Dawn was breaking as we travelled from the Free State towards Cape Town. No words can describe the breathless beauty of a Free State morning. First, the soft touches of colour brush the sky. The little crescent moon sighs as it readies to go to sleep for the day. The gentle apricot brush of sunrise colour paints the silhouette of the independent trees, the miracle of electricity poles, and the slumbering houses of the villages and towns. The apricot eventually starts fading into a watercolour wash of faded blue which undergoes the spectrum of ink wash - until the dark indigo of the mysterious African night watches over the new efforts of the shy day to make her beauty known to the South African inhabitants.
We were travelling in the bus so could not hear the sounds. But oh, I can tell you just exactly what it is like to be walking through a village or squatter camp in the South African dawn. Firstly, there is a hush; it seems almost as if the sacred red earth is afraid to breathe as she prepares for the great change from dark sacred night to wondrous colour-filled day. A cool wind rustles, and your hair lifts slightly from your forehead, almost as if the wind has small teasing fingers to pull a lock of your hair free and toss it playfully in the air. Then you hear the cicadas; the crickets; truly, there is a sound all of its own in Africa. They crick-crick-crick, and become more joyous and enthusiastic in making their bush music as the day approaches.
Then a scent comes from the earth; a soft, insistent fragrance made wholly of earth and mystery and thorny tree beauty as the leaves stir to life in the early dawn breeze.
And then, oh my. The golden beauty of the dawn bursts triumphantly over the hilltops, throwing spears of light into the rivers and a golden path of coins onto the water of the dams. Bursts of violet, rose and gold brush strokes across the sky, and it is wonderful - simply wonderful - to be alive.
Then as the early morning breaks, the sights and sounds of African life start. Small grey plumes of smoke from wood fires as the early tea gets made, and the breakfast is cooked. The pigs snuffle and push their bristly snouts into the plants at the wayside. I know so many pigs whose owners bought them in squatter camp areas in order to have bacon in the lean winter months. These endearing animals then became family pets, and so many were the tears and recriminations of the wives and children that the fathers of the families - themselves delighted to have such a devoted family pet waiting for them at the top of the village path each day (knowing their home time by some alchemy) - forebore to kill their friend. So pigs roam everywhere.
Women plait their hair into their traditional African turbans, and carry water pots along the dust roads. Children, beautifully washed and dressed in their school clothes, run up and down, some pushing intricate cars made of wire before them. The rooster goes oh-oh-oh-ohhhh and struts up and down. The hens shyly retire to their boxes of hay and soon offer eggs for breakfast. Sometimes there is singing. Oh, how there is singing. People in Africa break out into bursts of praise to God, with rich beautiful voices. Neighbours harmonise absently as they stir their mealie meal and pap. And above all this rich beauty, can be felt a Presence - the Presence of the One to Whom our African hearts turn at all times; in times of happiness, sadness; despair, pain; hope, puzzlement; difficulty, mischief. The Owner of the wondrous beauty of our earth and our African sunrise; God.
If you are in Africa, make sure you follow an ancient tradition amongst us. Every now and then, we wrap up in a blanket, sit together with hot tea in flasks, and watch the glorious sunrise. And, after marvelling at the beauty, we get up to go and enjoy another day.
*Photograph taken by Catherine Nicolette. Please feel free to use copyright free for any worthy purpose
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