Inside South Africa
FR

Translated into English.

MU Muriel18 Globetrotter ·
Have you read Troy Blacklaws

No, but your link makes me want to... I’ll order it—it’ll join my "to-read" pile 😉 Muriel
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
Buffelsbaai

Buffaloes haven’t come to the beach in a long time. Not since tourists took over the place. The village is built on a conical dune, and from the camp set on a coastal rise, only the summit emerges from the morning mist. It has a bit of a Mont Saint-Michel vibe. Kids sled down cardboard boxes they abandon at the bottom of the slopes—sometimes the box slips away, and they end up tumbling down in fits of laughter. Patient surfers wait for those rare perfect moments under the indifferent gaze of families buried in the sand. Bricklayers haul bricks into the last empty lots. The lagoons fill and empty, carving quick streams in the sand. In the nature park, oystercatchers are painted like the shellfish sellers from Lorient’s markets. The waves and reefs never stop their noisy quarrels. Why this shared pull toward the ocean? Some kind of amniotic nostalgia?

*

Wild golf

A farmer-turned-developer had set up a golf course between olive and fruit trees before selling the farm to a wild-game breeder. The new owner let the greens become grazing land for antelopes—though they won’t have to wait long before taking a bullet on a hunting farm. My slice of desert is an acceptable practice range, even if the old sheep fences make for leaky nets. The acacias are great makeshift flags, and the hundred or so vertical pipes sunk into the ground to water the roots make easy holes, despite the lost balls. For a 300-meter drive, the desert is wide open, no fee. Just bring your own tees. J.M. Coetzee, the South African Nobel laureate, bitterly describes what he sees as a step backward: his country was wild before it was domesticated, then cultivated. Now, he observes, food crops are abandoned on farms, cattle and sheep are slaughtered, and antelopes take their place. Meanwhile, farmworkers left jobless swell the shantytowns.

*

Paradise lost

Whether spring seedlings or transplants, the vegetable plants gave up first. Wilted before they could bear anything. Then the patch of lawn that reassured her dried up. After two months, the geraniums and other delicate plants died. And no one reacted. The olive trees wither in the sun, and even the succulents darken. Finally, the majestic pepper tree, perhaps heartbroken by the sight or unable to bear the loneliness, stopped feeding itself and shed its leaves. The surprise comes from the bougainvillea, heavy with flowers as if nothing were wrong—or as if adorning a grave. Madame de Wit left six months ago for another garden she called wonderful, where she was to meet her husband. Since then, the water’s been cut off, the gardener doesn’t come, and neither does the rain.

*

Dead end

Three houses in 300 meters: five dogs in the first, four cats in the second, and four mastiffs in the last. Only six humans. A sign, disguised as a cat’s face, demands you drive slowly. In North End, the township, there must be two thousand kids for whom the streets are their playground—no signs asking drivers to watch out. A few stray, scrawny dogs and cats wander around.

*

Small5

Sitting on the stones, I accidentally break a spider’s trap, its threads now trailing on the ground. Along comes a busy ant, as they always are, getting its legs tangled in the web. It struggles so much it ends up wrapped like a cocoon—an uncomfortable one. One, then two, then four of its friends trot over to help. It seems they greet and reassure the trapped ant. Each does their part, pulling in all directions until the captive is even more tangled than before. Clearly, they need a team leader. Sometimes a thread snaps, and the would-be rescuer ends up on its back, but you can almost hear the trapped ant’s gasp. Time passes, it’s still wriggling, the rescuers keep at it. Then suddenly, it’s stretched to the breaking point. The others are like tug-of-war teams, but the silk holds strong. Shhfff—the threads and fabric give way, and each team ends up with half the prize, all losers.

*

March 20th, autumn?

Beyond the mountains that separate us from the ocean—like a dam holding back the clouds—the lightning’s glow seems to come from a disoriented lighthouse that’s lost its light. We’re in the desert, so far from the sea. Sometimes a series of high lightning bolts forms arabesques—Allah’s wrath?—but most often, the light seeps out like a distant concert playing records backward. We’re too far from the stage to hear the sound. A drop on the back of my hand, a second on her face, a third on her outstretched leg—and the fourth... No fourth, nothing more. Aborted prelude. Later, from a trailing cloud, light, gray, but nighttime, the rain arrives. If it puts out my cigar, I’ll quit smoking. For tonight. It’ll be a half-hearted laundry and a cat’s bath. My hair stands on end, twenty thousand useless lightning rods. After a long intermission, the downpour resumes—it doesn’t stop. The producer seems to have a central bank’s resources. By morning, the earth—or what passes for it—is damp three centimeters deep. It’ll take more to quench the trees and fill the water tables, but the succulents are feasting.

