The farmer's daughter - Serial Story

Previous memoirs:
In 1969 Nick, from Cape Town, arrived in Namibia like a stranger in Jerusalem. As a young teacher he was faced with many new scenarios in the tiny town of Aroab, none of which he could have planned for...

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“Sir, would you please be so kind to conduct the opening of the school for us on Wednesday, in the absence of the principal?” Mr Barnard asked.

I did not listen very much further, his voice becoming very faint in the background as I suddenly felt extremely nauseous. My heart started racing, I became asthmatic and the earpiece of the telephone was a black piece of hostility in my sweaty palms. I was being smothered by mud.

Outside in the sunlight I gulped down some fresh air and remembered: the Bible. One needed a Bible to open a school. Certainly my mother would have packed that in somewhere among my underwear and handkerchiefs.

On Tuesday morning there was a knock on the door. The Reverend Warnich, shepherd of the local congregation of the Dutch Reformed Church, came to introduce himself. Alongside his temples I could discern the first faint indication of grey. I immediately liked him, his warm smile, and his firm handshake. Then he stood slightly aside and for the first time I became aware that he wasn’t alone.

“My I introduce your colleague, Miss La Cock, to you? Her father is a karakul farmer not far from here,” he said. She edged closer and, holding out her hand, smiled. She radiated self-confidence and her demeanour evidenced just that.
I thought begrudgingly: Another varsity glamour girl. Naturally she would be at ease. She is at home among her people, Mom and Dad are close at hand, and she feels secure in familiar surroundings. To me everything and everyone was unfamiliar and strange. A karakul sheep was as alien as a pork chop in Palestine.

When she turned around to leave, I noticed the engagement ring on her finger. The hem of her mini skirt rhythmically touched the hollows of her knees as she walked away, leaving the provoking fragrance of her perfume lingering in the crisp morning air.

Then my thoughts took another turn and dwelled on my two Pekingese dogs, Dinky and Toi, in my parents’ care in Cape Town. I wondered whether they were also experiencing such sweltering heat, and also feeling so gloomy, lonely and helpless.

Cabo de Boa Esperanza (Cape of Good Hope) or Cabo de Tormentosa (Cape of Storms) were the names given to it by early Portuguese explorers, but you could choose which name you would prefer for the “Good Old Cape”, maybe depending on the curve followed by your biorhythm.

To me it simply meant home. Home, very far from Aroab.


Nick van Zyl