175 years ago a group of over 12 000 semi-nomadic Boers made history as they travelled across the country, exploring the dark interior of Southern Africa. These strong, determined and deeply religious people left their homes in the Cape Colony, travelled through the Free State and into the heartland of KwaZulu-Natal. Some critics believe that this exodus, The Great Trek of the 19th century, helped establish the base of Afrikaner nationalism and subsequently, the apartheid regime. This is not a story about that. Nor is it in any way a political commentary. This is a story about the journey of a confused Afrikaner woman in search of her roots, as she retraces the steps of Voortrekker leader Pieter Retief, for no particular reason other than the fact that they both lived in Grahamstown. This is the story of self-discovery and what it means to be a young Afrikaner woman in post-apartheid South Africa. This is a story about a modern Great Trek.
The road feels new, uneasy, unfamiliar. It’s been a while since I drove more than 3kms on my own, but history has taught me that after an hour I don’t drive anymore, the road drives me. There are a hundred and one things running through my mind, bringing bitterness to my tongue and heaviness to my heart; what am I doing? How can I possibly retrace the footsteps of Piet Retief and his followers on the Great Trek? Why am I doing this alone? What if I get fat?
Breathe Mignon, just breathe.
I set out from Grahamstown that first morning without a plan, without a place to sleep, without any idea of what I would find. Unfortunately for me, the Great Trek was removed from the history syllabus before I had the chance to learn about it at school. All I knew was that Retief and his party left the Eastern Cape at the beginning of 1837 and arrived in Kerkenberg near the Drakensburg about nine months later.
Unlike them, however, I am not in search of land or life or freedom. I am in search of me and my inner-Afrikaner.
My first stop is at Baddaford Farmstall, a nursery and coffee shop about 7kms from Fort Beaufort. I stop to get my 11:00 am caffeine ‘fix’ and also to practice speaking to strangers. It is a fear that has burdened me for far too long. The Farmstall sits comfortably on a cliff overlooking a green valley between two kopjes. The air is fresh up here, and I can see the resident German Shepherd, lying lazily underneath the Mazda BT-50, agrees with me. The shop sells fresh local produce and the customary wide variety of ‘kakkies’, which women always buy but never use. Outside near the nursery, are some tables and chairs for those who prefer to take their ‘fix’ while basking in the late morning sun.
The ladies who work here look questioningly at me. “Where are you from?” the lady named Louise asks. I hold my tongue but remember the decision I made about getting out of my comfort zone. “I am redoing the Great Trek?” I say uncertainly. Her face lights up; she tells me that Post Retief is just up the road and gives me the phone number of a history enthusiast named Gert. “What about Moose?” the older lady behind the counter asks her. “No, not Moose.”
The road to nowhere
The road to nowhere
Post Retief is where Piet Retief and his family lived before they packed their ox-wagons and made their way into the unknown. I can imagine why Retief chose to live here; the hills are alive with the light of the sun and the Amatole and Katberg mountains embrace the valley like a warm hug. Getting to this spot, however, is not easy, even with modern transportation. It took me about two and a half hours to get my blue ‘ossewa’ up and over the mountains and through Mpofu Game Reserve. I also performed my first hand-break turn to snap a photo of a secretary bird as it marched regally amongst a herd of cows.
After all the dirt and dongas and wear on tyres, all you get is a monument. Not a fancy, intricately-designed monument, but a small, stone monument erected where Retief’s house used to be. Quite an anti-climax I think. There is also a beaten down barracks which was used by the 1820 Settlers during one of the Frontier Wars. Although I feel disappointed and sorry for my car, which, by the way, is named after ‘ol’ blue eyes, Frank Sinatra, the semi-dry green valley and clear sky make up for it.
Gert van der Westhuizen is an average-sized man with a warm heart and a love of history. He arrives at my B ’n B with a large map and a number of books about the Great Trek. He talks about the Waterkloof Triangle, the Frontier Wars, impalement, and the uncertainty of his Afrikaner identity.
“You know, Piet Retief was just an ordinary guy who owed a lot of people money,” says Gert. “The Afrikaans press made him look like a hero, but I don’t think he was.”
