Maria (Tienie) Fransman
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Tienie Fransman grew up on Kliphuis farm, now a nature reserve. Kliphuis was dear to her family, and her father worked hard to maintain it. Her family considers the farm her father’s land.
On 5 September 1987, Tienie Fransman and her family moved to Clanwilliam. She shares stories of her father fixing up their new home and of the unexpected death of her parents.
Tienie Fransman speaks about growing up on a farm named Kliphuis (now a nature reserve). She walked to school and only went until standard 6. Her mother never wanted to move to the town and said their family were “plaasjapies”, but they eventually moved to town.
Her family was “tolerated” on the farm because her father was needed – he built fences and camps, etc. On 5 September, 1987, they moved to town. Her father (David Swarts) fixed up their new home, but became quite ill and died unexpectedly on 27 November 1987. Mother (Lena Swarts) always told him to stop working on their house in the sun, and he replied “Lena, I don’t have time. I have to finish.” The family disregarded this response but then it made sense. Lena died unexpectedly three months later. Her parents had already bought their coffins long ago, but after they died the children bought them better ones. Tienie’s brother told her that she must now be the mom of the house.
“Kliphuis is eintlik my pa se grond” (“Kliphuis is actually my father’s land”), Tienie explains. Appie April told her to claim the land back, but he passed away before he could give her a statement. She felt there was nothing she could do to claim Kliphuis.
Tienie loves the Lantern Festival – her grandchildren get involved, and she wouldn’t miss it. It gets better every year. Last year her dog ran away it was so lekker – the dog got a fright from the fireworks and panicked.
I’m Maria Fransman, everyone calls me Tienie. In Clanwilliam, you don’t have to wander about when you’re looking for me. Just ask for Tienie, everyone will know who you’re talking about. I was actually born on a farm, Kliphuis. [make side comment]
I was born on a farm, Kliphuis. I grew up there, and later we moved. We walked very far to school, but I thank the Lord that I got to Standard 6. I didn’t go any further because of our (inaudible 00:57). I left school in Standard 5 and had to start working. I – how old was I? – I had two children when my ma… My pa worked for the municipality his whole life. He was 65 when he retired.
Okay, we could have been living in town for a long time by then, but my ma never wanted to move to town. She was, we were plaasjapies*. We wanted to be on the farm. She just said she would never adapt to town life. And her children never wanted to work on the farm. All of us worked in town. My brothers and I were – I was the youngest when… sisters, and all of them were married by then and had actually left town, gone away. But my three brothers and I were still at home, and we could never work for the farmers on the farm. We worked in town. We got jobs in town, even though we had to walk to town. I always rode a bicycle. We lived far away, at one point we lived at Boskloof. I rode my bicycle, back and forth, in and out. I wasn’t scared of… Thus I grew up.
I had two children. That was, ehh, 1985. My eldest boy was born ’78, ’77; my daughter was born ’78. That was, let’s say ’82. Then we moved to town. My pa, my ma gave her permission and we came to live in town. And, okay, we carried on with our lives… I can actually give you a sketch and what not, but my children grew up here and I grew older and I, we just carried on. I don’t know what to tell you. [laughs]
How was life at that time compared to now?
At that time my late pa said to Mommy, he always told her, “Lena, I must get a house in town for you. I’m old, I’m not working any more.” Now, the farmers really tolerated him because he didn’t – he strained fences, he could do anything. He said to her, “Lena, the farmers are only tolerating us here because I made a gate here and a camp there, and fenced there.” The local farmers always came to get him, from all over. Now, “Dawid, my livestock…” and so on. And she never wanted to move to town. You can see that your children don’t want to work for the farmers. So, okay, he… finally my ma agreed and we moved to town. I was then still, at that time there were still three children in the house, me and my two brothers.
