Anglo Zulu Battlefields - Spring - Part 1 - Natal Midlands

Butch and I went for a lovely mid-morning walk along the coast from Kleinbaai this morning. I needed to see the flowers before they all turned to seed. It was while I was walking, enjoying the fresh sea air, the waves lapping onto the rocks and the breeze on my face that I thought about this blog. It is a difficult one for me to write, probably the most complex one. I will try to explain.

On September 1st, we celebrate the start of Spring in the Western Cape Province. Spring is a celebration of colours: buttery yellow, lemon, tangerine, carroty orange, lavender, violet, amethyst, magenta, apple-cheeked red, and caerulean, indigo, cobalt, or azure, and ink blue.

You may think I’ve gone overboard with descriptions of colour, but that’s precisely how it is. One can’t just call the colours yellow, red, and blue. Our landscapes evoke a profound sense of happiness in our souls, inspiring literary brilliance in their descriptions.

After our cold, wet, windy winters, the colours lift our spirits, giving us the boost we all need to spring clean, turn our wardrobes to summer (in the Cape we unpack our wardrobes and turn them around for the next season) and finally we put winter into mothballs for at least seven months.

To be ordinary, unimaginative or boring would be an insult to Mother Nature.

Travel in any direction and you’re sure to see flowers. Our West Coast is a feast for the eyes; the Swartland’s rolling hills are covered in yellow Canola, or green wheat fields sprouting ears which will soon turn yellow.

The Karoo is blooming with colour; look closely. Bend down, stand on a hill, open the car door and step out. Open your tailgate and enjoy coffee and rusks on a checkered picnic blanket while you feast your eyes on the magnificence. There they are, new growth, little flowers in a rainbow of colour.

The Overberg mountains are carpeted in fynbos, all in full bloom, a colourful celebration to new beginnings, new life, new creation and hope. In the Hex Valley, vines were pruned in June and should now be sending out tendrils and new leaves.

Driving past Stettyn, we saw harvesters on tall ladders picking the last fruit of the citrus crop. The ancient English Oak trees on the bend are a soft green of unfurling new, scalloped leaves. By next month, the roses on the fences will be cascading in colour, and the apricot, peach, and pear trees will burst into a profusion of snow-white and blushes of pink blossoms.

Last week, friends and I attended the Stanford Flower Show. I swooned, gaped, gawked, smiled, and cried at the exquisiteness. These blooms are all around us; all we need to do is go out into the veld and look.

If possible, you should make an extra effort to attend next year and hear the talk given by the renowned landscaper Leon Kluge.

Leon, the curator of South Africa's floral display at the Chelsea Flower Show in London, is a talented, creative, humble, innovative, funny, and irresistible individual. His love of flowers weaves like gold threads through his words, and his eyes light up with delicious mischief as he recalls his escapades in London. He made me cry with pure joy and pride. A breath of fresh air, this unassuming man is.

All around us, on the mountain tops and slopes where fires raged last summer, there are new plants vigorously sprouting, shouting, “Look, we survived.”

Butch and I took a day trip to the West Coast National Park on Friday after dog-sitting Angie in Camps Bay. (I’ll tell you all about that later)

Although the flowers had mainly lost their flush, we could still enjoy magnificent views and colour all the way down to the coast. We sat at a picnic table, enjoying lunch: vetkoek and curried mince for him and a boerie roll for me. All around us, visitors (mainly retirees like us) were photographing flowering bulbs, daisies, vygies, succulents, and grasses.

I nearly asked one old geezer if he was okay and then realised he was on his knees, like a praying mantis, doubled over, manually focusing his camera with a Macro lens attached, on the tiniest bloom on a spindly stalk, craning its threadlike neck through the dry earth. If I’d asked, he might have keeled over and rolled down the hill, crushing the poor flower in his wake.

---oOo---

Daisies in Namaqualand – Ingrid Jonker

 

(not the complete poem, just an extract)

---oOo---

Last night, I went through my photographs for this blog of our trip from the Kruger National Park to Howick, and I’d hardly swiped through a dozen pictures before I felt depressed, closed my album and started watching a movie instead.

