Die Murasie

On our recent trip to the daisies in Namaqualand, we spent a half-day in the Skilpad Reserve. These fields used to be farmed, allowing the vast stretches of open veld to become a brilliant carpet of orange in the Spring flowering season, and sheep graze in the off season, keeping shrubs to a minimum. Elsewhere the flowers, although plentiful, are mainly hidden among the natural scrub and do not provide such a feast for the eyes.

The parents have fond memories of the tiny building where the local farmers’ wives cook pancakes under a gazebo, as a way of not only making a little pocket money, but presumably taking advantage of the short tourist season to meet and converse with enough people to see them through the rest of the year out there in the sticks. (This is entirely my viewpoint and may be far off the mark, but it seems feasible!) But on the day we went there, the wind was blowing gale force from inland and any pancake worth its salt would have taken off like a parachute and been deposited among the daisies and so the little hut was closed.

However, all was not lost, as the old ruin on the hill with its accompanying ramshackle but nevertheless habitable cottage next door has lent its name to another venture for the local ladies, Die Murasie. A murasie is a collection of walls i.e. a ruin. The little patch of sand outside the back door was filled with 4x4s and we made our way (or rather, were blasted from the car to the door and into the kitchen which seems to be the entrance) and found ourselves in cosy if a little dark surroundings. A front room, opening onto the porch which was wide and welcoming (on a non-windy day) and had panoramic views of the orange bedecked hills, contained the refreshment area, where a crowd had gathered to partake of a range of tasty homemade cakes and koeksusters . The modus operandi was to take a plate and help yourself. Orders for coffee were taken by the ladies who were reminiscent of those who serve teas at church functions (you get the picture) and when you paid, you just gave a list of what you had eaten. Basically an honesty bar. They must have considered the clientele to be trustworthy. An adjoining room was filled with knitted, crocheted and sewn goods of all description, doubtless another means of income or outlet for their creativity back on the farms.

The other front room has been converted to the toilet. It is the size of a bedroom and the toilet and basin are in the middle of one wall with a screen obscuring the view into the tearoom should one open the door at an inopportune moment. The rest of the space was taken up as a storeroom, but the most notable feature was that there was no light in the room – fortunately it was easy to make a safe landing as the porcelain was white.

It must have been a lovely place to live back in the day.