06/10/2026
Krys se Kuil
Krys Wessels boer in April 1992 uit met varke. Bek-en-klouseer. Hy skiet die laaste paar nimmereinders van sy eens magtige kudde en gaan sit verslaan op sy bakkie se klap en kyk uit oor sy plaas.
Sy pa het altyd gesê, as jy nie meer ‘n plan het nie, is jy in jou moer in. Hy wat Krys is, het nie meer ‘n plan nie. Hy was ‘n ryk man. Hy kon alles verseker het maar niemand vertel hom mos niks nie.
Hy spoeg bitter die tabak in sy kies grond toe. Staan op en druk die klap toe. Sy hand talm vir ‘n oomblik op die 223 se kolf. Trek net die sneller en jou probleme is verby, dink hy. Hy skud sy groot skouers…… dit sit nie in hom nie.
Hy stap Augustus weg van sy grond af. Fisies stap. Met twee stelle klere in sy rugsak wat ‘n goedkoop bottel vertroosting veilig hou. In die verte blink die balju bakkies. Dis snaaks hoe liefde ‘n kinkel het. Dit verdwyn saam met die geld. Hy is sestig. Eensaam, grys en oud.
Bo by die alleen Bloekom grawe hy ‘n sak uit. “Vir eendag” het hy destyds gedink. Hy sit en tel die note. R45000. Hy druk die geld slordig in die sak en stap die laaste keer by Moskou se hek uit. Hy kyk nie terug nie.
Op ‘n vendusie koop hy ‘n gehawende polisie bakkie. R3000. Hy sit nuwe ringe op met geleende gereedskap. Krys Wessels oorleef vir tien jaar. Herstel ‘n geut, maak elders ‘n grassnyer reg, verf ‘n skuur……
Hy slaap in die bakkie. Niemand hinner hom nie en hy hou by homself. Maar in sy bene kruip ouderdom nader. En ‘n siekte. Hy het nie meer lank nie. Sy wese hunker na rus…… en vrede.
Die pad is grond. Breed en uitgetrap deur hout lorries. Hy ry net…… Dit is mooi hier. In die verte toring woude vol dennebome. Soos spykers in ‘n bord wag hulle om papier en meubels te word. Hy kan dit ruik.
Om ‘n draai is daar skielik ‘n gehawende wond in die rotsmuur. Vir geen rede wat hy verstaan nie, swaai hy regs by die tweespoor pad in. Hy stop eers. Voëls kwetter in die boom langs hom en hy ruik water. Hy klim uit en kyk op teen die sterwende oorblyfsels van ‘n magtige berg. Op ‘n klip, tien meter van hom af, skarrel ‘n dassie weg na skuiling.
Hy klim in die ou bakkie. Die pad is sleg en lanklaas gebruik. Plantegroei dreig om hul grondgebied terug te eis. Skielik val die pad erg. Rubbervoete soek ‘n oomblik vervaard na vastrapplek en dan skuifel die ou Toyota teen die steilte af.
En daar is dit. Asemrowend. Kranse wat waghou oor ‘n stukkie water. Voor, na ‘n Populier boomtonnel, verskuil agter ‘n treur Wilger staan ‘n lendelam gehuggie. Die dak geroes. Vensters haasbek. Bekruip deur rankplante. Maar die mure is stewige Ladysmith blouklip.
Krys klim stadig uit die bakkie. Die huis se voordeur skuur oor ‘n hout vloer en jaag wolke stof donker hoeke in. Iewers potter klein pootjies weg van skielike sonlig af.
Sonder om verder te dink, stap Krys terug bakkie toe en gaan haal sy matras. Met ‘n bondel gras vee hy ‘n strokie vloer voor die kaggel skoon en dan maak hy bed. Sonder moeite kry hy hout buite en hy pak ‘n vuur.
Hy het water, hout en ‘n gehawende toilet buite langs ‘n ruigte riete. Hy bly in stilte en vrede vir ‘n week. Daar is vis in die dam en hy trek ‘n Spieël karp uit. ‘n Duiker word op ‘n ander aand proteiene.
En nou en dan uit die dieptes kruip ‘n Groototter. Nuuskierig, ondersoekend. Snags vang die vuur se kring lig soms ‘n blinkende oog.
Dan kom die man met die maag. En wange wat deur brandewyn spatare gevlek is. Met ‘n blink bakkie en ‘n selfverserheid wat geld en eiendom bring.
“Wat soek jy hier?” maar dit is ‘n vraag, nie ‘n blaf nie. Dit is vroeg aand en Krys het ‘n karp op die vuur.
“Is dit jou grond hierdie?” vra Krys terwyl hy opstaan. “Dit is” antwoord hy. “Dan moet ek seker oppak” sê Krys. “Eet eers klaar” sê die man. “Ek het genoeg vir twee” beduie Krys in die rigting van die vuur, “en as jy nie omgee om uit ‘n blikbeker te drink nie, kan ek vir jou ‘n dop skink.”
