General De Wet – For Remembrance and Friendship
From No Outspan
by Deneys Reitz
We moved into Namaqualand.
This vast tract lies south of the lower Orange. Much of it is barren and rainless, and it is inhabited by Boer farmers ever on the rove in search of grazing and water. They are a fine, hardy type, and I renewed acquaintance with many of them who had been under arms with us against the British in the old days. They are devoted to Namaqualand, and to them it is fair and beautiful, though not many others would think so.
Nevertheless, there is a fascination here that grows on one, and I had learned to respect its hard-bitten people during the days of fighting and adventure I had spent among them.
We journeyed as far south as Van Rhynsdorp, the little village that had served as our headquarters in 1902. I saw the graves of comrades who had been killed, and I saw the place where I had helped to execute the spy Colaine.
At every town and village I had to deliver a speech, for politics was the ruling passion. For our farmers it takes the place of theatre, the cinema and sport. It is the national pastime, like bull-fighting in Spain.
When at last we struck the railway line, there was a batch of correspondence awaiting me. Among the letters was a request from General Christian de Wet, asking that I should visit him. I had fought against him in the 1914 Rebellion, but I liked and respected the old warhorse, so I started out to see him.
When I was a boy he was a member of the Free State Volksraad in the republican time. He once entered Bloemfontein at the head of an armed force to protest against the building of a railway line from the coast, for he held the view – not altogether without subsequent justification – that this dangerous innovation would facilitate an invasion by the British.
In 1899, during the first month of the Anglo-Boer War, he made a name for himself by surrounding and capturing a large force of British troops near Ladysmith in Natal. I was in that battle, and we took over a thousand prisoners. This exploit had brought him into prominence and when, before long, disasters fell thick upon us, he was appointed Commandant-General of the Free State.
By that time we had been driven from Natal, Bloemfontein was occupied, and all seemed lost. But Christian de Wet rose superior to misfortune. Aided by President Steyn, my father’s successor, he rallied our disheartened commandos, and when the tide of the invasion rolled north, he remained in the rear and conducted a brilliant guerrilla campaign. He held out against tremendous odds, and his raids and forays and escapes, his feats of endurance and courage, won him an international reputation, generously endorsed by the British themselves.
In 1912 there sprang up the feud between the supporters of General Botha and General Hertzog, and De Wet supported the latter. At the beginning of the Great War he went into revolt. Because I was a Freestater and because my father had been President of the Free State, he had expected me to join his movement; and he was bitter because I took up arms on the side of the Botha government. We defeated him at Mushroom Valley, and he was captured after a long chase. He was imprisoned, but General Botha sent him back to his farm on parole, and there I now found him.
I was shocked at his appearance. Instead of the square, virile figure I had known, there stood before me a haggard, shrunken man. His beard was ungroomed, his laces dragged on the ground, and his clothes hung loosely on an emaciated body. His hands were swollen with some disease, and he tottered in his gait as he came to greet me. I placed him in a chair and asked why he had summoned me, but he was unable to say. He sat with his hands pressed against his forehead, trying vainly to remember, and I had to go off with the question unsolved.
I like to think that, knowing his end to be near, in his darkened mind had come the wish to say a last word for remembrance and friendship, before he trod the common road. He died shortly after, and we decreed him a State funeral. He is buried at the foot of the National Monument in Bloemfontein.
Generaal De Wet – Van Herinnering en Vriendskap
Uit No Outspan
deur Deneys Reitz
Ons het aanbeweeg Namaqualand toe.
Dié uitgestrekte landstreek lê suid van die laer Oranje. ’n Groot gedeelte is dor, kaal en reënloos, en word bewoon deur plaasboere wat vir ewig aan die swerwe is op soeke na weiding en water. Hulle is ’n puik, stoere tipe, en ek het my kennis met baie van hulle wat saam met ons teen die Britte in die ou dae geveg het, hervat. Hulle is geheg aan Namaqualand en vir hulle is dit gaaf en pragtig, hoewel nie veel ander so sal dink nie.
Nietemin is hier ’n bekoring wat aan ’n mens vat, en ek het geleer om sy geharde mense te respekteer gedurende die dae van oorlog en avonture wat ek tussen hulle deurgebring het.
