Wat sê ‘n mens as die persoon wat jou eerste en langste maatjie was, skielik weg is?

Ek en Jos het presies 2 jaar en 2 weke verskil – sy was dus van dag een af DAAR in my lewe, en a.g.v. die afgeleë plekke waar ons kleintyd gewoon het (Wallekraal in Namakwaland, en Ruigtevlei naby Sedgefield, tot ek 8 en Jos 10 jaar oud was – en sus Karen net gebore), was ons geheelenal op mekaar aangewese vir saamspeel, in die veld loop, stories luister, legkaarte bou, leer help in die kombuis (Jos het op 6 reeds haar eerste marmeladekonfyt op Wallekraal se houtstoof gekook!), tuinmaak, lag… en sing! Veral laasgenoemde was ‘n groot tydverdryf tydens lang roadtrips, vakansietogte op grondpaaie waar ons pa en ma so graag getoer het. In Namakwaland was die kinderboeke maar skaars, en dan het ons ouers vir ons voorgelees uit Ouma se universiteitsboeke – gedigte van Totius, Eugene Marais, Uys Krige, WEG Louw, Louis Leipoldt en ander. Ek onthou ons gunsteling was Laetitia van A.G. Visser… “ ‘n Lied van frisse maagdeskoon, Blou oë waarin die hemel woon” en Eugene Marais se Dans van die Reën… “O die dans van ons suster!” Ja, ons was nog voorskools, en WOORDE het as’t ware ons speelmaats geword en troeteldiere vervang. En Jos het die woorde in haar kop gebêre, dit het haar stokperdjie en beste tydverdryf geword, en sy het ‘n loopbaan daarvan gemaak.

Maar voor daardie loopbaan… eers iets meer van ons kinderjare.  Ons was onderskeidelik 4 en 6 jaar oud toe ons die geheimsinnige wêreld van Namakwaland se Sandveld en Wallekraal se koshuis betree. Vir ons het ‘n nuwe fantastiese wêreld oopgegaan, en ons het in kinderlike onskuld vrede gehad met ons ouers, beide skaars 30, se harde werk en ontnugtering deur vreemde uitdagings en swaar tye. En hier het Jos reeds gewys sy is ‘n dapper mens. As die steekvlieë en brommers in die droë rivierloop ons takel, het Jos nie weggehardloop en gillend agter ons ma se rokspante gaan wegkruip nie – sy het vierspoor vasgesteek en op die steekvlieë gespoeg. Links en regs en vorentoe tot alle vreemde vlieënde voorwerpe wyk. Toe die Spoegrivier (dit is inderdaar die rivier se naam!) in vloed afkom na ‘n een-maal-per-dekade stormreën, en ons totaal van die buitewereld afgesny word met Wallekraal op sy eie eiland – staan Jos op die wal van die rivier en bekyk die magtige vloed, sodat ons pa ‘n onvergeetlike foto van haar neem: wit hare woes in die wind, armpies styf opgetrek teen haar lyf in ‘n tuisgemaakte wintersrokkie… Sy sou daardie dapperheid dikwels in haar lewe herhaal.

Jare later, toe ek haar gevra het hoe sy dit regkry om soveel teenslae te oorleef, was haar woorde dat sy vroeg reeds besef het, woede is beter as vrees – om kwaad te word is beter as om in angs vasgevries te wees…

Vreesloos, en met ‘n wil van haar eie. Jos het onlangs begin om ‘n boekie vir haar keinkind (binnekort -kinders!) te skryf, en gereeld vir my die nuwe insetsel gelees. (In die boekie, ‘My ouma is weird’, beskryf sy haarself deur die oë van haar kleinkind en skeer eintlik met haarself die gek). “My ouma hou glad nie daarvan as mense sê sy moét iets doen nie. Sy sê daar is niks wat ‘n mens moét doen nie. Sy doen net iets as ‘n mens baie mooi vra”. Toe die Wallekraalse koeie dus destyds in 1962 bittergousblomme eet, sodat die melk ‘n aaklige bitter smaak kry, het Jos daardie sterk wil tot uiting laat kom, en eenvoudig geweier om melk te drink – ‘n beginsel waarby sy vir die res van haar lewe gehou het. Ten spite van Milo en Ovaltine en Nesquick (en baie mooi vra) en trou met haar geesgenoot en liefling wat versot was op vars melk – selfs met Coke daarby 