As a builder Retief failed quite miserably, but this is not the reason why I am now travelling along the same path as he did all those years ago. I am interested in him because he was a part of the ‘volk’ of which I am meant to be part of; he was an Afrikaner who walked where I now walk.
The ‘legend’ of Retief only really came about once he left Grahamstown and this is probably why there are no existing photographs of him. All portrayals of his face are apparently based on the combination of his siblings’ features. In a biography of Retief’s life by Jake and Eily Gledhill, a woman by the name of C J Fick remembers some of the qualities of this faceless leader; “Retief was a well-built man, although he was not great in stature. He had very striking eyes, which convinced one that he was a man to whom side-tracks were unknown.” Retief is also remembered for being one of the few men ‘op trek’ who wore braces to keep up his klapbroek (flap-trousers). He was also almost always seen with a wool hat on his head; it had a narrow brim, could last up to five years, and was most likely made by the man himself.
A new friend
En-route to Queenstown I think about why the Voortrekkers left this tranquil land. There are a number of reasons cited in the history books; they had lost most of their money when the British Empire banned slavery two years earlier, they were sick of being oppressed by British rule, and they wanted to find their own land; a space in which they could roam freely with their dopper coats (short coats buttoned from top to bottom), tobacco pipes and ‘veldskoene’. A space in which they could preserve their identity and cultures as Afrikaners. A space in which they could finally be at peace.
You're in Free Mason country now
Even those Afrikaners liked to ‘dip ’n ouma’.
'Welkom kakebeen wa'
She embodies some ‘stereotypical’ Afrikaner traits; she speaks of “die swartes” in a way that makes me feel uncomfortable, she has short, styled hair which has been highlighted with blonde, red, and brown. She is both polite yet on her guard, hesitant to talk too much about herself, but also proud of her job as secretary of the museum for over 20 years. According to her, the thing that makes a person an Afrikaner is being able to speak the language.
Love of the platteland
Me? I think it’s got to be that love of the ‘platteland’.
Home at last
A new friend
Adelaide is a small dusty town near the banks of the Koonap River in the Eastern Cape. It is not part of the Trek route, but it is home to a man I interviewed and have come to deeply respect. His name is Grey de Villiers and he is a seventy-something-year-old retired Genetics and History lecturer from the University of Fort Hare. Grey has a refreshing laugh, a bad limp and a memory that ‘skriks vir niks’. As I walk into his chaotic home with textured wallpaper, he tells me about the skofs (shifts) in which the Voortrekkers used to move.
“They would wake up at 2:00 am to pack all their things and then start trekking. After a break for breakfast, which was their main meal, they would trek until about 15:00 pm then set up camp before dark,” he says.
Grey’s home has an almost overwhelming smell of cats and old books but he soon mesmerises me with his storytelling. When I start to talk, he immediately picks up on my Afrikaner identity-crisis and says something which makes me feel a little less alone in the world, “You know my mom was Scottish and my dad Afrikaans, so some days I feel a lot of hope for the future, and sometimes I feel down in the dumps.” Why do we feel such pleasure when others share our pain? I wonder to myself. He gives me a map, because he believes my Tom Tom isn’t good enough, and makes me promise to let him know when I arrive at my next destination. We say our goodbyes and I feel like I’ve met the grandfather I never really had.
You're in Free Mason country now
John and Gwyneth Robinson live in a neatly furnished house on Southey Road, Tarkastad, with two friendly dogs and a DSTV decoder for company. The Robinson’s have lived here for about two decades, but still don’t feel part of the community. “You have to be here for at least 40 years before you can consider yourself a member of the family,” says John. He tells me that, during their travels, some of the Voortrekkers stopped at a farm near here to tend to those who had fallen ill with small pox. Although he insists that he does not feel accepted as part of the community, he is clearly proud to know, and be, part of the history of this little town.
In the late 1800s and early 1900s, Tarkastad was booming; businesses, banks, and hotels, all owned by the Free Mason community of the town, flourished. John, who himself is a Free Mason, hands me a stack of old receipts to prove it. The oldest one is dated November 25, 1884, issued by the Cape of Good Hope Bank. The receipts are in surprisingly good condition and don’t have that familiar ‘old book’ smell. Six of the thirteen receipts are made out to either the Masonic Lodge or Temple, and most of them have a One Penny stamp on them which I had never seen before. “They probably won’t help you but you can have them anyway,” he says. Little did I know that this would not be the last time on my journey that I come face to face with the Free Mason symbol.
