L
ET us sit outside on the flagstones, fill our wine flagons and gaze at the wide-angle sky. For a moment, forget we are of this world and all its woes. Let’s sip the wine and try to spot the seven newfound planets that go around TRAPPIST-1, a little star that lies oh, say, nearly 40 light years away from us.
Now drop your gaze to the moonlit horizon, shush for a second and listen to the jackals yipping in the distance. The creak of the windpump and the distant growl of a farmer’s bakkie — welcome to the Karoo.
Do pass the bottle — the night is growing cold. We should drink up and hit the chilly outside shower, unless you fancy a hot bath in a galvanised iron tub.
Here, in this historic corbelled house on Stuurmansfontein, a working farm outside the Northern Cape town of Carnarvon, it’s so easy to tune out. There’s no power at all. Our tablets and smartphones are useless. We’re gloriously out of touch.
Supper? We could either cook on a wood-fired stove or go for the gas. But why don’t we just troop out to the braai area with our lamb chops? Good sense is good sense.
Where’s the toilet? Well, just before sunset I visited that little outhouse on the ridge. I kept the door open because the view was simply five-star. But there’s a flush-loo in the building, so you have a choice.
We turn in early because that’s what frontier folk do. The bedstead is made of heavy carved wood, the duvet is soft and we fall deeply asleep, dreaming of nothing at all.
In the morning, I find an interesting comment in the visitors’ book: “The ghost of the Karoo is warm and friendly.” What’s that about?
Early in the 20th century, a bywoner called Fanie Bergh and his family came here. Bywoners worked for farmers in exchange for a piece of land they could cultivate and live off. The Berghs lived in an exquisite beehive-shaped home of rocks that held the heat of the sun in winter, with thick walls to keep cool in summer.
They planted quinces, apples, oranges, figs and pomegranates and used the attic as a store room. A wind pump supplied them with water. And they had roses growing all over.
Tannie Bergh was well known in the district for her coffee; her secret lay in the dried figs she crushed in with the beans. When the family needed a chop or two, Oom Fanie would shoot a sheep. They’d butcher it and store the cuts in the coolest place they could find: under the marital bed. And if it dripped a little blood, well, the floors were made of blood, clay and dung anyhow.
In a world of tomorrow, they would be perfectly set for survival.
So, I’m thinking, maybe the ghost those visitors spoke is Tannie Bergh. Why? Because I thought I caught a slight whiff of fig in that first cup on the stoep outside — where the empty wine bottles are evidence of a night well spent. — © Chris Marais