Na Wallekraal was daar Ruigtevlei se plaasskool, en woon op ‘n plaas met ‘n diep donker rivier, ‘n woud met boomslange, loeries en bobbejaantoue, en ‘n kwaai bul wat in ‘n kamp met die lekkerste speel-hooimied aangehou is. Om by die hooimied te kom, moes ons eers die rooi bul dophou en blitsvinnig deur die kamp hardloop voodat die gedierte ons jaag. Ons het ons eie ‘Little House on the Prairie’ en ‘Little House in the Big Woods’ dae gehad. Ons het hutte gebou van boomtakke, leer vuurmaak en in hoë bome wat oor die rivier hang geklim – en saans met vuil voete wat ruik na beesmis tuisgekom. Terwyl ons ma badwater op ‘n Primusstofie kook, en vars water in ‘n watertenk buite die huis moes tap (daar was geen elektrisiteit of vars lopende water in die huis nie)… Weer eens was ons totaal op mekaar aangewese, en het soggens saam met ons pa skool toe gery in die groen Cortina, saam agterop ‘n lorrie gery na ons eerste atletiekbyeenkoms  – waar ons loshande gewen het, want dit was die eerste keer dat ons op n ‘plat baan’ hardloop na al die oefen teen die bult voor die plaasskool! En ons het geleer om mense wat sout van die aarde is, lief te kry en te vertrou. Boswerkers, vissermanne, plaaswinkeleienaars, bestaansboere. Ek kon darem een keer Jos se lewe help red toe die bure se kinders ons uitdaag om op die huis se dak te klim, en net toe Jos bo is, neem hulle die leer weg… My 6-jarige beentjies het gespin soos ek hardloop om ons pa te roep om Jos te kom red.

En toe het ons ‘n lank-begeerde sussie bygekry! En dorp toe getrek, waar ons ouers ‘n huis gebou het en ons totaal geborge laat grootword het. En Jos het ge’blossom’ met ongelooflike vriendskappe in die nuwe dorpskool en omgewing.

Op Hoërskool was ons gewoontes en roetines heel verskillend. Waar ek middae op die sportveld deurgebring het, was Jos se gunsteling tydverdryf om op haar bed te  lê en lees, die mooiste stories en opstelle te skryf (die taalonderwyser het selfs haar opstelle as begripstoets vir die klas gebruik), en met vriendinne op die telefoon te boer. En daardie vriendskappe, kuiers by bure en uitreik na die mense om haar, is met die afgelope paar jaar se moeilike pad, vele operasies, en laaste paar weke se angstyd, duidelik weerspieël in die mense van heinde en verre wat kontak maak, ondersteun, hier is vandag – in persoon, of net in die gees.  DANKIE julle.

Ek en Jos het ook ons Racheltjie de Beer-oomblik gehad. In daardie einste tyd toe my daaglikse roetine om fiksheid gedraai het, het ons op een van ons wonderlike lang Desembervakansies op Vleesbaai besluit om rotslangs te stap tot so na aan Fransmanshoek as ons kan kom. Toevallig trek die wolke die dag saam, en ‘n harde reenbui sak uit met wolke wat laag hang na die weerman se  ‘langs die Tuinroete sal miskolle in die oggend voorkom en reënbuie later in die dag’. Ons soek vervaard skuiling onder rotse, maar die enigste skuiplek wat ons kan kry, is skaars groot genoeg vir ‘n kind. Tot my verbasing sê Jos ‘klim jy hier in, jy mag nie nou siek word voor jou atletiekbyeenkoms nie…’ (En dit terwyl ek nie eens geweet het sy is bewus van my fanatiese oefenprogram nie…) Die ervaring het dikwels na my teruggekom as Jos so bekommerd is oor Mamma wat kan val, wat snags alleen slaap,  wat tog haar bloedsuiker moet dophou, kommer oor vriendinne wat so hard werk, wie se mans so baie van die huis weg is… Altyd uitkyk vir ander, dikwels ten koste van haarself.

‘n Mens-mens, soos almal vandag sal vertel en soos ons haar in die toekoms gaan mis. Sy het geglo sy kan enigiets uit haar bed doen – blokkiesraaisels invul, op haar selfoon gesels, en selfs haar Weetbix eet  - want, het sy volgehou, ‘hoekom moet ek alleen by die tafel gaan sit is as ek lekker in my bed kan lê’. En die laaste paar maande het sy al meer na ander se klagtes en kerms oor werk en verpligtinge en daaglikse ‘ups-and-downs’  geluister op haar foon en uit haar bed – en altyd weggepraat van haar eie swaarkry.

Doelbewus? Jos het ‘n baken en ‘n anker geword vir ander om by skuiling te soek.

Haar sielsgenoot en onvervangbare maat het sy op Fraserburg ontmoet. Na Universiteit, en toe sy haar teatertalent ontdek het… die skaam kind agter die gordyn na vore laat kom het.  Tian se kuiers is ‘n ander dag se stories. Die vyfuur voordag se visvang op Vleesbaai saam met sy aanstaande skoonpa nadat hy en Jos tot lank na middernag ‘opgesit’ het… My saamry van Stellenbosch af Fraserburg toe om vir ‘sy ouers’ te gaan kuier… Die bewuswording van my ousus wat nou haar eie wêreld en haar eie mense het. Haar eie identiteit ontwikkel het. En ongelooflik gelukkig is! Ons was so trots op haar toneelprestasies, haar impak op die gemeenskap. En ons bly trots.

Jos was die onderwyser wat mense geleer het om anders te dink, ‘to seize the day’, en om op te staan vir dit wat reg is. Die persoon vir wie kinders op hul lessenaars sou klim en uitoep ‘O Captain, my Captain!’ (Vir die wat Walt Whitman en ‘Dead Poet’s Society’ ken).