“They were very strong people, and such explorers,” says Gwyneth, probably to get the conversation back on ‘trek’. “I think Afrikaners of today are just as strong.” Before I leave, John and his wife offer me accommodation for the night. I want to say yes, but the darkness of insecurity clouds my judgement and I decline their offer, clearly letting them down.
As I drive back to Queenstown, kicking myself for allowing old habits to die hard, and not accepting the Robinson’s hospitality, Frankie’s petrol light flashes at me. If I was ‘op trek’ with my ancestors and their ox-wagons 175 years ago, I wouldn’t need to pay for things like petrol, or accommodation, or food, or friendship. I would have just lived off the land, farming wherever I could find arable land and good grazing, being able to easily move from one place to another. The only money I would need would be for coffee, grain, and rusks.
'Welkom kakebeen wa'
Just before the Voortrekkers crossed the Orange River at Aliwal North, they stopped in Burgersdorp, this time to tend to some of the children who had fallen sick. I am not sure what the town looked like 175 years ago, but if they had to see it today, I am almost certain they would describe it as ‘oulik’. Similar to any small town, it has a butchery, a Post Office, a Standard Bank and a Fashion Express. What makes this town stand apart is the modesty of its people.
The museum on Piet Retief Street is home to Anglo-Boer War artefacts donated by local residents. In each separate room there are old letters, trinkets, clothing, and weapons. In the yard of the museum I see, for the first time, a real ox-wagon ̶ the famous ‘home on wheels’ which carried the Voortrekkers to their new lives and unfortunately for many, to their death. The ox-wagon was also called the Kakebeenwa (Jawbone Wagon) for its ox- jawbone-shaped structure.
Dalene Bredenkamp, a born and bred Burgersdorpian and also the secretary of the museum, tells me that before the “swartes” removed the paint off the mountain facing the town it read, ‘Welkom Kakebeen Wa, 1838’, now it simply reads, ‘Burgersdorp, 1846’.
The Voortrekkers carried almost everything they needed to survive in those wagons of theirs; dry food, trunks for storage, ‘trektafels’ for eating, ‘veldstoeltjies’ to sit on when they camped, weapons, pots, pans, bedding and lanterns. They also used ‘voetstofies’, wooden foot warmers, which I am sure were not a luxury but a necessity when living outdoors during the cold winter months. It reminds me of what my mom always tells me, “If your feet are warm, the rest of your body will be too.” The wagons also had to be big enough to carry the Voortrekkers’ families, their slaves and even some of their farm animals. And probably the most precious of any Voortrekker possessions, the Family Bible. Not only was it used for boekvat (Bible study) everyday, it also served as an invaluable record of genealogy and history of Afrikaners, enabling them to preserve their identity and culture over many generations.
Dalene fascinates me. To avoid cabin fever, she visits Bloemfontein, about 260kms away, once a month or so. “Dit sal seker lekker wees om in ’n groot stad te bly en te shop maar ek sal nie sommer van hier af trek nie,” [it would probably be nice to live in a big city and to go shopping but I won’t just leave here] she says. She takes me to the Xhosa exhibition in the museum last. “We had to put this in here otherwise we would not get subsidised by the government.” Oh dear, I wish Dalene hadn’t said that.
Love of the platteland
Smithfield really looks like a one-horse town whose horse is dead. It’s the middle of winter, and I am alone in nowhere-land. I consider driving straight through to Bloemfontein, but I know this was a definite ‘pit stop’ for the Voortrekkers, and so should it be for me too. As I drive down the dirt road to Bokmakierie B ’n B, I feel the skin on my face start to pull taught from the sheer dryness in the air.
The B ’n B has high ceilings and wooden floors, and the outside walls are painted a potentially, pretty yellow. I am welcomed by a tall, white-haired man with red-rimmed eyes, Peter Retief, also known by his artist pseudonym, Phineas Dhlamini. Almost every painting in the house is signed under this pseudonym. The artworks are both ingenious and mysterious, just like the man who painted them. Peter and his wife Linda invite me into their colourful kitchen for coffee and rusks and help me piece together the puzzle of what it means to be an Afrikaner.
