A Childhood Revisited – The Lowveld - Hazyview
Childhood memories should be like a field of daisies. Bright yellow sunshine. Perfectly formed blooms that radiate simplicity and joy. Pick a petal at a time to see whether he loves you: “loves me, loves me not, loves me...”
Some people vow never to return once they leave a place of employment, their home or their town. Yesterday, Butch remarked that he doesn’t form emotional ties to a place; therefore, he has neither the need nor the desire to return. I love returning to old haunts, and my greatest regrets come when I can’t return because the bridges I burned are smouldering in my wake. Fortunately, there aren’t many, and the ones that remain are best left shelved—no use shooting oneself in the foot.
Hazyview is where my brothers and I grew up. On a small tobacco and citrus farm high on a hill, we had our sprawling home with a wrap-around veranda, cool cement floors, and creaking wooden doors with fly screens. The doors banged in the wind and made a staccato when they shut. A winding road, a park-like garden, and an avenue of date palm trees led to our front door.
A patchwork orchard of mango, litchi, and avocado trees, with a banana patch, a clinging granadilla vine, and a few pineapples that shot up after my mother, with green fingers, planted the tops in pots. Rolling lawns, subtropical gardens, and a forest of indigenous trees flourished beneath a misty cloud; the sun burned it off each morning.
The koppie was our playground, where I’d hunt for eggs, pick up stones, and sit, daydreaming. Monkeys would swing in the rubber trees, and when the wind blew, I feared the hundred-foot Norfolk pine would fall on the roof and crush us. The gardener told us we were more likely to be hit on the head by a coconut than for the tree to fall on the roof; now I believe him.
Snakes and scorpions of the most vicious kind kept us alert during the day and scared the bejeesus out of me in my nightmares. Mosquitoes were run-of-the-mill, and malaria was common. The ironing lady said we had to iron our clothes unless we were ready for sandworms tunnelling under our skin.
"The Sabie River would surely be the death of you. Either bilharzia would get you, or, if not that, crocodiles and hippopotami would," my granny wrote in a letter from England after my aunt’s pit stop in her vintage car. She put-puttered off a day or two later, continuing their rally, an annual event in those circles.
At night, fighter jets and Mirages flew reconnaissance missions over our corrugated-iron roof, patrolling our border with Mozambique. Whatever the war was, it terrified me, and I didn't realise we were at war with the world.
Our carefree childhood in the Lowveld, primary schooling in Hazyview and later at Uplands Prep School, together with our holidays in Maputo, were idyllic and privileged.
My brothers and I were Robinson Crusoe, and the farm was our Mas a Tierra, an adventurous life of exploration while my parents kept the ship afloat.
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Returning to Hazyview was a culture shock; so much had changed in the half-century since I left. The village now has shopping malls, Builder’s Warehouse, restaurants, Kentucky Fried Chicken, an Engen filling station, private schools, and a hospital.
The farm has changed; the only recognisable landmark is the massive rock in the valley below. Fortune hunters with metal detectors would traipse around the perimeter like ants, searching for Kruger’s gold. Now Bon Repose Cottages grace the lawns, and tourists enjoy the view. That's progress.
Willie and Edna Fick, old family friends, offered us a campsite at the Numbi Hotel and Garden Suites, which we gratefully accepted—prime property in the centre of town. Driving through the gates felt like time travel, and I was back in 1965.
The thatched stately home where the six Fick children grew up doesn’t look quite as imposing now, but the trees and extensive gardens still reach for the sky. I had to smile when I saw the swimming pool. How small I was, and how brave we were to jump into the middle pool.
Only a childhood memory recalled offers us a glimpse of who we were. I see a shy girl with long blonde plaits, skinny legs, all knees and elbows, clutching a wet towel, her toes gripping the pool’s edge. Her legs and arms, brown as a beetle, are rashed with goosebumps. Her little brother runs past her, arms outstretched. She feels his cold hands on the small of her back as he shoves her. Her back arches and her arms flail wildly. She tries to stop the fall, but she goes in. Water gushes into her nostrils, burning white-hot in her sinuses. The tears are real, and he knows she detests them.
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We unhitched our bikes, saddled up, and went on a recce to see whether I could spot any landmarks. We headed up into the hills, the roads dwarfed by citrus groves, banana plantations, and forestry plantations. The landmarks are so close together that we soon found ourselves on an uphill road under construction. Numerous accommodation options, spas, and retreats. Quad biking, treetop aerial cable trails, sunset cruises, sunrise game drives, and Kruger excursions.