‘O Captain! my Captain/ Our fearful trip is done/ The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won’

Daar is soveel gedigte in Afrikaans wat treur oor ‘n kind – of soldaat of vriend of digter wat dood is. Eitemal, Totius, selfs ‘n Marius Ackerman…

Maar vir Jos, veral na haar beste maat en enigste sielsgenoot te vroeg weg is, was hierdie die woorde om mee tot siens te sê (met apologie aan ‘Die uurwerk kantel’ van Marie Heese)

huil help niks

al wat help, is tyd

al wat help, is ouer word

die hart is ‘n verraaier

het julle dit geweet

almal huil vandag maar ons sal weer lag

ek ook

ja, selfs ek sal weer lag

maar al groei dit toe

dié wond dit genees nie

jy dra dit met jou rond tot in lengte van dae

die snoeiword aan ‘n wingerdstok genees nie

dit bly ’n dooie eiland in die lewende weefsel

Vader het my gewys

‘n ou stok kan vierhonderd snywonde aan sy stamdeel hê

maar hoeveel die hart kan dra dit weet ek nie

lê haar in die grond

lê haar gebroke liggaam saggies in die grond

miskien sal hier

aanstaande jaar in die blomtyd

madeliefies groei

Jos se gesin was haar ALLES. Na Tian se weggaan, was haar dogters haar alles, en later ook hulle ander helftes. Familie. En vandag wil ek vir Ange, Lianel en Tania verseker dat hulle nou, saam, deel van ONS alles is. Moet nie alleen of eensaam voel nie. Ons is hier vir julle.

Daarom, vir Jos met haar kop en boekrak en lewe vol woorde, wil ek haar gesin en ons almal ook troos met die woorde van Amanda Strydom, ‘n versinnebeelding van Jos, wat in ons harte en gedagtes sal voortleef:

Sy plant haar woorde in die grond
Sy lei dit nat met trane
Sy hang haar woorde in die wind
Gooi haar woorde na die son
Strooi haar woorde oor die see

Sy skreeu haar woorde vir die nag
die sterre het ore
En die noordewind kom
En haar woorde waai ver
Verdwyn in die niet…
In die boord word weer woorde gebore

Sy pluk haar woorde in die boord
Sy pak hul in haar mandjie
Sy vleg haar woorde in ‘n krans
Poets haar woorde met fluweel
Dra haar woorde soos ‘n kroon

Vir my gekroonde suster.

Met ‘n kroon van woorde.

I am standing on top of the highest hill on the great plains of the Tankwa Karoo. I just scrambled up here with my 80 year old uncle, a farmer in Africa, to whom this place belongs. He is a shepherd of the soil and knows every little bush on this stretch of land, every reptile, every bird. The drought has lasted more than 4 years. He loves every plant and rock and breath he takes in the clear sky and crisp air that surrounds us. I turn around 360 degrees, feeling the sun on my face, the slight breeze on my back, breathing in the immense distances around us, feeling absolute joy in the moment, gladness for being here, and hope for the future that awaits. Next week I am packing up and returning to America where a new job at Stanford University – and a reconnection with my family – is waiting. But now it is just me and the sun, the space and silence. No place can be as quiet as the Tankwa Karoo, where space and the required social distancing between people is always more than 6 feet… mostly 6 miles… or more. But where hearts reach out and embrace each other.  Where caring and sharing reach beyond space and time.

Now the world has been caught up in a terrifying invasion – suspended in action and distrust and anxiety. Here there is no longing and no fear. Life is ancient, confined, and also limitless. Like the distance and the silence. Unchanging.

We do not talk a lot. Words are often unneeded when kindred spirits unite. Is blood thicker than water? I left my loved ones to fulfill a mission in Africa. I reconnected, reached out, faced immense hardships. And endured. I did overcome.

I am returning.

But for now… JOY. Just joy.

And peace.

kon ek berge uitloop en

blomme plant

saans na rookvure en mis

in die klowe kyk en die vleiloerie

hoor roep

saam met my pa

kon ek branders en meeue dophou vir ure

rooiaas en siffies uithaal

in diep skeure

saam met my pa

kon ek skemeraand tussen dennebome draf en

geelhout en watervalle groet

plaashekke oopmaak en

dennetolle optel toe die loop swaar raak

saam met my pa

kon ek leer vuurmaak en houtkap selfs

kettie skiet en

klippe laat spring op die dam

saam met my pa kon ek psalms sing

sonder om asem te haal as ek luister

na sy stem wat mooier as enigiemand anders

uitstyg

hemel toe

saam met my pa kon ons kilometers klippad ry sonder woorde

met toebroodjies ‘n milky bar en koffie

en as ek opkyk weet ek

hy verstaan my dink

saam met my pa

kon ek wees

en wonder

en droom

en as ek sou wegbeur na ‘n aweregse pad het sy arm

my naby gehou

saam met my pa

July 8, 2019

said Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway, with Philip Glass’s music in The Hours. And that’s exactly what Mom’s friend Rita, born 1929, and friends since 1968, said when she was invited to Mom’s book celebration, the event celebrating the writing of Mom’s Memoirs. And there she was, soon 90 yrs old, with the custard cake that became her trademark recipe. For every special visit, celebration, occasion, event, Tannie Rita would bake her famous layered cake. And she did it again for her best friend’s book celebration. This time she mixed the batter and heated the little stovetop oven in a tiny room in an old age home, a final refuge for the brave who were selected to walk on and contribute for a little while longer. And her token contribution of a custard cake, finished off the meal at our joyful celebration. A celebration of life and the memories we make.

