Well, it got late last night. So getting into the motions this morning was a drag. Loading the car with crates and baskets, getting it filled with petrol and my purse with necessary money for the groceries woke me gradually to the beautiful morning in the East of the capital.

At the farmers market in Irene (Pioneer museum) my first stop is the “Italian” bread store just left of the main entrance. Today there was just one ou tannie (my age!) and old Jonas taking the orders. Don’t know where the other jovial ladies were. They surpass each other in exposing with some drama what they have done and thought throughout the week. It’s like being in a life sit-com – or listening to a radio broadcast without commercial breaks – and as my afrikaans friends would say: “Dis ‘n gebabbel!”  Well, today they were struggling with adding up – especially when a girl got 15 loaves of the sour dough and rye variety. It adds to the confusion if the costumers try helpfully advise, but all come up with various options. Thankfully they’re not all grumpy and struggling with a head-ache. So there’s just smiles all around, some chuckles and only a few grunts.

The couple selling eggs, flowers and vegetables complained about what the hail had done to their shade cloth covering the nursery during the night, but got laughing again while describing how the chickens had found refuge in the house and the goats/donkeys inside the laundry. The wife eagerly pulled her camera (“mik en druk“) to prove her point, showing the damage by the hail and the misery of the animals, which in turn had them all smiles yet again. They’re a German couple and I just love their accent. So I never try switching to our mother tongue when they tell their stories and them not picking up mine just goes to show, how far off they are. It’s not only about the accent however. They are really expert egg sellers. Their eggs are measure precisely and price tagged accordingly. They have explained the various sizes: Small, medium, large, extra-large and jumbo in fractions of millimeters. You see, I trust them, because anyone who is faithful in these little things – will be faithful in the other stuff too. That’s what our Lord and master says and I’m with him on that one – and not only that one either.

Buying fresh strawberries is a joy on its own. Add to that the wonderful voice of the Irish lass selling them and you can imagine what I’m talking about. Her husband speaks “our tongue”, but doesn’t really say much. Hence it’s worthwhile inquiring about the frozen and fresh and further strawberries or related stuff just to hear this delightful English modulation from the north. It’s music in my ears – and You can see by this time I really am awake. As I move on this early morning melody is slowly integrated into the voice of Sonja Herholdt singing over the loudspeakers: “Bring vir die, Harlekyn nog wyn, Rooiwyn, vir sy lag en traan en pyn, Hy wys ons, die nuwe wind wat waai, Van die Vaal tot, onder in Saldanhabaai.” (http://www.liriekfabriek.co.za/sonja_herholdt/harlekyn.htm) It’s quite early for such melodramatic lines, but well – that’s what happens in real life.

The mud paths are nicely strewn with rough gravel and white pebbles – at least in most places. Hardly any  puddles left and only a few muddied spots yet, because the place does stretch out a bit under the trees and along the creek. So still enough opportunity to puddle and mess up if you really want to. Checking out these and those delicate feet strapped in frail tongs or simple sandals its surprising that they are not muddied – spotless. I’m fascinated by the brightly coloured toenails: red as rubies or rather like those strawberries above or cherries far away or just beetroot. It’s as if these precious feet are just running on carpets at some gala event and not on the drenched pathways of the farmer’s market. Judging by these dainty feet its not all bad that comes from the SA schooling system. It has taught some of us at least: Keep your feet clean! That’s a start, don’t you think? Well, perhaps they learnt that somewhere else. And perhaps they’re not some of us, but belong to the elfish folk or fairies even, who are en route out and away to more peaceful shores – not really one of us commoners, who get messed up even with gumboots and all the rest.

The honey girl is of German descent too, but that’s history. Now she’s from here and talks like that too. She doesn’t have coloured toenails or fingernails for that matter either. She’s the beekeeper type – more green, than red I’d say. Not really politically inclined, more rustic, perhaps with a sprinkle bohemian touch to it.  Something close to the ancient monastic type – or would it be more hermit? Their bottled honey are labeled  “Deutsche Imkerei.” Angelika says, that’s because their bees still do summsumm in that speech. There was no Boekenhout honey this time around, but some from aloes, bluegum and lots of raw honey too. Big and small containers – even buckets full of the delicious nectar of flowers. Right there to enjoy.