You won’t believe this but we moved to town on the, the, the fifth of September, I don’t want to … ’78, 1978. And my – September, October, November. By the time we moved to town, my pa wasn’t that healthy, and that man worked like a madman at the house where we came to live. He fenced, he made the laagte (?? 03:55), he made an outside oven for my ma. We were from the farm, you know. And the man did those wonderful things, and she always said, “Dawid, the sun is too hot, come inside.” “No, Lena, I have to finish.”
But we, we didn’t, we didn’t realise what the man was telling us. And my ma never, ever wanted to cook with gas, cook with gas, my ma never wanted to cook with electricity. She was a farm woman, she made a fire.
“Lena, you must let me show you how to use electricity. The children go to work, you’re alone at home during the day.” Now, luckily I had these two – by then the boy, Jaton (?? 04:32), was already eleven and Elmie was eight, nine, ten – so, okay, the children were with her. But sure as life… And that was, you know, the fifth of September we moved. The fifth of October, the fifth of November, the twenty-fourth of November that same year my pa died. Just like that. When he, when he died that day, we said to each other, “That thing is; Lena, you must let me do this for you; Lena, you must let me do that for you.” “Dawid, you must get out of the sun, it is too hot, take a break.” “Lena, there is…” He said to her, “Lena, I don’t have time, I have to finish.” But you know, we never took any notice of the man, of his words. Three months later, my ma died. You don’t believe me, sometimes we would go mad, but what’s over, is over.
The woman prepared me. She told me at the time, “I have to show you where everything is. Dawid always, we always paid the munici-, we always respected the municipality, we paid two months in advance, you must keep on doing it. Let me show you where the receipts are, let me show you where they are, you mustn’t throw them away, you must make sure you keep them.” And, and they had their coffins, at the government workers’, paid off in those years. Those years you paid off your coffin in instalments. He had a shed where he stored people’s coffins. And the day when my pa died, when he took down the coffin for us, we decided, no, this man deserves something better, okay. So we bought him another coffin. Not knowing that this woman is next after the husband, on her way. So, three months later, my ma died. Then we did the same.
Now, at the time she told me, “Dawid and I were always, he was my friend, you must come, I must show you.” So she showed me where the receipts were, the coffins had already been bought, the gas had already been bought. “You can just show the receipts,” she said to me. All these things she showed me. Now, okay, at the time we also took out policies, you know, our parents were different from us and we now had to take things forward.
And, okay, when she wasn’t there any more, we just had to carry on. My brothers were there at the schoo-, we as, they were two brothers, and me as well. I had two children, they didn’t have children. My brother told me, “From today you are our ma. You can do everything for us. You, you … you were always around Mommy. There is nothing you can’t do.” And, okay, then we just had to carry on. I am the mother, I am the youngest of them all. I became a different person, from the moment that happened. So we carried on, fitted in with life in town. Okay, we worked in town, it wasn’t difficult for us. We could, did, could carry on. And, I don’t know what to tell you… You must switch the thing off.
Your father and them erected fences, didn’t they? Many stories must have been told. Can you still remember some?
Oh golly, man, I… There were so many stories. There was only one thing that was… It was a great consolation to me. We grew up there at Kliphuis. Now, when the land claims and stuff started, my pa told us, that farm was my pa’s.
Kliphuis Nature Conservation?
Kliphuis Nature Conservation, where the holiday place is now. That’s actually my pa’s land. We lived there, that man said he did everything there, he struggled from (inaudible 07:57) and whatever else was also involved, and when it seemed that things were going well, becoming comfortable enough, then he had to leave there.
What did your father told you about Kliphuis? What they did there, and who lived there, before it became Nature Conservation.
Well, you know, when I got my wits, we were living alone at Kliphuis. Our house was there. We lived at Kliphuis, on the other side, you know, I cannot remember the names of the dinges* that well any more. Okay, there were many people, but widely dispersed. But Kliphuis was, my pa told me it belonged to him. It was his place. At the end he had water there, and he planted his own stuff, and so on. Now okay, it was that time, you didn’t have a say, of course.