Die man steek sy hand uit: “At Swanepoel” en Krys stel homself voor. “Krys Wessels” rol die man die naam in sy mond rond. “Hoekom lui dit ‘n….” dan gaan sit hy plotseling op ‘n klip naaste aan hom…..”tog nie Krys Wessels van Newcastle nie!” Krys knik net. “Jy het destyds met niks weggestap na ‘n virus onder jou diere nie, nê?” Krys knik weer. “Hoe de fok” en hy kyk vlietend verskonend na Krys oor die kragwoord, “kom jy tot hier?”
Krys skink. At vat die beker en neem ‘n teug. “Daar was niks oor nie” sê Krys. “My vrou en kinders is saam met die geld weg. Ek het hulle bederf want sy was ‘n mooi vrou. Alles net vel diepte.”
Hulle sit lank in stilte. Net die knetter van hout wat hitte word. “Wat is jou plan Krys?”Krys druk nog ‘n stomp tussen vuurtonge in: “Ek is siek, ek vermoed kanker……. dit loop al generasies in my bloedlyn. Ek soek vrede en ek is verslaaf aan alleen…… ek wou hier doodgaan. Eie tyd, eie teiken….”
At sit sy beker neer. “Hierdie was my pa se voorman se huis. Dertig jaar gelede. Hy het homself gehang aan ‘n balk in die voorkamer. Dit is hoekom niemand hier kom nie. Die volk in die omgewing is oortuig dit spook.” Krys rol sy skouers ophalend: “Al wat hier spook is daai otter.” Hy wys na twee kolle wat net buite die ligkring rooi weerkaats.
At hou sy beker uit vir ‘n loopdop. Hy drink dit vinnig. Asof die alkohol vir hom ‘n besluit moet neem. Dan staan hy op. “Ek moet fort wees.” Hy hou sy hand uit na Krys toe. Krys kom orent: “Ek sal weg wees teen son-op.”
Krys druk die man se hand en dan….. “Ek het hier groot geword. Daar het ek kleilat gegooi” en hy beduie tussen die donker riete in. “hierdie plek was vir my destyds spesiaal. Die tipe spesiaal wat ek nou……hier….. agter jou oë sien brand. Miskien skuld ek hierdie stukkie grond iets.” Voor Krys iets kan sê vervat At: “Bly hier. Maak dit weer lewe. Ek sal ‘n pomp koop. Dan pomp jy water tenk toe. Lyk vir my die res het jy onder die knieg in elk geval.”
At draai om en stap na sy bakkie toe. Dan stop hy en kyk terug na die groot man wat verdwaas langs die vuur staan: “En kom by ‘n dokter uit…. kry sekerheid.”
“Wat skuld ek jou?” vra Krys. “Niks, net elke nou en dan ‘n tydjie soos nou. Wanneer die wereld my druk. Slaap soos jy wil Krys.”
En dan grawe die blink bakkie effe en vat pad.
Krys gaan sit. Haal ‘n ekstra vis uit die sak by sy voete en sit dit langs sy stoel neer. Die gras ritsel, en die otter kom haal aandete. Doodluiters, gemaklik. Hier teen sy knieg.
Krys glimlag uit sy grein uit. Die eerste keer in baie baie jare.
Want julle sien……. Krys Wessels het uiteindelik ‘n holte vir sy voet gevind…….
*For the English speaking dudes on here. This is the Google translate version:
In April 1992, Krys Wessels went out of business farming pigs due to foot-and-mouth disease. He shot the last few remnants of his once-mighty herd and sat, defeated, on the tailgate of his bakkie, looking out over his farm.
His father always used to say that if you no longer have a plan, you are completely screwed. And Krys no longer had a plan. He had been a rich man. He could have insured everything, but of course, nobody ever told him anything.
He bitterly spat the to***co from his cheek onto the ground. He stood up and slammed the tailgate shut. His hand lingered for a moment on the stock of the .223 r***e. Just pull the trigger and your problems are over, he thought. He shook his broad shoulders... it wasn't in him.
In August, he walked away from his land. Physically walked. With two changes of clothes in his backpack, safely protecting a cheap bottle of comfort. In the distance, the sheriffs' bakkies gleamed. It's funny how love has a twist. It disappears along with the money. He is sixty. Lonely, grey, and old.
Up by the lone blue gum tree, he dug up a bag. "For a rainy day," he had thought back then. He sat and counted the notes. R45,000. He stuffed the money untidily back into the bag and walked out through Moscow's gate for the last time. He did not look back.
At an auction, he bought a battered police bakkie for R3,000. He replaced the piston rings using borrowed tools. Krys Wessels survived like this for ten years. Repairing a gutter, fixing a lawnmower here, painting a barn there...
He slept in the bakkie. Nobody bothered him, and he kept to himself. But old age was creeping into his legs. And a sickness. He didn't have much time left. His entire being yearned for rest... and peace.
