Category Archives: Lowveld Living

The Great Escape

December is a time of demographic shift in the Lowveld. The population of Bushbuckridge doubles. Toll plazas on the N4 sport queues of Gautengers and Vrystaaters heading for the National Kruger Wild Garden. The Lowveld is seething with aliens.

So what does the Lowvelder do? He vats his goed, treks away from Ferreira Street and invades the outside world. Or he stays at home and hibernates.

December 15th. N4 West. 200 Nelspruit mechanics are speeding away in their highly-polished Colt twin-cabs with the latest Gypsey woonwa hitched on. Have you ever tried to get your car serviced at Christmas? Forget it. Hannes is op pad, with sokkiejol on the CD-player, Ouma squeezed in the back with 4 kids and Ma in the front dishing out the padkos. He’s driving through the night, stopping only to refuel and to make sure that the roof-mounted fishing rods are still twice the length of the bakkie. He’ll spend 2 weeks on the rocks near Port St Johns, vying for the best spot. Braaied fish for breakfast, lunch and dinner. That is Hannes’s holiday.

December 15th. Lebombo borderpost. 100 Onderberg farmers are driving their dusty Defenders with trailers full of quad bikes, skottels and coolboxes in tow. Or rather they are sitting in a 10km queue, waiting to corrupt an official before joining the line of traffic down to Punta d’Ouro. Oom Piet’s holiday is a brandy and coke, watching the grandchildren doing doughnuts on the Mozambiquan beaches and complaining that the prawns get smaller and more expensive every year.

December 15th. Beaufort West. 50 Lowveld lawyers and accountants in their BMWs are refuelling for the last stretch of the long road to Cape Town. The boot is filled with swimwear in the latest summer colours. Two weeks lie ahead in an expensive cottage on the beach at Llandudno. Keith’s holiday consists of reading, spending quality time with his Uplands-educated family and rounding his vowels to fit in with the locals. Heaven forbid that anyone should take him for a plaasjaapie. Next year it’ll be the Côte d’Azur or Florida.

December 15th. Johannesburg International Airport. 6 Hazyview medics and their families are heading for England, followed by a week’s skiing in Verbier. They are wondering whether to leave, like every other doctor the town has ever had, and put up with the rainy Cotswolds in exchange for pockets full of pounds and rugby at Twickenham. Britain has South African shops these days and you can get boerewors and tinned snoek in every supermarket. This holiday is a voyage of discovery. And all their former colleagues are living there already.

December 15th. Riverside Mall, Nelspruit. Gerda is frantically searching Pick’n Pay for mince pies, chocolate and steak, Toy Cave for a Play Station 2, Game for a tasteful plastic Christmas tree with pink flashing lights and CNA for stocking-fillers. The factory’s closed and Liefie is home until New Year, so Bokkie’s stocking up on presents, food and beer and preparing to play the home-maker.

December 15th. Any Lowveld pub. Grant and Linda are bent over a clipboard designing Christmas menus. They are now the backbone of society as they struggle to ensure suitable celebrations for their deliriously demob-happy fellow-citizens. Their waiters have all gone inexplicably missing but it’s Christmas Party time so they are lining up the shooters and the Jeyes fluid, ready for a deluge of punters.

December 15th. Bester Street, Nelspruit. All the umlungus have hit the road for anywhere else and everybody’s just been paid. The pavements are lined with litter and blocked with people, Black Label in hand, Boxer-rolled-in-newspaper ablaze and there’s kwaito belting out at full tilt from every shop and stall. Loud conversations can be held, across 100 yards of traffic, with oncoming friends. Nelspruit has come alive and will stay alive until the last person has been scraped into the last taxi and delivered home to Kabokweni. This is Isaac’s holiday. Pretty will look after him when he’s ready to go home. He’s waited 50 weeks for this moment and nobody’s going to deprive him of his annual two weeks of noise, mayhem, late nights and hangovers.

Merry Christmas.

