Pongola - A Family Affair

Behind us, the misty reality of our African Adventure evaporated, and we found ourselves on a winding, uncertain road into the future. However, amidst this uncertainty, a celebration and family reunion was scheduled for the immediate future—a milestone we’d been looking forward to for weeks and a silver lining around an ominous cloud.

Families all have their unique dynamics; gather the clans, and you have a sorcerer’s pot bubbling with anticipation, and at times, trepidation, but mostly excitement. Some members are the exotic spices, healing herbs, while others are the reliable yet flavoursome stock. In contrast, some add bitterness, acidity, or sweetness. In many cases, a recipe for disaster, or a Smorgasbord of untold joy.

The Robertsons are a Potpourri of cheerfulness and depth of character. Their motto: “Never a dull moment”. Each member adds an irreplaceable flavour to the stew. Their charismatic personalities, with a few larger-than-life characters, bubbly girls and a vivacious younger generation, are all thrown into the mix, making for a vibrant family dynamic.

Children, grandchildren, siblings, cousins, nephews, and nieces were gathering from all over the world to celebrate a significant milestone: Butch’s sister Lorraine’s 80th birthday in Pongola. This was not just a family reunion, but a momentous occasion that we were all eagerly anticipating and never a bad word, thought, or deed would pass between them.

We would be the first arrivals, and while we caught up with the Pongola crowd, the rest would be jetting in and driving up from King Chaka International airport on the KwaZulu-Natal north coast.

Butch was welcomed back into the fold, and the fattened calf would be served at scrumptious, long luncheons on the veranda under the shade of a Flamboyant tree, coloured by hanging baskets filled with flowering subtropical plants and colourful exotic orchids.

We were treated to aromatic, Natal Indian curries and sambals, a citrus-flavoured oxtail, a traditional barbecue with all the trimmings, and a Sunday luncheon at the local Hotel to meet the locals.

Butch was slapped on the back, kissed, hugged and hailed the returning Prodigal Son by a generation of friends going back to his school days.

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The dry red soil, leafless scrubland, and grasses were yet to sprout green spring foliage, creating the perfect setting for a game drive. Little did we know, a few surprises were in store for us, adding an element of excitement to our visit.

At last, I could photograph a herd of long-horned Sanga cattle lazing the hot afternoon away, their tails swishing languidly to keep the annoying flies away.

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We were in for a treat. The cane fields were ready to be harvested, we were told. On windless evenings, the sugar cane is set alight and burnt for easier harvesting. Butch and I could go down to the canal on the outskirts of Pongola to witness the spectacle we had been told about.

I had no idea what to expect. A few nights later, we were informed that the wind was blowing in the right direction, and soon after sunset, we could meet at a safe distance from the burning to observe.

In the distance, the farmer and his staff gathered, readying themselves for the burn. Without any fanfare, two fires were kindled, and within minutes, red-hot finger-like flames lapped and curled sky high as the dry cane kindling was set alight with traditional torches.

The sky turned a deep red, and the landscape reflected the intense heat. Within minutes, charcoaled, sooty embers spiralled and danced in the vortex caused by the penetrating heat as flames from two points roiled into each other. Within an hour, the large acreage was a blackened silhouette of smouldering burnt cane.

The next day, once the cane cooled sufficiently, tractors with trailers would gather bushels of cane. The Pongola cane processing facility was ready for this year’s crop.

See a link to a short video of the burning. Really fascinating and a pyromanics dream!

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We may have witnessed the wildebeest migration in the Masai Mara, explored South Luangwa and Kafue National Parks, seen lions in Queen Elizabeth National Park, encountered Silverback Gorillas in Bwindi, spotted elephants in Bwabwata, or enjoyed sunsets at Etosha. Still, we were in for a treat, Lindi promised as we set off on a game drive in their valley. The drive was filled with sightings of various wildlife, from playful warthogs to majestic giraffes, and culminated in a rare encounter with a lazy, still sleepy male lion. No matter how lethargic a cat seems, it's always a highlight to spot them at close range.

And indeed, it was special. What could be more exceptional than an experience with Billy, Butch’s son, a nature guide in Hermanus and Lindi, her Mum’s favourite daughter, returning from a stint on a yacht in the Caribbean, where she served exotic cocktails to the rich and famous?

With our young guide, we were treated to the northwestern Natal Acacia bushveld, where we spotted various species of antelope, buffalo and zebra. 

As we came around a corner on the track, we were surprised to see two beautiful white rhinoceroses. Magnificent beasts we’d not encountered for ages.

Yes, it’s often not what is served at a dinner party but who dines with us at our table that makes the experience exceptional.

For sundowners, the guide parked the game viewer on an escarpment with spectacular views of the landscape, a river, and magnificent flowering trees. The sun was setting, casting a golden hue over the entire scene. A table groaning with delicious snacks and charcuterie was set up, and while we sipped our drinks, we did the customary photoshoot. Neither Butch nor I could complain about a thing.

