Chapter 6. Hellfire and Brimstone

Bulklip Rock after which the farm was named

We progressed slowly for some considerable time undertaking most of the heavy work ourselves with assistance from two labourers who came to work on a casual basis. However, there came a time when it was just no longer possible to manage and we employed a married couple to give a hand. The standard of Jacob’s work was fairly good, but his ability to lay into his wife was too much to cope with, and after having seen her departing in a huff twice in one week, we decided that the best thing would be for her to set up home closer to her mother who seemed to have some control over the situation.

This couple were replaced some months later by Stephen and Angelina, and their three small sons, Joseph, Kolani and Patrick. They arrived in a truck that appeared to be held together with rope, laden with the contents of their previous home, and in no time they had rebuilt and enlarged the staff house allotted to them and they settled in for the foreseeable future.

Kolani aged six had obvious plans of earning his keep as the mechanic around the farm, and it became essential to remove the keys from all the vehicles lest he decided to either drive it or strip the engine. Patrick endeared himself to John by asking for "Pom Pom" which had originally derived from the French “Bon Bon”. He dearly loved to drive the wheelbarrow and was a cheerful little soul with an ever-ready grin that would light his face. Poor Angelina laboured endlessly for her household of menfolk, sorely missing a daughter with whom she could share the tasks, but at the end of a busy week, she must have had an excellent home brewed beer recipe, judging from the laughter and singing that could be heard coming from the staff quarters. They had a large plot of garden allocated to them and produced a steady supply of fresh vegetables, and their collection of broody hens kept them well supplied with both eggs and meat. Sadly their sojourn on the farm came to an end after nearly three years as the distance from the local farm school became too much for the stubby little legs of Patrick and Kolani, and they found employment nearer family and schooling. I missed the bright appearance of Angelina who wielded the Basotho grass broom and a duster with great effect and could bring a gleam to the old English silver that it never saw in its' previous history, and probably has not seen since!

It never occurred to me how conscious one becomes of the weather conditions when you farm. If the wind is blowing, there will be water lifted by the windmill; if it is a still calm day, you must check that the troughs haven’t run dry. If the sun burns down too strongly, young plants will perish and if the rain beats down too hard, seedlings are washed away and dongas (erosion furrows) created.

Farming seemed to revolve around the weather forecast, and this often came, not in weighty words from the Met Office reports on the TV but in creaking knees, the opinions of wise old men down in the town and wisps of cloud which appear over the ridge. People would tell me of flowers in their gardens which had not bloomed since the last big rains. I heard of birds that only sang prior to a downpour; I learned about cakes flopping because of falling barometric pressure and mostly I learned about drought.

Years before when growing up as a child in England, drought was a word that occurred in exciting books about far away places. In England it rained at least twice a week and normally spoiled something you had planned to do or soaked you on your bicycle on the way back from school. Now drought had become a very real enemy and it was tightening its grip not only on us, but on the whole of Southern Africa. We began to see the farm dam slowly ebbing away and the grass staying crisp and brown far longer at the end of winter. The fountains in the farm did not rise as strongly, trees shed their leaves sooner and day after day we awoke to clear blue skies and the promise of yet another hot dry day.

With no build-up of storm clouds to break the heat of a summers day and no grey winter rainfalls, month after month went by with no sign of rain. The water reserves on the farm became dangerously low and bathing was something that you did in a shallow puddle of water which was then carted out and thrown on the shrivelling rose bushes. A cleansing shower was anxiously timed by those awaiting their turn for a "spit and polish", and the idea of leaving a tap running while you cleaned your teeth was completely foreign.

In time, it became apparent that we were no longer going to be able to survive on the water lifted by the windmill, and so, hitching up a borrowed trailer which was loaded with a large empty tank and a pump, John and I would head for the Municipal dam some ten kilometres away. Here we would stand up to our thighs in brown muddy water and pray that this time the pump would work, the tanks wouldn't leak, the bungs had not been lost and that the vehicle would have the strength to drag the load back up the hill to the farm. On one heart-breaking occasion, we got the three thousand litres of precious water to the front gate of the farm whereupon one of the tanks burst and its contents spilled uselessly down the driveway. That evening, we sat with our heads in our hands and wondered what had ever made us think we could farm. But on we went, day after day, hauling sometimes three loads up for thirsty cattle, trying to keep man and animal alive on the dwindling supplies.

It was at the height of this battle that the very real danger of veldt (grass) fires arose. By now, the grazing on all the surrounding farms was tinder-dry and it only took a bolt of lightening from an errant cloud, or the casual stupidity of a farm worker who threw out a pan of hot ash into the long grass, to do untold damage. Great plumes of smoke rising from behind the hills of the farm and the urgent ringing of the party line, would tell us that once again it was time to load what little water we had, take as many wet sacks and branches as we could lay hands on, and set out to help with the large contingent of fire fighters that seemed to meet three times a week on varying farms.

It was comforting to see how, without the slightest hesitation, farmers would leave their beds in the middle of the night, or abandon their work during the day, and appear at any given time with a full compliment of staff and fire fighting equipment. Such was the ongoing danger that increasing numbers of farmers purchased state of the art fire fighting gear and water tankers mounted on trucks became a common sight. It was not uncommon to find that town-dwellers had also appeared to give a hand. More often than not, they were connected to the farms by family, or in the case of the Bank Managers, by large debt.

One night, the phone rang as we had been watching a distant blaze and we were informed that the wind had shifted and it was headed our way. One only knows true fear when everything that you have worked for is threatened by something over which you have no control. Taking the farm truck, John and I drove out into the smoky black wind blasted night and in desperation blew the hooter repeatedly, and called to our cattle somewhere out in the dark hillsides. On the advice of friends, we had performed this action since they were youngsters, always rewarding them with a few sheaves of lucerne but we had never tried it under these conditions. To our complete amazement, out of the smoke and the wind came our entire herd and we led them to safety on the previously burnt half of the farm.

It then remained to pack up what little there was of real value and place it in the concrete block cool room which had been hosed down to give it maximum protection and then we waited and watched as the flames came closer and the smoke billowed around the house. Whatever great power there is, decreed that we should be spared that night and the fire rampaged past the buildings and continued its deadly path on down the valley, killing at least one farm worker from a neighbouring farm, and burning terrified stock trapped in its path. We awoke the next morning, having slept fully clothed and ready to run, and looked at each others blackened faces and reddened eyes and went to inspect our scorched veldt wondering yet again why we ever thought we could cope with this new life.