundamental beliefs centre on the existence of a huge white crocodile in Lake Fundudzi, an animal that they respect for its knowledge and cunning. And in order to obtain and preserve the powers of the white crocodile the Chiefs swallow a piece of white quartz which is retrieved from their bodies once they pass on, and which is then swallowed by the successive chiefs.

It was therefore unthinkable that the village could take action against the crocodile that was terrorizing their village. Yet the village could not bear the predations of the monster, that surely must have become possessed by an evil spirit. They had a problem.

Out of respect and as a courtesy Pretorius took the old man and his wood as far as the Jeep could go, and then helped him carry his burden to the village. His appearance caused quite a stir, and not only because the villagers seldom saw white folk. He soon learned from the elders that his appearance, with Patrick still in mourning, was regarded as an omen. Surely the ancestors had sent this white man to rid them of the evil that lurked in the water. Surely if the white man killed the monster, the special relationship that the Bavenda had with the great white crocodile in Fundudzi would not be compromised.

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But Pretorius also had a problem. As an experienced hunter he would love nothing more than to hunt down the menace. But shooting a crocodile in the Thata Vando would most certainly have dire implications. The village elders had sympathy for his problem but were not letting up on the opportunity that providence had provided.

After a lengthy imbizo it was decided that he would manufacture an instrument of death, properly ordained with magical trinkets and deliver such to them within a certain number of days. The elders would obtain the assistance of the local medicine man who would anoint and prepare a number of men and boys who would use the instrument of death to despatch the monster.

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And for fourteen days the women folk would make the Dumba speak. They would pulse outward the incantation to the ancestors to bless the enterprise, and they would thank the spirit of the Great One in Fundudzi for sending the white man to protect them from the evil spirit that was threatening their very way of life. That was threatening the White Crocodile itself, and the power and knowledge vested in the white rock that the chiefs carried in their intestines, and passed from one to the next.

Pretorius delivered the spear of destiny as agreed upon and on time. And the villagers staked out the pool and tied a goat and a dog as bait for the crocodile. And it came, as they had expected it would. And they killed it, just as planned. And after seven days Pretorius collected the spear and destroyed it comprehensively. And the remnants he disposed of very far from the villiage. Just as he had promised. And he never went back to the village again.

Ever!

As he had promised.

Many nights he lay awake and sometimes he imagined that he could hear the far off wailing of the Zwidutwane, the water spirits, and sometimes he thought he could hear the Ngoma Lungumda , the Drum of the Dead, whispering in the hushed forrest.

Over the course of the next two years he received from Patrick twenty four traditional walking sticks, carved to perfection by the master carver himself. And Patrick took pains to educate him concerning their symbolic value.

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They collectively represent the core of the Bavenda lore.

They started off with the Great Drum of Thoyo- yan- Ndou, the son of Shiriyadenga, their first king at D’zata. They encompassed the many drums, fish and elephant held sacred by the people. Crocodiles and pythons. And they ended with the Hand of Friendship.

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A truly unique collection, which can never be duplicated. And which is seldom seen by anyone, except the few.

After his last delivery Patrick vanished. And by and by Pretorius came to understand that Patrick’s gifts were far more than expressions of heartfelt gratitude. That for the elders and the people of the village the process was rites of passage. That for them he was no longer a white man that had walked into their village. For them he had become a co-custodian of their culture.

A validation of their bond with the Great One.

And over time Pretorius’s dreams changed. Often he dreamed of being alone in the Thate Vando. At the crack of dawn. And he dreamed of the mist slithering through trees and rocks, covering the entire forest like an army of huge pythons.

Spiraling from the great Lake. Bringing fertility to land and beast and humans.

Validating the blessings of the Great One.

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Incredible thanks my father use to be great friends with Gabriel Ramatswana we stayed with him many times in Sibasa while I was growing up...
The fertility, the beauty and the people left a blue print in my life..... Something that I would grow to miss later on....

I remember my old man receiving a customary wife in a massive ceremony in the 80's.... Could you imagine that!

It's Africa but my Africa.
My best and thanks.
 
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Could not resist!
 
Aah Jaco, what a beautiful place!
A country full of myth, mystery and legends...
I was there from 1981-89

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Interesting read
 
Thank you Willem, for this insight of Africa :A Clapping:
 
Hi this is very interesting stuff, I am currently researching the area for a report I am working on. Would you be able to message me for I can talk to you about your experiences in the 80s?
 
Hi this is very interesting stuff, I am currently researching the area for a report I am working on. Would you be able to message me for I can talk to you about your experiences in the 80s?
I can't find you on the group?
 
No direct message to you seems available to me...
 