Here’s to Rita Grundlingh and her indomitable spirit and unbeatable cake.

I am going to make a cake. A custard cake. To remind me of our nights going out to concerts while our husbands went fishing. Of our daughters becoming wives and mothers and our homes being moved to unfamiliar places. Of laughter and tears, music, dancing and planting new gardens in spring. Long December holidays and Sunday lunches. We laughed, we loved, we lived.

And I made a cake.

https://www.youtube.com/embed/DV8dpDsatLM

Op Maandae het die groentelorrie gekom. Dan is slaai, tamaties, bone, blomkool, kopkool, skorsies en pampoen afgelaai. Die groot beplanning en weeklikse kook het begin. Daar was 26 kinders wat elke dag moes eet. Drie maal, met een paraffienyskas en ‘n houtstoof. Wallekraal. My ma ‘n brose 30, pa 33, en die twee stadsjapies durf die vreemde aan met twee voorskoolse dogterjies en ‘n groot avontuurlus. Soetsuurdeegbrood vir 30 mense, elke dag. En die nuwe koshuismoeder het nog nooit ‘n brood gebak nie! Die eerse poging was plat en taai, my ma steek kers op by Diknek  se baasbakster en siedaar! ‘n Aartappelplantjie en bietjie touwysmaak, en Tina Aggenbach se raad laat die skool oorleef. Die brood rys en Andries steek elke keer sy hand op vir nog ‘n snytjie. Nou word daar daagliks ingesuur, die deeg word dopgehou, en die houtstoof word gestook. Boeppens baksels word toegemaak onder ‘n lappies-broodkombers en warm-warm geëet.

Die groentelorrie uit Vredendal se kooksels word beplan. Maandae is tamaties en blaarslaai en alles wat vinnig verlep, geëet. Dinsdae groenbone, en van Woensdag af is dit kool en wortels, en laaste die skorsies en pampoene wat geduldig in die donker buitekamer hulle kans afwag. Gedroogte vrugte word oornag geweek om sag te kook vir bykos of nagereg saam met vla. Bone word gespoel, geweek, gekook, eerste water afgegooi en weer gekook. ‘n Asyn-en-maizena-sousie verander dit in ‘n bederfdis.  Roomys is net vir die dorp, en dus een maal per maand – as kinders soet is. Rooibostee word in ‘n geel enemmeltuitkan gekook en stomend warm gedrink, almal kry ‘n bekervol met vars bokmelk aan etenstafel. Koffie word gemaal en in ‘n linnesak in ‘n koffiekan gemaak. Sakkoffie is net vir grootmense, dit gee kinders vlooie in die maag. Vir slaaptyd rek my ma die rande en koop kakao om die koshuiskinders met ‘n warm slaapdrankie te bederf. Koeimelk is skaars, en lentetyd smaak die melk wild van die gousblomme in die weikamp. ‘n Paar lepels kakao red klein dogtertjies se lewe ook!

Ons het altyd so gewens ons kon teruggaan na daardie rustige ongekunstelde jare. En ons het. Ons koop nou een maal per maand ‘n groot voorraad, ons groente word tuis afgelewer, ons rantsoeneer die eiers en brood en slaai en melk. Ons rek die rande en kos in die spenskas. Ons bak weer ons daaglikse brood en hou ‘n broodkombersie in die kombuislaai aan. Ons bel ons bure op die plaas langsaan. Ons kyk of daar nie dalk ‘n kar in die pad afkom nie.

En skielik onthou ek die gesin wat net een maal per jaar dorp toe gegaan het. Toe my ma en pa die Saterdagoggend tienuur in Garies se hoofstraat indraai, kom die Mosterts net uit die dorp gery. Klaar gekoop vir die jaar. Wie het nou meer as een uur in die winkels nodig?

Maar ek mis steeds die geur van Cobra-politoer op die houtvloer, die sandpad met middelmannetjie wat afkronkel teen die bult, die geeldons-acaciabome wat ‘n soom afsteek teen die rivierloop. En die bakoorjakkals wat snags roep in die stilte en omkyk. En opkyk en roep.

4. Do not live with broken stuff! If the tap leaks, fix it! That torn pillow case: mend it! Clogged drains, creaking doors… Often a small job can give huge sense of accomplishment and control.

One of the first signs of regression is a gradual indication of ‘decay’. Carpet cleaning can no longer be outsourced to a local company – but cleaning equipment can be rented at your local grocery store on a daily basis. The dirty car can be washed by your family over the weekend, since the local ‘brushless car was’ is now a luxury, and not a necessity. The annual window cleaning in the complex we live, I did myself. Removing window screens and washing them outside was an easy job. Let the entire family help, you can teach your children to earn pocket money this way, and though the money will still be coming from your  own pocket, it teaches your kids valuable life lessons – and they can even start their own ‘cleaning service’ during school breaks, and offer help to neighbors or aging people.