What was your father’s surname? What were the surnames of your father and them who lived there?
My pa was Dawid Swarts and my ma was Lena Swarts, and I am Maria Swarts. But I am now –you sell your name along the way, and so on, when you marry, of course.
Related to Uncle Piet Swarts?
Piet Swarts from?
Heuningvlei.
You know, I won’t… may be, but I….
Tell us how your father and them told you how they grew up there.
Now, you know, those were difficult [days]. I grew up on a donkey cart, my pa had his donkeys, had his donkey cart, it was our transport. That was how we grew up. And with the years it… When we started growing up, started working, things started improving. We actually looked at our lives, because we felt we didn’t want to stay at that place where we could see how they were and how they carried on. So we decided to make things better for us, and carried on like that. And also, Uncle Appie April… Uncle Appie must have died two years ago – is it already two years? I don’t think it’s that long. Uncle Appie came to me one day about the land claims. Uncle Appie told me, “Tienie, you must claim your land, that land is your pa’s land.” So I said to him, “Uncle Appie, I know, I know, I was still very young but I can remember what he told me, and he said that was his land. It was his place.” We were living here then, we… I was already grown-up, but I can still remember how, how we were living against that rocky koppie* when I got my wits. There in the veld. And Appie was going to write a statement for me, but in the meantime Uncle Appie died. Then I decided, okay, what can I say, and, just nothing.
Do your know about the graves there, at Kaatjie se draai and at Kleinklippies?
The man told us all these things, he told us exactly what was going on there, but I cannot tell you anything about it, truly. I was actually not that interested and didn’t pay attention to what the man said. I regret it, but, ah, what is done, is done. It is over.
Are there stories that you can still remember? That your father or mother told you?
No, man.
Okay.
Those people told us many things, but my mind has gone blank, I cannot tell you anything now.
Tell us about the Lantern Festival. How did you become involved?
I’ve never actually been involved in the festival. But from the time the festival started in town, in Clanwilliam, it’s been a pleasure to – I only participate in the proceedings the evening of the festival, but my grandchildren have always had the pleasure of the festival. And in the afternoon it’s a struggle, with the children’s homework, it’s a struggle because the child cannot do his homework, because he has to go and practise for the Lantern Festival. And the night of the festival, it’s just the the nicest part, because, I don’t know… If parents stayed at home, it was their own fault, I couldn’t. Early afternoon I was down there at the field where… at Living Gameship (?? 12:13) – most of the time, you know, it’s where they start, there at the field. From there they walk past the prison and up to the primary school, and I participated in all of that together with… And through the years the Lantern Festival just became bigger, and nicer. Last year it was so nice that my dog disappeared. The dog disappeared from the house, because of the Lantern Festival, its, the shooting of the, of the…
Fireworks.
… the fireworks were so bad that my dog ran away. We didn’t find him again. And we told each other, the fireworks of the Lantern Festival were too much, the dog went mad at the house, then he ran away.
This was last year?
This was last year. Last year’s Lantern Festival.
Would you recommend that people should go and watch the Lantern Festival?
It is wonderful, man. The one who misses it doesn’t know what he’s missing. I don’t know if there are parents who stay home, who miss it. I refuse. If something should happen to me, and I am in a wheelchair, my children will have to push me there, I refuse to miss it. For as long as the Lord spares my life, and I can see, and I can hear, I don’t want to miss it. So, the parent who misses it, who stays home and misses the Lantern Festival, is someone who doesn’t know what they are missing. Truly. Even the people who keep their children away, they don’t know what’s going on. I refuse to let my grandchildren stay away. I’ll take them myself, but they have to be there.
Do you think it’s educational for the children?
It is. It is, and even… You know, for a few years now they’ve had the theme of the, the, the, the rhino. Because of all the rhino slaughtering. Do you know how wonderful it was – it’s history – to be able to sit there on the stand, or you stand next to it, and then to see how they represent the rhino. And you, you see it in the news, and you read everything, the rhino slaughtering, and so. And, I don’t know how to say it, but it’s just, it’s educational, it’s wonderful.