*

Agenda for the 21st

7:30 AM: Meet at the garage for final adjustments before the Botswanan Kalahari. Last chance for the Defender—next breakdown in the middle of nowhere, and I’m letting it go. 9:00 AM: Meeting at the Municipality to negotiate a parcel revision. 10:00 AM: Visit to a primary school class in the township. 12:00 PM: French conversation class at the high school. 5:00 PM: Meeting of the scammed. A sort of fake surveyor pockets fees for work he doesn’t do (a fake job?)—we might be his latest victims. We’re asked to join a complaint. But to me, the guy’s more incompetent than a crook. Is incompetence a crime? 7:00 PM: Closing time. Feels like we’re traveling—I light a fire and open a bottle of Down to Earth. “So, when do we go nomad again?”

*

Building a fire

A year’s worth of brush and pruning waits for the bonfire, but there’s no question of lighting it in the middle of a drought. In two days and one night, 20 millimeters of rain fell—10% of the average annual rainfall. The surroundings are damp enough not to catch fire at the first stray spark. The only worry is the wind, usually predictable, a night bird blowing from the south—but it sometimes takes a nap, waking up midday. Several dozen cubic meters are carefully lined up parallel to the wind’s axis. You’ve got to light the fire downwind so it’s both fanned and hindered, keeping it from burning too fast.

***

I’m already putting down roots here, but I hesitate to plant a traveler’s tree in the garden.

*

On the terrace, a pair of empty, dirt-camouflaged sneakers. A butterfly, drawn by the scent, starts exploring. The gecko pounces, then, suddenly chameleon-like, waits at the ankle.

*

At night, the sun, via the moon, makes the palm leaves’ glossy surfaces twinkle. The electric wind turns them into blinking garlands.

*

Armed with a long fork with tight tines, they skim the surface in broad strokes. Could be Ré or Guérande. Yet, even though there’s still plenty of salt in the desert—so much that well water is now brackish and reeks of sewage—these workers aren’t harvesting fleur de sel but working on the wastewater treatment plant’s basins.

*
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
The Gravity of Water

Today, Anthony put the finishing touches on the automatic irrigation system. It’s a real Rube Goldberg machine that’s more complicated than it needs to be. On top of that, the borehole that was still producing 3,500 liters per hour not long ago now only runs for twenty minutes at half the flow rate. So, we’ll be saving water, which is in such short supply.

Around ten at night, lightning lit up the horizon, drawing closer, thunder rumbled, and finally, the rain came down in a fury. An hour or two at that pace, and the city, which had started tightening its taps, got a reprieve. The desert glistened with puddles, gullies formed. The rains had ravaged the northeast of the country, and even the Kalahari Desert had gotten its share. Surrounded, the Great Karoo was waiting its turn.

The next morning, I headed into Swartberg Pass. While the valley was sunny, it was still raining there, and the track was starting to deteriorate. The rushing water swelled the river, whose bed the track follows for its last few kilometers. It would’ve been wise to shut the valves up there.

Late in the evening, the wind and its accomplices had moved on, leaving only the passive energy of the moon. I heard an unusual, steady, deep noise. No movement in the trees. No elephants around here for some time. It sounded like the tide rolling pebbles, but the ocean is two hours away. The river, dry for years, was less than a kilometer away, and the rumbling was coming from that direction. When we got there, a few of us saw that the track had been washed away by a flow about thirty meters wide, rolling pumpkin-sized boulders. Such raw power hadn’t been seen here since 1981.

By morning, upstream, the river had swallowed the Swartberg Pass track. Over a few hundred meters of narrows, there was nothing left but the river as it had been until 1880, before humans forced this road upon it. Higher up, only the foundations made of cut blocks weighing close to a ton remained. Such devastation hadn’t been recorded since the road was built 130 years ago.

Desiree, though, weighed only sixty kilos. This young mixed-race woman made beadwork in a sheltered workshop we’d visited the week before. What was she doing at the edge of danger? When her body was found wrapped in a shroud of mud, the river was dry again.