The road is dirt. Wide and worn down by logging trucks. He just drives... It is beautiful here. In the distance, forests full of pine trees tower high. Like nails in a board, they wait to become paper and furniture. He can smell it.
Around a bend, there is suddenly a jagged wound in the rock wall. For no reason he understands, he turns right into a two-track dirt road. He stops first. Birds chirp in the tree beside him, and he smells water. He gets out and looks up at the dying remnants of a mighty mountain. On a rock ten meters away, a dassie scuttles away to shelter.
He gets back into the old bakkie. The road is bad and hasn't been used in a long time. Vegetation threatens to reclaim its territory. Suddenly, the road drops steeply. For a panicked moment, rubber tires scramble for traction, and then the old Toyota shuffles down the incline.
And there it is. Breathtaking. Cliffs keeping watch over a small body of water. Ahead, past a tunnel of poplar trees and hidden behind a weeping willow, stands a ramshackle little cottage. The roof is rusted. The windows are broken like missing teeth. Overrun by creeping vines. But the walls are sturdy Ladysmith blue ironstone.
Krys climbs slowly out of the bakkie. The house's front door scrapes across a wooden floor, chasing clouds of dust into dark corners. Somewhere, tiny paws scurry away from the sudden sunlight.
Without another thought, Krys walks back to the bakkie to fetch his mattress. With a bundle of grass, he sweeps a patch of floor clean in front of the fireplace and makes his bed. Without much effort, he finds wood outside and builds a fire.
He has water, wood, and a battered outhouse next to a thicket of reeds. He stays in silence and peace for a week. There are fish in the dam, and he pulls out a mirror carp. On another night, a duiker becomes his protein.
And every now and then, a Cape clawless otter creeps out from the depths. Curious, investigating. At night, the circle of firelight sometimes catches a gleaming eye.
Then comes the man with the belly. And cheeks mottled by brandy-induced spider veins. Driving a shiny bakkie, carrying the self-assurance that money and property bring.
"What are you looking for here?" but it is a question, not a bark. It is early evening, and Krys has a carp on the fire.
"Is this your land?" Krys asks as he stands up. "It is," the man answers. "Then I suppose I must pack up," says Krys. "Finish eating first," says the man. "I have enough for two," Krys gestures toward the fire, "and if you don't mind drinking from a tin mug, I can pour you a drink."
The man extends his hand: "At Swanepoel." Krys introduces himself. "Krys Wessels," the man rolls the name around in his mouth. "Why does that ring a..." then he suddenly sits down on the nearest rock... "surely not Krys Wessels from Newcastle!" Krys just nods. "Back then, you walked away with nothing after a virus hit your animals, didn't you?" Krys nods again. "How the f**k," he glances fleetingly at Krys, apologizing for the curse word, "did you end up all the way out here?"
Krys pours. At takes the mug and takes a sip. "There was nothing left," Krys says. "My wife and children left with the money. I spoiled them because she was a beautiful woman. It was all just skin-deep."
They sit in silence for a long time. Just the crackle of wood turning into heat. "What is your plan, Krys?" Krys pushes another log into the tongues of fire: "I am sick, I suspect cancer... it has run in my bloodline for generations. I'm looking for peace and I'm addicted to being alone... I wanted to die here. My own time, my own target..."
At sets his mug down. "This was my father's foreman's house. Thirty years ago. He hanged himself from a beam in the front room. That is why nobody comes here. The local farmworkers are convinced it's haunted." Krys shrugs his shoulders: "The only thing haunting this place is that otter." He points to two spots reflecting red just outside the circle of light.
At holds out his mug for one last drink for the road. He drinks it quickly, as if the alcohol needs to make a decision for him. Then he stands up. "I must be off." He holds his hand out to Krys. Krys gets up: "I'll be gone by sunrise."
Krys shakes the man's hand, and then At says... "I grew up here. Over there, I used to throw mud-clods," and he gestures into the dark reeds. "This place was special to me back then. The kind of special that I see burning... here... behind your eyes right now. Maybe I owe this piece of land something." Before Krys can say anything, At continues: "Stay here. Bring life back to it. I'll buy a pump. Then you can pump water to the tank. Looks to me like you've got the rest under control anyway."
At turns and walks to his bakkie. Then he stops and looks back at the large man standing dazed by the fire: "And see a doctor... get certainty."
"What do I owe you?" Krys asks. "Nothing, just a little time like this every now and then. When the world presses down on me. Sleep as you please, Krys."
And then the shiny bakkie spins its tires slightly and takes to the road.
Krys sits down. He takes an extra fish out of the bag at his feet and places it next to his chair. The grass rustles, and the otter comes to fetch its dinner. Quite casually, completely at ease. Right against his knee.
Krys smiles from the depths of his soul. For the first time in many, many years.
Because you see... Krys Wessels had finally found a place to rest his feet.