How can they involve more people in the festival?
They can, they can, if I, I don’t know, but I think they can do it even better. Especially last year, they, it improves every year. Okay, it can probably improve more, but I cannot find fault with it. I think it’s wonderful.
Tienie Fransman het op die plaas Kliphuis grootgeword. Dit is nou ’n natuurreservaat. Haar familie was baie lief vir Kliphuis en haar pa het hard gewerk om dit in stand te hou. Haar familie beskou die plaas as haar pa se grond.
Op 5 September 1987 het Tienie en haar familie Clanwilliam toe getrek. Sy vertel stories van hoe haar pa hulle nuwe huis reggemaak het en die onverwagse dood van haar ouers.
Tienie Fransman vertel dat sy op ’n plaas genaamd Kliphuis (nou ’n natuurreservaat) grootgeword het. Sy het skool toe gestap en net tot standerd 6 skoolgegaan. Haar ma wou nooit dorp toe trek nie en het gesê hulle familie is plaasjapies, maar uiteindelik het hulle tog dorp toe getrek.
Haar familie is op die plaas “verdra” omdat hulle haar pa daar nodig gehad het – hy het heinings en kampe gespan, hekke reggemaak, ens. Op 5 September 1987 het hulle dorp toe getrek. Haar pa (David Swarts) het hulle nuwe huis reggemaak, maar hy het erg siek geword en is op 27 November 1987 onverwags oorlede. Haar ma (Lena Swarts) het heeltyd vir hom gesê hy moet inkom, die son is te warm, maar dan het hy net geantwoord, “Nee, Lena, ek het nie tyd nie. Ek moet klaarmaak.” Die familie het toe nie ag geslaan op sy woorde nie, maar dit het later sin gemaak. Lena is drie maande na hom onverwags dood. Haar ouers se kiste was lankal reeds afbetaal, maar na hulle dood het die kinders besluit om beter kiste gekoop. Tienie se broer het vir haar gesê dat sy nou die ma van die huis moes wees.
“Kliphuis is eintlik my pa se grond,” verduidelik Tienie. Appie April het vir haar kom sê om die grond op te eis, maar hy is dood voor hy vir haar ’n verklaring kon skryf. Sy het gevoel daar was niks wat sy kon doen om Kliphuis op te eis nie.
Tienie is baie lief vir die Liggiefees – haar kleinkinders is daarby betrokke en sy loop dit nie graag mis nie. Dit raak elke jaar beter. Verlede jaar was dit so lekker, haar hond het eintlik weggehardloop – die vuurwerke het hom so verskrik dat sy hom nooit weer gekry het nie.
Patrick, julle’t het my nou darem baie onkant gevang. Die ding is net dat, ek is Maria Fransman, almal noem my Tienie. In Clanwilliam hoef jy nie te dwaal nie, as jy vir my soek, moenie – praat van Tienie, dan weet almal van wie jy praat. Ek is eintlik gebore daar op ’n plaas, Kliphuis. O …. oukei, maar dit is nou klaar, ek is aan die gang. Ek gee nou pad hierso. Oukei, hy het mos nou advantage gevat, en sy eie goedjies gemaak, so hy moet nou maar net aangaan.
Ek is daar op ’n plaas gebore, Kliphuis. Daar’t ek grootgeword, ons het later nader getrek. Ons het baie ver gestap, skool toe, maar ek dank die Vader, ek, ek het gehou tot standerd ses, toe’t ek nou nie verder gegaan nie, as gevolg van ons (onhoorbaar 00:57). Ek is standerd vyf uit die skool uit en maar seker beginne werk. Ek – hoe oud was ek? – ek het twee kinders gehad toe my ma, my pa het al, sy lewe lank het my pa by die munisipaliteit gewerk. Tot en met – hy was al vyf-en-sestig toe hy afgetree het.