Ons het ons reis hervat tot so ver suid as Van Rhynsdorp, die klein dorpie wat in 1902 as ons hoofkwartier gedien het. Ek het die graftes van kamerade wat omgekom het, gesien, en ook die plek waar ek gehelp het om die spioen, Colaine, tereg te stel.
By elke dorp, groot en klein, moes ek ’n toespraak lewer, want politiek is die heersende passie. Vir ons plaasboere neem dit die plek in van teaters, bioskope en sport. Dit is die nasionale tydverdryf, soos bulgevegte in Spanje.
Toe ons uiteindelik weer by die spoorlyn uitkom, was daar ’n stewige bondel korrespondensie wat op my gewag het. Tussen die briewe was daar ’n versoek van generaal Christian de Wet wat gevra het dat ek hom moet besoek. Ek het in die 1914 rebellie teen hom geveg, maar ek het van die ou strydros gehou en hom gerespekteer, en het dus vertrek om hom te gaan sien.
Toe ek ’n seun was, was hy in die republikeinse tyd lid van die Vrystaatse Volksraad. Op ’n keer het hy Bloemfontein aan die voorpunt van ’n gewapende mag binnegery om protes aan te teken teen die bou van ’n spoorlyn van die kus af, want hy het die mening gehuldig – wat later sou blyk nie sonder algehele regverdiging was nie – dat hierdie gevaarlike innovering ’n inval deur die Britte kan fasiliteer.
In 1899, in die eerste maand van die Anglo Boere-oorlog, het hy ’n naam vir homself gemaak deur ’n groot Britse troepemag naby Ladysmith in Natal te omsingel en gevange te neem. Ek was in daardie geveg betrokke en ons het meer as ’n duisend prisoniers aangekeer. Hierdie kordaatstuk het aan hom prominensie verleen en toe, kort voor lank, toe rampspoed ons oorval het, is hy aangestel as kommandant-generaal van die Vrystaat.
Teen daardie tyd is ons uit Natal gedryf, Bloemfontein was beset, en alles het verlore gelyk. Christian de Wet het meesterlik bo teëspoed uitgestyg. Bygestaan deur president Steyn, my pa se opvolger, het hy ons ontmoedigde kommando’s moed ingepraat, en toe die invallende gety noord gerol het, het hy die agterhoede gedek en ’n briljante guerrilla veldtog gevoer. Hy het teen geweldige oormagte uitgehou en sy strooptogte, aanvalle en ontsnappings, sy uithoudingsvermoë en waagmoed, het hom ’n internasionale reputasie besorg. Dit was ruimhartig deur die Britte self bevestig.
In 1912 het daar ’n vete ontstaan tussen die ondersteuners van generaal Botha en generaal Hertzog, en De Wet het laasgenoemde ondersteun. Aan die begin van die Eerste Wêreldoorlog het hy gerebelleer. Omdat ek ’n Vrystater was en omdat my vader die president van die Vrystaat was, het hy verwag dat ek by sy beweging sou aansluit. Hy was bitter omdat ek die wapen opgeneem het aan die kant van die Botha-regering. Ons het hom by Mushroom Valley verslaan, en na ’n lang jaagtog is hy gevange geneem. Hy is in die tronk gestop, maar generaal Botha het hom op parool losgelaat en teruggestuur na sy plaas toe, en daar het ek hom toe gevind.
Sy voorkoms het my geskok. In plaas van die bonkige forse figuur wat ek geken het, het hier voor my ’n uitgemergelde vervalle man gestaan. Sy baard was onversorgd, sy veters het op die grond gesleep en sy klere het los aan sy uitgeteerde liggaam gehang. Sy hande was geswel van een of ander kwaal en hy het al waggelende na my toe aangestap gekom om te groet. Ek het hom in ’n stoel laat sit en gevra waarom hy my laat roep het, maar hy kon my nie sê nie. Met sy hande teen sy voorkop gedruk, het hy tevergeefs probeer om te onthou, en ek moes vertrek met die vraag onopgelos.
