The Wind

This is a page from Dr. Duncan-Enzmann's vast archives of notes, memoirs, stories, and drawings. It is from his time in Namibia, on the Skeleton Coast of Africa, in days long since disappeared. The Wind is an Afrikaans (South African Boer) nursery rhyme written in various forms since the 1600’s.  It’s from the southwestern areas of the continent including: Namaqualand, Namaland, Namib, Skeleton coast North to the Koakaveld, and somewhat further. 

We all have memories like Heidi’s (J. Spyri) anguished homesickness; dreams like her sleeping-dreams and even-lucid dreams (“lucid” dreams or visions are seen when you’re awake, or almost awake ) of her precious Switzerland Alps and glowing sky-scape. We remember things with love, like her love for home and those who were there near and dear to her. That’s the way of most of us. 

Homes differ, but it’s home. Those who, when young, have lives in country-sides of the vast southeastern corner of the African continent are somehow captivated; the country has a “moonlight” quality. It sinks into body and soul; there lying in the heart forever. Night winds blow from west to east then pause, and hot but gentle day winds blow from east to west. One of the most powerful memories is the night wind – and everything about it. 

Right after sunset, as twilight sets in, then dusk becomes dusk, east of us the African plateau swiftly cools. The air mass shrinks. Air above the South Atlantic west of us stays warm and expands. It presses inland. Over the ground, twilight air stills; dusk’s winds, as the Earth’s shadow creeps across the sky, stir ever stronger. Moments after nightfall, breezes are winds. The sky opens. It’s clear. This is a desert land without clouds to hold heat close to the ground. It chills. 

Ever stronger night winds, powerful, then roaring, blast eastward and inward. It’s these winds that raise Seif dunes; very long, they are sometimes hundreds of miles. (It’s an Arab name for similar dunes around the southward coasts of the Arabian Peninsula, also found in Chile, South America, and along Australia’s western coasts.) Air from the oceans chills, dropping its moisture. This in no dew-fall; what happens is a wet-out. Everything is soaked. In the dry-lands, a wet-out is where most plants find water. And not just plants:  tok Tokkie beetles will stand on windward sides of the great dunes, tilted so that the wet-out water will soak them, and guided by two of their six legs, will flow toward their mouths, giving them a wonderfully abundant drink.

Ever so long ago, during the night-wind, this verse was read, sometimes sung, to a very little girl at bedtime. She’s an old lady now, living, like the writer, far-far away from Namaqaland. In both our memories and hearts, as in Heidi’s, the dear memories burn forever.

O …… o,

Hoor hoe huil die wind!

O …… o,

Is jy bang my kind?

O …… o,

Waar kom hy vandaan?

O …… o,

Waarheen wil hy gaan?

O …… o,

Wie het hom ge-sien?

“Ek ….. ek,

Ek.” Sê Willemien.

O …… o,

Hoor tog die ge-fluit,

O …… o,

Is dit sy ge-luid?

“Ja ….. ja,

Ja,” sê Willemien.

“Ek ….. ek,

Ek het hom ge-sein.”

Bruin ….. bruin

Is sy dike jas.

Styf ….. stuf

Klou hy dit maar vas.

Grys ….. grys

Is sy baard so lang.

Daar-om

Isons kindjie bang.

Rus ….. rus,

Kindjie lief en sag.

Oor ….. jou,

Engele hou wag.