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Tales and travails of a confused Afrikaner

A new Afrikaner

SOUTH AFRICA | Wednesday, 14 May 2014 | Views [191] | Scholarship Entry

“How can you call yourself an Afrikaner if you don’t speak the language?” The words of a friend echo in my mind. Is identity only defined by language? It is a question I grapple with every day and it is the reason I am now standing at the foot of a goliath of a mountain called Kerkenberg in Kwa-Zulu Natal South Africa, 950 km from my home.

This is where my ancestors camped during the Great Trek 175 years ago. Over 12 000 of them left their homes in the Cape, packed their way of life into ox-wagons and ventured into the hinterland of Southern Africa seeking land free from British rule. They were called the Voortrekkers. They were a strong, stubborn breed apart who above all else wanted a place where they could finally live in peace.

I too, am looking for peace. I retrace their route from where I live in the Eastern Cape north to Kwa-Zulu Natal. In Adelaide, a quiet desert town along the way, I find another in search of peace. His name is Grey de Villiers, a retired History and Genetics lecturer. He says, “My mom was Scottish and my dad Afrikaans, so sometimes I feel a lot of hope for the future and sometimes I feel down in the dumps.”

Burgersdorp in the Free State is a typical South African ‘dorpie’ with a butchery, a Post Office, a Standard Bank, a Fashion Express and a small museum. Dalene Bredenkamp is the museum secretary. “The ‘swartes’ (blacks) have changed the town. They are pushing the ‘blankes’ (whites) out,” she says, her Afrikaner accent stabbing through. She tells me that the white painted words on the hill once read, ‘Welkom Kakebeen Wa, 1838’ (‘Welcome ox-wagon’). The ‘swartes’ changed it, so now it simply reads ‘Burgersdorp, 1846.’

In Smithfield, also in the Free State, I meet an Englishman named Peter Retief. He is a large man with white hair who paints under the pseudonym of Phineas Dhlamini, a Zulu name. “Kids used to tease me at school because of my surname,” he says. “It’s only in the last 15 years that I have really started enjoying being an Afrikaner.” He understands my conflict. “It's about more than just speaking the language. It’s like we have to be part of the earth, we need to walk on the land ‘tussen die bossies’ (amongst the bush), with the smell of coffee.”

Standing in front of Kerkenberg, I know he is right. Being an Afrikaner is not just about ‘praating die taal’ (speaking the language), it’s about accepting that you are part of a community that is as fragmented as the country itself. And you know what? That’s okay.

Tags: 2014 Travel Writing Scholarship - Euro Roadtrip

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