WHAT'S WRONG WITH AFRICA?
Interesting read by --Hannes Engelbrecht
Africa had two great political moments: the breaking free from colonialism in the sixties and the euphoria of democratic freedom in the nineties. It is ironic that South Africa initiated both movements - first with Verwoerd getting rid of British rule on May 31, 1961 by introducing a republican RSA; then with De Klerk's Kodesa talks about "one man, one vote".
The first movement saw Macmillan's "winds of change" as Uhuru swept Kenya, the Congo, Belgian Congo, Nyasaland, Bechuanaland, Rhodesia and Mozambique.
The new African renaissance was well underway, complete with new names such as Zambia, Zimbabwe, Botswana, Uganda, Zaire. Statues and colonial memorials and relics tumbled.
Parliaments were sworn in with great fanfare.
And then?
Nothing!
Famine became worse, so-called democratic leaders became dictators in one-party states, corruption flourished, economies tumbled and standards dropped.
Africa simply could not survive on tourism based on an inherited beautiful nature, song and dance, entitlement and demands.
The free world moved in, reaped the benefits of the rich mineral resources, bought a few personal jets for elevated tribal leaders wanting to parade on the international stage as statesmen, and the USSR and China saw "cannon fodder" for their Cold War against the West.
The first African renaissance died as an infant and very few shed a tear. In the countries where there was a negligible European influence (Southwest, Rhodesia, Malawi, South Africa, Kenya and Botswana) the world found solace: at least some are surviving.
Then came the second chance for Africa; the second renaissance. Even the stubborn old survivors like Mugabe went through the motions of "democratic elections" as "Mandela Fever" hit Africa.
Again statues tumbled, minorities were manhandled, streets were renamed and a few even made speeches with acquired Oxford accents.
But alas! again it was just a modern form of tribal and one party-rule. Electoral machinery were manipulated, votes bought, cadres employed.
Barely did the euphoria about Mandela come back to reality, when the second renaissance died.
This time even the erstwhile surviving states like Namibia, Zimbabwe and South Africa succumbed to Third World status with dilapidated slums, failed economies, terrible infrastructure and corruption.
What then is the problem with Africa?
Afrobarometer, after all, said in 2014 that nearly three quarters of Africans expressed commitment to democracy. Again it was a perception, an illusion.
"Democracy" in Africa is exceeded by greed and irrational behaviour.
The elitist few African politicians and statesmen cannot understand the difference between ruling and serving. The age old African culture of "survival of the fittest", "king of the jungle" and "carrier of the spear" still apply.
Even beaches must be controlled, alcohol and tobacco became political "power trips."
Mugabe didn't go without a bloody fight.
Zuma didn't go without a fight.
Ramaphosa won't go without a fight.
In many African countries the presidents and political elite are third generation family members. Political power is not to be compromised by democracy - the family entitlement, struggle comrades and business partners are more equal than the rest of the equal populations.
In African culture and traditions that is okay.
Go on, do it.
Afrikaners, according to the principles of western civilization, had to step in a hundred times in 370 years.
But now we are tired.
The most valuable lesson from Apartheid is: do NOT take responsibility for the wellbeing of any other ethnic group or "minority group" ever again, for if they cannot do it themselves it is not worth doing.
You will forever be the scapegoat no matter how noble your liberal intentions are; and you will forever be numerically outgunned.
Will the "third wave" from China save Africa?
No, it is a disaster in central Africa already.
Somehow, Africa has the unique tendency to alienate all on their road to self-destruction.
The third wave will probably be the final wave for a continent controlling less than 10% of the global economy, but a third of resources.
Africa will not die with a bang, but with a whimper.
And we are right in the centre of the imploding.

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Never underestimate the incredibly destructive power of stupid people in large numbers.

