Hell, it’s great to be alive down here in Africa. Thank The Lord. Almost all about me is African, although there is a debate amongst some whether I am allowed to call myself ‘African’. I remember that our previous president felt that an ‘Umlungu’ (white person) could not really be an ‘African’. All I can say is that my forefathers immigrated to South Africa from Switzerland in 1784. I have been an African optimist, a rural traveller, a humanist, a lover of our land and seldom, have I slipped into the dreaded ‘Afro-Pessimism’. OK – OK, sometimes in dire situations I have used the expression ‘AWA’. (This is an abbreviation for ‘Africa Wins Again’) I have shaken my head and said it a couple of times while travelling these southern lands over the past 40 years. I was blessed with a sense of humour; the haphazardness of Africa has improved and replenished that time and time again. Thank the Lord I am still alive in this HappySadLand.

But, sadly, a new kind of sub-species of lowly-human-bastard like being has evolved here; the rapist-murderer-thief-highjacker-killer that has leeched itself on all spheres of this society. We cannot turn another cheek to all the violence and crime; all of them have been ripped off, felled to the ground. A country shoots itself full of holes and its people are bleeding to death. Thousands have stopped bleeding and just lie beneath Africa’s dark earth. I have just come back from photographing in the Mpumalanga and Limpopo Provinces. We have become the country of razor wire, pollution and security guards. Tzaneen looks like Lusaka. Dear Mr. Zuma, please can’t you frame a national crest with razor wire. Forget about the Aloes, Zulu shields and Kudu horns, just use razor wire with plastic packets stuck to it. Ag … and please, Checkers and Pick ‘n Pay and Super-Spar, can’t you make all the plastic packets, yellow, green, black, white, blue and red like the colours of our flag? That will be so lekker, to travel through the countryside with all the colours of our flag flapping in the wind from the barbed and razor wire fences.

The little old gold mining town of Pilgrims Rest is tucked away in the rounded hills of The Drakensberg in Mpumalanga. In the 1880’s it became a hub of activity as prospectors and pioneers of all sorts converged on it. The place was humming, way back then. Then as the gold ran out and all but a few left, the village settled and nestled back in it’s steep ravine next to the gurgling Blyde River. In 1986 it was declared a national monument and restored to its gold rush heyday. Then came the tourists and lurking in their shadows, the criminals. Often in the past I have camped in the caravan park that lies along that lovely gurgling stream.

This time I once again felt that tingle of old adventure when we drove down the pass from Graskop into Pilgrims Rest. The caravan park was still there amongst the tall trees and the gurgling river. Back empowerment had now made a Mr. Mkhabela the owner and he lived in faraway Hazyview. “Coo-coo-coo” the Turtledoves, sang in the trees and the Blyde River replied, ”Gurgle-gurgle-gurgle”. A group of construction workers had moved into the one ablution block and in another the security guard lived in the bathroom. The local community were enjoying themselves in the campsite pool. All seemed lovely and the caravan park more or less ran itself. But, sometime that night, the roulette wheel stopped the crime dice on MY number. As we slept in our rooftop tent, the full moon glistened on the gurgling river and whilst the security guard slept in his bath the crooks broke into my bakkie. Through vigilance, awareness and experience, I have sidestepped serious robbery in the past. These bastards were professionals and stole everything of value. “Gurgle-gurgle”, ran the stream and “Hoot-hoot”, lamented the Owl.

In the morning I was free once again —– with nothing left to lose. I stood at my empty double–cab and screamed. The echoes spread up the Pilgrim Rest valleys and into the hills. In the old cemetery the dead prospectors turned in their graves and thought that more gold had been discovered. The cocks in the township above town went eerily quiet. The scumbags had taken all my camera equipment, passports, ID documents, money, bank cards, cell phones, a GPS, a Stargazer, laptop and …. and… ag, forget it. It’s water down the river. Gurgle-gurgle. Almost every South African has been touched by crime. Even the present National Chief of Police had his laptop stolen the other day. What’s funny is that it was done by one of his security men. Even funnier in a black humoristic way is our previous national Chief of Police, Jackie Selebi. Believe me, he was a charming dude. A hero during the liberation struggle, he became Chief of Police and President of Interpol. In 2010 he was sentenced to a 15-year jail term on corruption charges. I wondered if he had a bath in his cell just like the campsite’s security guard. AWA. I threw a rock into the gurgling river. It sank to the bottom, just like Jackie Selebi.

Yesterday we arrived home again in our beloved Natures Valley. I sat quietly in my studio for a long while and then I pulled out an old camera case forgotten in a dark corner. In it I had put all my old film cameras of the past. My eyes grew misty with tears and just for a couple of seconds, the flicker of the faded colour of an 8mm movie showed a peaceful landscape without pollution, razor wire and crime. Of course, in the faded past there were also a few robberies. Here and there, but never a Tsunami of crime. Then people used to ask you —– “What did they steal?”. Today everybody says —– “At least, you are still alive” We walk down to the beach and marvel at the beauty all around. I will be back, to travel again through this HappySadLand. Just give me a little while. Thank The Lord.

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