Oukei, ons kon al lankal ook in die dorp gebly het, maar my ma wou nooit, in kom trek vir die dorp nie. Sy’s, ons is plaasjapies. Ons wil op die plaas wees. Sy’t net gesê sy sal nooit in die dorp aanpas nie. En haar kinders wou nooit op die plaas werk nie. Ons almal het in die dorp gewerk. My broers en ek was, ek was die jongste toe, susters en almal is nou al uitgetroud en hulle het eintlik die dorp verlaat, weggegaan. Maar toe is ek en my drie broers nog by die huis, en ons kon nooit vir die boere op die plaas werk nie. Ons het in die dorp gewerk. Ons het vir ons in die dorp werk gekry, al moes ons ook dorp toe stap, ek het altyd fietsgery. Ons het ver gebly. Op ’n stadium het ons daar by Boskloof gebly, ek ry saam met my fiets, heen en terug, in en uit, ek was nie bang vir … So het ek grootgeraak.
Ek het twee kinders gehad, daai was, 1983, ’85, ’85, ’78. ’77 is my oudste seun gebore, ’78 is my meisiekind gebore. Daai was in die, sê maar ’82. Toe’t ons dorp toe kom trek. My pa, my ma het toe toestemming gegee en ons is toe in die dorp kom bly. En oukei, ons het maar aangegaan met onse lewe … Ek kan eintlik vir jou ’n skets wat en wat nie, maar my kinders het mos nou hier grootgeraak en ek het ouer geraak en ek het, ons het maar net aangegaan, ek weet nie wat om vir jou te sê nie. [Lag]
Hoe was die lewe van daai tyd gewees teenoor nou?
Kyk hier, daai tyd toe sê my oorlede pa, het altyd vir Mamma gesê: “Lena, ek moet vir jou in die dorp ’n huis kry, ek is oud, ek werk nie meer nie.” Nou, as gevolg van die boere het hom baie verdra, omdat hy nie, was ’n draadtrekker, hy kon alles doen. Hy sê vir haar: “Lena, die boere verdra net vir ons hier omdat ek hier ’n hek en daar ’n kamp, en dou gedraad.” Orals plaaslik, orals het die boere altyd vir hom kom haal. Nou: “Dawid, my vee …”, dit en so. Ek … en sy wil nooit dorp toe trek nie. Jy sien jou kinders wil nie vir die boere werk nie. Nou, oukei, toe’t hy, op ’n stadium het my ma nou ingestem en ons het nou dorp toe kom trek. Ek was toe nog, daai tyd was ons nog drie kinders in die huis, twee broers en dan nou ek.
Jy sal vir my nie glo nie, ons het dorp toe kom trek, die, die, die, die vyfde September, ek wil nou nie … ’78, 1978. En my – September, Oktober, November, die tyd toe ons dorp toe getrek het, toe is my pa nie so gesond nie, en daai man het soos ’n mal mens daar by daai huis kom werk, waar ons kom bly het. Hy trek draad, hy maak die laagte (?? 03:55), hy maak ’n buite-oond vir my ma. Ons is van die plaas, man. En die man doen die wonderlike goed, en sy het altyd gesê: “Dawid, die son is te warm, kom in.” “Nee, Lena, ek moet klaarmaak.”
Maar ons, ons het nie, ons was nie bewus van wat die man vir ons sê nie. En my ma wou nooit, ooit met die gas, met die gas werk nie, my ma wou nooit met die krag werk nie. Sy’s ’n plaasvrou, sy maak vuur.