The reaction to the photographs niggled, and I tossed and turned trying to put my finger on the reason. Eventually, I reminded myself that at the time, I had indeed seen beauty in that landscape, or I wouldn’t have taken the photos. I had to return to them.

The only resort left to me was to put on the old rose-tinted glasses and see the beauty in the ordinary. I returned to the pictures with a renewed attitude, and Voila! I saw what artists saw and interpreted.

Butch and I drove into a cold spell from White River. Rain, heavy snowfalls, and thick meringue clouds ominously spread out before us. Back into winter woollies we went. Is this spring? I asked Butch who, on the first of September, jumps out of bed straight into shorts and sandals.

The other day, he announced, “Summer officially starts on the 1st of October!” That I know is nonsense; we don’t just have one month of spring. He can be pretty annoying at times!

He has never promised me a rose garden, but he did promise we’d spend the weekend at Bad Plaas.

---oOo---

Badplaas

Badplaas, a Forever Resort, is situated around the majestic Hlumuhlumu Mountain Range in the sunny Mpumalanga Province. The resort features a Hotel, self-catering units, Log Cabins, Chalets, Rondavels, Guest Houses, and a large Caravan and Camping ground. Offering a wide range of activities for the whole family, including a water park, Hydro & Spa, and Eco Adventures.

This resort certainly caters for every guest’s needs. Some of the activities and services include:  

Beach Tennis Court, Chip’ n Putt Golf Course, Cold & Warm Swimming Pools, Fishing (Catch & Release), Game Drives, Guided Horse Rides, Hiking Trail, Mountain Bike Trail, and Tree Walking Trail.

We explored the resort but spent the weekend wrapped up warmly, buried in our books or preparing comfort food, constantly aware of the cacophony of children’s voices all around us.

---oOo---

The weather remained inclement as we made our way through places called Elukwatini, Nooitgedacht, Paardeplaats, Goedehoop, and Simonsdal, where there was absolutely no sign of spring.

The landscape was dull, made worse, I suppose, due to the lack of sunlight and the biting cold spell brought closer by the winds blowing off the Drakensberg and Hlumuhlumu Mountains. Here and there, new grasses were bravely popping their heads out of the burnt earth, a promise that even after a destructive fire, new life would be born. A guarantee to animals grazing that, amongst the dry, nutrient-deficient grass stalks, there is healthy, filling fodder.

Someone had suggested we stop at Chrissiesmeer. After being on the road for so many months, it is a relief not to have to look for somewhere to stay, and we eagerly accept any recommendations.

---oOo---

Chrissiesmeer

This peaceful, countryside village in Mpumalanga’s grasslands and wetlands region invites families and birders to come and explore. Chrissiesmeer is the perfect place to escape.

Known as the Matotoland Lake District, and situated on the border between KwaZulu-Natal, Swaziland, and the Orange Free State, Chrissiesmeer features two large freshwater lakes and over 320 pans, which are home to 82 species of waterbirds. The circular, 60km self-drive birding route winds its way along the wetlands. Chrissiesmeer is also home to three crane species – Blue, Grey Crowned, and Wattled – as well as the lesser flamingo.

Lake Chrissie, after which the town is named, is the largest freshwater lake in South Africa, measuring 7km in length and 3km in width.

Take Note, all Batrachophiles (lovers of frogs): This grassland and wetlands region also attracts a variety of frog and butterfly species. The lakeside village hosts an annual Frog Festival in December and a Wild Flower Festival in January, which attracts returning visitors year after year.

Due to its relative isolation from major cities and its small size – with only 150 residents in Chrissiesmeer – it’s an ideal place for Stargazing and taking long-exposure photographs of the Milky Way.

Besides its natural beauty, Chrissies – as locals affectionately refer to it – also attracts those interested in learning about the history of Alexander McCorkindale and the 70-odd Scots who in 1866 settled in the region with the intention of establishing a New Scotland Republic, namely a sheep farming and mining enterprise that would act as a buffer zone between Swaziland and greater South Africa.