During the 1890’s the mining magnate Cecil John Rhodes needed a steel boiler to be shipped to the copper mines in what is today Zambia. The problem is that there were no proper roads. He probably could have railed the boiler from the coast to Pietersburg, but I don’t know what they did to get it through the railway tunnels.
Whatever the case, the logistics were extreme. A special super-sized waggon had to be built which could accommodate the boiler’s size and weight. And from there on it was sheer hell as the load had to be hauled across more than 1,600 km of untamed wilderness.
A hostile landscape where predators reigned supreme, unfriendly tribes abounded, and every mountain and river presented an obstacle that required unusual creative skill and never-ending patience.
Only someone who has travelled those parts of Africa in person will understand what a mind-boggling feat it must have been. Rhodes had been the richest man in Africa at one point – and possibly still was at that time.
When the tremendous load eventually reached the Zambezi River, Cecil Rhodes happened to be there in person. Crossing one of the widest rivers in Africa was going to be one of the most significant challenges of the entire journey. In fact, it would probably be the most difficult of all. And Rhodes was there to see it.
To achieve the crossing, two tree stumps were fixed on the opposing banks. Cables were stretched between these, and a large pontoon was built that would carry the boiler across. When the difficult task was achieved of finally getting the boiler transferred to the pontoon, and correctly balanced, and the load was being drawn across quite nicely, CJR set up his travel camera to take a photo.
As soon as the native crew noticed the camera, they all decided that they wanted to be in the picture. Right before anyone could raise a finger, they rushed to the nearest side and lined up with smiling faces.
But hardly had they done so when the balance was shifted fatally.
Through the eye of his uncomprehending camera, Rhodes watched with horror as his cargo slowly tipped and rolled over. And thus his priceless boiler went to the bottom of the Zambezi, while the photo-bombing crew went floating down the crocodile-infested waters, gurgling and screaming. A few drowned but most washed up eventually.
The story had a happy ending in the long-run, at least.
But only at the expense of much delay and a great deal of toil and risk. It took a long time to get divers to tie cables around the boiler later on, and then to draw it across the bottom of the river upside-down till it could be recovered on the Zambian side. The Colossus, as he was called, made sure that his investment would reach its destination whatever the cost.
Fortunately the will of a determined minority to fix the mistakes of an unthinking majority is a very powerful will indeed.
As for the incident itself – that made a great, if very embarrassing story afterwards. Today this incident has been largely forgotten and nobody I have told about it seems to know about it. Yet it still counts as one of the funniest, expensive mistakes in our country’s history.
To me this is more than just a curiosity of history, though. In this tale I find a warning to our present age. Human nature is peculiarly predictable in many ways. We may laugh at the stupidity of the natives of Rhodes’ epoch, but we ourselves are no different in our modern time.
The majority of human beings will still rush to the outer fringe of reality when lured by some exciting notion. Whether it be political or economic or religious or medical. They will still be drawn without pausing to consider the consequences of their impulsive actions. And every time they do, they still tip the pontoon and make all that might have been good go straight to the bottom.
One should be very careful of following the majority.
Throughout history, the majority has nearly always been catastrophically wrong. Indeed, one should never underestimate the incredibly destructive power of stupid people in large numbers.
We are witnessing it right before our very eyes at this very time. And the end of it will still be the same, unless we recover our senses in the barest nick of time.
I hope we do.
But I have a feeling we won’t.
I often hope that I am wrong about human nature.
In that I am all too often disappointed.

Herman Labuschagne

- - -
Photo credit: "Midway Mine. Boiler ready for transport from Sumpter to the mine." Baker County Library, Baker City, Oregon. Not the boiler that CJR transported, but presented to illustrate the concept.

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A nice story from our friend Herman Labuschagne

The strangest story that I have ever told.

Of all the unusual things that I have written about over the years one stands out more than all the others. Perhaps because it it is entirely the truth and it happened to me personally. And the more so because the explanation in the end was so.... well, maybe I shouldn't get ahead of myself just yet...

I'll start at the beginning rather.

I have rarely talked about this incident over the years.
Partly because it takes so long to tell the story, and cannot be condensed. But I think mostly because every time I do, it still leaves me tired. And the sense of frustrated bewilderment comes back. Human beings do not cope well with experiences that cannot be explained.

We all have such experiences. Long after midnight, when the world is asleep, we wake up sometimes. And our minds go drifting back to an incident such as this one. And then we search for meaning once again. Clues that we had missed. Explanations that had eluded us. But we do not find any. And eventually we rise to make a cup of tea, and to go and sit by the window, to wait until the sunrise breaks the sky.

It was mid-summer of 1988 and I'd generously received a sponsorship to attend the American Wilderness Leadership School near Wyoming's Teton Mountains in America.

Back home my generation's older brothers were fighting the last phase of the Battle of Cuito Cuanavale against the Soviet and revolutionary forces in Angola. The biggest battle in Africa since WWII. But we didn't know any of it at the time. A lid was kept on the news and it was something that at the time, officially wasn't happening. I was 16 years old and although I'd already received my call up papers for compulsory military service, the system allowed time to finish studies first.

It was mid-summer in America, more intense and more beautiful than Africans can imagine. Our season comes so slowly, but in northern latitudes where summers are shorter, it just explodes into existence. Everything smells sweetly of pine. The mountains bloom with flowers and the meadows are soft and verdant.

A gentle land, compared to our old frowning continent with all its angry thorns and hidden dangers. To me, America was like a garden. And I felt that the locals exaggerated their own fears mostly because they'd never seen real danger in our own kind of perspective.
And so we spent a delightful time learning survival skills, fly tying skills, camping skills, conservation ethics, firearm skills and even archery and hatchet throwing, or how to start a fire without matches.

And then we were sent away to go and practice what we'd been taught. I was among the younger ones but it didn't matter. I felt older because I'd been born and raised in Africa and I thought that I knew more. So to me a solo hike into the canyons wasn't something to dread. It was just an adventure to look forward to.
I'd previously asked someone where this canyon lead to.

I remember he got a faraway look in his face and said, "these canyons go on forever. If you keep following them, you'll eventually end up somewhere in Canada. But you'll never even know it, cause there ain't nothing in-between."
I took a trail that lead northward toward Canada and followed it until it first became fuzzy and then vanished altogether. I kept thinking if I could only round another bend or top another rise, then perhaps I'd see another valley - discover a new vista - or perhaps even see Canada far beyond the rippling horizons, even though I knew it was utterly impossible.