“Lena, jy moet laat ek vir jou wys hoe om met die krag te werk. Die kinders gaan werk, jy’s bedags alleen by die huis.” Nou, gelukkig het ek mos toe nou dié tweetjies – die seuntjie is toe al, Jaton (?? 04:32), elf geword en Elmie is toe ag, nege, tien. So, oukei, die kinders is toe darem nou dan by haar. Maar seker soos die lewe was, en daai was, weet jy, die vyfde September het ons kom trek. Die vyfde Oktober, die vyfde November, die vier-en-twintigste November, daai selfde jaar, toe sterf my pa. Sommer net so. Toe hy, toe dié man dié dag sterf, toe sê ons vir mekaar: “Daai is, Lena, jy moet dat ek vir jou dit, Lena, jy moet dat ek vir jou dat”, “Dawid, jy moet uit die son uit, dis te warm, gee kans”, “Lena, daar is …” Hy het vir haar gesê: “Lena, ek het nie tyd nie, ek moet klaarmaak.” Maar weet jy, ons het nooit ag geslaan op die man nie, se woord nie. Drie maande daarna toe sterf my ma. Jy glo my nie, so nie soms ons kon mal raak, maar wat klaar is, is klaar.
Die vrou het my voorberei. Sy sê vir my in daai tyd: “Ek moet vir jou wys waar’s wat, Dawid het altyd, ons het altyd die munisi-, in daai tyd, die munisipaliteit geken, ons het twee maande vooruitbetaal, jy moet dit maar so hou, kom kyk waar’s die kwitansies, kom kyk waar’s dit, jy moenie die goed weggooi nie, jy moet sorg …” En, en hulle het hulle se kiste, by die staatwerkers, daardie jare klaar betaal. Daai tyd toe betaal jy jou kis klaar. Hy het ’n skuur gehad waar hy die mense se kiste insit. En die dag toe my pa sterf, toe die kis vir ons afhaal, toe besluit ons net, nee, dié man verdien iets beters, oukei, ons het vir hom ’n ander kis gekoop. Min wetende, dié vrou is kort op die man op pad. Oukei, drie maande later, toe sterf my ma. Toe doen ons maar dieselfde.
Nou, in daai tyd het sy vir my gesê: “Ek en Dawid was nou altyd, dit was my maatjie, jy moet nou kom, ek moet nou vir jou wys.” Nou wys sy vir my waar is die kwitansies, die kiste is klaar gekoop, die gas is klaar gekoop. “Jy kan net kwitansies uithaal,” het sy vir my gesê. Nou al dié goed het sy vir my gewys. Nou, oukei, in dié tyd het ons nou maar ook polisse uitgeneem, jy weet mos, ons ouers was mos anderste as ons moes toe nou die goeters verder vorentoe vat.
En oukei, die, toe sy nou nie meer daar is nie, toe moet ons nou maar net aangaan. My broers is daar by die skoo-, nie net al, ons as, hulle was twee broers, en nog ek, ek het twee kinders gehad, hulle het nie kinders gehad nie. My broer het vir my gesê: “Van vandag af is jy onse ma. Jy kan vir ons alles doen. Jy, jy … jy’t net rondom Mamma gedraai. Daar’s niks wat jy nie kan doen nie.” En oukei, toe moet ons maar net aangaan, ek is die ma, ek is die jongste van almal, my oudstes tot die jong-, ek was net anders gemaak, van die oomblik af toe dit nou plaasgevind het. So het ons nou aangegaan, ingepas by die dorp se goeters, oukei, ons het in die dorp gewerk, dit was nie vir ons moeilik nie. Ons het, het, kon aangaan. En, ek weet nie wat om vir jou te sê nie … Jy moet die ding afsit.
Antie se pa-hulle het mos nou draad getrek en daar was baie stories vertel. Kan Antie nog so een of twee onthou?
Ai, jene man, ek …. daar was so baie stories vertel. Daar was net een ding wat vir my ook, ’n riem onder die hart was. Ons het daar by Kliphuis grootgeword. Nou, die, toe dié grondeise en goeters nou mos beginne inkom, en dit het my pa vir ons vertel, daai is my pa se plaas.
Is dit Kliphuis Natuurbewaring?