There’s even a love story about Lieutenant Arthur William Swantson, who died during the Anglo-Boer War and was sent flowers annually on the occasion of his death by his fiancée in England. The locals continue the tradition to this day.

Our trail to the Battlefields was gaining momentum as the first bits of history were starting to colour our journey.

We camped at Geneserat Campground on the lake. On our bikes, we cycled to the village, snooped around and had a coffee and scones at one of the shabby chic general trading stores where anything can be purchased. We stocked up at the Chinese Grocery store and drew some cash at the only ATM.

This one-horse town was pretty dead at this time of year; not surprisingly, things only heat up in December and January when the landscape is carpeted with a wall-to-wall display of pink, white, and cerise Cosmos.

After an afternoon under my duvet with all my warmest winter woollens on, I was coaxed to get up and take a walk.

All along the water’s edge, we walked looking for a spot where we might enjoy a beautiful sunset. We didn’t get terribly far before the cold caught up with us, and we returned to enjoy our sundowner indoors.

There was hardly a soul out except one old chap heading home and a couple who are frequent visitors to Chrissiesmeer for fishing. The husband proudly told us his wife was a champion fisherman and always caught the biggest fish.

---oOo---

I was eager to get out of the cold, and the next morning, we set off, driving through the districts of Ermelo, passing farms like Welgelegen, Mooifontein, and Uitspanning.

The old, hand-hued sandstone arched bridge caught my eye and trigger finger! That simple bridge, in focus and almost camouflaged by the landscape, brought me a sense of accomplishment. I got it! These are the small things Hilde would say are the highlights we must appreciate on a dull day. Indeed.

The buildings in these regions are usually constructed of local sandstone. It is both a rural and an urban tradition. Very little is recorded about the vernacular stone architecture of the south-eastern Highveld.

Volksrust was next. The sky was turning blue, with only a few wispy clouds, and I could feel the heat of the sun seeping through and penetrating the glass when I touched it, my barometer, a window. And there, on the hard, cracked shoulder, a few tiny flat flowers. Probably weeds, but pretty nonetheless.

Pieter van der Westhuizen, who was fond of trees and the rolling hills, surrounded by wheat fields in the Swartland, would’ve put up his easel right here and painted the landscapes we were passing now, I thought as we trundled past the farms Mooifontein and Bergvliet.

Thatched Rondavel cottages dotted along the way added interest in this cattle and wheat-growing region.

Far away on the horizon, I could almost see the start of  Volksrust town spread out like a patchwork quilt, and I wondered, “Who on earth would want to live here?” Then I remembered a few people I know who had lived, loved, and grown up in the town but, ironically, left for various reasons to start a new life in the Western Cape.

Charlestown and Newcastle – Belfast came next. The horseman on his pony reminded me of the Lesotho cattle herders on their feisty ponies.

---oOo---

Then came Newcastle, the third-largest town in KwaZulu-Natal, which serves as the province’s industrial hub. Set at the foothills of the northern KwaZulu-Natal Drakensberg Mountains, Newcastle is located in the northwest corner of the province along the Ncandu River.

In line with our investigations of the Battlefields (the Zulu Wars), it is interesting to note Newcastle’s strategic importance to the British Forces.

In 1876, Fort Amiel was constructed to ward off the Zulus during the war, and in 1873, Newcastle became a separate electoral division. To commemorate Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee (60th anniversary), the construction of a sandstone town hall commenced in 1897 and was completed two years later. The town served as a depot for the British during both the First and Second Boer Wars, and also functioned as a major transport junction and stopover for wagons and post chaises during the late 19th century.

Today, Newcastle is a thriving industrial town renowned for its coal mining and steel production. Our destination was Pomeroy; therefore, on this leg of our trip, we bypassed Newcastle itself.

---oOo---

Pomeroy

Pomeroy is a small town in KwaZulu-Natal, some 72 km north of Greytown and 56 km south-south-east of Dundee. The town was named Pomeroy after Sir George Pomeroy Colley, who led the ill-fated British force during the Battle of Majuba Hill in 1881.

It was established as the Gordon Memorial Mission in 1867 in memory of James Henry Hamilton-Gordon, the son of George Hamilton-Gordon, 5th Earl of Aberdeen. The mission worked with the Zulus.