Eventually the sun began to settle and I knew it was time to find a camping spot. We Africans forget that the sun sets very late in the far north, and I remember it was 8 pm when I finally found what I was a looking for.

Even at the time, I sensed that everything about this place was eerie. It was a rocky knoll that looked oddly out of place in an otherwise not so rocky landscape. The trees looked uncharacteristically gnarled and knotted, and at the base of the knoll there was a small stagnant lake with films of metallic-looking algae that reflected the sun in a variety of unreal rust and ochre colours.

To me it seemed like a scene out of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, which satisfied my sense of the dramatic. My first task was to construct a shelter. And I carefully did as I had been taught. Find two trees that are not "widowmakers". These are dead trees that supposedly have a habit of falling on campers when they are asleep - thus making widows of their wives.
I eventually found one good fir tree that grew at an angle, with its partner about four paces away. Perfect to string a chord between the two and drape a transparent plastic sheet over. This formed a kind of small one man tent, open at the narrow ends, of course.

We'd been asked not to make any fires, because the object was to pass through the wilderness leaving no traces at all. And so I sat down to survey the loveliness of my surroundings and to think about the incredible wonder of simple being young and alive in a world that was perhaps exactly the way it used to be a thousand or more years ago.
I was by this time extremely tired, and after a simple meal of whatever I had in my backpack, I crawled into my shelter with my pack beneath my head, and settled down to the gentle embrace of the loving wilderness. I can very clearly remember my last thoughts of looking up to an open patch of sky where I saw wild geese flying overhead in formation - heading towards Canada. And then my world blank and dissolved into a deep and peaceful sleep.

Hours later I awoke with a sudden start.

And in that very instant I knew that something was very wrong.
I could sense in that moment that I was not alone. There was something with me – and whatever it was – it was something big.
Instinctively I tensed up to fight or flee, depending on what came next. But I still kept my eyes shut for a few moments while trying to allow my senses to start registering. After a little while I slowly opened my eyes. And yes, it was not a dream. This was real. There was something out there – but the problem was that I couldn’t see. Above the stars were brilliant, but below the tree canopy it was entirely dark. You could not see your hand at the end of your arm.

This practically blind, I had to search my other senses. I knew that in the wilderness large creatures – and even man – can easily be scented. Even the untrained human will very quickly learn to detect a sense of warm-blooded life nearby when he is alone in the wilderness. But there was nothing here that I could detect. There wasn’t really wind to carry any scent, though, and that was puzzling. That left only sound. And in this there was no mistaking. There was something really big and it seemed like it was right next to me.

It sounded like some large animal that was asleep. The sound of a sleeping bovine creature perhaps, or a very large dog. A slow, rhythmic breathing that did not alter, even as the seconds turned to minutes and the minutes drawled away with the slowness of cold molasses.
I now knew that I had to do something. Whatever this thing was, it sounded as if it was asleep within an arm’s length of me. And whatever it could be, I instinctively knew that I did not want to wake it. As I began to take stock of my situation, I began realizing that things weren’t looking good. I was completely alone in a canyon that went all the way to Canada. Absolutely nobody knew where I was. It would have taken a search party possibly days to find me. And there was no way anyone might have heard shouting.

I did have a knife, though. It was my grandfather’s old American army knife that I’d brought along from home. But it was somewhere deep inside my backpack, along with my flashlight. The problem was that the backpack was under my head at that moment, being used as a cushion, propped against the trunk of the leaning fir tree.
The bigger problem was the fact that the more I listened to it, the more it sounded to me that the sound of breathing came from either below my backpack, or from – as crazy as it might sound – inside the trunk of that tree.

At this point I began to try and reason. Could it be the sound of a large rattle snake, perhaps, coiled below or inside my backpack? It couldn’t be that, though. I’d previously been told that at this high altitude there were no snakes. And smaller creatures couldn’t breathe so loudly, and definitely wouldn’t snuggle up to human beings.
I was loathe to move but as time dragged on, I knew I had to. I therefore began altering my position, and searching inside the backpack with aching slowness.

Feeling my way until eventually, I first felt the cold metallic shape of my Maglite, and then the shape of my large knife. At this, I instantly felt better, just as the confidence of any caveman is restored at the very presence of fire and a weapon. By now, having slowly drawn up onto my knees, I resolved to find out what lay right next to me – and if needs be – fight or retire from the scene in haste.
I turned the tube. And then… there was nothing.
From the flashlight came nothing at all. The batteries were completely and utterly dead.

I was so disappointed that for a long time I just sat there, doing nothing. For the umpteenth time I tried to test myself to make sure that I was really awake and this wasn’t just some realistic nightmare. I know I even pressed and pinched my own flesh. Even now, after all these years, it still bothers me that experiences such as this one could possible not have been real. But there I was – and there was the breathing still unchanged. And I knew it had to be.
Fortunately I knew I still had a backup. Somewhere in that backpack was a little baby Maglite. And I knew that if I could find it, it would cast a beam of surprising length. I knew that that would do almost just as well. And so I slowly felt inside again – inching my way through packets and tubes and ropes and clothing, until if felt the cold metallic object. I pointed it at the tree and turned the knob.