“I have only really started enjoying being an Afrikaner for the last 15 years,” says Peter. “They are leading in the arts, music, and theatre. I think they’ve really found their place.” Afrikaans musicians Valiant Swart, Jan Blohm, and Bacchus Nel are the inspiration behind many of his paintings.
“When I was young I went to a very colonial school in Johannesburg, which made being an English-speaker with an Afrikaans surname very difficult. Kids would ask me if I was related to Piet Retief and they would tease me, associating me with the type of Afrikaner you get in the van der Merwe jokes,” Peter recalls. He says that an Afrikaner always has a connection to a farm, “even if it’s not theirs, and it’s ‘my oom, se niggie, se boetie se plaas.’ It’s like they have to be part of the earth, they need to walk on the land ‘tussen die bossies’, with the smell of coffee.”
It seems the definition of an Afrikaner varies, especially amongst Afrikaners themselves. My paternal grandmother, whom I sadly don’t know very well, has a specific definition; “Ons is baie ernstig oor ons eie identiteit, baie patriots oor ons land, godsdiens, taal en ons kinders” [We are very serious about our identity, very patriotic about our country, religion, language and our children]. My younger brother, a modern ‘boertjie’, says that if they like biltong, rugby and ‘braai’, then they’re Afrikaners. My dad, the greatest man of all, says the old definition would be somebody who speaks the language, but “If being American means somebody born in America and Australian means somebody born in Australia, then an Afrikaner must be somebody born in Africa.”
Home at last
My first big city on trek is Bloemfontein. Although I have been here before I still get a little tense as I anticipate the traffic. I don’t do very well when driving in ‘die stad’. The only reason I am here is to meet and interview Professor Maitland Seaman and to then retreat to a farm on the Jagersfontein Road for a couple of days to regroup, or, as I like to say, for some ‘omm-time’.
Professor Seaman, a reserved older man, is all about the details: How the Great Trek brought about the market economy in South Africa; How there are three different types of Afrikaners, and how history has neglected to mention the expansion of peoples in Southern Africa in the 1700s. The Voortrekkers, he suggests, were the first to introduce the local indigenous people to the concept of wage labour.
“The Voortrekkers led a subsistence-like existence, living off what the land provided, but they still needed to buy things like coffee, sugar, rice, etc,” he says. “They would trade skins and hides of the animals they shot along the way for provisions.” Before embarking from their homes in the Cape Colony, they stocked up with large amounts of kruit (gunpowder), another item which they used for trading. Voortrekker leader Andries Hendrik Potgieter had three wagons full of gunpowder, ammunition, and other goods to trade and negotiate with. All I have to trade along the way are Polaroid photographs.
After the interview I set off to a self-catering B ’n B on a farm just outside town. The blue gums, dirt road, and tall yellow grasses remind me of a place I’ve never seen before but somehow know. Sort of like déjà vu. I spend a good few hours wandering around, admiring the beauty, calmness, and absolute serenity of the ‘veld’. I feel composed as I watch the sun set, and the sky exchanging its golden glow for cool pinks and blues. Is this the love of the land that Peter and my grandmother were talking about?
In the morning the resident Meerkat, Hoendie, comes to visit as I sit on the ‘stoep’ bench, sip my coffee and listen to the cows moo. Of the landscape of the Free State, Antjie Krog wrote, “This is what I’m made of.”
I write, “Ah, home at last.”
Sobriety
Sobriety
Everything about Winburg gives me the creeps. The small town smells like sulphate, tastes like dust and feels as though it is run by the spirits of the dead. This was the first town established by the Voortrekkers and also where, on the 6th of June 1837, Piet Retief was sworn in as Governor of his people.
Originally, the Voortrekker Monument was meant to be built in Winburg before the honour was bestowed on Pretoria; however a substitute monument was subsequently erected in this ghost- like town. The symbolism and meaning of the solemn, towering stone monument has been carefully engraved on a marble plaque inside the building.
It explains how each part of the monument, from the five unequal columns, to the circular grouping, to the upward sweeping horns, represents an aspect of the Voortrekker philosophy. One thing that stands out for me, because of its incredible significance to the Voortrekkers, is the water bowl; it symbolises the faith of the Voortrekkers, and the outward flow of the water represents the spreading of the Christian faith and civilisation.