The Boodhoo family further developed Pomeroy, with various stores, and subsequently generations of the Boodhoos, who were entrepreneurs, sportsmen, and politicians. The town is still held together by the supermarkets and stores built by the great Boodhoo Dynasty.

“The surname Boodhoo has its origins in India, with roots tracing back to the 16th century. It is believed to be derived from the Sanskrit word “buddha,” meaning “enlightened” or “awakened.” From a genealogy website.

In 2022, the South African Geographical Names Council decided to rename the town in honour of Solomon Linda, a musical artist who was born in the town.

Once we’d settled into our campsite, Elandsheim Retreat at Elandskraal, I set off to do some exploring, and of course, the cemetery was my first stop, where generations of Dedekinds are laid to rest.

Another local Elandskraal landmark is Heinz and Monica Dedekind’s general trading store, located about 15 km from Rorke’s Drift in the Battlefields. This traditional family business, now in its fifth generation, operates as a general grocery store, filling station, craft shop, and post office.

Elandsheim is situated in the heart of the famous Zulu, Anglo, and Boer battle sites, 55 km from Dundee, halfway between Johannesburg and Durban, and is surrounded by privately owned game reserves, rivers, waterfalls, and magnificent Zululand thornveld.

The Elandskraal Lutheran Church plays a central role and serves as a retreat. Still, Elandsheim now also caters to school groups, youth groups, and tourists, like us and is available for hire as a wedding and conference venue. The housekeeper told me the next morning when I used the scullery to wash our breakfast dishes. No matter where one stands, the church will catch your eye.

---oOo---

To Battle

We set off early the next morning to join our guide, who would tell us all about this well-known Zulu war we’d been taught at school. I must confess I hoped there would be an improvement in the telling because my Grd 8 teacher did nothing to inspire me to be enthusiastic about the history of this region. Unless a school/public holiday commemorated the day, such as the Battle of Blood River on 16 December, it held very little interest for me. I also hoped that the account would be more accurate. How the handful of Boers managed to hold off and defeat thousands of Zulu warriors until the river ran red remains a mystery to me. I was ready to get to the bottom of these stories.

---oOo---

Battle of Isandlwana and Battle of Rorke’s Drift

It was suggested that I watch the 1986 movie Shaka Zulu. I found the full-length movie on YouTube the night after we visited the battlefields.

After visiting the site and hearing the story told by a Zulu, I had a better insight and understanding of the proceedings.

We couldn’t have had a better guide sharing the stories of these two famous battles. We were introduced to Thulani and immediately became captivated by him. He was charismatic, charming, knowledgeable, fluent, and an excellent teacher.

As Butch and I stood flanking the formidable Thulani, he retold the story that had been passed down through the generations since 1879.

We saw the hills from which the Zulu warriors, men trained from an early age to become warriors for their King, emerged. We could envision the battle in the shade of Isandlwana, the hill overlooking the plains, under the command of Dabulamanzi kaMpande (c. 1839 – September 22, 1886), a Zulu commander for the Zulu Kingdom and is most noted for having commanded the Zulus at the Battle of Rorke’s Drift. He was a half-brother of the Zulu King Detshwayo.

For an hour and a half, we walked the battlefield, saw the mounds of whitewashed stones where fallen soldiers lie buried. We walked up the hill to the Commemorative plaques and tried to decipher the names of fallen British soldiers faintly visible after years of weathering in the hot sun, wind and rain.

(My heart always goes out to the mothers of these boys and men, shipped off from England, Scotland and Wales to a place no one had an inkling of, only to die.)

With his stick brandishing around like a Zulu assegai, Thulani (meaning Quiet one) gave us an epic display of the Zulu’s bravery, their skill and the military tactics used to defeat the British forces.

The Battle of Isandlwana was the second significant encounter in the Anglo-Zulu War, occurring shortly after the British invasion of the Zulu Kingdom. The British Forces, under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Henry Pulleine, were significantly outnumbered, facing approximately 20,000 Zulu warriors led by Chiefs Ntshingwayo kaMahole and Mavumengwana ka Mdlela Ntuli. The British contingent consisted of around 1800 troops, including regular soldiers and native auxiliaries.