I took out my sewing machine, replaced the lost electric cable, and was ready to mend clothes and bed linens myself. You can even start doing small projects with your sewing machine, or make gifts for friends. Let your tight condition lead to innovation, that will inspire you and others.  Necessity is the mother of invention…

3 . Make an inventory of unavoidable expenses. Be honest about activities like individual music lessons and sports coaching.You may have to drop an activity. Shop on eBay if you need a new instrument or tool. Clothes can be passed down to siblings, especially expensive suits, tuxedos, outfits not often worn. You may also ask for friends who had kids in a choir, sports team, etc for second-hand formal clothing.

Making lists can be a lifesaver. It helps you focus, and clears your mind from spiraling thoughts that drag you down. Once expenses, concerns, activities and needs are listed, it is easier to navigate your way ahead. Instead of having a jungle of vague thoughts all butting heads in your mind, items on a list can be thought through, discussed, digested, marked off, put aside.

It is amazing how few new clothes one can need if you do not have money to buy any. Use your basic wardrobe, in the US you can shop at Goodwill, or even visit garage sales to find unwanted, often brand new clothes. Unavoidable expenses include life and car insurance, telephone, electricity and gas for you vehicles. This does not mean you cannot limit these expenses. Use less gas for your car by driving less, car-pooling, cycling or walking. Telephone, gas and electricity can be limited, and often companies give an extra discount for a decrease in your bill.

2. Stop using your credit card, there is not going to be sufficient income deposited to pay off new purchases. You do not want to end up with huge debit against your name. Withdraw cash, e.g. $100 per week for food/groceries. That means prepare your own meals, NO eating out. Do not buy clothes, toys or furniture. The kids will have to wear hand-me-downs… Use libraries extensively – no need to buy books! For recreation, go into nature, it is mostly free. Even a party can be on the beach, a lookout point, a park or open space reserve. Make it cheap without being cheap. Reconsider your values, reevaluate your essentials. Your credit card has turned into a venomous scorpion. Do NOT open any new cards to help pay off the current bill.

My initial thoughts were just for limiting; going without, closing down, try to live it out for a few months.

It was almost impossible to avoid credit card expenses and debt. I was in the fortunate position to still have a small amount of savings in an account linked to a previous position. That would now buy our ‘daily bread’. For the rest, our savings was pretty much trapped in the new house we bought. Stock options from my husband’s previous positions contained the rest – that also now vanished with his retrenchment from the company.

For gas we still used the credit card, and for mandatory payments like Gas and Electricity, Telephone and Internet, and Medical Insurance. Because I did not know how long this single-income period was going to last, I did not want to take chances and accumulate, almost unnoticed, excessive debit, and land in a tight spot where property or valuables needed to be sold. My husband immediately started applying for new jobs, but the reaction was slow, response trickling to a standstill, and the future indeed looked bleak. The realities of being new immigrants sunk in.

1. Don’t panic. Keep calm. Breathe deep. Take action.

My first reaction to such news was disbelief, an almost floating feeling of ‘no way, this only happens to other people’. And then more denial…: ‘so what, you can step out tomorrow to find a new job!’

Not this time, however. The message sinks in, and you remember headlines in the news on increasing unemployment figures, the ‘DDay’ Speech of the VCs on Sandhill Road after the Wall Street debacle… and then that small voice telling you this may be serious.

I read the advice of Marcus Aurelius: “The first step: Don’t be anxious. The second step: Concentrate on what you have to do”. And I decide to do just that.

In the next few months I will learn to “Blot out my imagination. Turn my desire to stone. Quench my appetites. Keep my mind centered on itself.”

“And you can also commit injustice by doing nothing.”

Marcus Aurelius would become one of my best allies.

Our time in the USA has been full of novel experiences and surprises. I have started to write a little book, Treading Water, on my experience of the 2008 recession. Here is the Intro.

Pink Slips

3 November 2008. Tomorrow is Election Day. Obama versus McCain Day. Biden versus Palin Day. I come home from campus, expecting to be glued to the News channel and reports on election results and expectations in different States of America. My husband is upstairs in our home office, his face a brooding thunderstorm.

What’s wrong – you look as if someone just fired you!

Yes, they did. Indeed.

As Director of New Channel Partners at a start-up company in Mountain View, California, his position was made redundant – in fact, 30% of the company suddenly had ‘unneeded’ positions. This time, no golden handshake to the directors, no warning signals to employees. The CEO even took the trouble to invite all employees to a meeting the previous week to announce that the company had enough bank credit, so no one needed to worry about lay-offs. And after my husband signed the first million-dollar deal for that same company – well… that was meant as extra security.

Who would lay off people after so much reassurance? What duality would hand out pink slips on the evening when the entire country was thinking in red and blue… Republican or Democrat, Obama or McCain, Biden or Palin? Slowly realization sinks in. A pink slip on a red and blue evening is hard to digest.  I’ll have to plan ahead.

I am a PhD scientist with a part-time position at Stanford, expecting to move to full-time when the kids could manage without me in the afternoons. Stanford has made sounds of freezing positions and salaries in the sudden economic recession. I have been asked repeatedly when I would be willing to move to a full-time position. That time has now arrived. I grabbed the opportunity.

Over the next few weeks… which turned into months… and later more than a year… then three years… I had to redefine various aspects of my life. My comfort zone was shattered. There was no means of relief or escape. The world would narrow down to boundaries, procedures and regimens that I could define, and use as beacons to guide me mentally and emotionally. I had to follow instinct. I navigated a route for survival. My compass was my uncluttered upbringing, common sense, and often sheer guts. Some guidelines are described in the following pages. They paved the way to survival of the fittest.

