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Die Vergete grootpad/The Forgotten Highway

Rol af vir Afrikaans en Foto’s

A few years ago I stood in Potsdam outside Berlin where my patriarch, Joachim Scholtz was born in 1690 and whence he departed at 29 years of age to come to the Cape of Good Hope. That day I found myself being pulled back and forth between the past and the present.

In front of the Rathaus (Town Hall) where Joachim Scholtz must have stood before he left Potsdam for Africa.

What was he thinking, leaving this gentle landscape for the Cape of Good Hope? Was it poverty or a sense of adventure that drove him? Who was he and what did he look like? How did he take leave of his family in the knowledge that it was as final as death? That they would never see each other again? How did he manage his longing? Did he miss the perfume of mayflowers and elders? And then to exchange this flat, wooded countryside with all its lakes and rivers for the wild slopes of the Helderberg.

The Roland statue is a statue of a knight with a drawn sword, signifying the town privileges of a medieval city. Such statues exist in a number of cities notably in northern and eastern Germany, where they are often placed on the market square or in front of the city hall.

This monumental baroque palace in Potsdam was built in the year Joachim Scholtz left there in 1720. It was built for colonel Detlief von Massow.

Yesterday, once again, I was tossed between past and present on the farm Rogge Cloof in the Roggeveld, near Sutherland. The early morning mist drifted ghostlike, as my past caught up with me, where we got together for the departure of Gert and his horses on his 1000 km trek along the Forgotten Highway.

I had tried to postpone taking the Gernholtz family up on their invitations to Rogge Cloof because I knew I would be confronted again with myself and my ancestors. Joachim Scholtz, son of the first Joachim, was the first owner who purchased the farm in 1756. (Today it is a large nature reserve and an international destination.) Otto Gernholtz and I started talking about the inexplicable hold the Roggeveld has on people. I told him that it was my DNA floating about like a ghost. Otto said that he finds it wonderful to walk about on the farm with the knowledge that here somewhere his footprints could be the first ever.

There was much conviviality and anticipation before the departure. Coffee and rusks were served and we admired the horses and horse carts. Eventually the convoy departed, led by the graceful pitch black Flemish horses and the support vehicles behind. The horses and carts cannot look more beautiful anywhere else than in the wide Karoo landscape of the Roggeveld.

I though again about Joachim Scholtz II and how he must have battled through Verlatekloof to the top. The first night under the starts that shine more brightly than anywhere else. The snow of the first winter and where you could freeze to death even during the day. The wild animals everywhere. The Khoi whom they met riding their oxen. Were they friend or foe? And the loneliness. No other people anywhere nearby.

We drove stop-start to await the convoy. Took photos. Somewhere along the way Awie Vlok and his sons awaited us with their mules. The convoy grew in length. In Sutherland 13 horsemen were waiting along with Bennie and Lizelle’s wagon – Lizelle, my sister’s daughter, and Bennie Blom had already travelled for two full days in their little wagon with its tent covering that Anuta had made, to join Piet’s entourage.

Everyone gathered in front of the Louwhuis where a whole basaar with pancakes and milktart jaffels had been set up. An energetic team of rieldansers entertained the crowd with their nifty footwork and literally raised a dust cloud with their dance. A Riel (or Rieldans) is an ancient festive dance of the Bushmen, Nama and Khoikhoi. The Namas call it the Ikhapara. It is the oldest local form of entertainment which originated long before Western culture and traditions came to the Cape of Good Hope in 1652 and is used by the Khoisan people for social, spiritual, cultural and educational purposes.

Messages were exchanged, NP van Wyk Louw’s poems were read, and a Ghanaian prayer was read by ds Adri Vlok. The entire town was out to take note of what we were doing at the Louwhuis.

And then the large convoy left the town for a farm deeper into the Roggeveld where they would overnight.

The Forgotten Highway Route – a initiative of the Karoo Development Foundation.

The 1 000 km Heritage Route stretches from Tulbagh and Ceres in the south to Kuruman in the north. It is the route that was used by the !Xam (San) KhoeKhoe (Khoi), Tswana, missionaries and explorers. From there travellers would venture into central Africa. The focus of this route is the period 1780 – 1860, roughly 80 years. The main reason for the expansion is that the white trekboers kept moving north and establishing farms, churches and villages, and to keep order on the chaotic boundary.

Parts of the route were based on pathways well trodden by !Xam and other hunter-gatherer groups, later by Khoekhoe herders with sheep and cattle, Tswana farmers at the northern end, and Xhosa who entered the Karoo, taking up residence there and along the Gariep from the late eighteen century.

The core towns along the route include Tulbagh, Ceres, Sutherland, Fraserburg, Williston, Loxton, Carnarvon, Vanwyksvlei, Prieska, Niekerkshoop, Griekwastad, Danielskuil, Postmasburg, Campbell and Kuruman.
The main theme of the route is Encounters – of people often out of their comfort zones and meeting others of different cultural backgrounds. Very often, the result was intercultural mosaic of mutual influences.

***

Forgotten Highway / Vergete Grootpad

‘n Paar jaar gelede staan ek buite Berlyn in Potsdam waar my aartsvader Joachim Scholtz in 1690 gebore is en van waar hy op 29-jarige ouderdom na Suid-Afrika sou kom. Daardie dag is ek heen en weer geruk tussen verlede en werklikheid.

Wat het die jong man besiel om hierdie sagte landskap te verruil vir die Kaap van Goeie Hoop? Goeie hoop? Was dit armoede of ‘n sin vir avontuur? Wie was hy en hoe het hy gelyk? Hoe het hy afskeid van sy familie geneem met die wete dat dit soos dood moes wees? – dat hulle mekaar nooit weer sou sien nie. Wat het hy met sy verlange gedoen? Het hy die geure van meiblomme en vlier gemis? En uit hierdie plat, woud- en waterryke wêreld die wilde hange van Helderberg moes makmaak.

Gister is ek weer so rondgegooi tussen verledes en werklikheid op die plaas Rogge Cloof in die Roggeveld, naby Sutherland. Die vroegoggendmis hang in spoke, soos verledes my inhaal, waar ons bymekaarkom vir die vertrek van Piet en sy perde op sy 1000 km tog op die Vergete Grootpad.

Ek het alle uitnodigings deur die Gernholtz-familie na Rogge Cloof probeer uitstel omdat ek weet ek gaan weer met myself en my voorgeslagte gekonfronteer word. Joachim Scholtz, die seun van die eerste Joachim, was die eerste eienaar wat die plaas in 1756 gekoop het. (Vandag ‘n groot natuurreservaat en ‘n internasionale bestemming). Ek en Otto Gernholtz begin gesels oor die houvas wat die Roggeveld op mense het wat jy nie kan verklaar nie. Ek sê vir hom vir my is dit my DNS wat hier rondspook. Otto sê dit is vir hom wonderbaarlik om op die plaas rond te stap, waar sy voetspoor moontlik die eerste ooit is.

Daar is groot vrolikheid en afwagting voor die vertrek. Koffie en beskuit word bedien en ons bewonder die perde en perdekarre. Uiteindelik vertrek die kawalkade met die ses sierlike pikswart Vlaamse perde vooraan en ondersteuningsvoertuie agterna. Perdekarre en ruiters het van so ver as Brandvlei gekom en wat mooier wees as hierdie stoet in die wye Karoolandskap.

Ek dink weer aan Joachim Scholtz II. Hoe hy die 900 m deur Verlatekloof moes deursukkel tot bo. Die eerste nag onder onder sterre wat helderder skyn as op ander plekke. Die sneeu wat die eerste winter val en waar jy selfs in die dag kan verkluim. Die wildediere wat volop was. Die Khoi wat hulle ontmoet het wat op osse gery het. Was hulle vriend of vyand? En die eensaamheid. Geen ander mense naby nie.

Ons ry stop-stop om die optog in te wag. Neem foto’s. Iewers wag Awie Vlok en sy seuns ons in met hulle muile. Die stoet word langer. In Sutherland wag 13 ruiters en Bennie en Lizelle die stoet in – Lizelle, my suster se dogter en Bennie Blom wat al drie dae op die pad is met die perdekar met ‘n seilkap wat Anuta vir hulle gemaak het.

Almal vergader voor die Louwhuis waar dit ook sommer ‘n bazaar met pannekoek en melktertjaffels is. ‘n Energieke span reildansers met vernuftige voetwerk trap en dans dat die stof so staan. ‘n Riel (of Rieldans) is ‘n oeroue feesdans van die Boesman, Nama en Khoikhoi. Onder die Namavolk staan die dans bekend as Ikhapara. Dit is die oudste plaaslike vorm van vermaak wat reeds voor die Westerse kultuur en tradisies aan die Kaap van Goeie Hoop wat in 1652 ontstaan het, deur die Khoisanvolk gebruik is vir sosiale, godsdienstige, kulturele en opvoedkundige doeleindes.

Daar is boodskappe wat uitgeruil word, NP van Wyk Louw voorlesings, en ‘n gebed van Ghana wat ds Adri Vlok voorlees. Die dorp het omtrent opgeruk en kennis geneem van wat ons by die Louwhuis aanbied.

Toe is dit die groot optog dorp uit na ‘n plaas verder die Roggeveld in waar almal sou oornag.

mistige slierte
hang oor verlede-vlaktes
oer-voorvaderlik

We were at Rogge Cloof for the departure of the wagons headed for Sutherland. As expected from Sutherland it was cold and misty.