The downhill part of the cycle was fun. Putting my fears behind me, I flew down and around the bends and curves, exhilarated, energised, and unafraid of falling. It was delicious.
We did a spin into the now-grand Sabie River Sun and Golf Course—the Bungalows—where we watched movies on Friday nights as children. The Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lion’s roar petrified me, and the Lassie movies made me cry. Those were the days of celluloid, and the projector would inevitably heat up and burn a hole in the film, always at the most epic, crucial moment. Or the reel would need to be changed. Lights on, the reel spinning, making a flicking sound as the reels ended and clicked. The grown-ups would light up and charge their glasses while we queued at the bathrooms. The machinist would command, "Lights out, everyone back in their seats", waking the little sleepy heads.
The golf course is lush, green, and immaculately groomed. Golfers no longer walk but ride silent buggies from one hole to the next, teams colour-coded, capped, and gloved.
At long last, Butch could satisfy his craving for a thin-crust pizza, which we enjoyed on the deck at Topolino’s Italian restaurant as the misty spray cooled us down.
Disappointingly, the flip-flops I bought from Tsongo Shoes at Perry’s Bridge Trading Post lasted only three weeks before the thong came off. When you’re travelling in a truck, and they’re the only shoes “for best,” that’s nothing short of disastrous. C’est la vie. I hope someone in Tofo can fix them. I’m back to my cheapies, good old Clicks flip-flops!
A night out dining in a restaurant became an occasion to celebrate. We got togged out in our best gear and stepped out, all smiles, with a smear of lipstick. Pioneer’s Grill was our destination. To our amazement, the charming Mrs Fick jnr, the current manager’s wife, shuttled us there and back.
Our table on the deck sat perfectly under a colossal African flame tree; I watched guests arrive, and servers bustle around, taking orders and serving drinks and plates of delicious fare. Our steaks were perfect, and our night out was a successful date night.
The Little Pilgrim’s Boutique Hotel was irresistible, and I could revisit my childhood haunts. The Herndels Trading store, our GP Frans Mentz, Tannie Ems, and Oom Willie Fick. Now they’re just cottage names, but to me they brought back a childhood under their watchful gaze. Now I'll remember those old-timers in pretty, corrugated-iron-clad English cottages, brightly painted, with white brookie lace trim and old-fashioned signs on the shingles.
That they were young during the swinging fifties and sixties, when Elvis and Buddy Holly ruled, and stovepipes, Brylcreem, miniskirts, and the bop were cool, seems like an illusion!
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I couldn’t wait to jump out of bed on Sunday morning. We were going to spend the day with my very first best friend. We had reunited a year before COVID, after decades of separation, and found we still had so much in common and enjoyed each other’s company. We could laugh like drains, and no explanations were necessary. The early-morning drive from Hazyview to Nelspruit was an eye-opener. I couldn't recall the landscape.
In our little Saab motorcar, I didn't get to see the view as a child, only the sky! It was quite a revelation to see what I had missed.
Butch met my bestie for the first time, though it felt as if he’d known her for years. They hit it off straight away. After coffee and rusks, we piled into her Subaru and headed into the hills for lunch and a visit to the quaint, arty village of Kaapschehoop.
While she chatted with all and sundry, I explored. Butch, I’m sure, would’ve preferred the village bench, but he humoured us and joined our search for artefacts, Gatsby dresses, old teacups, and mouldy books.
Lunch was the highlight when brother Willie and Edna joined us. Knowing these two peaches is like loving them. Willie reminisced about his rugby days with my Dad. I heard stories that were hard to believe, because the man I know is a far cry from the dashing, frivolous one-of-the-boys rugby player he was. We spent a delightful afternoon catching up and listening to stories. I laughed until I wept.
Our memories are pure, gentle, and true, and they remind me of the WhatsApp message my little brother Mark sent after I told him about our visit. He recalls, “I have fond and happy memories of the Ficks. Visiting them as a family was always fascinating and lovely. Tannie Ems and Mom saw each other almost daily for years. Guess who was playing with all the dogs and cats behind the hotel kitchen...?”
Do you know, I stuck my small hand through Aunty Ems’ beehive curls en route home from having freshly coiffed hair in Nelspruit, whilst she was driving her VW Combi and I was standing behind the driver’s seat, the two of us chatting away...”
Lunch at The Bohemian Groove Café was delightful in every way. The eccentric manageress, in her top hat and frivolous get-up, was refreshing, and our choice of Durban Curry and Rice with Sambals was spot on. Thank you for making us see the past through rose-tinted lenses. That's exactly how memories should serve us!