Ek verkies om te dink, wetende sy einde is naby, dat hy in sy verdonkerende gemoed die wens na vore voel kom het om ’n laaste woord van herinnering en vriendskap te uiter voor hy die algemene pad bewandel. Hy is kort daarna oorlede en ons het ’n dekreet vir ’n staatsbegrafnis uitgevaardig. Hy is aan die voet van die nasionale monument in Bloemfontein begrawe.
Cape Cookery
From Leipoldt's Food & Wine
by Dr. C. Louis Leipoldt
My interest in cookery dates from the time when, as a little boy in the late eighties of the nineteenth century, I assisted, in a very minor and suppressed capacity, at the culinary operations of a very expert Coloured woman cook who bore the reputation of being one of the best in the Cape Colony. Fat to the verge of obesity, she presided over a kitchen whose cleanliness could have served as a model for an operating theatre of a modern hospital, largely because she insisted that punctilious, painstaking ablution was an indispensible preliminary in the preparation of food. Her inculcation of these elementary principles, often accompanied by a good-natured but nevertheless painful prodding of my juvenile person with the large wooden spoon that was her sceptre, helped me – in later years when I learned to better my taste and broaden my experience – to realise how any infringement of them inevitably impairs the excellence of all cookery.
The Ayah’s art was the result of many years of instruction and experience in the traditional methods of Malay cookery, whose outstanding characteristics are the free, almost heroic, use of spices and aromatic flavourings, the prolonged steady, but slow, application of moist heat to all meat dishes, and the skilful blending of many diverse constituents into a combination that still holds the essential goodness of each. Her dishes, that were eaten by Governors, Prime Ministers and Very Important Persons, were made from old recipes that were firmly enshrined in her memory, for she never referred to written or printed directives. Nearly every one of these recipes is to be found in cookery books that were then already well known – without, however, the little modifications that her own ingenuity and experience had enabled her to add for their improvement.
*
The Malay community at the Cape has always had a reputation for its good cookery, and even now the best women cooks are to be found among the Coloured people, who have been trained to appreciate all that is best in both eastern and western culinary fashions. In the old days a Malay cook was regarded as indispensible for the household that wished to entertain; slaves who had knowledge of this kind of cookery commanded a far higher price than other domestic chattels. Thus a local advertisement stated that: ‘Malani, a good cook, exceptionally skilled and not wasteful in the kitchen’, was one of five slaves to be sold on behalf of the estate of a deceased owner; while an account of a slave auction related that: ‘there was spirited competition for Emerentia, who is an acknowledged artist of the pot’.
At the hospitable house where the young officer, later on to be Lord Wellington, the conqueror of Napoleon, but at that time rusticating on his way to India, was frequently entertained by the richest man in Cape Town, the cook was a Coloured woman, skilled in the preparation of oriental dishes, and ably supported by her husband, who acted as butler.
Oriental influence, indeed, was predominant in Cape cookery, and its importance can easily be judged by the value attached to eastern spices and condiments in the old-fashioned recipes.
Kaapse Kookkuns
Uit Leipoldt se Kaapse Kookkuns
deur Dr. C. Louis Leiplodt
My belangstelling in die kookkuns dateer uit die tyd toe ek as ’n seuntjie, aan die einde van die tagtigerjare in die negentiende eeu, in ’n baie geringe en beheersde hoedanigheid, gehelp het in al die kookwerksaamhede van ’n besonder bekwame Bruin dame wat hoog geag is as een van die beste kokke in die Kaapkolonie. Swaarlywig en gewigtig het sy daar in die kombuis geheers. Die netheid dáár kon gedien het as ’n voorbeeld vir ’n operasieteater in ’n moderne hospitaal. Dit was omdat sy só puntenerig daaroor was dat sorgsame netheid gehandhaaf móés word. Dit was ’n onontbeerlike preliminêr in die voorbereiding van kos. Haar inskerping van hierdie elementêre beginsels vir dié jongeling, wat dikwels vergesel was van ’n goedhartige, maar nogtans pynlike streepsuiker op die boud met ’n houtspaan wat haar septer was, het my in my latere lewe gehelp toe ek geleer het om my smaak te verbeter en my ervaring te verbreed. Ek het besef hoe enige skending dáárvan die voortreflikheid van alle kookkuns onvermydelik benadeel.