The British were caught off guard by a well-orchestrated Zulu attack. The Zulus used a tactical manoeuvre known as the “horns of the buffalo”, allowing them to encircle the British and overwhelm them. 1,300 British soldiers lost their lives, and between 1000 and 3000 Zulu warriors lost their lives.

The Battle of Isandlwana remains a pivotal moment in the history of the Anglo-Zulu War. It is often studied for its lessons on military strategy, colonialism, and the dynamics of power in 19th-century Africa. (extracts taken from passages of Wikipedia)

Enthralled and out of breath but ready for more, we jumped into our vehicles to make the 10km journey that the Zulu warriors made on foot to Rorke’s Drift to finish the war off. The Honey Badger quickly felt our excitement, and in no time, we were over the drift and in a pall of dust, stopped behind Thulani, who proceeded to fill us in on the afternoon’s battle.

---oOo---

Battle of Rorke’s Drift

Rorke’s Drift, known as kwaJimu (“Jim’s Land”) in isiZulu, was a mission station of the Church of Sweden, and the former trading post of John Rorke, a merchant from the Eastern Cape of Irish descent. It was located near a drift on the Buffalo River (Mzinyathi), which at the time formed the border between the British colony of Natal and the Zulu Kingdom. On 9 January 1879, the British No. 3 (Centre) Column, under Lord Chelmsford, arrived and encamped at the drift.

The victorious British defence of Rorke’s Drift, under the command of Lieutenants  John Chard of the Royal Engineers and Gonville Bromhead of the 24th Regiment of Foot, began fighting once a large contingent of Zulu warriors who had broken off from the main force during the final hour of the British defeat at the day-long Battle of Isandlwana, and proceeded to Rorke’s Drift. The battle continued into the following day.

Just over 150 British and colonial troops defended the station against attacks by 3,000 to 4,000 Zulu warriors. The massive but haphazard attacks by the Zulu on Rorke’s Drift came very close to overwhelming the much smaller garrison, but were consistently repelled. Eleven Victoria Crosses were awarded to individual defenders, along with several other decorations and honours.

The Following photographs capture the essence of the fighting as displayed in the museum's exhibition.

---oOo---

While standing at the gravesite of the fallen soldiers we did not only talk about war and death but also about pleasantries, and we asked Thulani whether his children (Generation Alpha) are still true to Zulu traditions, because we could see, hear and feel that this formidable man was a Zulu in every sense of the word, loyal to his King yet a South African.

He said it is two-fold. In the world of education, where they study and later work, they are South Africans and will follow all the customs and laws associated with that, but at home, here in Zululand, they are first and foremost Zulus.

(Generation Alpha Members were born between 2010 and 2024. They’ve lived not just with the internet, but with today’s social media and even some versions of AI. It’s a far cry from how we, the Baby Boomers, lived most of our lives, and a near-impossible learning curve for us to catch up to.)

Thank you, Thulani, for a most exhilarating, informative and emotive afternoon spent with you. While writing this blog, I could hear your voice and see your actions in your retelling of this fascinating piece of our country’s history, which was made so boring by my teachers., However, I do believe you are one of those teachers who inspire learners. Your delivery was an Oscar-worthy performance that I’ve told everyone about. You also reminded me of the power of storytelling and why it’s important to continue telling stories.

I will never forget you saying, “It is the victor’s retelling of events that is retold and remembered” I suppose so, as Winston Churchill said,  “The victor writes history.”

---oOo---

Fugitives' Drift

As suggested by Thulani, we made another detour further along the river. The spectacular Fugitives’ Drift private property, a 5000-acre Natural Heritage Site, overlooks both Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift,

While Butch was waiting in the Honey Badger, I made my way up the steep hill to enjoy the view.

Reaching the spot on the hill at the Fugitives Drift memorial Monument, I sat down on a large stone and just took it all in. The magnificent view, the two soldiers who'd walked/run the 5km and the events that led to all this bloodshed.