Almost impossibly – there was nothing. Well, very close to nothing. When I turned it around the filament was glowing, but so faintly that it cast no light at all. This one batter also had tun down, and it was entirely useless.
I now felt very demotivated.

But I knew there was still one last hope. somewhere in that backpack was my third lifeline. A little plastic flashlight keyholder that used a kind of watch battery. It was small but quite effective. And considering how close the thing seemed to be to me, I knew that its light would be sufficient to tell me what was there. And so I repeated the agonizing process of rummaging until I found it with a sense of great relief. Even if it killed me, at least now I would know before I die.
And then there was the third great disappointment.
I pressed the button and… the flashlight cast a beam of light. weak and yellow, shining perhaps all of half an arm’s length far. And even as I strained to see beyond, I watched the light grow dim, glow for a few seconds longer, and then go out completely.

To have three flashlights dead at a moment of critical need seemed unthinkable. But there I was, trapped by complete darkness. Matches must have come to mind as well, but they were probably inside the backpack as well, and I don’t remember specifically why I couldn’t or wouldn’t try to use them. I think perhaps I thought that the sound of a flaring match might awaken what was out there, considering the utter stillness of the night.

It was still, for certain, except for the periodic stirring of the branches overhead, and the haunting howling of coyotes far toward the north a few times, before it went quiet again.
And that left only the sound of the heavy breathing.
It was obviously impossible to sleep now, and I had no idea what time it was. You couldn’t even see more than just a few stars overhead to give an indication. I knew I would just have to wait and be ready for whatever might still happen. Fight in the dark if I had to. As the hours passed, I continued trying to reason out what it could be.

It felt certain now – or almost certain - that it was not a snake. There was no chance of it being a squirrel or raccoon or a beaver. The sound was too slow and deep. I really didn’t think it could be an elk or a moose, and I didn’t think a deer would have come anywhere near as close to me. Neither would a wolf – I think.

The only animal that I could think of that was big enough to sound like that – and that might in a long stretch of the imagination - and perhaps be bold enough to come so close to a human, would be a bear. There were bears around, I knew. But it was such a far-fetched notion. And yet, there was still that sound...
At one point I began convincing myself that it must be an owl. Somewhere up the tree. But then, the sound clearly came from the base of the tree – not from higher up.

By now my mind was starting to search for desperate explanations. Considering the eeriness of the place that I’d chosen as my campsite, I began to wonder whether this might not perhaps have been an ancient Indian burial ground?

And I began to think of horrible stories in which spirits inhabited old trees. I tried to banish all the nonsense from my mind, but every once in a while I would think of it again. What does one do when the senses continue to register something that cannot possibly be true? All I knew for certain was that the breathing came from the tree itself, or from right next to it. Or maybe from the ground below although that made no sense. And I was by now utterly convinced that if it was a large animal, it was without question no more than three paces away from me. Five at the utmost.

I spent the remainder of what became an incredibly long night, seated upright with my knife in my hands and my thoughts as my unwelcome companions, just listening. I decided not to go stumbling off into the darkness as there was rocks and fallen logs all around, and I certainly did not want to waken the best or fall and break an ankle.
And this is how time passed with agonizing slowness until very gradually the skies began to lighten, and the darkness slowly began to recede.

As it grew lighter, I anxiously scanned into the direction of the breathing. But I could still make out no shape or form. After a while first the shapes of the trees, ten of the ranches and leaves became visible. And then their forms were filled in by gentle shades of colour. And still I could see nothing.

The strangest thing, however, was that as it grew lighter, so the sound of breathing became dimmer and dimmer until, when it was fully light, it was gone altogether. The rhythm had never altered. It had just grown feinter until it vanished.
When I was absolutely certain that I could see or hear nothing more, I ventured out to inspect the surroundings. I looked for tracks. I looked for hair. I searched for trampled grass. I looked up into the trees, and even searched all around me in all directions. There was absolutely, utterly, no sign that anything had ever been there.

In this manner my relief gradually began making place for perplexity. This just made no sense at all. And it was all that I could think of as I broke up my camp, gave the lake one last suspicious look, and began searching for a trail to take me down into the valley below. I wanted to put distance between me and this unwholesome place as soon as possible.

In the brilliant beauty of another summer’s day, my memories of the night seemed almost foolish. And I began to wonder I they had been real? But my bone-weary tiredness reminded me that whatever had happened up there must have been real for I had certainly not slept that night.

When I later reunited with my companions two of them said they had run into a brown bear which had snatched a packet of snacks from their campsite and made off with it. There was teasing and joking and expressions of disbelief. When I mentioned my experience, I remember there were puzzled glances, but nobody said much. I could see that it made no sense to them, and distinctly felt that they did not believe me. Stories about bears raiding a campsite was one thing, but heavy breathing..? Not likely.