Ayah se kuns was die gevolg van instruksies en ervaring oor baie jare in die tradisionele metodes van die Maleise kookkuns. Die vernaamste kenmerke is die ongebonde, amper heldhaftige gebruik van speserye en aromatiese geursels; die uitgerekte, egalige maar stadige aanwending van vogtige hitte by al die vleisgeregte, en die vaardige vermenging van baie diverse bestanddele in ’n samesnoering wat steeds die essensiële voortreflikheid van elkeen behou. Haar disse, geniet deur goewerneurs, eerste ministers en baie belangrike persone, is voorberei met behulp van ou resepte wat stewig in haar geheue bewaar is. Sy het nooit enige geskrewe of gedrukte voorskrifte geraadpleeg nie. Omtrent al hierdie resepte kan in kookboeke gevind word en was toe alreeds welbekend – maar egter sonder die geringe modifikasies en eie vindingrykheid en ervaring wat haar met die bevoegdheid toegerus het om by te dra tot hulle veredeling.
* * *
Die Maleiergemeenskap aan die Kaap het altyd ’n hoë aansien vir goeie kookkuns gehad, en selfs deesdae kan van die beste dameskokke by die Bruinmense aangetref word. Hulle is opgelei om alles wat die beste in beide die Westerse en Oosterse kookgewoontes is, te waardeer. In die ou dae was ’n Maleierkok beskou as onmisbaar vir die huishouding wat daarvan gehou het om te onthaal. Slawe wat ’n kennis gehad het van dié soort kookkuns, het ’n baie hoër prys afgedwing as ander huishoudelike besittings. Sodoende het ’n plaaslike advertensie aangedui dat “Malani ’n goeie kok met uitstaande bekwaamhede en wat nie sal vermors in die kombuis nie” was. Sy was een van vyf slawe wat te koop aangebied is in die afgestorwe boedel van die eienaar. Verder was daar ook ’n beskrywing van ’n slaweveiling wat aangedui het dat daar “geesdriftige wedywering vir Emerentia, ’n erkende kunstenaar van die kastrol” was.
Die jong offisier wat lateraan bekend sou word as lord Wellington wat oor Napoleon geseëvier het, is dikwels by die gasvrye huis van die rykste man in Kaapstad, waar hy ’n rustige verblyf geniet het op sy roete na Indië, onthaal. Die kok was ’n Bruinvrou wat baie vaardig was in die voorbereiding van Oosterse disse. Haar man het as butler opgetree en haar op ’n bekwame manier ondersteun.
Die Oosterse invloed was inderdaad baie dominant in die Kaapse kookkuns en die belangrikheid daarvan kan maklik geskat word in die waarde wat aan Oosterse speserye en smaakmiddels in die ouderwetse resepte geheg is.
Oysters
From Leipoldt's Cellar & Kitchen
by C Louis Leipoldt
Brother Jan’s eldest finished matric with a first-class pass, and is now enrolled as a first-year medical student. Would I please keep an eye on him, wrote Brother Jan, and see to it that everything was all right?
My memory of the little chap – it was about ten years since I had last seen him – was of a bolt-upright, skinny as a fishbone, short-pants, barefoot youngster with mischievous little eyes, a turned-up nose pointing skywards to such an extent that it always seemed to be smelling something unpleasant, and front teeth that a yappy little dog would be proud of. Now I was confronted with a fellow stretching an inch and a half further into the air than I would be able to myself if my rheumatism would allow me to straighten up – a fellow with smoothly plastered hair, the foreshadowing of a moustache on his upper lip, the even more suggestive blue-black along the jaw, and the inkling of that half-cheeky, half-embarrassed attitude his generation is afflicted with when meeting older people for the first time. The turned-up nose was just as turned-up, and the teeth were just as white, but the young man was now an adult and no longer gave the impression of a hungry, moulting chicken. The yellow tie swaying in the breeze – persuasive evidence of his rank as a first-year student – and the grey blazer had nothing in common with the short pants of ten years before.