The Lowveld has it all (but we are happy to share)

We Lowvelders know, without a glimmer of doubt, that we live in the best part of South Africa. There is a ring about being a Lowvelder – so much more meaningful than being a Gautenger or a Capie. We were never Vaalies. Vaalies were the other Transvaalers…

As naturally hospitable people, Lowvelders can easily identify the origins of people from other parts of the country. This ability allows us to tolerate their unintentional bragging and gently point out our assets at the expense of those strange icons of which buitelanders are so proud. That comical little mountain in Cape Town, for example…

Capetonians talk funny. They say “Marntin”. But our “marntins” are bigger than theirs and mountains should have views over scenery like the dam at the Three Rondavels, not of polluted air hovering over the Cape Flats with an occasional tantalising glimpse of the relatively unimposing Hottentots-Hollands. And we know what a shark looks like, even if the sea-sozzled southerner can’t tell a rhino from a warthog.

Who needs lighthouses? We don’t have freezing cold mists rolling over us all day or horrendous, gale-force winds hurtling across our landscapes. Our hills are green and they are home to copious different flora and fauna, not rough and rocky with the odd ostrich and the fearful circling of bloodthirsty raptors in search of sustenance.

The oldest families of Kwa-Zulu Nataaaaal have nothing over us either. We have a Drakensberg too; we keep horses (but, with our sound respect for animals, we do not dragoon them into playing polo); we don’t have cane rats and our dogs have books written about them; we too have bush, berg and beach, but spreading over three countries, and we can leave the mountains in the morning, take a game drive, and still be in Maputo, eating prawns on the beach by lunchtime. (When did you last have a fresh mussel in Durban? Durban mussels come from New Zealand).

Those poor Freestaters and Northwesters squint in the highveld glare, staring out into nothingness from their sad Swiss-style chalets on the banks of the Hartebeespoort Puddle and over the achingly dull miles of mielies and sun-dazzled heliotropes. Our scenery is unspoilt by power stations and our thunderstorms are the best in the land.

Oh yes, and sorry, Slummie, or Blown-away Friendly Person, with your bouffant hair and your caravans, but those are not game reserves – our back gardens are bigger than that (and contain more wildlife). Lowvelders know that a game reserve must be bigger than Wales or it doesn’t count. Our elephants are bigger and stronger (and less aggressive); our river gorges are just as gorgeous as yours (and ours have waterfalls). Your Garden Route is, well, reasonably attractive, but where are all the gardens?

Gautengers, in their spotless, neatly ironed khakis and their shiny BMW X5s, tell us that they have not been to the Lowveld since veldskool. Why? It’s because we are so tantalisingly close. Paradise, three hours down the N4, is a constant reminder that there is more to life than a GANGSTA1 GP number plate, Emmarentia Dam and Gilooly’s Interchange. They ride on our tails in their big, shiny cars and overtake us on blind rises.

The Lowvelder’s slow lifestyle is real living. Hence the name of this publication…
Who needs dunes and dusty deserts? Who needs malls and movies? Who needs perlemoen and penguins, waterfronts and whales? We recognise and love people from other parts of our country. We welcome them because we Lowvelders have it all. We know that. They know that. It’s great isn’t it?

Who has been drinking in my pub

Take the Hysterical Hornbill, in Hazyview, for example. Youth chic meets artisan in overalls. Or The Keg and Jock, in Nelspruit, where urban sports fan drinks alongside governmental gravy train passengers. Or Bagdad Café, in White River – the Old Lowveld looks askance, across its glass of Sauvignon Blanc, at the khaki-clad Land Rover jockey.

Lowvelders fall into a multitude of categories and we have called in a local anthropologist to assist our readers in the identification process. Here are some of his observations:

The young fall into several camps. (In fact they often fall into car parks, loos, dustbins – anything into which it is possible to fall). Shooters, or more specifically, Bugz – a luridly-coloured instant hangover – are the binding factor here. After a couple of these, whatever the imbiber’s home language or cultural stance, everyone is speaking the same incomprehensible drivel.