Even now, after all these years, everything about this story still puzzles me. The eerie setting of that campsite always plays upon my mind. The flashlights that didn’t work. The fact that an entire roll of the photos that I took there came out black. The only photo that did come out was half a frame at the beginning of a spool that showed part of my plastic shelter.

I’d also written down this story at least twice over the years, and strangely to me, despite exhaustive searching I couldn’t find those copies again. I therefore had to write this account down all over again. Worst of all, I still haven't the faintest clue what might have happened up there that night.

As I said, I rarely tell this story because it is a long one, and it leaves me exhausted afterwards. And when I tell it, I’m not sure if people believe me. All I can say is that I have written it exactly as I remember it, and I remember it more clearly than I do what happened yesterday.
Also, if I’d made this story up, I would have told it differently. You don’t tell tall stories without a form of structure. An introduction, a middle and an end. And a well-defined surprise element that makes it memorable. In my case, as if often the way it works with real life events, there was no symmetry in the experience. I just happened the way it did, and that’s all that I can say about it.

This then, is one experience which I will probably be thinking about in quiet moments for the rest of my life.
A mystery that has no answers.
A story without an ending.........

[Some of my friends will have known Mr. Carl McNair. He was a most impressive man who was automatically the head of any table, even if it it was round. He usually did most of the talking in a conversation, and others listened, because what he said was worth hearing. I told him this story a long time ago, and for the first time he sat and listened without a single word right to the very end.
When it came to the conclusion he threw his hands into the air with exasperation. "How can you tell the story without having an explanation!" he protested.
He couldn't get over it.
The sense of non-closure was as upsetting to him as it continues to be for me, more than 30 years later.
Our minds don't want to process a mystery that cannot be explained.]


Image: The photograph was taken at a shooting range at the AWLS which is the last inhabited place in the valley.
The canyon starts to the left of the mountain and then just keeps going.

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Elephant hunting in Africa by Shamshir [sword]

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Betrayal at Hogsback.

Written by my friend Colyn Schutte

Hogsback pass, Penhoek pass.…… the words echoed through my mind as the Hudson chugged along, gradually eating the many miles between the old Transvaal and the Cape Colony.

We were on an extensive trip to what is now the East Cape Province where we would visit with friends and relatives all over the region. On our way back we would visit with Aunt Vera who lived in the vicinity of Cathcart. That in itself was pure magic, what with my aunt being fond of me and all.

But there was another reason for the corked-up exuberance that threatened to explode within my (then) slender frame.

You see, my father would shoot a kudu on the Mundel Farm.

With the Westley Richards which would return home with us after the hunt, having been presented to him by the widow on account of her husband becoming late.

The journey itself was perfectly marvellous.

Engaging not one but two mountain passes. In 1965. With the Hudson. Amazing! Mountain passes and other places that I had heard so much about.

About Saltpeterberg, Stormberg and Skerpkant. About the bitter cold, the terrible storms and the dense fog that could swallow you up and make you disappear. About the snow that could cover the entire area. The generosity and hospitality of the farming folk. The shady characters living in the rugged mountains.

A true hunter’s paradise and the stuff that little boys can only dream about.

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But more than anything else the talk of the Westley Richards was fuelling my already over-revved little engine I could not wait to hear its boom reverberating up the snow-clad mountains. And to see the kudu collapse and come rolling down a drift, exactly as Uncle Ruben had described how it would be. And I would have pocketsful of biltong and frozen apples and there would be wolves too!

There is a hill to the north-west of the Mundell property which affords a most satisfying view of the homestead and the outbuildings and the rolling hills beyond. To the other side the foothills culminate in the Elandsberg Mountain, an absolutely stunning setting. We had set out very early. There was snow on the ground and on the trees. The cold was different from what I had ever been exposed to. I had on the little duffle-coat with the wooden buttons that momma had insisted on. And a balaclava knitted by my aunt. And some mittens, which I did not want to wear on account of them being the property of my niece.

And I almost died. It was freezing!

From where we sat we had a good view of the slope of the opposing hill. And as we sat and whispered we became oblivious to our surroundings. Well at least I did. And I was taken up in the stories and history of the surrounding area. The many frontier wars that were fought between settlers and the ama-Xhosa.

Fascinating names like The Province of Queen Adelaide, Sir Harry Smith and his friend King William.

Until at last I fell asleep and in my childhood fancy I conjured up an adventure of immense proportions. In it were embedded the Great Trek, the Chisolm Trail, battles against the Sioux and Xhosa, Buffalo Bill and Kit Carson. Even Moby Dick! And of course I was the hero. Armed with that 318 Westley Richards. Or Wessel Richard as Uncle Ruben would sometimes refer to it. I had become completely infatuated by it.

