Vrystaat Confessions

Tag: farming

  • le frog

    le frog

    So we were drinking beer on Tabbo’s farm when a younger chap arrived and was introduced to us as the young Frenchman whose parents wanted him to experience agriculture before he started to study it at university. Tabbo had gladly agreed to host a frog for a weekend so he could learn agriculture on a farm in Africa in English before going back to learn it in French at a university in France. Ours not to reason why . .

    – the agriculture oke with the greenest fingers I know

    I’m Tabbo; I’m Koos; we said. Hervé, he said. Ah, hello Hervé! Non non! Hervé.

    Ah! Hervé, we said, copying his pronunciation carefully. Non! Hervé. OK, Hervé. Non! Non! Hervé! Hervé!

    Um, yes, hello Hervé, welcome to the Vrystaat. Hervé! he muttered.

    And that set the tone for the visit of eighteen year old Hervé, le frog, to the Vrystaat vlaktes.

    We piled into Tabs’ pickup and drove around the farm, Tabbo pointing out a cow chewing the cud, a sheep walking and a mielie growing. He showed little interest. The only animation was whenever we mentioned his name. He would immediately say Non, Non. Hervé! So we stopped using his name. Also, we didn’t tell him ‘agriculture’ wasn’t pronounced ‘agriculsh-her.’

    Back to the lovely sandstone homestead at Gailian and lunch, where he refused a beer, muttering something that sounded like muffy arse. We were to hear muffy arse A LOT.

    Lunch arrived, a delicious roast something expertly produced by Julia and ____ in the large and splendid Gailian kitchen, origin of many a magnificent meal. Non, Non. Muffy arse, came the response after he’d peered at the meat on his plate intently, nose 20mm from it. He ate the potatoes.

    I’ve never met such such an impossible eighteen year old! Obnoxious, opinionated, impossible to please. We didn’t slap him.

    In the afternoon Tabbo drove him around some more. We – yes, even I was lecturing agriculsh-her! – helpfully pointed out the grass, and the clouds, which would hopefully bring rain and grow that same grass; which animals would eat and convert into delicious roasts so that he could mutter muffy arse. We generally gave him a thorough education in agriculture which we were sure would put him ahead of his fellow amphibious classmates when he went back across the pond to study utilisées pour l’agriculture at l’école agricole. And I’m sure le frog would have had a lot to correct there. Pardon my French.

    That evening we were back into the beer and offered him one. Non, Non. Muffy arse, the response we’d grown used to. We went through all the grog in the Fyvie’s very well stocked pub and at last we got a oui !

    I forget if it was Ricard or Benedictine or Cointreau, but it was definitely Made In France and I think that was all le frog was interested in. By the look on his face as he took his first sip, he hadn’t actually tasted it before, but we were beyond caring any more. He was impossible to please and we were now just keeping him quiet, happy that a sixpack of beer divided more easily into two than into three.

    – Gailian’s well-stocked pub on a less surreal evening – just drunkards –

    After a while the silly little frog whipped out a tiny little French-English dictionary out of his pocket and pointed to the word méfiance and muttered urgently muffy arse. So THAT was muffy arse! méfiance!

    The translation: MISTRUST!

    We hosed ourselves, which miffed le frog. He got all miffy arsed.

    We were not sad to see him go. Still, being polite we asked him if he thought he’d learnt enough to help him when he went back to study his agriculture? Non, Non. he said indignantly. Not agriculsh-her! He was going to l’université to study mathematique!

    ~~oo0oo~~

  • My Years as a Temporary Farm Manager’s Part-time Assistant

    My Years as a Temporary Farm Manager’s Part-time Assistant

    Actually it was hours, not years, but that would have made a kak-lame heading, and you might not have rushed over to read about it. So clickbait.

    Kai Reitz once made the mistake – no, bold decision – to put the Lloyd cousin in charge of The Bend while he went off to murder sundry buffaloes and bambis in the Zimbabwean bushveld near Mana Pools.

    I joined Lloyd on The Bend one weekend. As an adviser.

    Things did not go exactly according to a Reitz-like plan. Nor did things run like a well-oiled machine. It was more like a military operation.

    Lloyd had managed to get the Chev pickup stuck between two gears. So when I got there it was parked in the lands. Immobile. I don’t remember how I got there, but it wasn’t with my own transport.

    Some parts of the farm did run flawlessly, it must be said: Balekile did sterling work in the kitchen, making great big piles of delicious veggies. Lloyd had run out of meat and I had not brought any, only liquid refreshment, and as we were now stranded for transport it was a healthy vegetarian diet for us.

    Then Lloyd found Kai’s old .22 rifle and we went hunting for the pot, bravely. If Kai could do it, so could we. We strode out boldly, fearlessly, onto the front lawn. The Zunckel walking with that action he got from Mad magazine’s Don Martin, taking exaggerated stalking strides with his toes hanging downwards. Great sense of the ridiculous had Lloyd. He was playing great white hunter in Africa. I was his gun-bearer, just not bearing his gun.

    Don Martin

    After a careful and skilful stalk we heard something. We were already some metres from the house. High up in a pine tree a poor little dove was romantically asking “How’s father? How’s father?” or telling us to “Work Harder. Work Harder,” and Lloyd drilled him, SHPLORT! If you weren’t a Mad Magazine fan, that was a Don Martin-type sound of a Cape Turtle Dove hitting the ground, morsdood.

    The next meal Balekile cooked had all the veggies, PLUS – a big meat dish covered with a silver lid. We opened the lid with a flourish, then peered closely before we spotted it – it looked like a plucked mossie had crash-landed onto its back in the middle of an empty swimming pool.

    Next mishap: The big truck was accidentally reversed over a stack of irrigation pipes. Thank goodness by Kai’s licenced driver doing the reversing. This was not good. I saw big $$ signs, but when Kai got back he sommer just set about fixing them himself, cutting off the flattened sections, hammering thin pipes through them, then thicker ones until he had restored them to size, then welding them together again! They looked like they had cellulite, but they worked.

    I’m sure we didn’t run out of beer though, so we weren’t completely disorganised.

    ..

    There was another time Carl (Kai) saved my butt.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    morsdood – stone dead, but implying a messy ending

    mossie – sparrow, but maybe a tink-tinkie

    tink-tinkie – makes a mossie look like a rainbow chicken

    rainbow chicken – small, but much bigger than the late dove

  • My Life as a Shepherd

    My Life as a Shepherd

    I’ve been farming all day so I’m an old hand already. We have to go count the sheep now, and when Hector Fyvie says “You know the difference between a ram and a ewe, right?” I almost scoff, but I’m polite. I say “Sure, Uncle Hec”.
    So hundreds of sheep are herded past us in an orderly fashion, not too fast, not too slow. Obviously I have been given the easier job – counting the rams – as there are only a few sheep with horns compared to the many, many ewes.
    “How many did you get?” asks Hec, deadpan. “Seventy nine”, I say confidently. I know my arithmetics. “Oh”, says Hec, looking a bit worried, “There shouldn’t be that many.” Tabs is having a much harder time concealing his mirth and I realise I’ve been had!!

    You’re meant to look between their legs! Not on their heads.

    – these are not ewes –
    – sheep ram – don’t only check his head –

    Oh, the shame! Exposed as a townie-poephol! Got to hand it to Uncle Hec, the master of quiet, understated humour. I still blush when I think of it, I’ll never be able to fall asleep counting sheep again. But of course Uncle Hec was very gentle on me and gave me a whisky that evening, as always. Just not as stiff a tot as the one he poured for Aunt Stell.

    ~~oo0oo~~