Two allegedly corrupt politicians. The president of the United States, Donald Trump, confronted Cyril Ramaphosa with “evidence” that South African white farmers were being forced out of South Africa. The evidence consisted of pages from social media.
One of these pages showed a roadside with white crosses along it.
When I saw it, my gut clenched. I was taken back to the year 1961 when, with my then girlfriend, I saw the film in the Forum Cinema in Bath. There was the memorable scene of the crucified slaves lining the road to Rome.
Why did I react so strongly to that picture?
That night I remembered: – Colenso (or somewhere near), it was there I had seen the crosses pictured in Trump’s ‘evidence’. They come over as more a temple to hatred, than a shrine to rememberance. The Boers hate the British, or those of British descent, apparently because of events in the 19th century. Those of British descent mistrust the Boers. In this part of the world most Zulus seem to hate both.
Colenso, Spion Kop (Spyon Kopje), Ladysmith: the names and dates inscribed on the dusty regimental colours which hung above the pupils at school services in Bath Abbey. Those colours were removed before I left school. Those places are near here in this part of Kwa Zulu Natal. Here we still remember. The Zulus remember the loss of their land and cattle.
South Africa had, and still has, very high levels of murder and violent crime.
En route to the area Ann and I visited Durban for the first and last time; staying overnight in a hotel. At night there was more gunfire than in Mafikeng, but less than in Alice. In the morning it became obvious the the hotel was also a brothel. Feeling uncomfortable we drove north to walk the Drakensburg trails. The landscape and flora are a relief.
The two of us expected a three day walk, but, fortunately, as things turned out, carried enough food for a week as we thought we might be delayed by flash flooding of the streams we had to cross.
The walk started with a steady climb crossing and recrossing a stream, but then in the afternoon came a thunderstorm. We sheltered under a rock outcrop. The rain stopped. The stream had risen so that it had become difficult to cross. We crossed it in light rain. The rain continued, so on a hidden away patch of level ground we erected our tent, made a meal, and stayed in the tent for the rain to stop.
The rain did not stop for two whole days. On the third day we were able to continue walking in light rain. But every small stream had become an obstacle.
That night we were able to camp higher up the mountainside. All night there was an animal or animals snuffling and moving around outside our tent. We did not open the tent door. Wild boor, warthog, porcupine, jackal, eland or other buck? – the imagination worked overtime. I remembered the time in Tanganyika when I opened my tent door to find a troop of hyenas between me and the latrines. (I did not think there were hyenas in the Drakensberg National Park.) In the morning when I went out I found porcupine quills. I’m glad I didn’t open the tent door and get some of those quills in my face.
Onthe fourth day we took advantage of some of the many of the rock shelters we came across.
Those rock shelters were remarkable because so many of them contain Bushman art. You enter a rock cave or crawl under a rock shelter which looks entirely devoid of anything but rock. But then when your eyes have adapted to the shade the animals, and sometimes men appear. The buck are wonderfully clear and accurately drawn.
It is a shame that so many of these paintings have been damaged by wood smoke from wood fires in the shelters. The only good thing is that rock (or cave) paintings can still be found as far north as northern Zimbabwe.
We have been told that it was in this area the last of the Drakensburg bushman was shot as vermin in the early 20th century. He was carrying pigments and painting sticks.
On the fifth day we started to come down the hill: But across the trails the streams were still too high to cross. At each one we had to go upstream until we found a safer crossing point.
A day later we got to the end of the trail, where there is a bridge across the stream leading to the park warden’s office. The bridge had been washed away two days before! There was nothing for but to go back up the hill to find a safe crossing point. I wrote a message to the park wardens, tied it to a stone, and threw it across the river to some other visitors, as we had only checked out for a three day walk.
We had to camp out for another night. We were getting low on food.
The next day we still couldn’t cross the stream. It was raining again. We camped for another night. It continued raining. A herd of eland wandered up the valley. We found more rock paintings at the base of a cliff. One was of an eland.
We had to camp for another night. The flattest ground was at the foot of the cliff with the rock shelter with the eland painting in it. It also appeared to be used by baboons. Having run out of fuel for our cooker we wanted to light a fire, so we moved fifty yards along the cliff where the smoke would be well away from the rock painting, where we could pitch our tent.
In the low sunlight of the morning I could see into a rockshelter by our campsite. The entrance was less than a foot high. In the shelter was a realistic painting of a gazelle. It confirmed our view that there are many more shelters in the Drakesberg National Park with paintings in them than the tourist guides suggest.
We were finally able to cross the stream and walk back to the camp. The Park Wardens had received our note, and told us how excited the little boy who found it was. There we still twenty overdue visitors on the hill who had not signed out. We had see no-one all week.
The next day we started out on the long journey home to Mafikeng. On the way we chose to pass by Spyon Kopje (Spion Kop), Colenso and Ladysmith.
An hour out from the Park I was driving along an empty dirt road when I saw a large boulder rolling into my path. I was able to avoid it, and continue without slowing down. I had read that in some parts of rural South Africa people roll things in the road in the hope of causing an accident. They can then steal the contents of the car.
We drove into Colenso and had a look around. Colenso was not a welcoming place.
Ladysmith just as bad. The Museum was an expression of aggrieved Boers and a display of guns. It was even less welcoming.