Kliphuis Natuurbewaring, daar waar daai vakansieplek nou is. Daai is eintlik my pa se grond. Ons het daar gebly, daai man sê toe hy alles daar het, hy’t gestruggle van (onhoorbaar 07:57) en wat ook al daarmee gepaard gegaan het, toe dit lyk die ding loop, raak gerieflik genoeg, toe moet hy daar padgee.
Antie, vertel vir ons rondom wat Antie se pa vir Antie vertel het van Kliphuis. In Kliphuis, wat hulle daar gemaak het en wie daar gebly het, voor dit nou Natuurbewaring gewees het.
Nee, kyk hier, soos wat, wat ek my verstand kry, toe bly ons alleen op Kliphuis. Ons huis was daar. Die, ons het op Kliphuis gebly, aan die ander kant, weet jy, ek kan nie meer so lekker die dinges se name, maar oukei, daar’s taamlik mense, maar ons wyd verspreid van mekaar, maar Kliphuis was ek, my pa het vir my gesê dit het aan hom behoort. Dis sy plek daai. En hy het, op die ou end het hy water daar gehad, en hy’t kind of sy eie goedjies aangeplant, en so. Nou, oukei, soos dit maar daai tyd was, jy het mos nie ’n sê gehad nie.
Sê gou weer Antie se pa-hulle van? Wat is Antie se pa-hulle se vanne wat daar gebly het?
My pa was Dawid Swarts, en my ma was Lena Swarts, en ek is mos nou Maria Swarts, maar ek is mos nou, mens verkoop mos jou van teen die pad soos hy gaan, en so aan, as jy getroud is.
…. van Oom Piet Swarts se mense?
Piet Swarts van?
Heuningvlei.
Weet jy, ek sal nie…. kan wees, maar nou sal ….
Oukei, maar vertel vir ons net hoe Antie se pa-hulle vir Antie-julle vertel het hoe hulle grootgeword het daar.
Nou, jy weet mos, daai was moeilike, ek het op ’n donkiekar grootgeword, my pa het sy donkies gehad, sy donkiekar gehad, dit was onse voertuig. En ons het maar so grootgeraak en met die jare het dit, toe ons nou eers beginne grootraak, wat ons beginne werk, het dinge beginne beter word. Ons het eintlik vir onse lewe gekyk, want ons het gevoel ons wil nie bly daar waar ons gesien het hulle is en hoe hulle aangaan nie, aangaan nie. Toe’t ons maar self gebesluit om dinge vir ons beter te maak, en maar so aangaan. En, wat nog was, oom Appie, April. Oom Appie is nou seker twee jaar oorlede, is dit al twee jaar? Ek dink dit is so lank nie. Oom Appie het eendag na my toe gekom met die grondeise, toe kom sê oom Appie vir my: “Tienie, jy moet julle grond opeis, daai is jou pa se grond.” Toe sê ek vir hom: “Oom Appie, ek weet, ek weet, ek was nog baie jonk, maar ek kan onthou wat hy vir my ook vertel het, en gesê het, dit is sy grond daai. Dis sy plek.” Toe bly ons hier, ons, toe’s ek nou al groot en, maar ek kan nog onthou hoe, hoe ons daai tyd teen die klipkoppies was toe ek my verstand gekry het. Daar in die veld. En, Appie sou vir my ’n verklaring skrywe, maar intussentyd is oom Appie oorlede. Toe het ook maar besluit, oukei, wat kan ek tog sê, en, net niks nie.
Weet Antie van die grafte wat lê, Kaatjie se draai en hier voor by Kleinklippies?
Die man het vir ons al dié goed vertel, hy’t presies vir ons gesê wat daar aangaan, maar ek kan jou niks daarvan sê nie, eerlik, ek dink ek het nie eintlik so danig belanggestel en ag geslaan op dit wat die man gesê het nie, en ek is nogal redelik spyt daaroor, maar ag, wat klaar is, is klaar. Dis verby.