Roses, artichokes, oranges and naartjies are sold by Charl en Christa Mouton from around Brits. They have all sort of preservatives for sale too. She raps those pink, red,  orange and yellow roses in old newspapers while getting all lyrical about watching the spectacular thunderstorm last evening, which they watched from a distance from their porch overlooking their valley and listening to the many birds going about their business – afraid that the summer is just too short and that winter is surely coming. The Moutons have gone into the sheep business now. Their touch of excitement and enthusiasm is contagious. A few months ago they were still thinking about moving to the Karoo or even further west. Now they seem to have settled for staying a bit longer and it seems good that that’s decided. A happy couple and happy to share the joys of their busy life on the farm. Get’s me all nostalgic as they talk more about the duikers picking off the rose buds, the kudus stripping these tasty stems like vegetarian sosaaties (kebabs/Schaschlik) while the wildebeest/gnu graze them right down to the ground like a lawnmower – yet all of these wild ones are careful not to trample the plants like domesticated (read: stupid) cattle do. Love these people and their life-style with all its problems the size of mosquitoes during the night and flies during the day!

I just glance hastily at the tables laden heavily with meat, but pass by. This time no time to catch up with the christian missionaries from S.Korea, nor do I stop with my old  friend, who goes fishing in Mozambique every now and again, then sometimes hunting up in the bush veld or just flies off visiting down under in Australia. Today I just leave his spinach, lettuce, carrots, leaks, radishes, patty pans in green and yellow and don’t even stop to chat with Hendrick – my ou boere pal – either. He, the old Blue Bulls fan, who has beef, pork, lamb and chicken for sale, is busy piling up various cuts and packs onto his table: fillets, wings, drumsticks, half- and full sizes, ribs, tjops, mince, T-bones, rump, skilpaadjies (Nieren in Netzfett), boerewors – but no biltong. That’s just a few more stands further down the way. No, today I’m just going to stop with Tony Parreira my Portugese friend, who is so eager to tell me about the success of their latest fundraiser at the Catholic Church in Rustenburg. 15 other Portugese families met last weekend and made up the annual budget shortfall. Well, if you hear that they auctioned off one sheep for R50,000 ($6,500) you can understand how and why he was eager to talk about it. After success in that more or less pious affair they all hit it off to Sun City – and probably cashed in (or out!) even more. Well, that has then taken care of this years indulgences too I presume. Tony’s a good guy – even if he sometimes does try to sell me veggies that are already half-cooked (or should we say: “soft”). In afrikaans you just say: “Vrot!” Well, I already bought my veggies when his mother was still in charge more than a decade ago – and I’ll probably stick around with him a bit longer too. Not gonna change just for a vrot kol here and there, now and again,  would I?

On the way out I pick up milk and yogurt at David’s “Valley Farm Stall”. He’s from Kenya, where his parents stayed as long as his father was teacher in Uganda. They moved out – (read: “They were kicked out”) – under Idi Amin and starting the dairy here some thirty years ago. He puts up jokes, chats to the people and is busy raking in money as the people queue up for his dairy products. Today he’s not there. He’s on holiday in Umhlanga as one of his many assistants is quick to point out. She’s fluent in German and even get’s her “Hoefflichkeitsform” right. So we’re busy “Sie” here and “Sie” there. Always jovial, always ready for a laugh – that’s her and in no time the rucksack is tied-up too and we’re off to pick up Katrina and have the first coffee of the day!

Having packed the baskets and balancing the heavy rucksack its back to the parking area. Slowly walking against the hordes of late comers moving in. Careful not to bump anyone or drop anything, but still offended by willing hands: “Kan ek oom help dra?” I’m not ready for that yet. It’s really too early to leave yet – there’s still so much to see and do, so many people to meet like Christiane putting up her “vet plante” for sale, getting some cheese with the Dutch pioneers, turkey with the Polish immigrants or artsy crafts from the Nigerians. Perhaps next time. I’m just grateful that the praise band demanding insistingly: “Walk in the light!” have overslept or are on a mission trip somewhere else or have just gone back home. Sonja Heroldt is about as much as I can take this early. I’m just not up to some foreign bunch of enthusiasts trying far too passionately  to convert me to their bouncy ways. Sort of: Now you see me, now you don’t. That really is too much for me. Just remembering their previous attempts to convert me early in the morning, get’s me all tensed up again. Gives me cramps of a sort, you know – seriously. So I’m glad to just see the Chinese selling spring rolls and other deep fried delicacies, more roses, even electronic shockers for self-defense, organic guano fertilizer and even the guy in khaki selling hardekool and other prime wood. That should serve well for Saturday afternoon with braaivleis, sunny skies … listening to the semi-final between Blue Bulls and the Sharks right there in the Shark-tank in Durban. Somewhere in the background there’s lekker boeremusik – and that’s just fine with me.

An army issue Unimog is parked next to my vehicle and even the nice bakkie next to it seems dwarfed by its imposing wheels and chassis, prompting the remark to its driver: “Dis jou bakkie se Moses die!” With that you don’t have to worry about sidewalks, trees or dongas, never mind getting your feet wet or soiled. That’s the real solution to stuffed-up roads and countless potholes – if your not blessed as those light-footed fairies and elvish folk mentioned above.