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I awoke to the shot, that was somewhat muffled I suppose by the thick freezing air and the dense bush. My father showed me where the kudu was on the side of the opposite hill, lying barely visible in an open patch. Somewhat disappointed at missing out on the shot I gladly accepted the empty cartridge case.

Bringing that kudu down the hill to where it could be recovered by a vehicle and a team of helping hands was just as tough then as it is now. And when at last it was done and we had cleaned ourselves up we repaired to the lounge. There was a huge hearth, complete with smooth pebbles and gleaming kettles and pots.

Which I found quite fascinating. But it was the objects above the fireplace that befuddled my mind. They were two rifles, very old rifles. And two assegais.

The rifles had cavernous muzzles and their furniture was a rich and dark reddish brown. The assegais were obviously made by craftsmen. My father must have seen my amazement for he came up and took them down and allowed me to inspect them. He pronounced the rifles to be “Bobbejaanboude” and told me that they used to belong to the great grandfather of our host.

That they had been used as hunting rifles and as weapons in the Sixth Frontier war.

And that the assegais were designed for close quarter fighting by some of the best warriors the world had ever seen. He told me that some of the frontiers people kept the old relics of war and hunting as a reminder that the land belonged to all. And as an affirmation of the respect that the combatants had for each other, and their love for this place they called “home”.

And somehow the awe and admiration that I had vested in the Westley Richards were instantly transferred to the Cape Guns and Xhosa-assegais above the fireplace in the lounge of old Mr Mundell.

And the next day as we clattered and banged along the insane track of the Hogsback pass I quietly threw out the empty 318 case.

And I hoped that someone would find it.

And that the 318 Westley Richards would forgive me my betrayal.

The East Cape Province offers not only some of the most beautiful scenery in the world, but also magnificent hunting opportunities against a rich and diverse cultural setting.

Do go there, and put in a little effort to linger a while. And maybe, just maybe you will be put up in an old farmhouse.

With a wide hearth with some artefacts hanging over it.

And maybe you will hear a local hum and old - old Xhosa tune;

“Ukhumbule E-Kaya”.

Remember your home…….

