Читать книгу The Long Way Home - Dana Snyman - Страница 7

It looks like rain. I turn in at the farm gate just before Franschhoek. The road to the farmstead has been tarred and runs through vineyards, past a little church and a small cemetery.

I drive slower and slower under the low-hanging clouds.

Up to now, this farm has been no more to me than a name in books and documents in the archives in Cape Town, but now that I’m here I feel a bit like the prodigal son returning home after many years.

On my left, an earth dam; on my right, stables.

This is an authentic, traditional Boland farmyard. I notice that immediately. The house has a bunch of grapes on the gable, a thatched roof and wooden shutters in front of the windows. The wine cellar is to the side, surrounded by oak trees. Near a small building that looks like a security guard’s office, a large blue-and-white signpost has been planted in the ground:

WELCOME TO SOLMS DELTA

Parking

Wine tasting

Museum

Restaurant

There’s a tour bus and a few cars in the parking area opposite the restaurant. I pull in next to the bus but don’t get out right away. The blue-and-white signpost draws my attention again. It looks out of place.

Once upon a time, more than three hundred years ago, this farm belonged to Christoffel Snyman, the original ancestor of all Snymans. Christoffel and his wife Margot lived here all their married life. Their nine children were born here and it was here that Christoffel died in 1709.

You could say this is where all of us Snymans come from: Oupa and Pa and me, and all those who came before us and all those who will come after us.

I feel like phoning Pa from my cellphone, but for the past two days it’s been difficult to have a coherent telephone conversation with him. He’s tired all the time and struggles to breathe. His heart is worn out. Yesterday evening, when I mentioned that I’d been to the archives and discovered that we’re all descendants of Christoffel Snyman, and that I was going to visit the farm today, he responded by telling me about his great-great-grandpa who lived in Pietermaritzburg – the man who took part in the Great Trek and fought in the Battle of Blood River, the one whose names he bears: Coenraad Frederik Wilhelmus Snyman. This oupa Coenraad is the only long-ago Snyman I’ve ever heard him mention.

I get out of the bakkie. I always feel awkward when I visit a farm like this where I can walk around and eat and drink and do whatever I like, without knowing the owners or anyone on it.

Next to the restaurant there’s a tall, narrow building with a wooden staircase on one side that leads to the loft. It looks as though it may once have been a cellar. A man emerges and comes over, a well-rehearsed greeting on his lips: “Good morning, sir. Welcome. Would you like to taste some of our excellent wine?”

He’s one of the guides on the farm. Leon Adams. When I mention I’m a Snyman, he smiles. “Everything’s inside. Come, let me show you.” He pushes open the door to the building.

It opens into a large room where a dark table stands in the middle of the floor. Wine is sold in a smaller room to the side. There are wall panels depicting the history of the farm in words, sketches and old photographs. The first panel contains a single paragraph:

Museum Van de Caab tells the story of Delta farm. Similar stories could be told of all the old farms in this valley. The things that happened here reflect the whole history of South Africa.

Leon puts his hands together, palm to palm, almost like a minister in a pulpit, and begins to tell me of the San and Khoi, the first people to have lived here in the Groot Drakenstein Valley between Franschhoek and Paarl. Then he comes to 1657 … “You see, sir, in 1657 a woman by the name of Groot Catrijn was sent from Batavia to the Cape.” He looks at me closely. “This Groot Catrijn was a convict, you know – a woman convict. She’d killed her boyfriend over there, so they sent her to Robben Island. For life.”

Is he sure? Was she really banished to Robben Island? I ask. This contradicts what I read in the archives: Groot Catrijn van der Caab, a woman of Indian descent, was indeed banished to the Cape in 1657 after murdering her lover, but she went to work at the Castle as one of Jan van Riebeeck’s washerwomen.

Leon wavers. He calls one of the guides from the sales room. “Tiaan!”

A man with a thin moustache comes over. Tiaan Jacobs.

“Did they send Groot Catrijn to Robben Island?” Leon asks.

“No, man. She became Jan van Riebeeck’s washerwoman.” Tiaan comes over and picks up the story. “You see, sir, it was there at the Castle that she met Hans Christoffel Schneider. He was like Van Riebeeck’s personal bodyguard. The two of them, this Hans Christoffel Schneider and Groot Catrijn … they … they sort of had a relationship and nine months later she gave birth to Schneider’s child.”

That’s more or less what I read in the archives in Cape Town: Groot Catrijn, the exile from Batavia, had a child out of wedlock and the father was Hans Christoffel Schneider, a German soldier at the Castle. Groot Catrijn called the boy Christoffel, and because the Cape was under Dutch rule, “Schneider” became “Snyman” in the public records. Christoffel Snyman.

“That’s why people say he was the first Snyman, this Christoffel. The very, very first Snyman.” Tiaan points to another panel. “That’s his signature.”

