By Phakamisa Mayaba
It’s not exactly the French Riviera. In fact, it could serve as the backdrop to a low-grade horror movie – a leering koppie that casts a deep shadow over part of the town; a dilapidated church shrouded in myth and mystery that nobody wants gone, but also don’t want to see renovated. But it’s got its own endearing qualities and charm.
In the meantime, the most formidable prop for that movie is just a stone’s throw away. Hold your horses, though. Before we get on with this part of the excursion, it’s only fitting that we seek inspiration from the oosbonda (elders), those venerable souls who’ve been keeping an unwavering eye on things for several generations.
Who’s to say we won’t stumble on a writer? Hopefully one whose epitath is engraved in an unpretentious countryside farewell: ‘He wrote, but made nothing from the work.’ Or: ‘Oom Willie was a skrywer, maar almal se hy was ‘n beter Boer.’ What better place to struggle your way through writer’s block, only to be dragged into becoming a farmer?
Where your eyes slowly open to the Karoo sun peeping through the curtain, and your ears quicken to the patter of summer rain on the corrugated iron roof. You could whistle up the dogs and stroll to the abattoir for the freshest cow liver with bits of stomach fat. The butcher calls it netvet. Doesn’t sound like much, ja, until this layman’s delicacy is sputtering over coals, and it’s time to eat it fast. Or maybe we’d find a soldier, we’d hoped. One who took a bullet in the fabled skirmishes up on the nearby ‘witching mountain’ of Coleskop.
Funny how many of the people – the quietest in town – in the old cemetery are old hands. Merchant husbands and farmers’ wives with strong legs and calloused hands. Paler than me, but who still personify the quaint and benevolent habits of die ou dorp. Shaded by towering pepper trees, they occasionally suffer the disturbance of feeding goats and the odd vagrant. For the most part, though these members of the Long-Gone Club go about their business in relative quiet.
It’s been a while since a lawnmower or a welder has paid the place a visit. It looks mostly presentable, because in small towns (and hopefully everywhere else where good men might be found) decent people never annoy the dead. The marble heirlooms are upright. History books will say Colesberg officially became a ‘town’ in circa 1830, but here lies Mr Samuel Parker (1837–1882). Born in England, could he have been among the 1820 Settlers they taught us about back at school?
Mr Samuel Parker has been resting easy in Colesberg’s cemetery for nearly 150 years. Image: eParkeni.
He might’ve been a regular at the adjacent Toverberg Hotel, once a segregated watering hole, but today home to several foreign-owned shops. He and his fellow townspeople ight have picked up some essentials at the nearby Hoeg Stoep, or bought simple sofas at de Wits. They also have prayed in the Methodist Church, where, during the South African War, congregants dug a tunnel in case the enemy paid the flock an unwanted visit.
The once-segregated Toverberg Hotel is home to various foreign-owned shops. Image: eParkeni.
Colesberg’s historic Methodist Church. Image: eParkeni.
The tunnel at the Methodist Church dug during the Anglo-Boer War. Image: eParkeni.
If you develop an appetite during your tour around town, you can grab some pub grub at The Horse and Mill on the storied Bell Street, lined with picturesque houses built in the characteristic Karoo and Cape Dutch architectural style. Though the name sounds a tad British, here it takes on a literal note. Inside, you’ll find a massive horse mill dating back many decades and you could ask the waitron for a Koki pen to scrawl something like ‘Louis Armstrong blew best’ on the bar’s wall.
The famous horse mill in the appropriately named Horse and Mill. Image: eParkeni.
If you have the legs for it, pop by the local tourism office, rent a tour guide like Mbulelo Kafi, and ask for a pamphlet about the walking trails.If you have a set of binoculars, you might catch a glimpse of the Plakkerskamp at a distance, its residents fashioning all sorts of trinkets with wire and old tins, hoping to sell them to passers-by.
Residents of Plakkerskamp with tiny little windpumps, among the artefacts they fashion out of tin and wire. Image: eParkeni.
Picturesque Bell Street. Image: eParkeni.
But the most intriguing thing about this small town is how, even among Europeans, supernatural fetishism was seemingly not snuffed out in the Age of Enlightenment. Here, God, the ancestors and even superstition share a common spiritual space, seemingly without stepping on each other’s toes. Locals are known to sacrifice all sorts of animals to the ancestors on a Saturday, only to be seen taking mass on Sunday.
Spirituality is a big deal. Take Bishop Dr J Bolana’s visit a few weeks ago. In the Bantu Church of Christ, uTat’waseBhayi (the father from Port Elizabeth – now Gqeberha) as the faithful affectionately refer to him, is something of a papal figure. So when he paid his Colesberg congregants a visit, Kuyasa Township came to a virtual standstill and some 50 sheep were put to slaughter. Spiritual tourism is nothing to be sneezed at in towns where virtually everybody believes in something.
Remember that ominous church we mentioned earlier? Well a white acquaintance of mine believes it was the venue for clandestine meetings among the Freemasons. There are supposed sightings of ghosts. Given the clear, starry skies, you can expect others to swear that they’ve seen UFOs and all sorts of other extraterrestrial bodies. And while you marvel at the horse mill up in Bell Street, there’s an entirely different mill grinding on: the one of gossip. It’s a small town, so skinnering across the fence is a popular pastime here. Should you ever decide to pull through, it’s advisable to take whatever is whispered on the sly with a pinch of salt.
FEATURED IMAGE: Colesberg’s old cemetery, from whence old-timers keep a silent, unwavering watch down the main street. Image: eParkeni.
This is an edited version of an article that first appeared on Phakamisa Mayaba’s website, eParkeni. Used with permission.