Long long ago, in a land far far away, there lived a group of young girls, led by a smart woman who was a role model as charismatic as Sheryl Sandberg, and teaching us immensely more than Lean-In skills. With her we swam in raging rivers, slept on open beaches, camped in pouring rain, and prayed on mountaintops.  At the foot of a majestic mountain we sang serenades under oak trees before sunrise. Weekends at her home on the edge of primeval forests our nights were immersed in poetry and prose. There she would read to us, recite poems to our eager minds, enrich our lives with wisdom and whit.

When I became a mother a decade after school, she sent me a very precious gift, a tape (i.e. analog cassettes with side A and side B, allowing home recording and sharing with snail mail…) – an hour long voice recording of her poetry readings. Through the years I listened, absorbed, recited… to never let go. The magnetic recording became worn out, and after digitizing the tape awhile back, I now uploaded it to SoundCloud, to listen to this recording when and wherever I feel inclined to.  I am honored to share this snippet – poems by two great South African brothers, WEG Louw and NP Van Wyk Louw – poets whose words I can now recall at will. The poems are in Afrikaans, and even if you are not familiar with the language, listen to the rhythm, enjoy the emotion in the voice. Here’s to Este and all she meant to us.

Este: WEG Louw – NPvW Louw

Na al die kophou en  koershou en die klein bende pikkewyne was ‘Salute!’ nog nooit meer gepas.

New Year’s Eve 2015

Today marks the 11th anniversary of our arrival in the USA. I can say with pride that I speak English like a Californian and Afrikaans like a Bolander. I am also now the proud owner of a Blue as well as a Green passport, and have citizenship on two continents, on both sides of the Atlantic, and indeed on both sides of the equator. At times this balancing act resembles the wild ride on two circus horses, an unrehearsed trick that threatens to tear you right apart.  Contrary to Fiddler On The Roof’s Tevye, I cannot ‘tell you in one word’ that it is Tradition that allows me to keep my balance in this wild gallop, this treadmill around the sun. It is rather a tedious process of molding around a central core, chiseling and grinding till you become a changed person from the one that arrived here 11years ago, and also different from the one you would have been, had you never taken that giant leap acrosse the ocean. In one of the most complex societies and the most multiplexed cultures in the world – this life in Silicon Valley – one has to decide who you are and what you strive for, and I ofen reflect on the words preached to us in High School ‘you have to stand for something, or you’ll fall for anything’. I now recognize how my family has gradually shaped a South-African-Californian fusion in our taste of cooking, reading and activities. This is not a true fusion of cultures. Culture is one of the qualitative aspects of humanity which is hard to  define, and impossible to quantify – especially in an era where data and computational significance are increasingly demanded. Through trials and tribulations, often treading water in a raging current, my changed form has been molded and my new being is gradually crystallizing. Above all I have new clarity, and it dawns on me with every new sun. I know my foundation, I am comfortable with my inner core. I cannot deny it. Ik ben een Afrikaan. And I agree with Chris Barnard who describes it so eloquently: it is not a uniform I am wearing, it is a roof under which I find shelter.

May this great Afrikaan rest in peace.

die nuus het raafswart deur die oggendlig gevlieg

my pa se stem kraak 10,000 myl ver

teen my oor

ons harte breek

tyd versplinter en word weer langsaam

volkome

verblindend finaal kon ons 30 seconds-wenspan

nie die akute antwoord uitstel nie

tussen Londen Dakar en Kaap

is n onbekende grenspos oorgesteek

en verward brand ek ver kerse en tulpe en gebede

my suster! my suster!

nou is ons vrae nietig

sonskitter karooswaer

die gordyn het gesak met die applous

jubelend ses-en-veertig

ons encores en einders

strek blinkblou na jou toe

And then the news came from Science: Science and Engineering Visualization Challenge winners have been announced! First I got a phone call… THE CALL. Delightful news! (though I was sworn to secrecy… no sharing, telling, tweeting, rejoicing or celebrating before the press release in the new year….) And so we waited. Science Writer Mark Peplow contacted me for detailed information, more congratulations, and support with the writing of the skills applied and science behind my Illustration entry – and then a delightful Sherlock Holmes hunt to find the sculptor of the Hand used as background for my Illustration of microbial victory. Science had a beautiful story in their press release – and the rest of the world followed… What a thrill!! National Geographic Today, Wired, Popular Science, Science News, Daily Mail, in LumiByte, my own Stanford Medial School, Stanford Daily (the best of), Stanford Scope (blog) and Stanford Medical Facebook Page… and recently their Alumni page under ‘Buzz Worthy’. NIH director featured it in his Director’s blog, and BBC contacted me for use in their upcoming series ‘Human Universe’. Further media coverage continues, highlighting biofilms in context as recently in Live Science (NSF).

