Waiting for rain
Exhausted
Today, the wind is blowing in Bushmanland. Again. Not a fresh breeze but a hot, dusty wind. And I am tired. Tired of the dust and the drought. Tired of saying all is well when that is not how I feel. Tired of seeing lambs without their mothers. Tired of seeing hungry sheep and of supplying feed. Tired of searching for cheaper feed and making plans. Tired of hearing there is no lucerne to be found – and if I finally track some down, I cannot afford it in any case. Tired of not finding solutions. Tired of always being positive. Tired of lecturing the kids about thinking of tomorrow. Sometimes you simply want to eat the whole packet of sweets today without worrying about tomorrow. Tired of doing your best to save the day. Tired of finding dead sheep. And no, they didn’t die because you didn’t feed them – it seems they merely lost their will to live. Tired of duties and responsibilities. Tired of never leaving home because I’m scared something might go wrong on the farm when I’m not around to make more plans. Tired of hearing year in and year out that deliverance will come, and of wondering whether I’d be here to see that day. Tired of looking for blessings to count and things to be grateful for. Just plain tired.
Perhaps tomorrow the wind won’t blow in Bushmanland, and then the dust cloud in my mind will settle too.
Bushmanland is wearing her shroud; a veil of dust hides her face. She is mourning the absence of the rains and the demise of her animals. Only the woeful keening of a windmill breaks the deathly silence – a fruitless attempt to suck a drop of water from the depths of the scorched earth. The sun shows the stripped plains no mercy.
Yet there is life here.
A herd of skinny sheep and a few Cape ground squirrels are watching the road attentively. A murder of crows are partying around the carcass of yet another drought victim. A couple of sad-looking springbok nibble at dry bossies… Then, suddenly, it is as if everything comes to life. The ground squirrels stand up straight, the sheep start bleating and a flock of small birds appear out of nowhere. From a corrugated twin track comes the rattling sound of an overloaded farm
