A Farm Christmas, the Namibian Way - A Flash Essay

Christmas means different things to different people. This dawned on me rather late in life. Growing up in a conservative Afrikaner family in the Cape, Christmas was characterized by a family get-together, including attending a church service on Christmas Eve.



My first experience of Christmas in the then SWA was somewhat similar, yet unique. The rural areas, dotted with isolated farms, had the old phone exchanges (Nommer asseblief!) and no cell phones or TVs.

Shops were few and far between, demanding timeous and clever planning regarding gifts and especially ingredients for the Christmas dinner. Mother-in-law would call my wife weeks prior and that set the ball rolling to discuss the Christmas menu. After telephone calls back and forth, everyone knew exactly who was to bring what to the farm. As time passed, Christmas fever would grow daily. To me it seemed a mostly female thing; the men in the family did not figure very much, apart from carrying stuff and running errands to the shop and back.

Meat was naturally the main item on the menu: leg of lamb, mutton chops, pork, chicken, rolled rib or beef tongue. Side dishes might have included sweet potato, yellow rice and raisins, baked potatoes, pumpkin fritters, etc. But, topping it all was Ouma’s doekpoeding (steamed pudding). As a youngster I had heard of this from my own mother but had never tasted it before. Here on the farm I had my first experience of this greatly forgotten but cherished delicacy. The unbleached linen cloth in which the dough was baked I found intriguing, but the brandy sauce was much more interesting.

We were awakened early by the sound of Christmas carols coming from an old long-playing record. The melodies of Silent Night, Holy Night; O Come All Ye Faithful, Hark, The Herald Angels Sing and others would drift down the passage to fill every nook and cranny of the old farmhouse, carrying the age-old message of One who was born, died and rose again. Outside in the farmyard, apart from the occasional bleating of a lamb or ewe, a serene silence reigned.

But, alas, with the passing of time, the voices of five of this family have fallen silent.

The old LP record will never spread its message again and the derelict farmhouse is now a mere shadow of what it once was. Only the memories will linger with those who are left behind to reminisce about past Christmases on a Namibian farm



Nick van Zyl