At home, we stretched out and then curled on the couch like cats; I couldn’t get enough, and we stretched our time together like a child with a mouthful of bubblegum. The longer we chewed over our memories, the longer I could drag out my time; Butch eventually left us to it and drifted off to read his book.
The Badger needed new brakes. Three of the four rear brake cylinders were leaking, so we had to replace them. It was Monday morning, and Butch was up with the sparrows to sort it out. This interlude let Troubelene and me catch up over mugs of coffee. Finally, we enjoyed lunch and said goodbye. Our selfies say it all.
Even if it’s my last breath, I will see you again, Troubelene, old friend. Next time, we’ll wrap our heads in silk scarves and be Audrey Hepburn for the day when we drive off in a vintage MG! Thank you for being exactly like I remember you.
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In 2004, Butch and I took our first trip to Mozambique. On impulse and on a recommendation, we stopped in Tofo, an idyllic seaside village near Inhambane. While sitting on the beach after Butch’s rescue mission (a couple of fishermen overturned their makeshift boat in the bay; Butch, with no thought of his safety, jumped into the breakers and rescued the crew)
As the sun set, we sipped 2M beer on a log, and the Zietsmans joined us, and they've since become our Tofo friends. Ziets is a diver, spear-gun fisherman, explorer, and forester with a passion for trees; if memory serves, he kayaked the Amazon River as a student. Lenore is a storyteller extraordinaire. Her fables, myths, and fairy tales all have meaning, make you think, and could change your life. I always ask for one.
We spent the night at their home, a small farm on the outskirts of Nelspruit. We all agreed we couldn't slip by without saying hi.
Like their beach home, their farmhouse oozes personality. Kids’ art, funky paint colours, colourful traditional cloths and Capulanas from around the world, pottery and woodwork from Maputo, heirlooms and the family silver are casually dotted throughout the house. An inquisitive snooper like me's dream. Supper on the veranda was mango chicken curry, sambals, and salad. Perfect.
Butch and Ziets returned from the orchard with bags bulging with fragrant mangoes for our breakfast, lunch, and supper, along with bags of herbal, indigenous tea and dried mango strips. With full hearts, we set off for Komatipoort.
Lenore and Ziets, we munched on your fresh mangoes, made smoothies, and finally put a few in the freezer for later. Our fingers were sticky with juice, and my white T-shirt now sports a bright yellow mango stain, a bull’s-eye on my chest. We make delicious frozen mango slushies and nibble on your dried mango slices. They are undoubtedly the best we’ve ever had. Sweet and sticky and delicious. I’m saving the teas for a rainy day, when I need some TLC and a pick-me-up. Thank you. We hope to see you in Tofo.
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On the Komati River bank, we parked the Honey Badger, got ready to be picked up by our host and hostess, and were whisked off to meet family and friends for supper. We’ve realised that with the Williams’, there’s no rest for the weary and every day is filled with surprises.
The balmy night, with a full moon rising and a red sun setting over the river, reminded us that we have the best sunsets in the world. The evening was perfect because we joined the Williams clan for a gathering at Riverhills Lodge near Komatipoort. Thank you.
After a delicious breakfast and a final chat, it was time to saddle up and head north for your appointment in Hermanus.
These on-the-spur-of-the-moment visits are precious to us now that we’re primarily on our own and don't know when or where we’ll meet up again; we’ll treasure them. Geoff's hugs are the best, and Anne, your kind heart is always a balm.
The lodge is conveniently located off the main road to the Mozambique border post and the Kruger National Park gate; from there, it's an easy drive to Swaziland, and I think it's a brilliant spot for Tiger fishing.
Please click on the links below to be whisked off to the websites where you'll learn all the finer details regarding our accommodations.
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Our friends understand our past, and together, we celebrate the future. They inspire us, and accepting our quirks together liberates us. “By doing what you love, you inspire and awaken the hearts of others”.- Satsuki Shibuya
I’ve never seen a sight that didn’t look better looking back
Mud can make you prisoner, and the plains can bake you dry.
I was born under a wandrin’ star.
Hell is in hello
The photo below is a comment I received from my childhood friend Nettie de Kock. BFF, our families spent holidays in Maputo together, and we shared a love of books and stories. We were childhood librarians, with our own library on their farm, Paraiso. I was a teacher of note and taught my brothers the rudiments of everything they needed for school in my classroom, to their horror, of course.
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