Tanya’s Heritage

This is one of the most imaginative and delightful series of art I have laid eyes on. The perfect antithesis, and at the same time complementing each other: Norwegian ice and white, and African sun and black, both filled with legends and folklore, cultures known for their stories, their tokens, their rituals and gods. Opposite hemispheres and landscapes, yet filled with similarities that seem perfectly logical (now that it’s done!) to blend in art. I am not sure why I am so drawn to this series… it may be the whispering to my roots and soul, black-and-white harmonies in my bones, a perfect piano keyboard resonating from Tanya’s lens and legends into printed media. Growing up in the hills of Zululand, close to Umgungundlovu in a house of science and arts, she has an invigorating foundation to create something amazing – as this series has just proven. Tanya, you did something extraordinary here, and I am looking forward to more!

During the past few centuries we have turned science into a reductive analysis of complex natural systems, and to such an extent that we’re left with a chaotic distribution of small parts, of substructures of the whole. In reassembling the whole, we now resemble children on a play-mat strewn with Lego bricks, but with little appreciation of what we’re aiming for. The diagram for reconstruction got lost. Why?

Descartes, according to historians, paved the way for reducing complexes to a multitude of simplexes. The process of reduction makes it easier to analyze smaller individual units than endeavoring to give meaning to the sum total of the whole. Holism, on the other hand,  views concepts from the opposite side, looking at the large entirety, with integration of all components, but generally not analyzing every individual component to the molecular level. The interaction of smaller parts, and influence of individual parts on the whole, is viewed as integrated, for a full understanding of the complex structure. In holism the function of the whole cannot be understood in terms of the sum total of the fundamental parts. The whole is always more than the sum of its parts. On the other hand, in reductionism the interaction of individual parts is not accounted for, and the contribution of fundamental influences of substructures on each other is not integrated into a full picture. And we are dedicated to reduction. We dedicate our minds, our time and funding to the reductive approach. We study the gears of a machine without putting it in motion, we describe the wings of a bird without watching it fly, we analyze the contents of a brook without letting it flow. We break apart the physics and chemistry of the smallest fundamental components but lose the perspective to recompile them all into one functioning structure, organism or concept.

The process to reassemble a multitude of subunits into a meaningful whole, is complex. And since we are hooked on reduction, we analyze the reconstruction process, the steps of reassembly, and break it into smaller units, tasks, or project steps, each well defined and eventually fitting into a cost structure, in paid-for services, in milestones, stage-gates and project aims. Since the process to put the parts together into an integrated entirety has now also become compartmentalized, and ultimately reduced to itemized projects, we have lost the natural flow in the assembly of the greater. The holistic approach has once again been put back even further through our stubborn persistence with reductionism. First we took things apart to analyze them, and now we take the reconstruction process apart to find out how to put things back together. We’re reassembling a complex structure from reduced entities, and through further reduced steps of assembly. This sound very similar to Tinkertoy, Meccano, Lego, Lasy… all the great construction toys on the market. The main difference is that without a proper diagram for assembly, every player may end with a slightly altered product, even when rebuilt from the same sub-units. We reconstruct entities that we understand to the minutest detail – but the original composition is hard to find, altered or misinterpreted. And since the reassembly is now done in a time-constrained regimen with financial targets, the paradigm for scientific reassembly and reasoning has changed.We have broken down the reconstruction into project stages, charge monetary value to every action, and in a business-like scientific world, where budget constraints throttle every minute, every action is monitored, logged and paid for. Every scientific process is a race against money, a challenge in time, and no longer a challenge in understanding. Oftentimes the final conclusion seems like a reminder of something we have known all along, and then we wonder, how could we NOT have realized that right from the start.

The face of science is altered, once again. The quest for its true soul is intensified.

My sus ken Fraserburg se mense en die mense van die plek ken haar. As jong onderwyseres, vars gegradueer in BA-Tale-met-HOD-van-UPE begin sy daar skoolhou in 1979… Afrikaans letterkunde, literatuur, poësie, stelwerk, drama, dialoog… sy voer Hoërskool Fraserburg tot wentrofee in die eindronde van die ATKV toneelfees. Op Fraserburg ontmoet sy ook vir Tian, wat haar geliefde en sielsgenoot sou word. En wat té vroeg en onverwags sy tentpenne uitgetrek en die ouderdom gefnuik het… om net in ‘foto’s-tot-46′ te verskyn… maar in herinneringe en impak ad infinitum. Deur die vloedwaters swem sy en haar drie meisiekinders kop-omhoog en hou mekaar bo. Sink is nie ‘n opsie nie… mens hou aan tot jy weer grond raak. Oor die verlies van ‘n ander bekende Karoomens  stuur sy vir my die harts-essay aan: ‘Kwaad vir God en die dood‘. Ek lees weer van mense se gewoontes, kostelikhede, kombuise en kos. Gasvryheid (wat meesal saam met kos gaan). Familiebande. Veld en natuur. Ek besef hoe verweef is ons Afrikanerbestaan met ons gedigte. Met trots. In my tuiswêreld kán almal nou trots wees op hul eie unieke kultuur. Wat vir ander net ‘n kort sinnetjie is (‘en aan ‘n God kan glo…’), herken ek in Toon van dan Heever se ‘Hoëveld’. Wat ook oop en hemelwyd is, met huppelende kuddes gras, en ‘n huis wat mens vir geld (geleenthede, loopbaan, roem?) moes agterlaat. En eindelik vir die ewige wegtrek.