It did not take us long to leave behind the protocol-like formalities between uncle and nephew, as Kleinjan at his best is quite adaptable. Within an hour I had got to know everything about the family, the farm, and his school adventures. It was apparent that Neef already felt at home in his new environment, especially since the end of the initiation practices that (it pains me to say) are still the habit at institutions we recklessly still call ‘universities’. It was equally apparent that he would not allow himself to be intimidated by anything said, taught or advised, whether by Oom or by anybody else.
When it was time for lunch I took him to a place where I sometimes enjoy the midday meal. There the waiter immediately announced that they had oysters, and I ordered two dozen without thinking. Kleinjan, his couldn’t-care-less, you-won’t-impress-me attitude notwithstanding, was in awe of the scene at the club, and his lively banter quietened down somewhat. When the oysters arrived, he stared at them like a Kalahari Bushman seeing a motorbike for the first time.
‘What on earth is this, Oom?’ he asked, and I imagined that I saw his turned-up nose flipping a centimetre higher.
‘Oysters, man, the very best. We’re fortunate to get them today. They’re usually flown up to Johannesburg, and are seldom available here.’
‘Eat, Oom? … Si …’ His politeness made him swallow the word as I despatched my first oyster, appropriately baptised with a drop of lemon juice.
‘Of course. Look, you take them like this,’ and I showed him how. Unfortunately, just as I was busy baptising his oyster, it went into a spasmodic convulsion.
‘What the … Oom, this thing is still alive …’
‘I should think so. You never eat dead oysters – that would be far too dangerous. Come now, don’t be so childish. If you want to be a doctor, you’ll have to get used to trying everything; and I give you my word that you’ll enjoy this. There now, swallow it down …’
‘Please … no … Oom … Oom must excuse me. It looks … it looks just like dermskraapsels.’
Well then, have your dermskraapsels, or have you never eaten a sausage? If you don’t want your oysters, give them to me. I’ll eat them for you, and you can order yourself some soup. But I must say, Kleinjan, I thought Brother Jan’s son would be able to show that he’s a man, even when it comes to oysters.’
Kleinjan did not order soup. He took a swig of his beer and followed me with his eyes – no longer mischievous but really afraid, as if he had come across a cannibalistic Oom – as I devoured one oyster after the other. Only at the end, after I had encouraged him several times to order something for himself, did he ask me in a whisper, ‘Oom, is that really nice?’
I regard it as a civilising task to teach someone to eat oysters, and although I am by nature – like all of us Bonades – impatient, especially with people who are full of themselves (that is to say, who don’t agree with me), I did my best to bring my nephew around, in the most avuncular way, to try just one oyster. And then just one more. There were, however, only half a dozen left, and we couldn’t order more, oysters being so scarce these days. My reward was Kleinjan’s considered opinion: ‘Yes, I must admit, Oom, they really are not so bad.’
Yes nefies and niggies, oysters really are not so bad. That is, if you eat them properly – without all sorts of additions that end up spoiling the pure, undefiled, immaculately innocent, genuine oyster taste with other tastes and flavours that are a real sin to the oyster connoisseur. Serve it in its shell. Open it yourself if you have the slightest fear that your waiter will allow the point of his knife to slip into the creature’s tender flesh. Ensure that it is served with its muscle still functioning, so that it can shrink. And don’t go on about cruel or barbaric treatment of a defenceless little creature. Such ultra-humanitarian excuses do not hold for the cook. Will he who gives in to them forsake duck liver pâté, or tortoise soup, or crayfish salad, or stewed eel? I would ask whoever holds forth along such lines to honestly guarantee that the mielie feels no pain when you strip it of its leaves, or the watermelon when you cut it open. Was it not the portly Oubaas Chesterton who put his vegetarian friend in his place by asking: ‘And why should only the salt and the mustard suffer?’
