An Uncommon Man

An Uncommon Man

By Pinelands Writers Circle

“Talk to me.”

Seventy years of African sun had left its mark on his skin. His sandals looked incongruous on a farmer. Well-worn shorts and T-shirt, both of indeterminate original colour, had seen many washing machine cycles.

His eyes twinkled with an alertness seldom found in city dwellers today.

“Talk to me,” was his inevitable greeting to all, newcomer or old friend. It certainly prodded folk into conversations.

Sparse grey hair flew out in a myriad of different directions, sculpted by the almost inevitable breeze.

We were walking towards the source of the farm’s water, following the black polyurethane pipes that merely lay on the surface.

The pipes started in a spring on the slopes of the Kasteelberg. They served all five farms using nothing but gravity.

Occasionally bark would cause a blockage. It was one of these we were after.

His tools of the trade for this exercise were a few couplers and clamps, a hacksaw blade and a ten millimeter ring spanner.

The method was to lift the pipe at intervals to listen for the sound of running water. The weight of the pipe also gave an indication of whether there was water in it or not.

Many years of experience usually led to a reasonably accurate estimate of where the blockage was situated.

Sometimes the clamps on the joints were too rusted to move and then the hacksaw blade came into its own.

Once the pipe was cut a new coupler and clamps were required to rejoin the halves.

Inevitably this was a messy business and getting soaked was merely part of the deal.

This time the blockage lay near the source next to a mighty 200 year-old oak.

After having fixed the problem, we sat down on a log under the oak.

“I nearly shat myself here one day,” he said. “I’d been following the pipe up to here and as I looked up the baboons were all around me in the oak. As nonchalantly as I could I retraced my steps.”

“Many years ago, when the baboons were becoming menacing my grandfather galloped up here on his white charger all the while hollering and when he got within range he shot the troop leader with his Lee Metford. For years afterwards there was no trouble with the baboons.”

“By the way,” he went on, changing tack, “Did you notice how the road was churned up yesterday?”

“It really was a mess,” I agreed, “What happened?”

“A milk tanker pulled over to let a bakkie pass and got stuck in the soft ridge.”

“They sent a breakdown truck hours later, but it could not move the tanker. At that stage the breakdown truck was called to another, more urgent, problem. They merely left the driver to his own devices.”

“I took him some food and water as well as a toilet roll. At about 10 pm that night the breakdown returned with steel sheets. These were placed under the tanker’s wheels allowing it to be hauled out. The owners of these things simply don’t give a damn about their drivers.”

By this time we had reached the cottage my son hires from him.

“Coffee and a rusk?” I asked.

“Of course, what a question.”

Holding the warm mug he looked out over the valley, “It’s hard to believe that the last pitched battle with the Bushmen was fought right over there, just two hundred years ago. But pitched battles are part of humanity.”

His eyes twinkled, “I nearly had one on my hands the other night at a dinner party. I suggested to the assembled company that it should be law that couples are forced to divorce after twenty-five years of marriage.”

“The women were all ready to run me out of town. Hang on,” I said, “just think, if you really cared for one another you’d get married again. What fun.”

“Did that redeem you?” I smiled.

“It certainly prevented something,” he chortled.

“I chided them that they would be like the other widows around here. When their husbands die they buy a white Honda and move into town.”

“And their response?” I asked.

“Silence,” he smiled. “I often wonder how many of the women have contemplated, at least once, bopping their husbands off.”

I smiled, “Yes, I’ve heard the comment before; divorce, never; but murder, frequently.”

Just then a light plane came buzzing down the valley.

“I’ve often been tempted to take a pot shot at those sods,” he said. “Imagine the hoo-hah if I shot one down.”

“As a youngster, towards the end of the war, I was enthralled by the Spitfires, Hellcats, Tomahawks and Mustangs that came up the valley.”

“Why this valley?” I asked.

“My mother was a flying instructor at Youngsfield and I guess they came to pay their respects.”

Our conversations always changed tack at a moment’s notice.

“I wonder how long I’ll still be allowed to farm here?” he mused.

“Why?” I asked.

“Well. We now have a different government, and the tendency is to redress the errors of the past. It’s a question of interpretation. Its also  question of being able to build and maintain, which requires expertise.”

He said this without rancour as though it was a fact as inevitable as death.

“Your four daughters and their husbands?” I enquired.

“A bunch of complete townies. Only one son-in-law shows any spark and it is not towards a practical, farming life.”

“And Emily, if you predecease her?” I asked.

“A white Honda and town,” he smiled.

“I’ve got to go and feed the sheep in a minute,” he said.

“How many months do you have to feed them?” I asked.

“Usually about seven to eight months. The natural growth here only sustains them for four to five months,” he replied.

“Any natural predators?” I asked.

“Mainly lynx. They account for a two percent attrition rate of lambs. One just builds that fact into your pricing structure.”

We got up and walked towards his truck.

“Breakfast tomorrow?” I asked.

“I’ll pick you up at ten,” he said.

 


 

 

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