*

Donkey Skin

The Chinese find virtues in donkey skin. Not sure that gives rhinos a break. Soon, the emaciated donkeys that shared the roads of Botswana will be nothing but a fond memory. *

The Black T-Shirts

"What’s serious, you see, is that South Africa is becoming an African country again." He knows what he’s talking about—he works all over the continent. "You should come to the protest to demand Zuma’s resignation; there’ll be a lot of us. Wear a black T-shirt." A human chain is planned in Cape Town—a chain to free ourselves, what a strange idea! Of course, J. Zuma is a president without qualities. Still, democracy being what it is, it can produce what hereditary monarchies sometimes do: a good-for-nothing ends up in charge. *

Adam’s Wood

Shortly after six, another unusual noise (again!) came from the other wing of the house. Flocks of Red-winged starling had invaded the town, but they don’t make those dull sounds. And dawn was barely breaking. Naked, I slipped toward the terrace where two men were crouched in front of the woodpile, stuffing it into sacks. In one motion, I threw open a window and let out a mighty roar—the very one you need when a lioness charges you in the Kalahari. The first guy fell on his butt, the second grabbed a full sack and bolted. By the time I opened the door and grabbed a stick, I started chasing them before realizing I was naked. It’s the time when sporty South African women start their morning jog. Embarrassed, I gave up, though not without hurling my stick at the fleeing thieves, who must’ve been laughing their heads off. Me too, but bitterly. I know one of them. Those who have nothing don’t care about the good intentions of those who (have) something.
RJ Rjulie95 Globetrotter ·
Trying to change the course of a river is a human activity doomed to fail... Even if it takes a long time, sooner or later, it will return to its natural path. Where I live in Ardèche, they keep doing it, and every time there’s a flood, the river goes back to its original course.

Zuma—a president like many in Africa who clings to power and refuses to let go. His wife is tipped to succeed him as head of the ANC, hoping this country doesn’t end up like its imposing neighbor, once the breadbasket of Africa. Hoping that his successor, if there is one, has a vision for the country and not just for a privileged few...

Hoping the rain keeps falling, but more regularly—isn’t the rainy season coming up soon?
AT Atila Globetrotter ·
Still to come in 6 months? 🙂
MA Max68 Globetrotter ·
Darn, I missed the rest 😮,

Gotta say, all it takes is for me to disappear to the other side of the globe for you to take advantage and write posts and take photos 😉
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
Hi Régis,

hoping this country doesn’t end up like its imposing neighbor, once the breadbasket of Africa

You’re not wrong to be worried! Last month, the president fired the finance minister, who had two major flaws: he was competent and opposed the president. His replacement’s main qualification? Being a yes-man. He appointed an economics professor—a sluggish hybrid of Varoufakis and Piketty—as an advisor, who advocates expropriating farmers without compensation and nationalizing the mining sector, banks, and insurance companies. In short, the country’s rapid ruin and worsening conditions for the poorest.
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
The sequel in 6 months?🙂

Given the nature of my activities—and my declining success here—I’m wondering if I shouldn’t switch to a gardening or DIY forum.
RJ Rjulie95 Globetrotter ·
All we can do now is hope he gets voted out in the next elections.
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
It’s an impression where Jolly Jumper does everything it can to keep you from getting bored during your getaways 😉

The Defender is for sale at a specialized garage. Since I’m coming back in September, it’s not out of the question that I’ll be carless. Nothing on the market appeals to me, but I’ll avoid ending up with a Japanese tractor. 😏
MA Max68 Globetrotter ·
Hey Voyajou 🙂,

Le Defender is for sale at a specialist garage.

Why’d you trade it in for a ride-on mower? 😉

I won’t lie—this isn’t exactly making me dream… or are you planning to explore new places between gardening sessions? 😏
DI Diamina Globetrotter ·
Naked, I slip toward the terrace where two men are crouched in front of the woodpile, bagging it up. In one swift motion, I fling open a window and let out a mighty roar—the very one you need when a lioness charges at you in the Kalahari. The first guy hits the deck, the second grabs a full sack and bolts. By the time I open the door and grab a stick, I’m already in pursuit before realizing I’m stark naked. It’s the time when sporty South African women start their morning jog. Sheepishly, I give up, but not without hurling my stick at the fleeing thieves, who must be having a good laugh.

Any photos of this episode? 🤪

We hear the thunder and, at last, the water rages.

Nice!!!

It would be wise to close the valves up there.

Oh? Is there someone up there?

Miroslav Vitous jams on Universal Syncopations. I whistle a Down to Earth and puff on a Havana.

Love is a gypsy child, who’s never, ever known any law.......

I can just picture all those women around you—voluptuous goddesses—dancing the habanera!!

Then it narrows as it’s no longer maintained and starts to tackle the terrain.

Cool, I’ve become more educated: "étrécir" just enriched my vocabulary!!