Katharina was the wife of Joachim Scholtz II. She died at Rogge Cloof, but the whereabouts of her grave are unknown. This bottle of liqueur was a gift from the Gerntholz family.

A magnificent sight: the wagon and trotting horses against the mist.

It was like a movie: the approaching wagon with six pitch black Flemish horses.

The wagoneerr’s dachshund led the way for kilometres.

Wonderful to see the six horses in sync. Surprising speed!

Two old friends, , with their trusty horses. The horse on the right is a full-bred, registered Boerperd. All the way from Brandvlei.

Who, over the ages, would have placed these stones here?

The star amongst the horses was this Flemish horse named Maestro, waiting here at a pitstop to join the entourage .

https://www.roggecloof.com/

No, says this handsome young man called Braham Vlok, the focus should be on the horse, not himself…

The cavalcade of carts and horses approaching Rooikloof

Here come the big boys. Oom Sampie and Oom Bossie still going strong.

Braham accompanies Oom Sakkie and Oom Bossie.

André Vlok on a wagon hand-built by his father and drawn by Bennie and Marina, two mules.

On entering Sutherland, another 13 horsemen joined the procession.

Minette Vlok and her friend, Sam, at full speed

The local police force supported the cavalcade through town.

Bennie and Lizelle with two young passengers ride down the main street accompanied by horsemen.

Horseriding is still a great tradition in the Roggeveld.

Our little house, Vaalvalk just coming into view on the right. This was their third day en route to join up with the main group. Anuta spent three days stitching the wagon covering.

Some of the cavalry in front of our guesthouse, Jakkalsdou.

Day three of a five day trip. Lizelle, Gerard’s niece, holds the reins.

Anuta welcomes Bennie and Lizelle and passengers Pedrie and Stella on their arrival.

Folks came from far and wide to join in the festivities.

An aerial image of the most important street in Sutherland that morning

Dominee (Reverend) Adri Vlok reads a Ghanaian prayer from atop a wagon. Gerard reads a poem by the famous poet NP van Wyk Louw, who was born in the Louw House Museum in the background.

And then it was time for the riel dancers to stir up the dust.

The team is called the Stof Trappers (dust trotters).

And what would a festival be without pancakes?

Leaving town on the way to the following destination

Striding in unison towards the horizon and the rest of their 1000km journey

Featured

Pilgrimage / Pelgrimstog: Hantam-Karoo

A pilgrimage is a sacred journey undertaken for a spiritual purpose. Pilgrims are different from tourists – there is a search for meaning, truth and values. Usually it takes you to an unfamiliar place where you go to seek an expanded meaning of yourself, or you do it for others, nature, a higher purpose, but also in many cases in search of a spiritual experience.

In fact, every step we take ought to be a pilgrimage.

Anuta and I have undertaken a number of pilgrimages. I think now of the footsteps of Jeanne d’Arc which we followed on our bicycles from Orleans to Chinon along the Loire River. To that large hall in the castle where she met King Chalres VII at 17 years of age. I still remember how clearly I experienced it all. We also followed the footsteps of Napoleon’s journey after he had escaped from Elba and marched to Paris. There was also the pilgrimage in south-east France following the footsteps of the Cathars and how we rode from castle to fortress in painfully cold conditions on Silwer and Blou, through valleys and dales. The concentration camps of the Nazis was another upsetting journey through Germany, Poland and Slovakia. In Montenegro there was another where we went on a quest on behalf of a friend to find a ruined castle in the mountains – to where his grandfather’s jaw was shot away by the Nazies and from where he escaped down the mountain to a boat bound for Egypt. There was also the Caminita del Rey in Spain. So many. All jouneys that taught us more about ourselves, our seeking, deeper experience, expansion of knowledge, and adventurousness.

But right here I was alone in Sutherland during Easter of 2022. I wasn’t in the mood for people and turned down invitations. To me, Easter is a time of silence and reflection.

I had wanted to travel to Williston at some stage and felt the time was ripe for such a a solitary journey. For a pilgrimage to a close friend, Koos’s, birthplace. Williston lies 141 km due north from here. I had never been there before and had no idea what to expect.

Late that night I wrote to Koos:

I need to tell you of my pilgrimage to Williston, but it is difficult. Your hometown. Götz Street. The street of your birth. Here where a small aircraft had to land in December 1957 to bring the doctor when your birth wasn’t going smoothly.

I dedicated the day to you and the journey took me through landscapes of the heart and senses. Through ravines and rivers. Farm houses near and far. Poplar trees which had begun to display autumn colours overnight, like flames rising from the grey-green Roggeveld. When I dropped down from the plateau to Williston in the Hantam, it changed. No more trees in sight. Only flat stones and grass the colour of yellow-white flax – boesman grass* as I found out later. Mountains in the distance. Also billowing clouds far to the north.

* Other names: Stipagrostis uniplumis var. neesii, beesgras, blinkaargras, blinkaarboesmangras, blinkgras, blinkhaargras, blinksaadgras, broosgras, bros(steek)gras, gemsbokgras, grootboesman(s)gras, growwetwagras, kleinboesmangras, kleintwagras, kortbeenboesmangras, langbeenboesmangras, langbeentoagras,

How many times had you travelled along this road? Had you looked at the landscape? Or were withdrawn into your own dream world of light reflected by clouds, the sky forming a never-ending arch, dry riverbeds and burning stars at night?

You can still remember how you and your parents drove to Sutherland in freezing winters for rugby matches while the snow fell and how your father and the other players had to take cold showers after the matches.

The dirt road was sometimes good, and then bad. Especially where it ran through washed out drifts which the heavy rains had turned into torrents. Then I had to manouevre the car over and past rocks. There were mountains with piled rocks stacked by a great artist. At other times there were far off farmhouses with golden autumnal poplars. The road twisted through valleys, plains and began the descent to the arid Hantam Karoo. It was only when I crossed the almost dry Sak River, which comes down in flood in the rainy season, that I tried to fathom the tiny town. What could have possessed people to establish a settlement here? It’s only a desert of stones. No trees. No grazing. Just stones. With the blond boesman grass along the road edges.

By that time I was ravenous and stopped at the Williston Mall. A couple of little shops that prey on people’s feelings and nostalgia. Objects from days gone by. Tin stuff. Wire stuff. Words like LOVE in faux flaking paint against the walls. Instead, I ordered a sandwich and coffee.

I found Götz Street after wandering around a bit. But the street would not let me go. Why? Because I didn’t know behind which gates you had played alone? Or because I kept on seeing a little boy on his tricycle trailing tracks in the dust? Is it your home where the dead palm trees are? Or the sad and half burned down one? Perhaps the one now enclosed by impenetrable wrought iron grating?

Götz Street is wide. Lined with either karee or pepper trees. Forlorn, dusty street. Beyond hope. Two or three guesthouses with platteland nostalgia againts the walls. All enamel and tin. Faux. There is even ahouse behind a palissade with a cobra on a noticeboard, which I think you would enjoy – hooded and spitting. I walked up and down the entire street. And still the little boy with his upright forelock and green eyes stay with me. His mother calling the lone child with his thoughts and dreams inside for bathtime.

Was he already then Camus’s l’etranger?

I realise today that Götz Street actually did me some good. Just to think that so much brilliance, intelligence, creative ability and exceptionality was born there. In a cheerless little town with a mountain on one side and stones on the other.

In the early evening, on my way back, the full moon rose. Bloody at first, then the blues, and finally brilliant white. I stopped every now and then to capture the blond grasses with my camera. Waving. As if forcing me to take leave of the day. The dark began with oranges, yellow, blue and then became a radiant night with the brightness of the moon.

I took two cameras with me. One for colour and one for black and white. When I downloaded the photos i realised that they all had to be black and white and grey. Colour doesn’t suit that landscape.

It was only the following day when I downloaded the photos I noticed that all the houses have gates. With lots of grating and burglar bars. But I realised that you were able to escape before you became welded to the place.

But the day wasn’t without drama. When darkness came, 70km from Sutherland, the fuel guage light came on. And it stayed on. At 60km I started looking out for the lights of a farm house. Saw nothing. Just enjoyed the bright full moon. At 50km I started panicking. At 40km the car was still going and I started looking out for a spot to spend the night. Nothing. At 30km I decided that if the car stopped then, I would throw my camera bag over my shoulder and start walking. But I had seen exactly one car all day on that road. At 20km I was prepared to cover the distance to town on foot. At 10km the tarred road started. By then I was a little disappointed that the Jimny hadn’t run out of fuel. At 0km I stopped in front of the house!

But, I am grateful that you didn’t remain there just to be welded into place, that you didn’t remain behind barbed wire and that you never looked back or returned. You would have turned into one of those gate posts!

Best regards

Gee

***

‘n Pelgrimstog is ‘n heilige reis wat vir ‘n spirituele doel onderneem word. Pelgrims is anders as toeriste – daar is ‘n soeke na betekenis, waarheid en waardes. Gewoonlik neem dit jou na ‘n onbekende plek waar jy gaan soek na ‘n nuwe of uitgebreide betekenis van jouself, of jy doen dit vir andere, die natuur, om ‘n hoër orde, maar ook in baie gevalle om ‘n spirituele ervaring.

Eintlik behoort elke tree wat ons gee ‘n pelgrimstog te wees. ‘n Bedevaart.