For lunch, I eat an oily toasted sandwich at a dingy coffee shop-cum-café, because my hunger is almost as uncomfortable as the vibe here. Later I meet an attractive blonde woman at the Winburg Guesthouse who doesn’t seem willing to accept her life in this ‘klein dorpie’. “My husband changed our lives in 15 minutes. He had had enough of Bloemfontein so he bought a farm and a few months later we left,” says Natasha. She has been in Winburg for almost a year but hasn’t yet found her place in this remote, small town.
“As ek die kans kry sal ek terug stad toe trek... ek hou van my high-heels, stywe broekies, en kort rokkies, maar dis ek... ek is ’n stad meisie.” [If I get the chance, I will move back to the city... I like my high-heels, tight shorts, and short dresses, but that’s me... I’m a city girl]. She says this with a smile on her face and tears in her blue eyes.
South Africa's 'first' graffiti
This is also the first time that I feel any connection to my own inner-Afrikaner.
The beginning of the end
South Africa's 'first' graffiti
Somewhere close to the Sterkfontein Dam, in the rolling hills of western KwaZulu-Natal, is Kerkenberg; a flat-topped warrior of a mountain that radiates life from its almost smooth edges. Piet Retief and his followers arrived here on the 7th of October 1837 and camped at the foot of Kerkenberg before braving the Drakensburg mountain range.
Reverend Erasmus Smit named the area Kerkenberg because it reminded him of a place of worship. I can understand precisely what he meant. There is something holy about this spot, the vast open ‘veld’ and the Drakensburg mountains in the distance, protecting the quiet from any disturbance. I haven’t heard silence like this since I was on a blue slope in the snow in Austria. It is serene; peaceful; sacred. “From the heights of these mountains, I saw this beautiful land, the most beautiful I’ve ever seen in Africa,” wrote Retief.
He and fourteen of his men left the camp at the foot of Kerkenberg to reconnoitre the area and to meet with King Dingane (also spelled Dingaan), proprietor of much of the land in the region. Whilst Retief was away from the laager, his eldest daughter, Deborah, commemorated his 57th birthday by painting what Peter Retief of Smithfield describes as ‘South Africa’s first graffiti’. On a rock-face at the foot of the mountain, Deborah painted her father’s name and the date, 12 November 1837, in green paint. This memorial still exists today.
I can just picture how thrilled Deborah must have been when she heard the news that her father’s negotiations with Dingane were a success, and how she proudly painted his name on the rock-face the following day. Imagine travelling for close to ten months over wild, desolate terrain, through foreign territories, uncertain of your final destination and what it holds, and learning that the journey is almost at its end? Everything you’ve gone through, and fought for, will be rewarded with the promise of a new life, a new land, a new start.
This is the first time since my journey began that I feel connected to the Voortrekkers. The first time that I feel any sort of understanding of what they felt because now I can see what they saw, breathe the air that they breathed, and experience the peace that they longed for. Over almost two centuries later and I can still feel their presence lingering here.
The beginning of the end
As soon as I see the sign ‘Welcome to KwaZulu-Natal’ I think to myself, “We’re in Dingane’s territory now.” The grasses are similar to those growing in the Free State, but the trees are different, and they are plentiful. The air is also different; warmer but not lighter, it feels like being in a drug-induced haze. As I travel along the N3 my dream state is rudely interrupted by speeding drivers anxious to get home for their five o’clock beer.
Pietermaritzburg, although not one of Retief’s stops, is named after him and Gerrit Maritz, another Voortrekker leader. While steeped in history and peppered with what must have been the most spectacular Victorian houses, this dilapidated city doesn’t have much to offer its current visitors. Many of the buildings are in a state of disrepair and the roads are absolutely chaotic with hooting taxis and confusing one-way streets.
At the Voortrekker Museum, the Chief Research Officer, Elrica Henning, takes me on a tour of the E G Jansen-Extension, where a collection of items from the Great Trek are neatly displayed behind glass panels. Behind one such panel is a bag made from the hide of the first cow slaughtered by the Uys family. Behind another one is a pair of blood-stained trousers belonging to the spiritual leader of the Trek, Sarel Cilliers. Our last glass panel is the most significant; placed carefully on a ‘trektafel’ is a fish knife, prayer book, snuff box, a copy of a land treaty and a flask. These are the items recovered from Piet Retief’s body after he was killed.