I approach. There it is, behind glass: a copy of Christoffel Snyman’s signature as it appeared on the deed of sale way back when. It’s the handwriting of someone who could write properly, complete with curlicues.

Tiaan and his thin moustache are still by my side. “You know about this Christoffel, sir?” he says. “You know he wasn’t white, don’t you, sir?”

I see the shadowy reflection of my face in the glass. It’s true. There’s no denying it. Christoffel Snyman wasn’t white; Groot Catrijn was a dark-skinned woman of Indian descent.

Our forefather, the very first Snyman, was coloured.

It’s raining now, a soft, light drizzle that clings to my face and shoulders.

I stroll across the yard, past the restaurant, and continue on to the cemetery I’d driven past on my way in. Christoffel’s grave should be there.

What did he look like? Burly, like many of the Snyman men? The farmhouse he and Margot lived in is no longer here, and just a section of the original cellar remains. It forms part of the restaurant now.

How Christoffel managed to buy the farm isn’t clear. Hans Christoffel Schneider, his father, apparently disappeared from Groot Catrijn’s life before the birth of his son. Later she married Antonij Janz from Bengal, a slave who had permission to own land – a so-called free black. Antonij and Groot Catrijn raised Christoffel. Both died around 1682 – it may have been in a smallpox epidemic – so perhaps it was Christoffel’s inheritance that enabled him to buy the farm.

Little is certain about Christoffel, apart from the fact that he married Margot around 1690. She was the daughter of Jacques de Savoye and Marie-Madeleine du Pont who arrived at the Cape with the Huguenots in 1688.

The cemetery lies on an open piece of land among the vineyards. It’s tidy, and I can see that it has been weeded. The artificial flowers on some of the graves are new and must have been put there fairly recently. Harold Louis Silberbauer, Anna Sybella Schelpe, Gustav Kemp, Josina Klue and Thomas Ellanes Withington all lie buried here. I walk from one grave to the next. Sylvia Elizabeth Bouwer. John Bester. In tere herinnering. In loving memory. No Christoffel Snyman.

The slender shadow of a cypress moves on the ground, like an angry pointing finger.

Not one Snyman is buried here. This could be because Christoffel was the only Snyman ever to own the farm. After his death, Margot married Henning Viljoen, and from here on, her and Christoffel’s nine children – seven daughters and two sons – spread throughout the country.

As I walk back to the yard, I wonder whether this footpath was here in Christoffel’s time. At some time, each of those nine children, the first nine Snymans, must have followed a road away from the farm, whether by foot, on horseback, in a horse cart or ox-wagon, to settle somewhere else. Some, like those on our side of the family, crossed the mountains and moved inland. First to Graaff-Reinet, then with the Great Trek, on to Natal. More children and grandchildren were born, each following his own path, no longer with a wagon and oxen, but by car or train or bus. Much later it was Oupa’s turn, then Pa’s, and then mine, each of us following his own path, one that began here on the farm of Christoffel, our dark-skinned ancestor, here where the rain is blanketing the vineyards in a haze.

Apart from his signature preserved behind glass, nothing of Christoffel remains on the farm. Not even an old wine barrel with his name carved into the wood.

I cross the yard again and pass the restaurant where an aroma from the kitchen reminds me of bean soup. I hear the pop of a cork as a bottle of wine is opened and then a woman’s laugh as if something inside her has been released too.

In Christoffel’s time there were elephants here. That first farmhouse was probably built from clay. It can’t have been a romantic existence. There were clashes with the Huguenot and the Khoi and the San. The Huguenots also disagreed among themselves, yet Christoffel’s marriage to Margot wasn’t unacceptable, he with his brown skin, she the daughter of Jacques and Marie-Madeleine de Savoye from Aeth in France.

The separate marriages and separate neighbourhoods and separate hospitals and separate schools and separate parks and separate beaches, and the police who enforced the laws to keep everyone separate, only came much later.

I go back inside the museum. Tiaan the guide comes over again. He shakes his head when I ask whether Christoffel is buried here. A team of archaeologists came to the farm to dig, searching for graves and the remains of buildings, but no one was able to find his grave. “But why are you looking for his grave?” He strokes his sparse beard. “Are you writing everything about the Snymans, sir? Then you must talk to oom Koos. He’s a Snyman. He lives just over there.”

Oom Koos doesn’t own the farm. It’s jointly owned by a neurologist from Cape Town and a British businessman.

“Oom Koos just works here.” Tiaan points towards the cellar. “You drive past the cellar, and then down there, through the vineyards. You’ll see the small white houses. The third one is his.”

The road to oom Koos’s house hasn’t been tarred. I drive slowly past a shed. Over towards Franschhoek, the sky is clearing.

Pa should have been here, and so should my late grandpa, for that matter. Oupa loved tracing the family tree, but he never mentioned Christoffel and Groot Catrijn. I doubt if he knew about them.