Antie, vertel vir ons, as daar nog so een of twee stories is wat Antie kan onthou. Wat Pa vertel het, of Ma.
Nee, man.
Oukei.
Daai mense het vir ons baie vertel, maar tot nou toe is ek toegeslaan, ek kan nou niks sê nie.
Vertel vir ons van die Lanternfees. Hoe het Antie daar betrokke geword?
Ek was nog eintlik nog nooit betrokke by die fees nie, maar vandat die fees in die dorp begin het, op Clanwilliam, was dit ’n plesier om – ek het altyd net die aand van die fees deel gehad aan die verrigting wat plaasvind, maar my kleinkinders het altyd die plesier uit die fees uit gehad en die middag, die kinders se skoolwerk, jy moet sukkel, want die kind kan nie nou nie, sy skoolwerk nie, want hy moet gaan oefen vir die Liggiefees. En die aand van die fees was dit net die, die lekkerste deel, want, ek weet nie, as die ouers by die huis gebly het, dan was dit hulle saak; ek kon nie, ek is vroeg namiddag is ek daar onder teen die veld waar, by Living Gameship (?? 12:13), of meeste van die tyd is dit mos, hulle begin daar by die, by die, by, by die veld af, daarvan stap hulle so om by die tronk om en tot en met by die laerskool, en dit alles het ek, tot aan die einde het ek deel gehad saam, en met die jare het die Liggiefees net al beter geword, en al lekkerder geword. Laas jaar was dit so lekker dat my hond weggeraak het. Die hond het by die huis weggeraak, want die Liggiefees se, se, die skiet van die, van die …
Vuurwerke.
… die vuurwerke was so erg dat my hond weggehardloop het by die huis. Ons het hom nooit weer gekry nie. En ons het vir mekaar gesê die Liggiefees se vuurwerke was te erg, die hond het mal geraak by die huis, toe hardloop hy weg.
Dit was laas jaar gewees?
Dit was laas jaar gewees. Se Liggiefees.
Hoe sal Antie mense aanraai om die Liggiefees te gaan kyk?
Dis wonderlik, man. Die een wat dit mis, hy weet nie wat hy mis nie. Ek weet nie, as daar ouers is wat kan by die huis bly, wat dit mis nie, ek weier. As ek moet enigiets oorkom, en ek is in ’n rystoel, my kinders moet my stoot tot daar, ek weier om dit te mis. Vir so lank as wat die Here my lewe spaar, en ek kan sien, en ek kan hoor, wil ek dit nie mis nie. So, die ouer wat dit mis, wat by die huis sit, en die Liggiefees mis, is net die een wat nie weet wat sy of hy mis nie. Eerlik. Selfs die ouers wat hulle kinders daar weghou, hulle weet nie wat aangaan nie. Ek weier dat my kleinkinders daar wegbly. Ek vat hulle sommer self, maar daar moet hulle wees.
Dink Antie dis baie leersaam vir die kinders daar?
Dit is. Dit is, en selfs, kyk hier, hulle het mos nou ’n paar jare het hulle mos die tema gehad van die, die, die, die renoster. Met dié wat die renoster-slagtery … Weet jy hoe wonderlik was dit, dis geskiedenis, om te kan sit, met daar op die pawiljoen, of jy staan daarteen, en dan om te sien hoe hulle die, die renoster uitbeeld. En jy, jy sien in die nuus, en jy lees, alles, die renoster-slagtery en so. En … ek weet nie hoe om dit te sê nie, maar dit, dis net, dis leersaam, dis wonderlik.
Hoe dink Antie, hoe kan hulle nog meer mense betrek by die fees?
Hulle kan, hulle kan, as ek, ek weet nie, maar vir my, hulle kan dit nog beter doen, veral laas jaar, hulle, dit verbeter net jaarliks, oukei. Dit kan nog seker beter, maar ek vind nie fout daarmee nie. Dis vir my wonderlik.