Uniform is broadly Mpumalanga-grunge – baggy jeans or ankle-length shorts, hanging at half-mast and exposing untanned and frequently unidentifiable parts of the anatomy, and T-shirts with subtle slogans such as SUIP AFRIKA and I LOVE MY BUSHVELD. Dreadlocks and pony-tails abound amongst the males. Females frequently have almost no hair at all or bizarre extensions which look like pineapples. They are only distinguishable by their choice of music, which can be anything from Groot Treffers to Bump.

The medium-aged (never middle-aged) are the backbone of Lowveld society. Their pub is a restaurant and they are most easily identifiable by the menu they prefer. There are the Surf’n’Turfers, dressed in brightly-coloured shirts and dresses (often with a dragon motif or heavy with red flowers). The clothes are chosen exclusively by the female of the species and worn, with great tolerance, by both sexes. (The men only wear dresses in private and occasionally when braaiing or attending government functions where they pass them off as Madiba shirts). Natural fibres are not a priority, despite the fire-risk when cooking. The music is provided by Jakaranda 94.2.

On the other side of the spectrum, the Deep-fried Brie and Cranberry Brigade male tends towards look-young cargo shorts and Woolworths seasonal 100% cotton shirts, which he believes to be genuine Ralph Lauren. His wife (or lady-friend) wears bottom-hugging jeans and a tight white T-shirt, which she calls a “top”. She is often crowned with a baseball cap sporting the name of an exclusive private game reserve (usually one for which she has done some interior design work or owned by “old friends”). The music is Fleetwood Mac and Watershed. The Nouveau Noir subcategory fits all the above stereotypes but the music is more likely to be Senegalese.

The ageless form a fascinating Lowveld culture. Khaki-clad in veldskoene and more often than not male, this group, which includes more and more up-and-coming entrepreneurs, breeds a character with a unique-to-Mpumalanga number of red blood cells, causing him to concentrate his heart-breaking intentions on innocent pale-faced visitors from further afield.

Tanned and Chesterfield-smoking, the ageless are to be found hurtling across the region in canvas-topped vehicles, specially adapted to snare the affections of unwitting tourists who have previously only ever been in love with their dogs and their ski-instructors. Most easily found at the airport, bidding moving and apparently reluctant farewells to attractive young female clients, the ageless man plays no music, preferring to woo his public with the mellifluous tones of his own cigarette-deepened voice. The comparatively rare ageless female is almost identical, in similar tight shorts, with Oakley shades and a ribald commentary on the mating habits of animals. She differs only in that she is unlikely to smoke Chesterfield.

The comparatively old Lowvelder drinks only where eating is de rigueur. This might be a gin-and-tonic get-together at the country club, a Sunday picnic with loud gospel music at Bourke’s Luck Potholes or in the Forest Falls car park, an Opskop with Windsurf-dancing at the Boeresaal or a meeting of a Christian Cell in a Pancake Bar. This group is the most culturally-aware and traditional. They do not listen to music, but they love to complain about the pronunciation on SAfm or RSG and the use of the word Lekgotla by presenters who mean Bosberaad. The men buy their clothes at Nevill’s in Nelspruit, where they are still offered a cup of coffee whilst the debate continues as to whether it should be a plain light brown or a plain light blue shirt and the women shop only on their regular trips to see their offspring who have emigrated to the Highveld.

The ancient Lowvelder hovers around on sticks or the arm of a younger relative. Ancients frequent pubs very rarely – only when dragged out by the dutiful family for an airing – and then they prefer tea and cake at The Brazilian, where the lavatory is nearby. They don’t drive as they have already had their cars purloined by their grandchildren for the hair-raising trip onto the Escarpment, a trip they last made themselves when the N4 was a single-track road from Lourenco Marques to the Reef. It took the whole day to get from Mataffin to Johannesburg and Ultra-City was a field of Cosmos dating back to the South African War, which they still remember. They are the living history of the Lowveld and they cannot bring themselves to use the words Mall or Highway any more than they can accept that such facilities have reached the land they pioneered.

The essence of the Lowveld lies in its people and their pubs are their personalities. From Shebeen to Cocktail Bar, Bushpub to Nightclub, the opportunities for Lowvelder-spotting are endless and very rewarding. Draw up a checklist and head out today…