See to it, then, that your oysters are still alive, and eat them preferably in their virginal innocence without adding anything or with a drop of lemon juice, to soften slightly the saltiness still clinging to them. Do not fry them – that is to do them an injustice. Make no soup from them – that is to adulterate something delicious and pure into something complex and artificial. Eat them with a slice of bread and butter. If you have the opportunity, try them with some caviar in a sandwich. But never with red pepper, or onions, or anything else that could spoil the fine taste of the oyster. You should therefore also be careful about what you drink with them. You needn’t drink anything at all, for they contain enough water themselves; but if you must, then choose between a good beer, preferably a dark type, and a white wine that is not too dry and that should, of course, never be sparkling.
For us older Bonades – since, as you see, the younger generation still has much to learn – champagne with oysters is from the devil and not to be mentioned in front of Christian children – inter Christianos non nominanda sunt, as the old Father says. And never think that, if you bear these tips in mind, you will ever be in danger when eating oysters. They are the most innocent and delicious creatures ever to come out of the sea.
21 December 1945
Oesters
Uit Polfyntjies vir die Proe
deur Dr. C. Louis Leipoldt
Broer Jan se oudste het matriek in die eerste klas geslaag en is nou ingeskryf as eerstejaar-student in die medisyne. Sou ek asseblief ’n ogie oor hom hou en my nou en dan synerwille ontferme? … so het broer Jan geskryf.
My herinnering aan die outjie – en ek het hom tien jaar laas gesien – was dié van ’n penorent, graat-skraal, kortbroek, kaalvoet-kleutertjie met ondeunde ogies, ’n wipneusie wat danig hemel toe gekant het of dit gedurig iets onplesierigs moes ruik, en voortandjies waarop ’n keffertjie trots kon wees. Nou kry ek voor my ’n kêrel wat anderhalf duim hoër in die lug rek as ek self sou kon doen indien die rugrumatiek my dit sou toelaat – ’n kêrel met gladgepleisterde hare, die voorskaduwing van ’n snor op die bolip, die nog meerseggender blou-swart langs die kaak en daardie halfastrante, halfverleë houding wat sy tydgenote aanslaan wanneer hulle met ou mense die eerste maal in aanraking kom. Die wipneus was nog net so gewip en die tande nog net so wit soos vroeër, maar meneertjie was nou taamlik uitgegroei en het nie meer die indruk van ’n uitgehongerde, verveerde kuiken gemaak nie. En die in die wind swaaiende geel das, oortuigende bewys van eerstejaar-studenterang, en die vaal sportbaadjie het niks met die kort broekie van tien jaar gelede gemeen gehad nie.
Dit het nie lank geduur eer ons afgegly het van die protokolagtige verhouding tussen oom en neef nie, want Kleinjan, op sy stukke, pas hom gou aan. Binne ’n uur het ek alles verneem omtrent die familie, die plaas, en sy eie skoolavonture. Dit was duidelik dat neef hom reeds tuis gevoel het in sy nuwe omgewing, veral na die ontgroeningseremonie wat – dit spyt my om dit te sê – nog gewoonte is aan inrigtings wat ons roekeloos “universiteite” noem. Net so duidelik was dit dat hy hom nie sou laat imponeer deur enigiets wat “Oom” of wie ook al sou sê of wys of raai nie.
Toe dit tyd word om te gaan eet, het ek hom meegeneem na waar ek soms die noenmaal geniet. Daar het die kelner regstreeks op ons afgekom met die berig dat daar die middag oesters in voorraad was. Ek het sonder om na te dink twee dosyn bestel. Kleinjan, nieteenstaande sy traak-nie-agtige, jy-sal-my-nie-imponeer-
“Wat op aarde is dit nou, Oom?” vra hy, en ek verbeel my dat sy wipneus ’n paar sentimeter hoer wip.
“Oesters, man. Die allerbeste sort. Ons is gelukkig dat ons dit vandag kry. Die goed gaan gewoonlik reguit Johannesburg toe, en dis selde dat ons hier geleentheid kry om hulle te eet …”
“Eet, Oom? … Si …” Sy hoflikheid het die woord binnensmonds afgebyt net toe ek my eerste oester, behoorlik met ’n druppel suurlemoensap gedoop, insluk.
“Natuurlik. Kyk, jy neem hulle so,” en ek wys hom. Ongelukkig het sy oester, wat ek besig was om te bedrup, net op daardie oomblik krampagtig ’n stuiptrekking gekry.