Ek en Anuta het al heelwat pelgrimstogte onderneem. Ek dink sommer nou aan die voetspore van Jean D’Arc wat ons per fiets gevolg het van Orleans tot in Chinon langs die Loirerivier. Daar in die groot hofsaal van die kasteel het sy op 17-jarige ouderdom Koning Karel VII ontmoet. Ek onthou nou nog hoe helder ek dit alles beleef het. Ons het ook die voetspore van Napoleon gevolg nadat hy van Elba ontsnap het en opgeruk het na Parys. Daar is ook die pelgrimstog in die suid-ooste van Frankryk op die spore van die Kathare en hoe ons in pynlik-snerpende koue met Silwer en Blou van kasteel tot vesting oor berge, deur dale en valleie gejaag het. Die strafkampe van die Nazi’s was ‘n ander ontstellende tog deur Duitsland, Pole en Slowakeie. In Montenegro was daar ook een waar ons namens ‘n vriend na ‘n ou kasteel in die berge moes gaan soek – daar waar sy pa se kakebeen deur die Nazi’s weggeskiet is en hoe hy die volgende dag per boot na Egipte ontsnap het. Daar was ook die Caminita del Rey in Spanje. So baie. Almal reise wat ons meer oor onsself, ons soekes, dieper belewing, verbreding van kennis, en avontuurliklustigheid geleer het.

Maar hier te velde is ek met die Paasnaweek van 2020 alleen op Sutherland. Ek was nie lus vir mense nie en wys uitnodigings af. Pase is vir my ‘n tyd van stilte en refleksie.

Ek wou een of ander tyd Williston toe gaan en gevoel die tyd is reg vir so ‘n alleenreis. ‘n Pelgrimstog na die geboortedorp van Koos, ‘n boesemvriend. Williston lê 141 km reg noord van hier. Ek was nog nooit daar nie en ek weet nie wat om te verwag nie.

Laat daardie aand skryf ek aan Koos:

Ek wil, maar ek sukkel om oor my pelgrimsbesoek aan Williston te vertel. Jou geboortedorp. Götzstraat. Jou geboortestraat. Hier waar ‘n vliegtuigie in Desember 1957 moes land om ‘n dokter te bring toe jou geboorte moeilik gaan.

Ek het die dag aan jou opgedra en die reis het my deur landskappe van die hart en sintuie geneem. Deur klowe en riviere. Ver en naby opstalle. Populierbome wat oornag begin verkleur en soos vlamme uitslaan teen die grysgroen Roggeveldse kleure. Toe verander dit nadat ek van die plato afdaal na Williston in die Hantam. Daar is nie meer ‘n boom in sig nie. Net plat klippe en gras die kleur van witgeel vlas – boesmangras* sou ek later leer. Berge in die verte. Ook bollende wolke baie ver noord.

* Ook Stipagrostis uniplumis var. neesii, beesgras, blinkaargras, blinkaarboesmangras, blinkgras, blinkhaargras, blinksaadgras, broosgras, bros(steek)gras, gemsbokgras, grootboesman(s)gras, growwetwagras, kleinboesmangras, kleintwagras,

kortbeenboesmangras, langbeenboesmangras, langbeentoagras,

Hoeveel keer het jy hierdie pad gery? Het jy na díe landskap gekyk?, of was jy hier teruggetrek in jou eie droomwêreld van lig wat deur wolke teruggekaats word, die lug wat ‘n boog sonder einde maak, droë rivierlope en brandende sterre snags?

Jy kán nog onthou hoe jy saam met jou ma en pa in yskoue winters na Sutherland gery het vir rugbywedstryde terwyl die sneeu val en hoe jou pa en die spelers na die wedstryde in koue water moes stort.

Die grondpad was soms goed, dan weer sleg. Veral waar dit deur weggespoelde driwwe loop wat met die baie reën riviere geword het. Dan moes ek die motor oor en verby rotse maneuvreer. Daar was berge met opgestapelde klippe wat deur ‘n groot kunstenaar verpak is. Ander kere was daar ver opstalle met goue herfspopuliere. Die pad kronkel deur valleie, vlaktes en begin afdaal na die dorre Hantam-Karoo. Dis eers toe ek oor die byna droë Sakrivier is, wat in reëntyd in ‘n tuimelende massa water in vloed afkom, dat ek die klein dorpie probeer peil. Wat sou mense besiel het om hier ‘n nedersetting te begin? Dit is net ‘n woestyn van klippe. Geen bome. Geen weiding. Net klippe. Met die blonde boesmangras wat langs die pad groei.

Teen daardie tyd was ek rasend van honger en hou stil by die Williston Mall. ‘n Paar winkeltjies wat inspeel op mense se gevoelens en nostalgie. Toeka-se-goeters. Blikgoeters. Draadgoeters. Woorde soos LOVE in faux-afskilferverf hang teen die mure. Ek bestel liewer ‘n toebroodjie en ‘n koffie.

Ek vind Götzstraat na ‘n bietjie ronddwaal. Maar die straat wil my nie los nie. Hoekom? Omdat ek nie weet agter watter hekke jy alleen gespeel het nie? Of omdat ek aanmekaar ‘n seuntjie op sy driewiel spore in die stof sien ry? Is dit julle huis waar die dooie palmboom staan? Of die een wat nou so hartseer en half afgebrand is? Dalk die een wat nou omring is met ondeurdringbare traliewerk?

Götzstraat is wyd. Met karee of peperbome. ‘n Troostelose, stowwerige straat. Onredbaar. Twee of drie gastehuise met boere-nostalgie teen die mure. Alles emalje en blik. Faux. Daar is selfs ‘n huis agter ‘n palissade met ‘n kobra op ‘n kennisgewing, wat ek dink jy sal geniet – bakkop en sissend. Ek het die hele straat op en af gestap. Steeds bly die seuntjie met sy kuifie en groen oë my by. Sy ma wat die alleenkind met sy gedagtes en drome binneroep vir badtyd.

Was hy toe al Camus se l’etranger?

Götzstraat was tog goed vir my besef ek vandag, ‘n paar dae later. Om te dink soveel briljansie, intelligensie, skeppende vermoëns en besondersheid is daar gebore. In ‘n triestige dorpie met ‘n berg aan die eenkant en klippe anderkant.

Vroegaand op pad terug kom die volmaan op. Eers bloedstollend rooi, toe die bloue, tot skitterwit. Ek het kort-kort gestop om die blonde grasse met die kamera vas te vang. Wuiwend. Asof dit my dwing om van die dag afskeid te neem. Die donker begin eers met oranjes, geel, blou, en word dit ‘n stralende nag met die maan se kaatsing.

Ek het twee kameras saamgeneem. Een vir kleur en een vir swart en wit. Met die aflaai van die foto’s het ek besef dit moet almal swart en wit en grys wees. Kleur pas nie in daardie landskap nie.

Dit was ook eers die volgende dag toe ek die foto’s aflaai toe ek sien dat al die huise hekke het. Met baie tralies en diefwering. Maar dat jy dit kon ontsnap voor jy daar vasgesweis is.

Maar die dag was nie sonder drama nie. Teen donker 70 km van Sutherland gaan die brandstofwaarskuwingsliggie aan. En dit bly aan. Op 60 km begin ek uitkyk vir die ligte van ‘n plaasopstal. Sien niks. Geniet net die helder volmaan. Op 50 km begin ek paniekerig raak. Op 40 km ry die motor nog en kyk ek uit vir ‘n aftrekplek om oor te slaap. Niks. Op 30 km besluit ek as die motor nou gaan staan sal ek die kamerasak oor my skouer gooi en begin stap. Maar ek het die hele dag net een motor op daardie pad gesien. Op 20 km sien ek kans om die afstand tot in die dorp te loop. Op 10 km begin die teerpad. Toe is ek half teleurgesteld dat die Jimny nie gaan staan het nie. Op 0 km hou ek voor die huis stil!

Maar ten spyte van alles van daardie dag is ek dankbaar daar jy nie daar gebly het om toegesweis te word nie, dat jy nie agter doringdraad gebly het nie, en dat jy nooit weer omgekyk en teruggegaan het nie. Jy sou in een van daardie hekpilare verander het!

Bestes
Gee

_{^{Some of our earlier pilgrimages}}

In 1999 we travelled for six months on our bicycles. We covered various themes. Inter alia, we followed Jean d’Arc’s foorsteps from Orleans to Chinon. What a pilgrimage!

Third attempt to visit the Chartreuse monastery. Once we crossed the Grand Massif on our bicycles in pouring rain and turned back. The second time on Silver and Blue, We turned back in heavy rain. Third time lucky. We were determend to walk around the (closed to the public) monastery after watching the film Into Great Silence about the monastic life at Chartreuse. From here we picked up Napoleon’s route from Grenoble to the Mediterranean after his return from Elba.

Our trusted and beloved Silver and Blue on a primitive ferry crossing the Danube between Serbia and Romania where our theme was Icons and Monasteries. A truely spiritual pilgrimage for two months and thousands of kilometers.

After following instructions up a steep mountain and struggling along overgrown footpaths we found this old castle in Montenegro where a friend’s father was wounded by the Nazis. What a pilgrimage!

