It is a great relief to
move from the Visitor of the Week at the local bottle store stage of heartbreak, to the Visiting the Local Cemetery phase. It may seem odd to want to visit a
cemetery whilst under emotional duress, but it’s like less Chateau de Nervous
System, for goodnessakes and more gentle philosophising. At least you’re still alive.
And Haenertsburg has
the most beautiful cemetery among ancient trees at the top of a hill with
astonishing views. Views to die for, that’s what the locals say, and everyone
visits it all the time: happy hikers, grieving relatives, drunken lovers, curious
historians, late night teenagers toking and groping, daytrippers, the heartbroken.
You can sit upon a
memorial bench and gaze upon the Iron Crown, highest peak in the district, and
the Ebenezer Dam beyond the grasslands. Or you can browse the graves. There
lies he who started the first sawmill, she who made the most beautiful garden
and once walked all the way to Louis Trichardt when it was still bushveld. Pioneers,
adventurers, traders. That one was the last Duke of Atholl, that one over there
was once married to that one back there, and that one there. Ja, that caused some kak. Aah that one, head on collision with a kudu; that
one, drank herself to an early grave.
There are beautiful groves
of ancient hardwood and exotic pin oaks. Some lavish headstones and moving
inscriptions. Around a hedge, remnants of the apartheid days, is the black part
of the cemetery; fewer graves, more humble, one just a mound of earth with a chipped
blue enamel cup on it.
The cemetery is cared
for by a cemetery keeper who lives here; there were reassuring puffs of smoke
from his little cottage in the wild flowers. But since I didn’t think he was up
for the heartbreak chat, I sat a while with young John Allen, who was taken too
young in a car crash. His mom Minki, who owns a coffee shop in the village,
gave her late son’s full length black leather Uzzi jacket to his friend Alex.
Alex’s mom Nina, my friend, lent it to me last year when I went in search of
love in Hawaii.
How fucked up is that?
I said to young John. Not that I needed your jacket in Hawaii of course, it being
in the middle of the Pacific you know, like surfing and six pack stomachs and lank
military okes. I needed it to get through New York en route. It was seriously
cold bru, so thanks for your jacket which kept me warm and strong. I
had to have the hem taken up by the way, since you were a tall lad. I took it
to an upholsterer in Tzaneen.
Anyway, me and your
jacket - and you in the pocket of course - hit the coldest winter like evah, but
we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and walked the entire length of Central Park, checked
out Manhattan and MOMA and the graffiti in Williamsburg. Got lost in damn Bedford
Stuyvesant, Bed Stuy, a rough hood. Nighttime, wrong station, no more travel
pass or cash. Jeez, blonde hey? Had to walk seventeen blocks and got home with the
helpful directions of a Jamaican, a Congolese and a real New Yorker. Even
bummed a smoke in a Hispanic spaza shop. I told the oke I was from Jozi, he didn’t
argue. Anyway John it’s been lekker talking to you about life, death, heartbreak, damn
lies and statistics. Your jacket is back with Alex now.
