Froggy ponds and Fort Mistakes

My cousin, Carol, was allergic to bee stings and we were always super-aware that if she got stung, she could die. Yes, this was in the early days of antihistamine research and some of the cures were toxic. No such thing as an epi-pen like we have today. No, Carol didn't die from bee stings. But as I was researching a branch of her family I found an uncle 100 years before Carol, who did die of anaphylactic shock caused by bee stings. Obviously it's genetic. And remembering our childhood and holidays with the cousins, we did some stupid stuff. Life threatening stuff. Carol's brother, John, was a victim of polio and has spent his life with a pronounced hump on his spine. But it was John who led us all astray. John was the one who cultivated bird eggs until they were rotten and then used them as projectiles against our imagined foes. It was John who suggested we climb the neighbour's fence to filch his fruit and who laughed as we tried to outrun the salt laden shot-gun wielding angry man. We went white water rafting without adult supervision. We clung to the back of half tamed horses belonging to LeeRoi and survived. We tramped through the African veld and side stepped cobras and funnel web spiders. About this time every year, we would make the great trek from our home in Empangeni, to Dundee in the hinterland. We cadged a lift with a helpful farmer and then stayed over with the cousins until either Auntie Kay got sick and tired of hosting us, or our parents arrived to take us home. My father was a history buff (aficionado) and one memorable day we climbed the hill near Dundee to view the ruins of Fort Mistake. During the Boer war, the British built this stone edifice. In 1879 the British were concerned about the Boers and their supply lines. The Zulu call it "Mkupe" or the fouling of the eagles nest. And yes, eagles do fly the skies above the hill tops. The story is that the fort was first named Fort Carey and a jealous neighbour said it was more a mistake than a fortress. But the truth lies in the cartographer drawing the map wrong and labelling the wrong side of the road as the fort. But needless to say, my father was in historical heaven recounting the stories of battles long gone. And his love of birds did not get forgotten as he regaled us with stories of eagle kind. The scientific name of the black eagle is Aquila verreauxii or in Zulu it's called uKhosi Olumnyama. There is a pair in captivity called Orca and the male is Capone. Which gives you a vague idea of their ferocity. They can hunt down large prey, but their preferred diet is rock hyrax (dassies) and other small mammals like monkeys etc. Anyhow, on that long ago holiday and hike up the hillside to Fort Mistake, John and Carol were right by our sides. Drinking in the stories my father wove tales of soldiers and the stupidity of arm-chair generals who had no idea of the harsh life of Africa. 

As time went on, we spent less time with cousins and I craved some sort of connection outside the family. And so, came the years of the Church camps. I think it was run by the True Light Ministry, but not 100% sure. Maybe Houghton's camp? There were all sorts of religious folk there and I have no idea what we were supposed to do with our time. We walked through the bush one day to go swimming at a farmer's pond. The pond was filled with croaking frogs and millions of tadpoles and frog eggs and mud. Truly the worst swim I have ever been on. I rose out of the water covered from head to toe in slimy, greasy, grey green mud and assorted critters. One of the young men said "You look like you've got a tan Pat. Maybe if all your freckles joined together, you would look tanned all the time." Mmm I did restrain myself from throwing the idiot into the swimming hole, but it was a close run thing. We had lots of classes by different mentors. Perhaps a craft class or two. But seriously, I have no memory of anything special. My boyfriend of the time did cheat on me. Of course. At the camp. With another friend who was more accommodating of her moral standards than I was prepared to be. On discovering my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend's perfidy, I was distraught and a catholic priest sat me down and chatted to me until the tears dried up. He told me something important. To be happy with my choices and never to compromise my values. Yeah, as a 15 year old girl, I wasn't sure if I could do that. 

Have you ever done the Hollywood huff? It's when you prepare a sentence in your mind, perhaps while making a phone call, and when the person answers, you take a deep breath before rattling off your prepared speech. I do this often. I have a script in my mind of what I want to say and am raring to go whenever I get a moment. Actors are taught not to do this and sometimes you see a news reporter fall into the huffing trap, but not very often. I watched my granddaughter give her speech at the end of the school year. She was Head girl and was very confident and assured. I wondered if she would do the Hollywood huff, but she didn't. Good girl had learned a lesson that has taken her grandmother almost 70 years to master. My challenge this year is to record things that my descendants might be interested in. No, not the Hollywood huff. Rather I am thinking of things we took for granted as children. The meals we ate, the snacks we consumed and the stories behind it all. It's a reclaiming of our heritage. Turning back from being a colonist and becoming rather a diaspora of where we originated from. Yup, confusing I know. I wrote to cousins and friends in the hope that they could help me on my journey of discovery. And I found out something interesting. All of us yearned for some connection to the past. A letter, a recipe passed on, a message just for us. In the New Zealand prisons, there are programmes that encourage offenders to find out about their roots. By doing this they feel an emotional tie to the people around them and are less likely to commit crime. Well, okay, I'm not a criminal but the idea still fits. If there are no ties to our past, we lose ourselves. And we all know the fact that history is written by the conquerors. Well, let's not let someone else write our histories for us. If I write my story, I can craft myself into being a hero, well at least in the minds of those who read our stories. We are expecting another baby into our family this year and I would love to leave a hint of myself to touch the heartstrings. So, challenge accepted. I will be writing recipes and the stories of the people that inspired them. An inheritance for the ages.