Thirsty Land

Namaqualand cracks open.

This drought is the worst in ten years in the Great Karoo, South Africa.

Eugene du Toit presses against the dry wind, his eyes narrowing towards the blue sky. No sign of any cloud. This winter is like the nine winters before, icy, dry, piercing to the very marrow of his bones.

His ‘vellies’, leather boots, can’t even break the dry soil.

When his great grandpa bought this farm, twenty kilometres outside Garies, more than a century ago, the rainfall was 200 millimetres (8 inches) per year. Now, his ten year old son has not seen a rainfall yet. Just a few drops once or twice a year, gulped up by the dry clods, disappearing in the thirsty earth. 

The Khoi people from this part of the world know hardship. For centuries they have trekked on foot as hunters and gatherers. They called the Northern Cape in South Africa, “Gari”, land of thirst, Karoo. But this time around it’s the worst, the old people say.

Eugene kicks a withered lump of earth. His Dorpers and Namaqualand Afrikaner sheep stand listlessly in the winter sun, sniffing, seeking. The goats nibble on dry stones. Tonight they will huddle together in the kraal, away from the icy wind and light snow fall.

A month ago Eugene bought the last animal feed. Together with the last proviant for the house.

“Oh, God! How will I feed my family, my workers, my sheep and goats?” as so many times before this hardened farmer, man of the soil, carer of sheep and boer goats falls to his knees. Only a gulp of air passes his parched lips as his dry eyes scan the barren soil which stretches out like a seemingly endless puzzle.

I found Eugene, in the veld praying.

“This is a survival battle!” he confesses as I place my hand on his shoulder.

He struggles to his feet.

“Let’s have coffee. Nowadays we drink the roots of the shepherd’s tree, roast it and grind it – a ‘kommetjie gaat’,” he mumbles, a faint smile on his face as he points me to the farmhouse.

“Friend, we are at the end”, he carries on, as we sit down with our home-brewed drinks, his wife close to him on the sofa. “I sold far more than half of my sheep in the past year. Up till now we could buy some feed, but cannot any more. I grew up here, my father and his father. We built up this farm despite the harsh conditions. But these last nine years were different. Most of the workers packed up and left.”

I sit and listen and see the deep lines in his dark sunburnt skin. I want to encourage him but realise that even I who have visited the farmers the past few months and have seen the arid land, do not fully understand.

“My, this is difficult!”

“We survived up till now,” his wife’s voice is soft. “But we are talking about the future. Every year we say it will rain, next season it will rain ... Now, we can sell the last animals and move. But where to? Nobody wants to buy our farms. All the farmers are suffering. And what else can we do, Eugene is a farmer. He used to be one of the best in our district.

And there  are our faithful workers Samuel with his wife Ouma. What about them?”

“Some samaritans sent litres of water, food and boxes of goodies to the women on the farms around here. It will be available in Garies on Monday, if you can come and collect it.” I cringe under their grateful eyes. I wish we could do more!

And they came: Farmers and workers from all around. They were extremely grateful, smiling, hoping.

Monday evening Samuel, the Khoi worker, sat down with his wife Ouma and their son Kaib, to eat their berries, grilled grasshoppers and drink the honey water. He surprised them with their hamper of food and goodies which was handed out in Garies. What a luxury! They can eat real food again! They will survive. They are Khoisan in heart and soul.

Two weeks later the call came from a farmer in the Northern part of South Africa.

“We are organizing 80 trucks with animal feed and hampers of food. 20-Ton trucks. A joint effort from local farmers, members of churches, communities and a truck company.”

From more than a thousand kilometres away they came. Driving in procession. Traffic police accompanying them through the cities and towns

A month after this miraculous help, the wind and the rain and the snow came.

Pouring down in droves. Eugene ran outside, his hands outstretched, his son and wife following. The fierce wind tried to sweep them from their feet. The cold cutting through their protective jackets and drenching them to their skins

And 200 metres away Samuel  also ran out their hut, his wife and son following. Hands outstretched to the Providence. Cold icy wind and snow cutting through their clothes. Laughing, crying, not feeling the icy wind. God  has heard and is providing.

The storm went on the whole night and the next day. In the farmhouse and in the humble Khoisan hut no one could sleep. They stayed up, watching through the fogged windows, rejoicing, celebrating. A gusty wind was howling round the corners of the house, around the hut. The rain showered down, promising new beginnings, reviving lost dreams.

A lot of damage was done, but the water table was replenished. Empty dry dams were washed away as well as farm implements.

Within a month  Namaqualand, as well as the Great- and Lesser Karoo will burst into a wonderworld of flowers. Yellow, pink, purple, orange, white. Succulents and daisies of the field. And tourists will come and see and enjoy, neither knowing nor understanding the depth of suffering of the people of Garies.

And in the Khoi household, a broken mother sat with her ailing son. The cold caused pneumonia.

Since that wonderful night of provision Kaib started coughing. 

She brewed buchu, the dry leaves from the shrub with the red stems, which they collected from the field. She massaged Kaib’s frail body, gently.

The farmer and his wife came. They brought some medicine. The wife came every day, bringing warm food. Kaib coughed blood.

“Let’s take him to Garies Hospital,” she pleaded, but Ouma refused.

She held her son in her arms, humming softly, praying. Her eyes dry.

Two weeks later Kaib, boy from the thirsty land Gariep, who saw and experienced showering rain, drifted into a deep sleep, never to wake up again.

Another storm broke out that night. Samuel took his son’s body into his arms, his showering tears mingled with the downpours of icy rainwater. “God gave and God has taken”, the man called out, “we will live again!”