Gerard’s favourite photo and published many times in articles of where he looks out over the Sinai desert at sunrise . A pilgrimage up Mt Sinai. We started hiking with Johan and Mariette (Anuta on a camel’s back after a knee procedure three weeks earlier!) around 01h00 to enjoy the sunrise.

*El Caminito del Rey* (The King’s Little Path) is a walkway pinned along the steep walls of a narrow gorge in *El Chorro*, near Ardales in the province of Málaga, Spain. The name derives from the original name of *Camino del Rey* (King’s Pathway. The walkway had fallen into disrepair and was partially closed for over a decade. After four years of extensive repairs and renovations, it re-opened in 2015. It has been known in the past as the “world’s most dangerous walkway” following five deaths in 1999 and 2000. Well, we did it and can tell this hair raising story!

The dirt road to Williston in the Hantam-Karoo and back.

Here and there some lone simple traditional stone houses.

People are living there… in harsh conditions. Very cold winters with snow and hot and dry summers.

Tolbos. Tumble weed. I wrote this haiku right there:
tolbos rol op grondpad
al die pad na die tankwa
na africa burn

Another piece of art at Bastard’s Drif. Alien blue gum trees al lthe way from Australia. Almost the only trees along the way.

From time to time you see the stacked rocks. The inspiration for poet NP v Wyk Louw’s poem *Klipwerk*. The typography of the poem reflects the stacked rocks. Pieter Jansen van Vuuren designed the logo for our guest house in Sutherland in the same style.

Wind and harsh conditions sculped the landscape

The road goes on and on in this mesmerizing landscape. It is hard to believe that this veld is covered in wild flowers in Spring.

There is always nostalgia in a lonely windmill. Especially when it creaks as it pumps water.

After a nine year drought unexpected rain came in summer. It resulted in a lot of road damage and I had to steer the little 4×4 carefully through dongas.

The only car I saw on this road for 280 km. There and back. We waved at each other – the custom in the Roggeveld and Hantam where people still recognise you as a fellow-being.

Later on the landscape became more harsh. No sheep. No people. Just rocks and small plants.

Then the landscape changed again. Closer to some mountains. I didn’t want to play music. Just the singing of the wheels on the dirt road and the humming of the Jimny’s engine.

Koos, this bridge across one of the many dry riverbeds was built in the year you were born. And completed a year later, 1958.

The bridge was built for only one car crossing.

141 Km later I arrived. From afar a small town on the banks of the dry Sak River.

A closer look. Bushman’s grass, hardy shrubs, a few trees and a small village spell desolation, a hard life and loneliness.

I was hungry and stopped at the only restaurant. Filled with nostalgia. A better life long ago.

I wanted to visit the Dutch Reformed Church’s garden laid out in labyrinths filled with indigenous succulents. So beautiful. But It was enclosed with high gratings to keep sinners like me out. No invitation to a pilgrim to walk the labyrinth at Easter.

I found the cock on the tower funny. Calling sinners to come to church.

Almost opposite the church a shock was waiting. The first of Stalin’s buildings. Sowjet-inspired Apartheid buildings without any imagination.

Waiting man. A lift to Brandvlei or Carnarvon?

Koos’s father was the postmaster of this Post Office. Surely built in the Apartheid years. Entrance left for Whites Only? Entrace Right for Non-Whites?

The shelter against the sun of the Post Office collapsed a long time ago. Nobody to repair it?

It was Saturday. View in the direction of the area where the poorer people live. Their only entertainment is walking in the streets with boom boxes.

Then I turned back to find Götz Street. Dirty little boy in front of his house.

Tuishuise. Houses farmers built lt to overnight every three months for communion. Now they are either guest houses or let to poor people.

Beauty in negligence. I became aware of all the steel frame gates of this village. To keep us safe. From whom?

This clothing shop closed many years ago. The curtains disintegrating to dust.

Is there hope for this village with the rising of the sun?

And yet, I found some beauty in the lines of shadows and buildings.

Once a thriving settlement with many shops…

Backyards on the street. Dirty and neglected. To the left a drum for braais and to the right an afdakkie for rubbish.

I couldn’t resist taking a photo of this neglected house. People are still living there.

I walked up a slight hill, and there I found Götz Street where Koos was born. His mother couldn’t remeber the street number. This is where my imagination started running riot.

It is a wide and dusty street. Wide enough for an ox-wagon to make a u-turn. A forlorn landscape, skew fences and only those trees that can survive the hard seasonal conditions.

The street ends abruptly before a building. The railway station?

Koos, this one I think you will enjoy! A cobra behind a pallisade and chicken wire! Beware!

The nine years drought has taken it toll. Even the palm trees couldn’t make it.

What a study: Iron gates, a post box, a dead palm tree.

To underline the misery – the negected garden fence, a willowy cactus and shadows on a wall. And yet, I sought to find some beauty by taking this photo.

Triple security! And yet, nobody to be seen. Have the people of Götz Street been raptured?

Half of this house has burned down. No plans to build it up again. The gate remains…

A typical backyard. Alien agaves in tyres, a washing line, and ‘n dry yard.

The iron gates started to fascinate me. Koos, you were lucky to escape this.

Typical uninspired Lenin-style houses from an era in our history that we want to forget. And the paradox, the Soviet Union was seen as the Groot Gevaar – the Great Threat.

The only house in Götz Street where people with imaginination live. Were you born in this house?

A study in all that is skew and straight. Or been born here?

The telphone lines tear this photo into a few pieces.

Every house must have a gate with the same ornamental curls on top. . Like entering the portals of heaven.

A gasoline drum as part of the decorations. If you look carefully you will see the cactus in a plastic holder, a crack in the pillar, a hose pipe hanging looped over the tap, a post box, dead tree trunks. All very tired.

Just gates and fences. And a palm tree in a pot. Also imprisoned.

Some fences show an artistic attempt. Were you born here perhaps?

At least a neat guest house in a kind of Victorian style. Please, let me buy the set of iron chairs on the verandah!

I like this photo. The Isuzu bakkie, a Polo. a big tree, big rocks in the garden… All you need. Koos, did you play with you tricycle in the yard?

Mix of everything. A number on the gate, the chicken fenced gate with decorations, Victorian broekie lace, a barbeque drum and a table on the stoep. And of course, an iron gate at the front door.

Late afternoon shadows over Götz Street. Koos, how many times did your mother call you inside for a bath and supper at this time of the day?

I started to scream NO! Everything and everybody is fenced in.

A typical Karoo house with a wide verandah to keep it cool in summer.

This was here before the new government in SA started building HOP houses.

The corner house. Neat and tidy. With a front garden.

Striking symbolism. The residents left here to die elswhere.

Terugtog

One my way back the sun started to cast shadows. A dramatic and beautiful landscape.

The dancing of blond bushman’s grass along the road.

All along the way like a pilgrim’s guide.

I couldn’t get enough of the beauty after the misery.

I tried to take a photo of the full moon rising on the other side, but didn’t bring my tripod along. But the colours where the sun had set made up for it.

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Van somer- na winterweiding in die Roggeveld /From summer to winter grazing in the Roggeveld

Scroll down for English and photos

My pa het altyd vertel hoe hulle elke nasomer die tog moes meemaak wanneer daar van die somerweiding na die winterweiding in die Bosveld met al die beeste getrek is. Dit was groot opwinding, want hulle het met ‘n ossewa gereis wat teen ‘n slakkespoed moes beweeg om by die beeste se rustige gang te hou. Saans was die lekker wanneer daar om die vure gekuier word.

In Switserland het ons eenkeer vir ‘n week in Wengen gebly, die laaste dorp net voor die rattrein jou na die Jungfrau neem. Herders het die koeie ook na laerliggende weiding geneem. Maar dit was ‘n hele ritueel. Die herders, almal in tradisionele drag, kom dan bergaf met musiek, blaasinstrumente en groot geskal. Die groot klokke wat om die koeie se nekke hang se geraas was oorverdowend, veral as al die klank teen die berge en geboue vasslaan. Die verbasendste van alles was die pikorde onder die koeie. Heelvoor het die hoofmeisiekoei gestap met ‘n krans blomme om haar nek en kleurvolle linte wat in die wind waai. Agterna was dit ‘n kleurvolle stoet, ook met blomkranse as hooftooisels.

In Roemenië het ons op die Transalpina-pas en op die 80 km lange Transfăgărășan onsself vasgery in groot troppe skape wat ook ander weivelde gaan soek. Die cowboy-herders was almal jong manne met donkies en groot herdershonde.

Toe kry ons die uitnodiging om die trek op Bennie Blom se plaas Kromkolk mee te maak. Die voorbereidings het die vorige dag begin met skaaptel. Bennie, sy dogter, Minette, en ‘n vriendin, Sam, het die skaap (in die Roggeveld gebruik hulle nie die meervoud skape nie) van die somerweiding bergaf met ‘n steil plaaspas te perd aangejaag. Sjoe! Hulle is drie knap ruiters. Al die opwinding.

Onder in ‘n vallei, waar ons gewoonlik gaan vleis braai, (ook een nag daar onder die sterre geslaap!) is dit baie warmer as op die plato, en daar het Bennie vir ons ‘n braaivuur aangeslaan en het ons lekker wors van ons slagter geëet. En nou kan ons nie wag vir die dag wanneer ons die terugtrek kan meemaak nie.

***

My father used to tell us of the expeditions every late summer when they trekked with all their cattle from the summer grazing to the winter grazing in the Bushveld. There was great excitement because they travelled by oxwagon which moved at the same leisurely pace as the cattle. In the evenings the wonderful enjoyment of the company around the fires.