As far as my oupa and pa were concerned, the Snymans began with great-grandpa Coenraad who went on the Great Trek and fought in the Battle of Blood River.

Then I remember The List. When was that again? Could it have been the eighties? All I can remember is everyone in our town asking one another: “Are you on The List?”

At the time, Dr Hans Heese, a historian, researched the mixed-race population of the Old Cape, and this led to magazine articles and newspaper reports. There was also a list of well-known Afrikaans families that weren’t perhaps as pure-blooded and pedigreed as they’d have liked to believe.

The List remained a topic of conversation for a while and then faded away as if it and the issues surrounding it had never existed. The reason we were so certain of who we were was because we couldn’t afford to admit where we really came from.

The narrow road lurches deeper into the vineyards before it reaches a row of labourers’ cottages on a bare patch. The semi-detached houses remind me of once typical working-class neighbourhoods: row upon row upon row of houses, each with a stoep, a path leading straight to the door, and a silver-painted garden gate.

There’s a washing machine on the stoep of the third house. I pull up outside and get out of the bakkie.

At home I have an old black-and-white snapshot of the house my parents lived in years ago in Newcastle, Natal, when Pa was a fitter and turner with Iscor. It was a semi like this.

Three kittens are playing on a blanket next to the washing machine. Next to the front door is a flowering geranium in a paint tin. I knock.

A man opens the door and puts out his hand to greet me. “Good morning, Meneer. I’m Koos Snyman.” Oom Koos.

I tell him that I too am a Snyman.

“Grieta!” oom Koos calls down the passage. “Griettt-aaa!”

The sitting-cum-dining room in Ma and Pa’s Newcastle semi could easily have looked like this: a colourful couch and chairs with crocheted armrest covers. Sunfilter curtains. A painting of pinkish waves breaking on a pinkish beach.

Somewhere in my garage I have some of Ma’s ornaments in a box – ornaments much like the ones on the shelf in this room: a porcelain dog, two egg cups, a small purple vase with a spout.

For years we had a kitchen table just like this, with a melamine top.

“Grieta!” he calls again. “Griettt-aaa!”

A small woman enters the room.

Oom Koos gestures in my direction. “This gentleman’s surname is Snyman too.”

Tant Grieta’s hand goes up to her mouth. “O, jinne, really?” She points to the table with the melamine top. “In that case, Meneer must sit down. We must have coffee.” She gestures at the sparkling clean, tidy room. “Please excuse the state of the room. The children always make a mess.”

Ma was the same: always making excuses for her spotless home.

Tant Grieta switches on the kettle and oom Koos and I take our seats at the table, me on one side and he on the other. He, the coloured Snyman, and I, the so-called white Snyman; between us, years of heartache and laws and anger and prejudice and misunderstandings.

The conversation starts haltingly – the rain and the work in the vineyards – while tant Grieta takes some mugs from the cupboard. Then oom Koos starts telling me where he was born and the conversation takes off; he stops calling me Meneer.

He was christened Jacobus Abraham Snyman and moved here from Ladismith in the Cape, as a labourer. In 1977.

“They came to fetch us with a lorry. We were at Seekoeigatdrif near Ladismith. With the Bruwers. But they didn’t have work for all of us. So a few of us came here, with our things on the back of the lorry.” He points to tant Grieta. “She came with.”

“We’ve had our ups and downs,” she says, “but we’re still here.”

Oom Koos’s father, Piet, stayed behind in Ladismith. His brother, Hendrik, also came to the Boland at the time.

A young woman enters the room. She’s Katrina, one of their daughters.

“He’s a Snyman, like us.” Oom Koos points to me. “He came for a visit.”

Katrina gives me a feeble smile, switches on the television, sits on the couch, and starts watching a repeat of some or other soap opera with the sound off. Their other daughter is called Sara, just like Ma.

Oom Koos has lost track of some of the Snymans on his side of the family. Many have died, and the children and cousins have all gone their own way. “We’re all over the place. I know there are still a few in Ladismith.”

Tant Grieta puts two mugs of coffee on the table between us, as well as a sugar bowl and a milk jug that’s covered by a doily with red beads. “Help yourself.” He pushes one of the mugs towards me.

I pour a little milk into my coffee. He pours a little milk into his. “Did the people at the museum up there tell you about me?” he asks. “Every now and then I go to see what they’re doing.”

I add two spoons of sugar to my coffee. He adds two spoons of sugar to his.

“This farm is where we Snymans come from, you know.” He stirs his coffee clockwise. So do I. “It’s where our roots are.”

Tant Grieta opens the top of the stable door and sunlight and the smell of damp earth fill the room. It’s still drizzling outside, but some of the cloud has lifted and a pale sun is shining on the vineyards. Outside, the monkey’s wedding continues as the two of us, oom Koos and I, drink our coffee together.