En ek onthou. Soos ek seker is sy ook doen…

Mense van klein plekke is groter, hulle voetspore dieper, en met die weggaan, hulle plek leër… Maar die krag vir opstaan is wyer en sterker en hemelhoog.

Setting out on our overnight hike in the Outeniquas: Niels (8), Dieter (5), Pierre-Henri (2).

Summer 1995, when the boys were 2, 5 and 8 years old respectively, we decided it was time to spend a night in the mountains – and what better wilderness than the area around my hometown George? We would hike the first day of the famous Outeniqua Hiking Trail, overnight at Tierkop Hut, and hike down to Saasveld Forestry Station the next day. The young family Joubert was in high spirits when my dad dropped us off at the foot of the mountain, where the trail started. Two backpacks, 5 sleeping bags, food and liquid for 2 days, and warm clothes for the night. The youngest was just out of diapers… After a lovely (though strenuous) uphill hike through forests and pine plantations we found the cabin, made a huge fire and dinner, went to bed early and tried to settle down for the night. The cabin was dusty, and looked weather-beaten and dirty, as if people had not slept there for quite some time… But we decided that was simply part of the bundu experience, cleaned up as best we could, and got into our sleeping bags. We were exhausted and finally all fell asleep.

The next day, taking the route down the eastern side of the mountain, we ran into trouble: signposts were flattened by recent wind-storms and rain, apparent new paths were washed into the mountain side by flood waters – and previous routes disappeared with vegetation blown over tracks and trails. After following gravel roads and minor tracks for half the day, we crossed an unexpected weir and noticed the huge Garden Route Dam (strangely) to our left. We realized we were no longer following the trail on the map – we were in fact not even on the map… but kept going. The town was just below us, down the mountain. We both had hiked the Outeniqua Trail before – twice. Though we could see the familiar landmarks, we were simply unable to reach them. It was indeed a strange and desperate feeling – especially since we knew the strength in these little legs walking with us, would not last forever, and many kilometers may be needed to get to a safe haven. Crisscrossing the river, unable to find our way to the forestry station, it seemed to be the right time to seek help. Then the sky became overcast, the first rain drops fell, and it was getting dark… Also, our food and water supplies were low, and we did not have a tent or any form of shelter with us. I already imagined us sleeping under a bush for the night.

In the 90s cell phones were rare and cell phone reception poor. We had the company phone with us, and decided it was best to walk till we found reception, and then call my dad for help. And, lo and behold, Dad got our call, and asked us to describe our surroundings. Through years of mountain biking and hiking in those mountains, he could more or less determine our position from a description of our surroundings: forestry watch tower to the right, Garden Route Dam to the left, pine plantation below us…. He instructed us to stay on our current path, and he would drive up in his ‘bakkie’, carrying his bike, whistle and flashlight. If he could not drive further, he would take his mountain-bike, and blow his whistle while flashing the light, till we could see him – and flash back. Surrounded by dense indigenous forests we were pushing our luck.  If his orientation was correct, he might be able to meet us in the mountain.

And he did. Seeing his light, and hearing him coming up the mountain was probably one of the most relieving moments of my life. He found us halfway up a deserted forestry road, the courageous family Joubert, quite timid but overjoyed at the sight of him appearing from the semi-dark forest. At that stage the youngest was wrapped on my back, African style, sucking his thumb, and the oldest two were dirt-smeared, holding on to their water bottles. But their eyes lit up like stars in the southern night, filled with excitement and delight in the face of so much adventure.

Dad drove us home where Mom had warm soup, a hot tub, and cozy beds.

We had a life story to remember.

Hiers n Trader Joe’s  ‘Organic for the working class’ naby my huis, waar ek onlangs die stokvis ontdek – en skielik wonder, het die outjie dalk by Vleesbaai gewei daar teen Kowa se bank… of Stemerklip? Of om die draai by Fransmanshoek se Malbaai… of voor by die Saal? Visplekke waar ek kleintyd saam met my pa gaan rots’hengel’ het, douvoordag opstaan as die gety reg is, en dan sit en sit en wag en wag… en as ek gelukkig is kan ons doodsveragtend teen die kranse afklouter en die stompkop/beenbek of kabeljou gaan ‘gaff’…! Aas uithaal was iets wat vandag in Discovery Channel opspraak sou verwek: my pa klim af in die diep skeure vir rooiaas en ’siffies’, ek sit bo en hou die deinings dop tot die volgende grote wat oor die rotse gaan slaan en my pa daar sal afslaan as ek nie betyds waarsku, of reg oordeel nie… Ja, ons was strandlopers en ons het dit nie besef nie. Getye was soos asemhaal en volmaan-springgety was die beste. Opstaan 4-uur in die oggend om 5-uur op die rotse te wees was nie vreemd nie. Laterjare het ek die duinepad Fransmanshoek toe gehardloop om reg te wees vir die atletiekseisoen. Ons was so bevoorreg. Ons was so mens! En my hart trek met n punt na daardie menswees.
Dit is nog daar, nie waar nie?
Ten minste die springgety is nog daar, en die stokvissie wat alliepad tot in Kalifornie getoer het om my te laat onthou.
En verlang
Na strandlopertye.

.