Once we spent a week in Wengen, Switzerland – the last village just before you board the train which takes you to the top of the Jungfrau. Shepherds also accompany their cows to lower grazing at the end of summer. But it is a whole ritual. The shepherds, all in traditional dress, come down the mountain with music, wind instruments and much noise. The big bells around the cows’ necks add to the deafening noise, especially when the sound reverberates against the mountains and buildings. The most surprising is the pecking order amongst the cows. They are led down the mountain by the queen with a wreath of flowers around her neck and colourful ribbons blowing in the wind. Behind her follows the rest of the colourful procession, also decorated with flower wreaths.

In Romania we were held up by large flocks of sheep on the Transalpina and Transfăgărășan passes on their way to other grazing. The cowboy shepherds followed on foot with their attendant donkeys and large sheepdogs.

Then we got the invitation to join the trek on Bennie Blom’s farm, Kromkolk. Preparations began die previous day with a count of the sheep. Bennie, his daughter Minette and a friend, Sam, herded the sheep from their summer grazing down a steep farm pass on horseback. Phew! Such accomplished horsemen (horsepeople?) All the excitement!

Down in a valley where we usually go for a braai (also slept over there under the stars one night), it is much warmer than on the plateau. There Bennie laid a braai fire and we enjoyed wors from our butcher. And now we can’t wait for the day that we can join the return trek.

No, not my photo! An accident! It is from Alamu’s stock images. Moving livestock from summer to winter grazing is an occasion and part of the culture in many European countries.

Romania. Often we saw sheep herded by lone herdsmen. A bit of company along the way is a bonus. A dead sheep is never left behind.

Romania. Mostly shepherds are younger men.

A road block on the Transfaragasan Pass in Romania.

The entrance to Bennie Blom’s farm on the escarpment between the Roggeveld and the Koup (Khoi word for “fat”)

Minette counts the ewes and lambs and Bennie the rest. Sam helps regulate the speed with which the sheep pass them.

If a sheep is afraid, it tends to jump like a springbok!

Ewes with really small lambs don’t move down with the others. It’s too difficult to protect the tiny lambs down there from attacks by jackals and caracal.

Three horsemen and a happy dog come riding….

The wide expanse of the Karoo lies behind the three musketeers.

On their way home with Salpeterkop in the background. The extinct volcano Saltpeterkop, which erupted some 66 m years ago with great force, has been remarkably well preserved some 20 km east-southeast of Sutherland. In fact it is the best preserved volcano in South Africa.

Gerard has to share attention between the orphan kudu (called Biltong) on the left and the untrainable sheepdog turned pet, Katryn, on the right.

Early that morning the horses were commandeered for saddling up for the big job.

All ready to find the sheep and start the trek

Sam’s horse has been trained using a soft piping and just wouldn’t cooperate without it. A detour via the barn to find one….

The descent has started. Fresh food awaits…

These little yellow bushes are irresistible and Bennie just cannot rush them!

Okay, that was a good taste of what awaits down there. Let’s move on!

The rock formations, veld, horsemen, sheep, the little track – all contribute to this wonderful photograph.

Minette’s trusty steed never misses its foothold.

Amazing how sure-footed these sheep are. The steepest descent is no problem.

It must be hard for Europeans to imagine that a single farm can be as large as these are.

The steepest bit lies ahead and then a short stretch to the destination.

Sam heads towards the edge of the canyon.

Imagine all the water that falls over that canyon when the good rains come.

Millenia of water power created this sight for us to enjoy.

The trick is to keep the sheep from the edge….

Lizelle runs ahead for another photograph .

Moving fast to keep out of their way or causing the herd to split. Look at that background!

The “Skaapbos”, sometimes called the Anker Karoo. A firm favourite with the sheep.

Now just a little encouragement to move away from our picnic spot

Enjoying a well-earned drink after all all that hard work

Never a problem finding the right wood for your fire. Wood used is mostly Soetdoring.

Our heroes of the day. The good, the bad …. but not an ugly one amongst them

And now they head for home, back up the steep pass.

It’s hard to believe that this belongs to Bennie, or as he puts it: he is just a trustee of the land,

Our last view of the canyon before returning home.

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Positioned between two worlds – the Dylan Lewis Sculpture Garden

The two worlds. The tamed and the untamed.

For Anuta’s 70th birthday, our friends Kobus and Louise helped to organise a day full of surprises for her. There were many, but the highlight was a visit to the Dylan Lewis Sculpture Garden. Subsequently, we and Kobus were invited to visit the gardens again. But this time for a guided tour by the sculptor himself. Positioned between two worlds, the one wild and the other tamed, the Dylan Lewis Sculpture Garden borders the manicured suburbs of Stellenbosch on one side and a rugged mountain wilderness where leopard still roam on the other.

In this garden of private myth, the artist explores the Jungian notion of ‘the wilderness within’. More than 60 sculptures constituting a comprehensive record of his artistic development thus far have been carefully sited along 4 km of paths.

The project began in 2009 when Lewis hired an excavator to create a level play area for his children behind their house on the farm, and began creating what would become a 7-hectare sculpture garden.

‘When I saw the potential of what that machine could do, it gripped me,’ Lewis says.

‘I spent almost two years with earth-moving equipment, these very large machines contouring the landscape much as I would the surface of a sculpture, using the same principles but on a much bigger scale. I developed a sign language with the operator and he became an extension of my hand.’ During the earthworks, Lewis shaped a disused tract of flat farmland into dynamic hills, valleys and water features. In fact, the garden could be considered his largest sculpture to date.

Lewis describes the process of creating the garden as intuitive. ‘It is not a linear Western garden imposed on the landscape. It is very organic, very natural. It could appear that nothing has changed here, that no work has been done, because it fits in with the natural order.’ Lewis has grouped the sculptures within the garden not as a response to a conscious plan but rather, as he describes it, through a process that unfolded intuitively over many years, in which certain sculptures seemed to ‘gather’ into distinct areas.

The influence of Japanese gardens and the Japanese wabi-sabi aesthetic is evident in the minimalist, sculptural design of the garden, its ellipses and curves, its sense of spirituality and acceptance of transience and imperfection.

The garden focuses on indigenous species, particularly fynbos. Although planted to give year-round colour, it peaks in July and August into September, when its many buchus and ericas are in fragrant flower. ‘Fynbos is winter vegetation, dormant in summer. The challenge in an indigenous garden like this is to bring in big flushes of summer colour,’ says indigenous plant consultant Fiona Powrie, who oversees the garden botanically.

On the pink ‘heather hill’, a selection of ericas, buchus, birch-leaved pelargoniums (Pelargonium betulinum) and Flats’ silkypuffs (Diastella proteoides) are seen. Unusual varieties of erica were sourced from Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden: every available cultivar of Erica verticillata, extinct in the wild, was planted along one edge of the lake.

The garden’s four sources of water are a natural perennial spring, a seasonal mountain river, a borehole and agricultural water.

His fascination with wilderness began during his upbringing in a religious fundamentalist family. Today, his interest lies in the path of non-judgement, which he describes as, ‘the burning point between tameness and wildness, between devil and God, between human and animal, that is both paradox and crucifixion’. Nature has come to symbolise this for him. ‘Unlike humans,’ he notes, ‘plants, birds, animals, clouds, rivers and oceans have no opinion of me; they are utterly indifferent to my existence. There is both a horror and tremendous freedom in this realisation.’

Viewing nature as a ‘church with no dogma’, in the words of poet and psychologist Ian McCallum, Lewis says, ‘It is a place that connects me to my authentic, untamed inner nature.’

Humans have progressively colonised Earth’s wild places, and though our lifestyles may have improved, this has brought an accompanying shadow, in his view: the widespread ecological destruction of our planetary home, and the psychological trauma as we become disconnected from nature. Similarly, we are born wild, but must censor these aspects of ourselves in order to live in social groupings. We risk dying psychologically, Lewis believes, if we become alienated from the authentic wild self. For him, inner peace and authentic vitality lie in learning to live with this paradox. Many of his sculptures, and indeed the garden itself, express this as a physical and visual balance around a centre point.

Another central theme is the personal quest for the unknowable and the impossible. ‘That element for me is in the garden: the search for meaning, the sense of what this journey is all about,’ says Lewis, who has long been inspired by words from British sculptor Henry Moore: ‘The secret of life is to have a task, something you devote your entire life to, something you bring everything to, every minute of the day for the rest of your life. And the most important thing is, it must be something you cannot possibly do.’

Sources:
http://www.dylanlewis.com
Dylan Lewis – Untamed Forces. Fernwood Press. 2015

THE ARTIST

The passionate Lewis talking intensely about his work.

CREATION CREATES – CONSTANTLY, WITHOUT END.
IT IS AT ONCE IMMEDIATE AND ETERNAL.
CREATION IS THE ORIGINAL SACRED TEXT
AND WILL FOREVER BE THE MOST IMPORTANT ONE.
LONG BEFORE THERE WAS A BIBLE OR A KORAN, THERE WAS CREATION.

Freeman Patterson

Circles within circles. Everything is connected. Nature, beauty, symbols, spirituality, art…

THE GARDENS

In traditional Japanese aesthetics, wabi-sabi is a world view centered on the acceptance of transience and imperfection. The aesthetic is sometimes described as one of appreciating beauty that is “imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete” in nature. It is prevalent throughout all forms of Japanese art.

