Barefoot in Kantelson
I grew up in a little orange house. Not the kind of orange like a clementine, but a burnt ochre or sienna kind of orange. It smelt of incense and candles, and bergamot oil that stained the bath.
Orange is the colour of love, and we had plenty of that in the house. We also had a ginger cat and a tawny dog and a palomino pony. Even our chickens were rich shades of red and orange.
Outside the house lay a muted landscape, with whitewashed houses and neat gardens. Beyond that, we had the Klein Karoo, a rugged landscape peppered with fynbos. The dry Karoo air and the sticky fynbos would stick to your throat as you gasp for air, your feet pounding on the rich clay roads.
McGregor has the heat that kills and the cold that splinters.
In the summer you smell freshly cut teff and horses. Oh, and the peaches in our garden. At least, that was my life.
Here, we lived and died by the sun. My wakeup call was no alarm. I was raised by the stretching fingers of the sun that poked through my shutters.
I remember scrubby knees covered with bruises, cuts, mud and dirt. Stained orange. We didn't have TV. Instead, I played with my knees on the ground, digging in the dirt, or digging my heels into the barrelling sides of my horse as I raced across the landscape.
The mornings were the whickering of horses, the cackling of chickens and the stone of the iron pot scraping across the stove. I could smell poe-toe pap. Soon I would be sprinkling brown sugar on the mielie-meel and drowning it full cream milk from the farm next door.
I can taste Tomato Simba chips too, which we would buy in bulk after Pokemon tazos came to town. And the sticky JC`s that turned our tongues orange as we smacked our lips around them. It's the icy sting of Coca-Cola after the village volleyball game that hit our throats.
The summers are hot and heavy. We would hide inside, the thick walls keeping us cool. The winters brought a chill that struck your bones, and hours were spent by the fireside, watching the amber firelight dance off the walls. I perched on a few pillows on the stone by the window, wasting away in the pages of a book. They were old, from my parents' days, and I remember coughing at the dust.
It was a little life. On Saturdays old and young souls spilled into the marketplace, milling around, on a mission to buy fresh bread, marmalade jam and vegetables. It was like a rich blend of spices, all thrown into one mixing pot, and stirred to produce the wildest cacophony of colours. Each soul had their own defining aroma but melted together in one location at one time.
We were the wild ones, the “village people”, happy in our little homes. I was happy as long as my bare feet could smack the floor as I raced through the quiet streets, my shrieks reaching higher than the tallest blue gum tree.