Alas, no way to talk fashion with the shepherds in rags who only understand Afrikaans.

Haven’t you started learning Afrikaans yet?

The night before, alerted by jerks, I barely made it to a roadside campsite. When it came time to maneuver, I couldn’t engage any gear. I tried all twenty-eight possible combinations, but the car just crunched (crunch crunch crunch) and didn’t budge an inch.

What do we say about the clutch again??? Huh?
ZA Zabazou ·
See you in 6 months?🙂

Given the nature of my activities—and my declining success here—I’m wondering if I shouldn’t switch to a gardening or DIY forum instead.

No, no, no! Not DIY or gardening, please. The silent majority appreciates your posts, and even if they’re rare, they’re all the more valued.
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
Would there be a photo of this episode? 🤪

A photo of the fugitives was unnecessary since I had recognized one of them. As for the photo of their pursuer, publishing it would violate the Forum Charter and would be censored immediately.

I can just picture all those women around you, lush goddesses, dancing the habanera!!

In the meantime, I’ve got Carmen stuck in my head. Thanks, Madam, for this attentive reading.
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
In these noisy times, when those who stay silent are considered dead, I’m glad to learn that a silent majority may have survived. I hope you earned your role as spokesperson honorably and didn’t just appoint yourself.

I’ll take you to the garden to meet new plants. I’ll tell travel stories again there—I’ll talk about Bougainville, Poivre, and Bégon.
DO Dolma Globetrotter ·
What can I write that I haven’t already written so many times? What can I say that I haven’t already said so many times? Your words now ring out, stumble, swirl, resonate, blare, illuminate, darken, deafen, soothe, comfort...

Maybe I’m a silent reader, but as always, I’m a devoted and admiring one—always, I really do mean always...

See you soon for more snippets of your African life, then?

Dolma
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
See you soon for more snippets of your African life, then?

I’ve just returned from ten days in Marseille and the Gard region. Lou-sorti-de-la-cuisse-de-Jupiter had already been there and recently exclaimed: « I see Africans... ». So, a few snippets of southern France for you?

Prudence was born in Chad, yet among her dim colleagues, she’s the one who lights up the evening. / In the Bourse district at dawn, laid-back rats do their grocery shopping in overflowing bins. / The Mucem is fantastic with its temporary exhibition « Life of Trash ». / After the sardine that once blocked the port, Marseillais have now found a way to double the number of boats at the docks: they installed a horizontal mirror covering a thousand square meters twenty feet above the quays. Meanwhile, on Rue de Suffren, mini-croissants cost the same as standard ones. And of course, the big wheel by the port put on a rainbow show. / At Place du Marché, the sailors of the coast greet each other roughly before hoisting the sails. The setup will be locked down for the arrival of tourist ships. / At the terrace of Tchin Tchin, the mature ladies have skin like snakes. And their tongues: absent friends get a toast. / On the Route des Crêtes, employees of a communications company are testing the new Abarth Spider. No one told me its horsepower, but the car is gorgeous. Upon further inquiry, it’s got more bark than bite: a young rooster’s car. / She used to spend her summer vacations in the water. Now that she lives on the coast year-round, she no longer wants to swim in the Mediterranean, which she sees as a cemetery. It must be said she’s the adoptive mother of two North Africans who arrived through legal channels. / A chic, stout lady carries a curly-haired bichon like an accessory. At the end of the leash, her grumpy husband looks like a pug. You can’t tell who’s walking whom, or why. / In the Gard, I savored a local wine, a cabernet-merlot blend—young, modern, and well-dressed. A worldly wine. Its name: Substance. A welcome change from the usual châteaux and domains. / Beyond the island, an unidentified floating object (UFO) cruises by: a rigid five-masted vessel rigged with pasta shells as sails. Such a setup wouldn’t give it that speed, but no jib in the mast—these things happen on the decks of the Club Med 2. The Chinese flag doesn’t stop the delights of Capua.





MA Magryelle Regular ·
but it's magnificent! I love Marseille and you can really feel the African influence there!
MU Muriel18 Globetrotter ·
Wow! We’ve got more photos of Marseille than of South Africa (especially when you consider the time we spent there ). Anyway, I really enjoyed reading about a world that’s beautiful, wild, and harsh... something I never would’ve picked up without your recommendations 😉. Muriel
MI Michel85200 Globetrotter ·
Hi, Buffelsbaai (if we're talking about the same buffaloes and the same bay), Brenton, and Knysna have clearly suffered a lot...😕 😉 michel

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