The indigenious **Searsia pyroides** (taaibos) carefully manicured to follow the curves of the mountains behind. A zen artwork in its own right.

The garden is carefully designed. It draws you in and captures your heart, soul and emotions.

Every rock, tree and plant stands in relationship to the other to form a balance.

Even the rock wall blends in with the curved plants, almost repeating the same lines.

Lewis uses lines and focal points to draw your eye like a master painter.

A real sculptured garden which brings inner peace.

Lewis only planted indigenous plants. We were there in the pink season of spring with masses of ericas.

The pink erica bushes are also shaped to follow the contours of the mountains.

Even branches along a path are like sculptures.

Water underpins the peace and tranquillity of the environment.

Even crossing a little stream on these flat rocks holds a sense of belonging, transience – crossing a line or a border.

Early spring shadows. Fine gravel or sand is one of the most common features of Zen gardens, often selected in pale hues. It is known to symbolize water, and can be carefully raked into patterns to create ‘waves’. Not only is the sight soothing, but the process of creating the patterns can be a meditative exercise in itself.

Respect and appreciation for the old is visible.

THE RISING

One day
your soul will call you
with a holy rage
“Rise up!” it will say…
“Stand up inside your own skin.
Unmask your unlived life
feast on your animal heart.
Unfasten your fist…
Let loose the medicine
in your own hand.
Show me the lines
I will show you the spoor
of the ancestors.
Show me the creases…
I will show you
the way to water.
Show me the folds…
I will show you the furrows
for your healing.”

“Look!” it will say
“the line of life has four paths
one for a mirror
one for a mask
one with fist
one with a heart”
One day
your soul will call you
with a holy rage.

Ian McCallum

Dylon’s art is born of respect for our deep biological and psychological connection to the wild, and our concern for the environmental issues of our time.

THE CAT AS A METAPHOR

DYLAN SAW QUALITIES IN THE LEOPARD THAT RESONATED WITH HIM: ITS SOLITARY WAYS, IT’S GHOST-LIKE ABILITY TO MOVE THROUGH AND MERGE WITH THE BACKGROUND, ITS VULNERABILITY, POWER, SENSUOUSNESS – AND ITS UNTAMEABILITY.

The leopard, lion and cheetah, powerful symbols of wilderness, became Lewis’s muses for almost a decade.

For millennia, humans have had a conflicted relationship with the large cat predators; they still stalk the fringes of human imagination.

Much of Lewis’s sculptures of the great cats lies in his understanding of their physical form, as well as his intense identification with their symbolic associates.

The leopard figure could be seen to explore the idea of instinctual energy and wildness.

In this sculptural composition, Lewis has purposefully integrated nature, movement and wildness.

Memories of animal envoys still sleep

When I see any cat in this position, I always wonder what they are thinking while they flick their tails.

In perfect harmony with themselves and with nature.

MNEMOSYNE

The horns of this female figure suggests an inner wildness.

There is a goddess of Memory, Mnemosyne; but none of Forgetting, Yet there should be, as they are twin sisters, twin powers, and walk on either side of us, disputing for sovereignty over us and who we are all the way until death.

Richard Holmes
A Meander Through Memory and Forgetting

EMERGING FROM
THE HUMAN FORMS

This winged form could be seen to express the erotic, sensual side of our connection to nature. It also appears to descend from the mountains behind the sculpture garden, expressing the battle between inner freedom and constraint.

Lewis is fascinated by the tension between explosive movement and quiet balance.

The skull of the black wildebeest worn by this male figure and his powerfully contorted body allude to a shamanic dance.

‘Surrendering now to a sense of urgency, Lewis’s quest to express the human-animal interface took form in dramatic feminine shamanic figures. All that was solitary, wild and winged, vulnerable and untamed in him began to emerge. The raw sensuality of his female sculptures included animal elements such as sharp, deadly claws and horns. These reflected the artist’s increasing acceptance of his own feelings of sensuality, sexuality and freedom.’ – from Dylan Lewis – An Untamed Force

‘These figures heralded Lewis’s internal shift from an overly strong attunement to the feminine to a healing reconnection with masculinity. The naked male body became a canvas for explosive animal energy. Tormented poses express the vital internal battle between wildness and tameness. Ritualistic animal skull masks both conceal and reveal a wild self, while hinting at the psychological death awaiting us if we are unable to find ways of expressing our wild, intuitive, authentic nature while passing through the different phases of life.’ – from Dylan Lewis – An Untamed Force

The shapes of the surrounding trees and mountains are mirrored in the contours, surfaces and forms of the sculpture.
“In my sculptures the contours of flesh and bone are also a refection of the ridged crevices and rock overhangs of wild, remote landscapes. – Dylan Lewis

Whatever the inward darkness may have been to which the shamans descended in their trances, the same must lie within ourselves to be nightly visited in sleep – Joseph Campbell

Over the years Lewis has become increasingly interested in the unconscious wild landscape of the human psyche.

With Anuta in juxtaposition with the rough chiselled-like image where finger and handprints are a distinguishing feature of Lewis’s work, creating a vibrancy on the sculpture’s surface. They also reference some of the earliest human artworks, the handprints made on cave walls.

This female figure morphs powerfully into a shamanic being.

This winged male form appearing to descend from the mountains behind the sculpture garden expresses the battle between freedom and constraint.

The wings of an eagle evoke the power and freedom of these birds that soar across the mountains. Details of earlier studies of birds are reincorporated into some of the artist’s human figures. Such as this one, which has the foot of an eagle.

Happiness and joy are mirrored in a pond.

FRAGMENTS

Lewis describes these framented animal-human forms as personal representations of the rugged mountain rocks faces that comforted him as a young boy; and as a tribute to the forgotten, fragmented part of our history – to the ancestral Bushmen who recorded with paint their ceremonies, rituals and sacred relationships with wild animals.

Who are they? Where do they come from? Must I be afraid of them? Are they striding towards the mountains, into another world?

What are they trying to say? Are they random images? Or are they mirrors of early, significant, truncated relationships? Are they symbols of the human disconnection from nature, or are they advocates of the wild – strange messengers of hope?

Perhaps they are a monumental reminder of the indestructibility of that which is wild in all of us. A requiem and a tribute to the fragmented wild areas of the Earth. It is significant that Lewis has placed this half-animal on this spot with creeping commercialization in the background.

From the other side: Lewis reminds us that we must keep all the fractions together in a meaningful way. He speaks for all of us.

This massive, abstracted lion’s torso is cantilevered against the massive mountains and skies, creating visual tension. It has been hollowed out, and the surface has broken through, revealing the cavernous interior. It is a testament to the strong influence of nature on the forms and textures of this sculpture.

My favourite sculpture! It is placed in such a way that the energy and forms of the sculpture appear to echo some shapes of the distant mountains.

Lewis started to move away from the wild cats to the human element. But the inner-animal remained. The wildness. The strength, the untamed spirit. But is not an easy task.

It weighs heavy on man’s psyche, suffering, vulnerability, but his strength as well. His ability to move forward. Away from pain? Away from suffering? Is something holding him back?

This immense fragmented female torso with a rusted iron surface becomes part of the landscape.

CONTOURS OF FLESH -BEAUTY IN BROKENNESS

Sensuality, sculpting and nature meet here and reflects pain, suffering and pain in beauty.
I recall the well-known line from a poem in the original Dutch by Lucebert:
alles van waarde is weerloos
wordt van aanraakbaarheid rijk
en aan alles gelijk

Lewis created a cathedral-like area with two old oak trees within a circle of trees and rocks where you can sit and meditate. The textures and colours stand in juxtaposition: the rough brown wooden bark with green lichen – with the sensual female torso in brass with a turquoise patina.

Beauty between the trees. In perfect harmony. Yet, with contrasting textures.

Kobus takes a closer look at the handiwork and craftsmanship.

It’s a long, long road
From which there is no return
While we’re on the way to there
Why not share
And the load
Doesn’t weigh me down at all
He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother
He’s my brother
He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother, he ain’t heavy

– Bob Russell / Bobby Scott

Most recently, Lewis has continued his exploration of the untamed in a series of sculpture ‘sketches’. Emotions originally projected onto landscape and animal forms have become increasingly integrated into the artist’s psyche. Masks, wings, claws and horns are gone, and his isolated shamanic figures have transitioned into figure groupings, both masculine and feminine. In some there is an intimate stillness, in others a wild eroticism, and others depict grief and power struggles, their nakedness expressing raw, unrestrained emotion.

The torso has long fascinated Lewis as being symbolic of the beauty to be found in brokenness. He prefers to express visceral, primal emotion through the body rather than the face. The strong influence of landscape forms, rocks and twisted tree trunks is evident in these works. Additional influences include the unfinished works of Michelangelo and Rodin’s torsos.

TENSION

Of all the artwork in die garden, this shaman expresses for me the deepest and guttural, emotions and tensions of the human psyche.

The powerful spiral vortices of the tension in nature are evident in the composition of this cheetah hunting a bushbuck.

PRIMAL EMOTIONS

The wings of an eagle, evoke the emotion of freedom, reflecting the power and freedom of these birds that soar over the mountains above the gardens.