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5nsoafirmgeds ·

The story of Sekonyela's treasure.
Written by Herman Labuschagne
I have heard this story only once,and it was a long time ago. I may not even have all the facts intact anymore, but the story is worth telling and therefore I shall do my best.
I heard this story from a man who was a legend in his own time, and I am privileged that I knew him while he was alive. Probably my earliest hero, outside of my own family, was the well-known firearms authority, hunter, author and businessman, Dr. Lucas Potgieter.
His books were among the first "grownup" publications I ever read - and I devoured them, along with his many magazine articles.
Back in those days were used to make the 8 hour round trip to Johannesburg about once a month or so. I hated those trips, except when I knew we were going to visit Dr. Potgieter at his famous sports store in 7de Laan, Melville.
There he and my father would retire to his office, and the doctor would call for tea. According to custom, small boys were mostly ignored at that age, but their presence was tolerated as long as they sat still and kept quiet. I made sure to keep very quiet indeed.
Doctor Potgieter was slender man with snow white hair, and always impeccably neat in his appearance. He had sympathetic eyes that seemed to be forever searching the horizons for the spectre of some old adventure to reappear. His almost courtly manner belied the warm sense of humour that he possessed, and I suspected that deep down, his formality was really shyness in disguise.
No matter how busy he was, he would always make time for us. We would retire into his office and he would call for a tray of tea. He would ask about our welfare, and then - as was his custom - nearly always initiate the day's conversation by telling us one of two stories. And they were always stories that I'd never heard before. He had the curious habit of simply plunging into a story, with no warning or or context to tell you that it was time.
The story about Sekonyela's treasure was one of the strangest stories I ever heard the doctor tell. Dr. Potgieter began by reminding us how many ships had stranded around the coast of southern Africa since the time of the early seafarers.
Sometimes the ships were lost with all men aboard, but there were many other cases where the passengers and crew reached the shore alive - occasionally managing to salvage the valuables that they had with them.
Once they had stranded, very few ever reached civilization again. Most were murdered by savage tribes, or lost their lives to sharks and crocodiles while crossing estuaries, or to disease, and thirst and sun and the deadly dagger of hopeless despair.
As far as the old people knew, one of the ships that stranded was a Portuguese vessel which had a treasure on board. The most outstanding piece of this treasure was a fantastic golden necklace that was bedecked with precious jewels. One way or another, this priceless artifact found its way into the hands of a local tribal chief called Sekonyela.
Sekonyela, who was born in 1804, was a man who seemed to have a gift for making himself unpopular by raiding his neighbours and stealing their cattle.
When the Voortrekkers came to Natal in 1837, Dingane the king of the Zulu, thought of a novel idea to deal with Sekonyela. As the pioneers were desirous to purchase land from him, he told them that he would sell Natal to them if they would recover a large amount of cattle which Sekonyela had stolen from him.
Dingane was a cunning, scheming tyrant. Most likely he thought that Sekonyela would get the better of the pioneers. If the pioneers failed to recapture the cattle, he would have excuse to turn them away or attack them. And if they were successful, then that would be in order too. He would have all his cattle back - and would deal with the pioneers by way of treachery. Every way he looked at it he could only win.
The pioneers accepted the deal. After a short conflict the Voortrekkers managed to retrieve the cattle and return the booty to the king. The pioneers produced a deed of sale for the land of Natal, which the king duly signed. After that he called a feast for celebration.
The Voortrekker deputation was informed that protocol required that they should attend the banquet without arms, which they agreed to. Once assembled, the king must have smiled to himself.
It was an easy matter to give the signal, whereupon Piet Retief and all his pioneers were murdered to the last man, servant and boy.
But that's not where the story ended. Somehow during their dealings with Sekonyela, the pioneers had apparently seen the renegade chief wearing his precious necklace, which was part of his attire for formal occasions. They all knew about his inspiring treasure, and stood in awe of it.
As for Sekonyela, his unhappy life gave him no rest. Wherever he went, Sekonyela found himself being hunted on all sides, until finally he returned to the Voortrekker settlement and negotiated a truce, which was readily accepted. After that he was left alone until he died in the Witteberge near Memel, in 1854 - ironically now under the protection of the Voortrekkers.
This happens to be the very place where Dr. Potgieter had grown up, and it was not far from where my mother had also lived as a child. Dr. Potgieter told me that on their farm there was a place that had very curious rock formations.
"It was an eerie place," he said, and you were immediately aware of the fact if you went there."
Seeking to reinforce this notion, he pointed to the ceiling and added that, "one day lighting struck right next to us, yet there was hardly a cloud in the sky..."
According to Dr. Potgieter, there was an ancient cave on their farm. The Zulu chiefs had a long-standing custom of burying their dead in this cave. The place was therefore perpetually kept under surveillance. One day, he said, he and a group of friends and family were hunting jackal in the mountains.
One of the jackal ran right up to the cave, where the animal discovered an opening where the stones that blocked the mouth of the cave had collapsed.
Without thinking, Dr. Potgieter and his family followed the jackal into the cave. There they were astonished to see a collection of crates which appeared to serve as coffins. These were all stacked upon each other. They were crudely made and looked brittle with age.
At that point it suddenly dawned on them that they were now in the burial chamber of chiefs, and that this was not a good place to be. But curiosity got the better of them, and the jackal now being quite forgotten, they decided to investigate a little further.
One man took a large stone and dropped it on a coffin. At once a portion of it splintered. As the dust settled, they shuddered as they stared at gleaming brown bones which protruded. They were human bones.
At that moment everybody decided that it was best to rather leave. They were glad to feel the sunlight upon their skin outside, and hurriedly rode away from the creepy burial chamber with all its smells and shadows. It is a good thing that they had done so, for from the heights around them they had stealthily been watched by invisible eyes.
They knew about it the very next day when a formal deputation from of tribesmen came to see his father at his farm. They wanted to know who had been tampering at the royal grave.
His father listened carefully, and then declared that he knew nothing about the matter, and that it must have been vagrants.
After strained pleasantries were exchanged, the deputation returned home again, while the Potgieters were left to ponder the curious sanctuary which they had somehow become custodians of.
All this time I had been listening patiently, with a burning question in my mind.
When it finally sounded like the story was over, I had to ask the doctor: "So was Sekonyela buried in that cave?"
The doctor's very dignified profile nodded.
"I believe he was."
"And was he buried with his necklace?" I wanted to know.
The doctor gravely nodded once again.
"As far as we know that was the case."
Now, with my excitement spilling over, I had to ask him outright: "So when you were in the cave that day, why did you not try to find the necklace?"
I will never forget the doctor's reaction to my question. There was a small pause, as if he was trying to add drama to the moment.
Then the barest hint of a smile played upon his aristocratic features, before he turned to me and said:
"Jy weet, toe ek 'n kind was, het 'n mens nog geglo aan iets soos spoke..."
- "You know, when I was still a child, we still believed such a thing as ghosts..."
They never went back to look for Sekonyela's treasure. And for all I know it still lies there amid decaying bones and the slow-settling dust of eons to this very day.
It has been many years now, but I still think about that jackal, and Sekonyela's skeleton, and the jewels which must sparkle just as brightly as the day that they were taken from the sea. I think if I had been there, I would have ventured it.
And if I had, I would have that necklace around my neck tonight.
I have no desire to rob a living person, but stealing from the dead? Well that's a different story altogether......

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And what are the police doing to stop this unlawful vandalism, Arson, Gatherings under lockdown level -4,Criminal behavior?
Protecting and serve the innocent..???
NOO!!
They loot with the criminals while in full uniform and even using an official police vehicle !!!!!
Look carefully, they even have their official service weapons and anti- riot flack jackets on...
WHY?

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Time for Games is OVER!
Hillary Durban
Indian community!


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