I look closely at the flask and Elrica points out the Free Mason symbol engraved on the front.
Place of the elephants
Place of the elephants
Nestled in the heartland of Natal, and within the Emakhosini Valley, is a special place with history richer than the soil on which it stands. This is Mgungundlovu, ‘place that surrounds the elephants.’ It is the site of King Dingane’s royal kraal, the burial grounds of eight Zulu kings, and the gravesite of Piet Retief. At the foot of this green hill is a multi-media centre, built with the same sombre stone as most of the other monuments associated with the Great Trek.
I let my mind wander as I breathe in the crisp KwaZulu-Natal air and try to focus on the ‘screen’ in front of me. I want to go to the royal kraal, but first I must endure this futuristic museum. The projector directs its images off a structure, moulded into the shape of the valley, as the recorded voice teaches me about the Zulu culture and the stories that originate from this area.
King Dingane was a pot-bellied man with 500 wives and no children. He came into power in 1828 after he and his half-brother, Mhlangana, stabbed their half-brother in the back. His name was Shaka and he was undoubtedly the most influential Zulu warrior in history. Dingane was a “man of many moods” says my guide Jabu Maqwaza who works at the multi-media centre. She is a large black woman who proudly represents the Zulu culture.
As the story goes, Piet Retief and his men went to Mgungundlovu to arrange a land treaty with Dingane regarding the Voortrekkers moving into Natal. Dingane, perhaps as a means to test Retief and the Boers’ strength, said that in order for him to sign off on the land, Retief must first capture Sekonyela, Chief of the Batlokwa people. Retief was to bring him, and Dingane’s stolen cattle, safely back to Mgungundlovu. Retief knew Sekonyela liked shiny things and legend has it that Retief captured Sekonyela by luring him with a pair of silver handcuffs. Once detained, he returned to Dingane’s kraal having kept his part of the agreement.
Dingane couldn’t understand how Retief had so easily captured this famous warrior. He concluded that only one explanation was possible: the Boer must have put a spell on Sekonyela. “Bulelani abathakathi!” [Kill the magicians!] shouted Dingane, his men attacked Retief’s and dragged them to Kwa-Matiwane- the Hill of Execution, where Retief was forced to watch as his men were killed before he too was clubbed to death.
A variation of the story says that Retief was impaled; yet another states that his tongue was cut out. My guide Jabu looks a bit embarrassed. “Retief kept his promise,” she says. “I don’t know why Dingane killed him.”
Ten nights later, on the 16th of February 1838, 480 Voortrekkers, including women and children, were attacked by Dingane’s warriors.
The final stop
The final stop
Dingane ordered his men to burn Mgungundlovu to the ground after his defeat at the Battle of Blood River/Ncome in 1838. Luckily archaeologists have managed to reconstruct the bee-hive shaped huts. A replica of Dingane’s hut is to the side of the kraal, overlooking his capital and the far-reaching valley. His hut was bigger than the others and measured 10m in diameter. The huts have short doors and no windows, there are only a few models depicting a Zulu settlement where about 1 700 huts once stood.
From Mgungundlovu you really can see most of the Emakhosini Valley. The hills with tall grasses that wave as the wind blows them from side to side, like a natural Mexican wave. It is spectacular; it is a rare kind of beauty that I have not seen anywhere else in the country. It’s the kind of beauty that makes you take a good look at your life and how you have lived it so far. It’s the kind of beauty that makes all material possessions seem unnecessary. It’s the kind of beauty that makes you want to sing Metallica’s “Nothing Else Matters”.
Across the way is the Hill of Execution, where the Voortrekkers gravesite is located. A stone monument has been erected to honour those that were killed that day, on the 6th of February 1838, as well as the grave of the man in whose footsteps I have followed. The gravestone is made of marble and reads, ‘Die graf van P.Retief en 70 burghers. Rust in vrede’. I look over the valley and I feel the peace, he is now at rest.
Although I can’t roll my R’s like a real Afrikaner, and no one in my family owns a ‘plaas’, I love these people and when I sit under a beloved blue gum, I am one.
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