If the confident animal coming toward us
had a mind like ours,
the change in him would startle us.
But to him his own being is endless,
undefined, and without regard
for his condition: clear,
like his eyes. Where we see future,
he sees all, and himself
in all, made whole for always.

From the Eighth Duino Elegy – Rainer Maria Rilke

SKULLS AND MASKS

_{^{Male Shamanic Figure}}

Wearing a buck’s mask the male figure expresses an almost playful ‘animal’ exuberance.

Wearing the skull of a hartebeest as a mask, this athletic figure expresses the dynamic, positive, ‘animal’ energy held within the human psyche.

The eland antelope was held sacred by the ancient Bushman clans in Southern Africa. The eland skull mask alludes to the ancient spiritual connection between man and beast.

THE OLD STUDIO

^{Once the farm’s apple-packing shed, Dylan’s original working studio and bronze foundry, has been renovated and now functions as a gallery. This creative space, which feels as if it could be the sculptor’s home, houses a collection of his sculptures, works in progress and sketches, as well as paintings by the Lewis family and other artists.}

In this studio, you only whisper. It has the aura of a sacred place. You move slowly and respectfully between the beasts and man, the artefacts and paintings.

TOGETHER

31 December 2021 started with a surprise for Anuta’s 70th birthday. Blindfolded, she was led to the scene of a feast. A visit to the Dylan Lewis sculpture garden followed.

Louise had prepared the wonderful spread under a tree.

That evening back home, the neighbours were invited for a glass of champagne. Gerhard read a homage he had prepared… (He was the organist at our wedding 45 years ago!)

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Our garden in time of Covid-19

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… how delicately our ecology is intertwined and how everything is interdependent. A gossamer interwovenness. – Anuta

A year ago both Anuta and I were infected somewhere with the Covid 19 virus. Anuta recovered after six weeks, but I am still suffering as a result of my neurological system being affected. In this time of love, caring and firm friendships which were our lifebuoys, our wild fynbos garden became another support. We began to look afresh and here and there we discovered a new flower we had never noticed before or which we rediscovered after some time.

Because our property borders on the Rooiels Nature Reserve we regard the reserve as a continuation of our own garden to the edge of the sea. It’s a garden in which we strive to intervene as little as possible and in which we mostly try to keep to locally indigenous fynbos – these hardy prehistoric plants which form the only plant kingdom to survive the last ice-age and therefore possesses the greatest biodiversity in the world. I share this with great pleasure.

From time to time I will update this blog as a record of the plants in our garden and the neighbouring nature reserve. A big thank you to dear Jane Forrester, ex-horticulturist of Harold Porter Botanical Garden who helped me over the years to identify some plants.

***

‘n Jaar gelede het ek en Anuta die Covid-19 virus iewers opgdoen. Anuta het na 6 weke herstel, maar dit bly steeds by my en my neurostelsel is aangetas. In hierdie tyd van liefde, omgee, hegte vriendskapsbande wat reddingsboeie was, het ons wilde fynbostuin ‘n ander steunpilaar geword. Ons het weer met ander oë begin kyk, afgebuk, en hier en daar ‘n nuwe blom ontdek wat ons nog nooit voorheen gesien het nie.

Omdat ons tuin grens aan die Rooiels Natuurreservaat, sien ons dit as ‘n voortsetting van van ons eie tuin tot teen die see, waarin ons probeer ons ver as moontlik hou by plaaslik inheemse fynbos – hierdie geharde prehistoriese plante wat die enigstes is wat die vorige ystydperk oorleef het – daarom die grootse biodiversiteit ter wêreld. Ek deel dit graag.

Ek sal hierdie blog van tyd tot tyd opdateer om ‘n vollediger lys van plante in die tuin by te hou. Daar is nog so baie… ‘n Groot dankie aan liewe Jane Forester, vorige plantboukundige van die Harold Porter Byaniese tuin wat my oor die jare gehelp het om plante te identifiseer.

Welcome to our house with its fynbos, driftwood, shells, rocks and the sea.

Rocks and shells in the shade border the path

Alikreukel shells randomly scattered about the garden

I recently revamped the braai area. The area is surrounded by assegaai, keurtjies, bitou and vlier trees.

The table and benches were built by my cousins, Johan and Lizelle from old tiber.

We are trying to have our house blend in with the garden and Klein Hangklip.

There was a dead patch in the garden. Then I created this labyrinth and filled it with mussel shells we picked from the rocks. This image was taken with slow speed during a supermoon when the white rocks glow.

Even if it is a dead branch, the tolletjies (leucodrendon cones) lend texture to the garden.

I bring rocks back to our garden from all over the world. This one was picked up in Taiwan and since then it has been part of our lives. In Taiwan it lay on our coffee table.

A dead aloe. Nothing goes to waste. It must remain in the garden until it reverts to dust.

The same aloe with the collection of ‘dinosaur eggs’.

The most common protea in our area is the *protea repens. We have quite a few in the garden.*

Penaea mucrunata is small, but what a show it gives.

*Protea compacta.* My neigbour, Lynn Harris, and I went on a course to propagate protea seeds and planted them all over the garden.

We only have two ericas in the garden, because they prefer soil rich in minerals. The *erica plukeneti – hangertjie, with its bright coral c*olours is ‘joy in winter.

And lastly, the Diastella thymelaeoides. Possibly the smallest protea species. We had quite a few in the garden, but with climate change and the drought, the last plant in our garden died. I took this photo a couple of years ago.

All my old blogs is on this link: gerardscholtz.wordpress.com

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Verbeke Foundation: Bizarre and anarchistic biological art forms/Kuns wat jou uit jou gemaksone pluk

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We have passed the huge green vase and the McDonalds M near Kemzeke in Belgium many times, little knowing that it is a post apocolyptic museum without flowers or the awful Big M food. Aside from my wonder at the giant moving spider-like creatures that can be set in motion by a light touch or wind, I felt physically ill at the biological art forms, like fetuses, rotting animals, bones lying in heaps, a fleet of UFOs, writhing thick ropes, an octopus in formalin that twitches when subjected to shock waves … All in the name of biological art forms. Bizarre. Revolting. Anarchistic. Here you are soon plucked from your comfort zone. But, it remains gripping to see what people’s imagination is capable of.

Don’t expect the nearby Rubens Museum or the Museum aan de Stroom in Antwerp. At the Verbeke Foundation you can’t sit back and look at an old master. It’s impossible to look in the same way at a dessicated rabbit on a typewriter, a tongue in a jar or a yellow concrete anus giving the finishing touches to a hotel. The owner, surrealist and a self-declared Dadaist, Geert Verbeke, explains that everything is really incomplete, must also be contradictory, living and unmonumental just like life outside the museum grounds. The grounds must remain unpretentious and be seen as a subtle commentary on art.

On our arrival we were confronted with a totem pole with stuffed foxes. This prepares you for the jars with animal blood, skulls, animal limbs and small cages with bird carcasses which generate energy to charge batteries.

Once the museum stood on Geert and Tineke Verbeke’s farm on which they conducted a storage and transport business. Where once wheat fields and chicken coops stood, their collection of experimental and biological forms started to find a home in old storerooms and strange extensions.

My personal highlight was the huge spider-like animals, Strandwesens, by Theo Jansens which I had seen so many times on Youtube moving effortlessly across a beach, with flapping sails driving them forward. I was amazed by the finely designed mechanics of simple plastic pipes which become a monster with its own personality. With just a touch the gigantic creature moved and I could walk along with it as if I was from another planet. (See Youtube link below.)

The average visitor spends only half an hour in the museum and is then spat out, affected. We wanted to see and experience everything. And still, after an hour or three it was a relief to leave that place with its volt meters, massive spiderwebs, bones, twisted, groaning and suffering objects and the musty smell of rotten skins and old feathers. The attack on all our senses had fortunately come to an end.

Reference and some photographs: https://www.waasland.be/verbeke-foundation

“The otherwordly and graceful movements of the Strandbeest Plaudens Vela and other creations can be seen in the video below. Numerous specimens of the Strandbeest evolution on music of Khachaturian’s Spartacus. It open the archives of fossils. Theo Jansen’s work since 1990. He tries to make new forms of live on beaches. His animals get their energy from the wind so they don’t have to eat.” (sic)

Strandbeest Concerto

Mobile beach animals walking by wind-fed fins
like a regimented army of skeletal crustaceans
complex sculptures intricate, liberated and whimsical
a harmonic jostling dragon like an energetic millipede

with a kinetic infusion of artistic engineering
3-dimensional aliens sailing along the sands of time
the multi-legged creature animated and mechanical
a self-propelled orchestra of interlocking highs and lows.

Bron: https://www.waasland.be/verbeke-foundation

Ons het al so baie by die groot groen vaas en die Mc Donalds-M naby Kemzeke in België verbygery, min wetende dat dit ‘n post-apokaliptiese museum is sonder blomme of die nare Groot M-kos. Ek was, buiten die verwondering aan die reuse bewegende spinnekopagtige diere wat met ‘n ligte aanraking of met wind in hulle seile begin loop, fisies naar vir die biologiese kunsvorms soos fetusse, verrottende diere, bene wat op hope lê, ‘n vloot VVV’e, dik toue wat wriemel, ‘n seekat in formalien wat beweeg as hy skokgolwe kry… Alles in die naam van biologiese kunsvorms. Bisar. Afstootlik. Anargisties. Hier word jy gou uit jou gemaksone geruk. Maar dit bly aangrypend waartoe die mens se verbeelding in staat is.