The Fugitives’ Trail is the route taken by survivors of the Battle of Isandlwana who crossed the Buffalo River at Fugitives’ Drift. Subalterns Melvill and Coghill (who were killed trying to save the Queen’s Colour) are buried on a hilltop above the Drift on the Natal side. The views are magnificent.

---oOo---

After a full day of reliving the Anglo-Zulu war, an exhausted, battle-weary Butch and I returned to our campsite to put our feet up. We needed a medicinal Gin and Tonic to ward off the mosquitoes and to settle our nerves.

Now the movie made a lot more sense, and I could watch it in context. However, shortly after the British had their tea party on the lawns, the ladies decked out in chiffon with pretty bonnets and gloves, I was a gonner.

---oOo---

The next morning, after a leisurely breakfast, we packed up and set off on the last leg of this tale.

The route took us back to Pomeroy, Indanyana and up the winding roads (where the Zulu warriors had descended). Today, villages are tiny, with a handful of cottages; there are no tilled fields, hardly any livestock and very few people are about.

These were the scenes of poverty I couldn’t reconcile with. That such a proud nation could be reduced to living with such hardship after the wars, battles and struggles they had been through, especially in a country with so much potential, opportunity and wealth. Has bad governance let them down?

Near Tarka, snowfalls had recently been so heavy that trees had torn apart from the weight of snow on their branches.

We passed through the town of Pomeroy-Gabela, which resembled the Africa we’d become accustomed to. Informal stalls selling all manner of goods, and I spotted that a shipment of running shoes had arrived.

At last! In the district of Sikhaleni, the aloes stood majestically tall, and some had already finished flowering. All along the road to the Tugela Ferry, we had tall, ancient aloes standing sentry.

In Dungamanzi, I was rewarded with the magnificent African Flame tree, dressed in red blossoms, which provided a spectacular display.

In Greytown, the landscape changed once again, where horses grazed on new grasses, and I knew we were near the Mooi River at the foot of the Drakensberg Mountains.

A beautiful area renowned for its rivers, waterfalls, trout fishing, horses, and large tracts of pine timberlands.

 ---oOo---

Glensheiling Caravan Park

Near Howick, we stopped for the day and booked a campsite at Glensheiling Caravan Park, set in the heart of the Notorious Meander and a few kilometres south of Nottingham Road Village. Close to all the major roads, and a 1.5-hour drive from Durban.

The receptionists at Glensheiling promise peace, quiet and tranquillity. There are beautiful walks through the indigenous bush and forests, offering breathtaking views and an abundance of birdlife.

“You may even spot a few historical sites: a hideout wall used in the Boer War and evidence in the stream where Zulus used to sharpen their spears, when you take a stroll along the banks of a picturesque little stream.” She told us excitedly.

We were pretty happy to park on the water’s edge of their small dam, where I photographed some of the birds nesting in the willow trees. We’d had enough excitement and were looking forward to doing absolutely nothing.

Besides polishing my lens for bird photography, I also needed to get some writing done, I reminded Butch, who was already sitting with his feet up, holding his Kindle in one hand and a whiskey in the other.

The sunsets were magical. I was still cold, but I was happy to enjoy the sound of children playing on the deck and paddling their canoes. Focusing on the birds was enough for me.

The next morning, we visited Mary-Ann, Butch’s big sister, at Amber Valley, where we spent a glorious few hours with her. Butch was able to leave with a feeling of contentment, knowing his sister was happy, with skilful hands attending to her needs and friends who cared for her and were genuinely interested in her well-being.-

--oOo---

Our Mediterranean climate, with its wet, cold, and windy winters, is not something everyone enjoys. It’s not surprising that we all head north when the weather becomes unbearable, but we’re rewarded with so much beauty in August and September. It’s all about balance; too much of a good thing is not good. While the route we’d just travelled was stark, it too had much to admire, and in the summer, when the rains came, its flowers would reveal their exquisite beauty.

It's raining again, a good thing for the remaining blooms that need the moisture. Thankfully, we’ve had our first soft serve cone with Liam, our Grandson. That was a perfect day.