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On the morning of the grand reunion, we packed up the Honey Badger and set off for the exclusive game camp where we would spend the weekend in Magudu.

Not all the guests would stay with us; some of the younger generation would be spread out on neighbouring guest and game farms. It was not surprising when a bunch of them jumped at the opportunity to stay at the Goss Game Farm and Homestead. (The late Ian Goss used to read my blogs and always made a lovely comment. Hiking on his farm was highly poignant to us, as I'm sure his spirit walked alongside us.) 

The plan was to relax, catch up, and sit around if we felt like it, or go for walks and hikes on a whim if needed.

Butch and I were delighted to set up our camp under the trees where we’d stay in the Honey Badger while the rest of the older generation took up residence in one of the cottages overlooking a plain and watering hole.

The Robertson siblings had a lot of catching up to do, and they decided to lounge around the boma and watch the world go by while hearing all the latest gossip, stories and happenings. When one is of a certain age, one’s circumstances can change in the wink of an eye, and we all had stories to tell.

Butch and I were reunited with the children and Liam, our adorable grandson, who was eager to sit as close to his grandpa as possible to hear of our adventures. And Oupa didn’t miss a beat and had him beguiled with his stories of massive 24-wheeled trucks, wild animals and remote African jungles, chimpanzees, lions who climb trees in Uganda and ferocious crocodiles, who lie in wait for their dinner on the banks of the Zambezi. Liam dangled from Butch’s lips, caught hook, line and sinker.

That night, we had a guest sleeping in the Honey Badger. Oupa lay on a makeshift bed in the passageway, and lucky Ouma won first prize —a little boy besotted with his brave Grandpa snuggled up alongside her.  

At six, as the sun crept over the tops of the bougainvillaea bushes, Oupa had had enough of sleeping uncomfortably; his back was killing him, he mouthed. He’d be on coffee and hot chocolate duty, he said. While we sipped our morning drinks in bed, Oupa resumed his extraordinary tales of an African adventure while the rest of the camp caught up with lost sleep. 

All our meals were catered for by the very talented chefs Gayle and Nico, who served three five-star meals every day around the communal long table, flawlessly catering to every whim, age, and dietary requirement. We were thoroughly spoilt by a competent team who made meals for a crowd look effortless.

Our hosts, Corrie and Paula, had a menu of activities planned and laid out, and everyone, regardless of age, could participate in as many or as few activities as they were up for.

Butch and I hiked on the Goss farm with the youngsters one morning, chasing Liam. We’d sneak off to take afternoon naps after a hefty luncheon of speeches and toasts, and at four we’d join the ladies and sisters for coffee and cake.

We never missed a sundowner nor an opportunity to participate in the discussions around the fire pit. We clapped and cheered enthusiastically whenever a speech was concluded and even whistled and shouted “hear, hear” every time someone said something poignant, clever or silly.

It goes without saying that we cried (mostly happy tears) and at times were wholly overcome by emotion, nodding our agreement at the sagacious words spoken in praise of Lolli, the matriarch, who insisted that this get-together was the only gift she would accept for her 80th birthday.

On a perfect spring evening, the sun set blood orange over a small lake. After a while, a journey of giraffes ambled down to drink, and a fish eagle called from a tree nearby. It was the perfect setting for the obligatory family photoshoot. Everyone struck a pose, girls swiped a shared lip gloss across their lips and patted down stray curls before wrapping themselves around each other.

Children got the wet finger treatment from their mothers in an attempt to clean up a smear of olive tapenade or chocolate. Threats to stand still and behave or face the consequences were passed wordlessly to teenagers who avoided parental eye contact, shrugged, and resumed their tomfoolery.

Eventually, a picture of everyone was captured just as they were. No frills, no pretences, no poses, just a deck of authentic smiles and genuine love beaming from every face.

Everyone agreed lifelong bonds had been forged between cousins, uncles, and aunts, grannies and old farts who got to know boys and girls who were once in nappies and now might sport a piercing or tattoo. One could see who the can-can dancer is and who quietly observed the shenanigans. The littlest one stood proudly between his big cousins from Australia and the UK. The boys of all ages scrummed to show the Aussie how it’s done, and not to confuse rugby with Aussie rules.

The three original Robertsons (1 pater and 2 mater-familias) waited patiently and obediently did as they were told. They shuffled into line, smiled for the camera and looked adoringly at their marvellous offspring and grandchildren who exemplify the family perfectly.

 

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Sunday morning dawned, and all too soon, people started checking their watches, surreptitious glances passed between couples, and quiet nods signalled someone had to pack up. Time tables and flights were a topic of conversation, and then luggage was being stowed into hire cars.

Breathless goodbyes, bear hugs and promises to keep up and not be so lazy communicating were expressed. Husbands impatiently whispered, “Come on now, we must go!” and then car doors slammed shut, engines roared, and final goodbyes were issued before emotions got the better of us.