Moenie die nabygeleë Rubensmuseum of die Museum aan de Stroom in Antwerpen verwag nie. By die Verbeke Stigting kan jy nie agteroor sit om na ‘n ou meester te kyk nie. Dit is heeltemal onmoontlik om op dieselfde manier na ‘n uitgedroogte konyn op ‘n tikmasjien, ‘n tong in ‘n fles, of ‘n geel betonanus wat ‘n hotel afrond te kyk. Die eienaar, surrealis, ‘n self-verklaarde Dadaïs, Geert Verbeke, verklaar dat alles eintlik onvoltooid is, ook moet dit weersprekend wees, lewend, en onmonumentaal soos die lewe buite die museumgronde. Die plek moet onpretensieus wees en moet as subtiele kommentaar op kuns gesien word.

Met ons aankoms word ons met ‘n totempaal met opgestopte jakkalse gekonfronteeer. Dit berei jou voor vir die flesse met dierebloed, skedels, diereledemate, en klein hokkies met voëlkarkasse wat energie opwek waarmee batterye gelaai word.

Eens was die museum op die plaas van Geert en Tineke Verbeke van waar hulle ‘n stoor- en vervoerbesigheid bedryf het. Waar daar eens koringvelde en hoenderhokke was het hul versameling van eksperimentele en biologiese vorms begin plek kry in ou stoorkamers en vreemde aanbousels.

My persoonlike hoogtepunt was die groot spinnekopagtige diere, Strandwesens, deur Theo Jansens wat ek soveel keer op Youtube gesien het waar dit moeiteloos oor ‘n strand kruip, met wapperende seile wat dit aandryf. Ek kon my verwonder aan die fyn uitgewerkte meganika van eenvoudige plastiekpype wat ‘n monster word met ‘n eie persoonlikheid. Met ‘n ligte aanraking begin die reuse wese beweeg en kon ek saamstap asof ek van ‘n ander planeet kom. (Sien Youtube skakel hieronder.)

Die gemiddelde besoeker spandeer net ‘n halfuur in die museum en word dan aangetas uitgespoeg. Ons wou alles sien en ervaar. En tog, dit was ‘n verligting toe ons, naar en ontgogeld, na ‘n uur of drie die plek met sy voltmeters, massiewe spinnekoprakke, beendere, krullende, steunende en wroegende objekte verlaat en die muwwe reuk van vrot velle en ou vere agterlaat. Die aantasting van al ons sintuie is gelukkig beëindig.

Bron en sommige foto’s: https://www.waasland.be/verbeke-foundation

The otherwordly and graceful movements of the Strandbeest Plaudens Vela and other creations can be seen in the video above. Numerous specimens of the Strandbeest evolution on music of Khachaturian’s Spartacus. It open the archives of fossils. Theo Jansen’s work since 1990. He tries to make new forms of live on beaches. His animals get their energy from the wind so they don’t have to eat.

A dried out octopus twitches when a current is passed through the cables.

Did the abattoir eventually run out of carcasses?

A mobile of bones impersonating a dinosaur

Some of the old greenhouses accommodate “Strandbeest” objects

Just a light touch is needed to get this Strandbeest moving.

Animaris Percipiere (2005). Courtesy of Theo Jansen. Photo by Loek van der Klis

Theo Jansen fine tunes his Strandbeest. (photographer unknown)

The mechanism turns the metal pipes, rolling the rubber bands along.

We thought it was a gigantic flower, until we discovered…

Ship’s containers decorating a water feature

A dead creature, wrapped in plastic, suspended from the roof

Ships containers used as a cubist addition to the wharehouse

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Budapest: A Soviet theatre of tyranny/ Soewjetteater van tiranie

Momento Park – One Sentence on Tyranny

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The trip on Silver and Blue along a straight road through mostly light industrial areas interspersed with partly dilapidated suburbs seemed to last forever. Just when we thought that the GPS no longer knew where we were going, we arrived at the Budapest Momento Park. Almost on a corner in grimy surroundings. Next to a shunting yard.

This is where all the communist statues which stood in prominent places all over Budapest were brought. Four years after the fall of the communist system in 1989, the symbolic statues that were meant to remind people of how great and powerful the Soviet system was were moved to this park.

We were too early and looked around a little before we got our tickets. From what we could see from the entrance made us wonder whether it was meant to poke fun or whether the statues are really revered. Everything appeared half-hearted and rather run down. At least it wasn’t destroyed or thrown into rivers. An abandoned Trabant stood to one side, tinny propaganda blaring from an old radio – only serving to enhance the dreariness of it all.

I had always been interested in NP van Wyk Louw’s poem Hongarye November 1956 in which the image of the wolf thorn tree comes strongly to the fore. This thorn tree features greatly in Hungarian tales and in the poem it is unmasked:

Die wolfdoring staan en bloei
wit wolwe en ‘n rooflied
hef en hef lang huil – en huilbuie aan
wit wolwe en ‘n rooflied….

There we stood in a theatre of tyranny, where the wolf thorn stands and flowers.

Within the red walls of the park is a different world. Gravel and grass. Partly neglected, the grass looking as if cut by a blunt mower. A great sadness hung over it all.

It was in Russia that we first saw the familiar Stalinist buildings and statues that wrestle against your soul. You are confronted by the history of our time through the grotesque burlesque social and heroic statues. The statues must be powerful, speak to the illiterate, spread propaganda. They had to be realistic allegorical figures, role models, striving forward in powerful movement.

The strangest object is the replica of Stalin’s giant boots. It becomes an iconic symbol of the stagnation of an era of terror and total power that controlled Hungary from 1948 to 1956. The 8m tall statue of Stalin was literally toppled during the October 1956 revolution, leaving only the boots behind. The might of Stalin and that dark history is tangible.

A relative in Europe tells us that her uncle and aunt were part of the crowd that pulled down the statue. They later fled Hungary to Austria and acquired refugee status in the USA.

The photographs must tell the story. I can’t. We rode back to Budapest with an emptiness within. But, grateful that we were never subjected to that era and its statues.

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Dit het gevoel ons ry vir ewig met Silwer en Blou met ‘n reguit pad deur meestal ligte industrieële gebiede met half-verwaarloosde woongebiede tussenin. Net toe ons dink die GPS weet nie meer waarnatoe nie is ons by die Boedapest Momento Park. So half op ‘n hoek in ‘n grinterige omgewing. Langs ‘n rangeerwerf.

Dit is hier waar alle kommunistiese beelde heen gebring is wat oral in Boedapest op prominente plekke gestaan het. Vier jaar na die val van die kommunistiese stelsel in 1989 is die simboliese beelde wat jou gedurig moes herrinner hoe groot en sterk die Sowjetstelsel is na hierdie park gebring.

Ons is te vroeg daar en kyk bietjie rond voor ons kaartjies kry. Wat ons van die ingang sien weet ons nie of daar gespot word nie en of die beelde werklik geëer word. Alles lyk halfhartig en effens onversorgd. Minstens is dit nie vernietig of in riviere gegooi nie. Daar staan ‘n verlate Trabant en blêr blikkerig deur ‘n ou radiotjie, wat alles nog meer troosteloos maak.

Ek was nog altyd in NP van Wyk Louw se gedig Hongarye November 1956 geïnteresseer waar die wolfdoringbeeld sterk na vore kom. Die wolfdoring staan baie sterk in Hongaarse vertellings en in die gedig word dit ontmasker:

Die wolfdoring staan en bloei
wit wolwe en ‘n rooflied
hef en hef lang huil – en huilbuie aan
wit wolwe en ‘n rooflied….

En hier staan ons in ‘n teater van tiranie, waar die wolfdoring staan en bloei.

Binne die rooi mure van die park is dit ‘n ander wêreld. Gruis en gras. Half verwaarloos en die gras lyk asof dit met stomp grassnyer gesny is. ‘n Groot sadness hang oor alles.

Ons het in Rusland die eerste keer die bekende Stalinistiese geboue en beelde gesien wat skryend teen jou siel stry. Jy word met ons leeftyd se geskiedenis gekonfronteer met die grotesk-burleske sosiale en heroïse beelde wat teen jou siel stry. Die beelde moet sterk wees, tot die ongeletterdes spreek, propaganda verkondig. Dit moes realistiese allegoriese figure wees, rolmodelle, wat in sterk bewegings voortstu. Reguit tot binne die kommunistiese droom.

Die vreemdste voorwerp is die replika van Stalin se baie groot stewels. Dit word ‘n ikoniese simbool van ‘n stagnasie van ‘n era van terreur en totale beheer wat Hongarye vanaf 1948 tot 1956 beheer het. Met die Oktober 1956 rewolusie is Stalin se 8 meter hoë standbeeld in sentraal Boedapest omgetrek en het net die stewels oorgebly. Die mag van Stalin en die donker geskiedenis kan aangevoel gevoel word.

‘n Familielidin Europa vertel dat haar oom en tante deel was van die skare wat die beeld omgetrek het. Hulle moes toe na die mislukte opstand oor die grens na Oostenryk vlug en het van daar vlugtelingstatus in die VSA gekry.

Laat die foto’s verder vertel. Ek kan nie. Ek weet net ons het leeg teruggery Boedapest toe. Maar dankbaar dat ons nooit aan hierdie era met hierdie beelde onderwerp was nie.