New Heavens by Boris Senior Read Free Book Online Page B

construction exposed and consisting of long poles of poplar wood, which support the thatch. The poles end in a conical top, the whole making a pleasant appearance with the bundles of thatch forming attractive ceilings especially in the soft light of paraffin lamps. The thick walls are made of bricks and plaster painted white inside and out, and inside there is always the peculiar but pleasant smell of thatch. Apart fromsome danger of fire, there can be no better form of roof, cool in summer and warm in winter.
    The atmosphere of the veld pervades everything. At Doornbosfontein, we always felt close to nature. It is usually bone dry, but in the summer after a rain shower, the air is suffused with the wonderful pungent odor of dry earth wet by rain. The rain comes in the early afternoon, preceded by vast buildups of towering cumulus storm clouds, which invariably give birth to wild storms. When we sought shelter in our
rondavels
, the rain could not even be heard through the thick thatch, and we felt cozy and safe. Outside, the veld stretched as far as the eye could see, the parched earth drinking in the life-giving fluid from the heavens, the dry cracks in the earth healing as the rain smoothed the ravages of the burning sun.
    A dam at the end of a stream supplied water of good quality. There was no telephone or electricity at Doornbosfontein, and the nearest telephone and post office were at Orient rail station, seven kilometers away. Part of the farm is in a mountain range. It was a magnet for us children because of its streams, steep valleys, and populations of buck, porcupines, monkeys, and other wild life. The mountains were reached by the whole family in a large ox-wagon drawn by sixteen slow-moving oxen, led by the black
voorloper
pacing along slowly at their head. On arrival at the “kloof” as we called it, the
voorloper
would tighten brakes made of large blocks of wood pressed against the rear wheels. We would start down the incline, and I remember the fear I felt during the steep descent behind the bellowing oxen. It is hard to believe that in the eighteenth century the mass movement ofthe Afrikaners from the Cape to the far north a thousand miles away was made in the same kind of wagon.
    The farm was basic, without electricity. We made do with Primus stoves for cooking, and the kerosene lamps at night lent a cozy atmosphere to the rondavel. Meals were simple. A profusion of salads, vegetables, and white cheese made by my mother by hanging cloth bags of sour cream on a tree, from which we could see the whey dripping. My mother loved the simplicity of life at the farm and refused to introduce modern gadgets. Even our water was drawn from the dam nearby and carried to the
rondavels
.
    Our relatives eventually decided that life on a farm in South Africa was not for them and left Doornbosfontein for the city. My father arranged with various tenant farmers to live in and run the farm. They lived in the big house with their families while we kept the rondavels for weekends and vacations. The farmers were mostly Afrikaans, many down on their luck from drinking, and were a continual source of trouble. The black workers were more-permanent residents at the farm and lived in a village they had built at one end of the farm. They were entirely independent, provided they gave us one-third of whatever crops they grew on the land near the village. They had their own hierarchy, and their church nearby was on our land, its exterior walls gaily decorated in African fashion. I remember the great respect tinged with some fear we children accorded their old headman Oom Paul with his one blind eye.
    In the early 1930s, my father, always a keen Zionist, offered Doornbosfontein as a training farm for prospective migrants to Palestine, and there were groups of young menliving there studying agriculture as part of the Hechalutz movement. It was doubtless strange for the Afrikaner farmers in the area to visit the large central