In a cloud of red dust, we spotted a last wave just before the steel security gates clanged shut and the electrical motor stopped whirring. Did we imagine it, or was that a staccato hoot-toot-toot before they hit the tar road? Someone asked as we dabbed our eyes and dried a sniffle.

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Butch and I had a way to go yet before we were “home”, and so we saddled up the old Honey Badger and, with Bertus, Anna and Liam in tow, we headed east and then south to the Natal north coast to spend a few blissful days in a cottage overlooking a long stretch of white sand, blue skies and warm waves rolling in.

The week with the Breslers, we vowed, would be a beach holiday: no pressure, no timetable, no rushing and definitely no agenda.

We took each day as it presented itself. The boys walked, talked, and played touch rugby with Liam. We dipped into the warm waters of the Indian Ocean, snorkelled in rock pools to show Liam the curiosities lurking out of sight. We built sandcastles in the air, dreaming of our future, and enjoyed the sunlight on our pale, wintery skin.

Sometimes we just enjoyed watching this little family enjoying a well-deserved break from their busy lives. That in itself was enough for us, too.

At home, we prepared delicious meals, made proper Martini cocktails in a shaker, and Oupa assisted Liam in building Legos. On occasion, we’d throw out our beach towels and we’d dip into our books, which soon turned into a gentle snooze.

On the rare occasion that we took the car out, we explored the Mac Robert’s petting farm with Liam, whose particular interest was a goat.

We reconnoitred the local campsites, ticking some for future adventures. I could imagine myself bobbing in the tidal pools, and then we enjoyed a leisurely luncheon in the local resort’s old-fashioned dining room. We couldn’t decide whether the prawn pasta or the lamb curry was the dish of the day. They both exceeded our expectations.

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Shortly after breakfast on a fine, sunny morning, Anna and Liam departed (Bertus had a busy schedule and had already jetted off). Fortunately, this time, we knew we’d see them before Christmas at the latest, which made their departure from our lives a little easier.

We had become accustomed to having family around and decided to return to Pongola for one last fling before heading north to the Kruger National Park via Swaziland.

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Lolli had a few surprises in store for us, and for me, a dubious highlight was a trip to the local Pongola taxidermist.

(Dear reader, if you find photographs of taxidermized animals upsetting, please do not read any further. I have included a few pictures to illustrate my experience.)

Butch and I have different views on the merits of hunting and conservation. While I can see the Homo heidelbergensis attraction of hunting for the pot, I can’t imagine why anyone would hunt for trophies. But I accept it and have a “each to his own” philosophy on choices.

Besides which, I have a clutch of eager beaver hunters in my brood, and on a few occasions, have slept in a bed beneath the enormous head of an Elk and a magnificent Moose with one horn when I was a guest and for years, I was the custodian of my brother’s century-old Kenyan Leopard skin. I retrieved it from the black depths of a cupboard and returned it to him before our trip. (Which, by association, essentially makes me a hypocrite if I criticise too much.)

And so it came to pass that one fine afternoon, while Lolli went shopping, I was escorted around the taxidermy factory, where I learned about the trade, craft, and art of taxidermy.

According to Wikipedia, “ Taxidermy is defined as the art of preserving an animal’s body by mounting or stuffing it for display or study. This practice involves creating lifelike representations of animals, most commonly birds and mammals, using their prepared skins and various supporting structures. Taxidermy can be performed on all vertebrate species, including mammals, birds, fish, reptiles and amphibians.”

Although I had mixed feelings about the experience, I must confess I was impressed by the talent and craftsmanship employed by the taxidermists who worked with utmost respect and care for the animals.

The paper trail involved in the process is mindboggling, and this was a comfort to me.

South Africa permits game hunting under strict national and provincial regulations that aim to ensure conservation and ethical practices. Hunters must obtain the appropriate licenses and species-specific permits, and all hunts require professional guide supervision. Unless a hunter has certified documentation of each animal from birth to death, they will be considered a poacher if caught without these papers. They will be prosecuted, fined, and even incarcerated, my guide told me.

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Not everyone could attend the family reunion due to various personal reasons, commitments, or unforeseen circumstances, which is understandable. Still, the tree missed the four absent branches, and it is crucial to note that your names were mentioned on a few occasions. Rest assured, in the best way possible. Our disappointment at losing out on your company was keenly felt on many occasions. You are loved, and we’re all determined to make up for this loss in the future. 

Lolli’s coloured pencil creations and wise quotes, individually made for each of us, are lasting reminders of her strength and unquenchable joie de vivre, even as she faces Parkinson’s with grace and resilience. Her strength comes from her faith, her family, her friends, her garden and her beautiful home.

I have decided to keep on writing and sharing our exploits; my fingers need to fly over a keyboard, as this is my only creative talent. 

 

“When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching… they are your family.” Jim Butcher.