“Maar gits, Oom, die ding lewe mos …”
“Ek sou so dink. Dooie oesters eet ’n mens nie, dis te gevaarlik. Kom, wees nou nie so kinderagtig nie. As jy dokter wil word, moet jy jou gewoond maak om alles te probeer, en ek gee jou my woord jy sal hiervan hou. Dé, sluk dit nou in …”
“Ag nee, Oom. Oom moet my verskoon. Dit lyk vir my … dit lyk vir my net soos ’n dermskraapsel.”
“Nou ja, jy het al dermskraapsels geëet, of het jy nooit wors geëet nie? As jy nie wil nie, gee my dan jou oesters; ek sal hulle vir jou opeet, en jy kan vir jou sop bestel. Maar ek moet sê, Kleinjan, ek het gedink dat broer Jan se seun sy man kan staan, selfs as dit op oesters daarop aankom.”
Kleinjan het nie sop bestel nie. Hy het ’n teug van sy bier gedrink en my met sy oë – nou nie ondeund nie, maar regtig bang asof hy ’n mensvretende oom teengekom het – gevolg toe ek een na die ander oester verslind. Eers teen die end en nadat ek hom verskeie keer gesê het om iets vir homself te bestel, het hy amper in ’n fluisterstem gevra: “Oom, is dit werklik lekker?”
Ek beskou dit as ’n beskawingswerk om iemand te leer om oesters te eet, en ofskoon ek van aanleg, soos al die Bonades, ongeduldig is, veral met mense wat eiewys is (dit wil sê, nie met my eens is nie), het ek op vriendelike, omelike wyse my nefie oorgehaal om een oester te probeer eet. En daarna nog een. Daar was toe slegs ’n halfdosyn oor, en ons kon nie meer kry nie. Want oesters is vandag skaars. My belonging was Kleinjan se weloordagte oordel: “Ja, waarlik, Oom, dit is darem nie so sleg nie.”
Ja, nefies en niggies, oesters is darem nie so sleg nie. Mits julle oesters behoorlik eet. Sonder allerhande bybehorighede wat op die ou end die rein, suiwer, onberispelik-onskuldige, puur oestersmaak vervals met geure en bysmake wat vir die oesterkenner ’n sonde is. Bedien hom op sy skulp. Maak hom self oop as jy die minste vrees het dat die kelner sy mespunt in die tere dier se weefsels sal laat glip. Sorg ten minste dat jy hom op tafel kry met sy spier nog bruikbaar sodat hy kan krimp. En praat nou tog nie van wreedheid en barbaarse behandeling van ’n weerlose dier nie. Die ultra-ultra-humanitêre voorwendsels geld nie vir die kok nie. Wie wat daaraan toegee, sal ooit ganslewerpastei of skilpadsop of kreefslaai or gestoofde paling durf eet? Vir hom wat volhou, sal ek vra om my eerlik te waarborg dat die mielie nie pyn voel as jy hom van die stronk afstroop nie of die waatlemoen as jy hom oopsny nie. Was dit nie die dikke oubaas Chesterton wat sy vegetariese vriend op sy plek gesit het deur te vra: “En hoekom moet net die sout en die mosterd ly?”
Sorg dus dat jou oesters lewendig is en eet hulle óf (en liefs) in hul maagdelike onskuldigheid sonder om iets by te sit, óf met ’n druppel suurlemoensap om die souterigheid wat aan hul klewe ’n ietsie te versag. Braai hulle nie – dit is om hulle onreg aan te doen. Maak geen sop van hulle nie – dis om iets wat heerlik en suiwer is te vermeng en te vervals tot iets wat ingewikkeld en kunsmatig is. Eet hulle met ’n stukkie brood en botter. As jy die kans kry, probeer hulle met ’n paar korreltjies kaviaar op die toebroodjie. Maar nooit met rooipeper of uie of enigiets anders wat die fyn smaak van die oester kan beïnvloed nie. Wees dus ook versigtig wat jy met hulle drink. Eintlik hoef jy niks te drink nie, want oesters bevat water genoeg. Maar as dit tog moet, kies dan tussen ’n goeie bier, liefs ’n donker sort, en ’n wit wyn wat nie te sonder suiker is nie en wat natuurlik nie mag skuim nie.
