On the excruciatingly long flight home from Dubai to Los Angeles (I flew Emirates to-and-from the World Cup because they seemed to be the only airlines not attempting to gouge people) I had the chance to watch a movie about S. Africa starring John Malkovich: called “Disgrace.” This movie again reminded me of Malkovich’s range, and, I found the theme(s) of this movie pertinent, and, thought-provoking. I gather the movie was derived from a J.M. Coetzee book – and I’m betting that he doesn’t even live in S. Africa any longer.
As I’ve suggested to many folks – if my Cal STRS retirement holds up – and this whole damned country doesn’t go back to the robber barons – I would like to winter in S. Africa for half-the-year and sojourn in So Cal for the other “winter” (as Giti and I just can’t stand the heat these days.
But Giti keeps pushing for Brisbane, Australia — where my old S. African buddy, Chris, moved his family to escape post-apartheid S. Africa (for reasons promulgated in the aforementioned film). Yet most S. African folks describe Australia as boring – almost too perfect; kinda like vanilla ice cream: nothing like the rainbow sherbet proffered by the Rainbow Country. South Africa vs. Australia might be akin to comparing a dyed-in-the-cloth Los Angelino to a Salt Lake City resident (or a Canadian).
I try to get her (Giti) excited about life on an African farm – not that we could ever be farmers – but the life that is part-and-parcel of sharing the Wild. In all-the-years that I have spent in Africa (and I’d) visited quite a few farms – I had never experienced anything like Creighton’s Merino sheep farm. Not only does one consume biltong (S. African jerky) from dawn till dusk – but one is expected to eat and drink a lion’s share! I swear that the men of this farm had bottomless pits for stomachs and hollow legs to fit the beer. Though Son Nick and I were a bit agog at the strength required for dining and drinking – Irish Tony (another guest at the farm) was not fazed (he was an Irishman after all)! But when THE FURIES were played in the wee hours – Irish Tony became a bard.
The farm had its own family church and the family graveyard surrounding the church. I attempted to count the graves representing the family’s 250 years there – but I kept losing count (and I hadn’t even started drinking yet). Creighton gave me a copy of the book his father wrote to help me put things in perspective. In English the book title is: The Secret Loves.
The highlight of the farm experience, however, was to journey to the top of the escarpment (over 6000 feet above sea level) and view the breathtaking scenery of Africa at sunset. It was then we got to see the Kudu, Impala and Springbok that shared the farmland with the Merino sheep. Interestingly, it took awhile for the sun to set – as we constantly changed our altitude as we motored the rocky trail in a Nissan 4×4 (my bruised hips would attest to this).
And near the top – in cascading sunset light – was a cliff that had been used by the Bushman (no one seems to know how long ago). And in various panels of rock – the Bushmen left some of their rock paintings/drawings – that made the viewer realize how very tiny we each are in terms of time through space.
When I inquired about the brutal murders of the Orange Free State Boer farmers – I was told that these were ill-tempered folk who probably deserved their fates – which left me with considerable cud-to-chew…about the survival of the fittest…in Africa…