Vir ons ouere Bonades – want soos julle sien, het die jongere geslag nog baie om te leer – is sjampagnje en oesters uit die duiwel en word onder Christenkinders nie genoem nie – inter Christianos non nominanda sunt, soos die ou vader sê. En dink tog nooit dat as jy hierdie wenke in aanmerking neem jy ooit gevaar loop as jy oesters eet nie. Hulle is die onskuldigste, lekkerste diertjies wat uit die see kom.
21 Desember 1945
Freedom on the Orange
From No Outspan
by Deneys Reitz
At Pretoria, our administrative capital, I attended to official business, and for the next few weeks I was in bondage. Then I broke loose, to the far west, to the lower reaches of the Orange River.
This great stream rises in Basutoland, and runs thence across the breadth of South Africa to empty itself into the Atlantic, eight hundred miles away. It drains the entire Free State and much of the Transvaal and the Cape Provinces, so that in the summer nearly half the waters of the Union roll between its banks.
On the islands towards the coast are European settlements, and there was something like civil war among the irrigators owing to quarrels in respect of the distribution of water in the canals and furrows. I found them nursing shotguns and rifles across their knees as they fiercely eyed each other from opposite sides of the sluice gates, and it cost me long days of difficult negotiation before the factions came to some kind of agreement.
The most important centre along here was a place called Kakamas. I had operated in these parts as a Boer guerrilla nearly twenty years before. At that time it was a mere outpost with a few reed huts; now it was a thriving hamlet with power-driven mills, electric lights and other signs of progress, including the doubtful blessing of hostile political parties whom I had to address amid the cheers and boos that are an invariable feature at similar gatherings in our rural districts.
From Kakamas we travelled slowly down the left bank of the river, and so came to the Aughrabies Falls. These are little known on account of the remote desert country in which they lie, but they are among the highest in the world.
Close to the edge of the falls the river narrows down to a granite portal, not more than fifteen yards wide, and through this restricted gateway the accumulated waters of half a continent plunge down five hundred feet sheer into a mighty gorge not unlike that below the Victoria Falls at Livingstone. A lonely farmer lives in the vicinity, and one of his sons guided us to a point from which we could not only watch the immense column leaping over the rim, but see the foaming cauldron far below.
The young fellow had grown up beside the river, and he said that he knew a way to the bottom of the gorge. The rest of my party hung back, and they were sound judges, for it was a fearsome descent. We had to go by a crevice in the face of the cliff and we slowly made our way, testing each foothold before trying the next, until at last we got to a spot where a jutting ledge gave us standing room just above the heaving cataract. We were now some four hundred yards below the falls and, looking up the gorge, we could see the water coming over with a roar of thunder, and there stood a cloud of mist and spray. From the falls the torrent came racing down towards us in angry flood, throwing up great waves and eddying wildly.
But I watched the driftwood, and I noticed that some of the logs slowed down at a certain point, and even started to float upstream again. From this I concluded that the water, probably due to submerged rocks, was taking a rotary movement and that, for all its frightening aspect, the gorge was not as dangerous as it seemed; and I decided to make a test.
I stripped and dived in, and it was as I thought, for there was something of an upstream current, and I was able to make headway. I was tossed and buffeted a good deal, and at times there was a sensation of remoteness from the outside world, for on either side the walls of the mighty canyon stood so high that but a strip of blue sky showed, making one feel a mere speck in the waste of waters.
I am a good swimmer, and I covered the four hundred yards by dint of battling, and I was even able to get into a vast cavern behind the fall. The water came over with such force that it set up a downward current of air like a giant ventilator in a mineshaft. It was a vivid experience.
After cruising around in the calm backwater at the rear of the falls, I returned the way I had come and rejoined my guide who had been watching my escapade with some alarm. We now climbed up the cliff and, after another terrible scramble, we reached the top in safety. At the Boer homestead the old farmer held up his hands on being told what I had done, but when I asked him whether the gorge had been swum before, he said bluntly that no one had been such a damn fool as to try.
All the same, my record stands.
