Calvinia's Blaze: Chapter Six

Hantam Meat Festival - A yearly three day event

The Hantam Vleisfees and the festival of flowers, draws many visitors from around the Karoo and other places in August/September, which is Spring in South Africa. It is a busy period and many visitors take advantage of the spectacular blooms and wonderful festivities at the end of August.

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Lindiwe packed the jam with both hands steady and determined. She was looking forward to this day. This year was special - her first alongside Mevrou Sonja. In previous years she had been a bystander, an outsider looking in.

Each jar was wiped clean, lids checked twice, doilies straightened and placed into the crate with care. Blou Bos, Jakals Bos, peach and green fig jam - thick with sugar and patience - the colours catching the early light. The bakkie waited with its tailgate down, dust already settling on the Studebaker’s paint, as if the road itself knew where they were going.

Sonja watched from the stoep, counting without looking. There was a nervous energy about her. She wanted everything perfect.

Three days.

She had planned them quietly, weeks ago. Navy for the first - proper and reserved. Forest green for the second - confident, deliberate. Wine red for the Sunday - not showy, but proud. Each dress pressed, lace chosen to show dignity. Blaze’s ribbons lay beside them, wound neatly, colours waiting their turn. Boetie’s clothes matched in spirit if not detail - little shirts, sturdy trousers, polished shoes he would scuff before noon.

Lindiwe’s aprons were folded last. Crisp cotton, small flowers stitched at the hem. She smiled as she packed them, already thinking of tables laid straight, jars aligned, the Vroue Landbou Unie tent filling with voices, steam, and the quiet competence of women who knew how to make order from very little.

Pa came through the gate with his hat on, rope looped over his shoulder.

“Diederick’s on his way,” he said. “We’ll take the bakkie ahead. The stalls are ready and Rascal’s being settled.”

Sonja nodded. “The children and I will come after. I need to help set up.”

He looked at Blaze then - really looked.

She stood at the edge of the stoep, braid loose down her back, the silver streak threaded through it like something intentional. Her ribbon was navy today, tied with love by Lindiwe. The dress sat perfectly. The new boots were just right. A sob rose unexpectedly in him. This child of his was beautiful - a beautiful mystery.

Rascal stood in the far kraal, head lifted, already restless. Blaze felt him before she saw him move. She always did.

She remembered the day of his birth. At five she wasn’t meant to be near the kraal, but no one was there that afternoon. His mother had gone into labour late - out of season. Blaze heard the cries and could not stand the sound. She crept in quietly and found the ewe pawing the ground, the lamb limp beside her. Blaze ran forward and did what she had seen done countless times. She rubbed the small ram’s chest until he shuddered and drew his first breath.

That day had stayed with her.

Something in her sharpened when problems gathered - not fear, but awareness. As if a voice inside her whispered quietly. She did not yet have words for it, only questions.

Pa and Diederick left with the promise to drop the jam boxes at Sonja’s table. Sonja gathered the children and Lindiwe, dealt with a last-minute spill when Boetie dropped juice down his shirt, and checked the clock. They had time. They were due at eight. It was only seven, but Sonja preferred to arrive early - to set up, to settle the children, to mark boundaries.

The tent was impressive. Tables stood along the outer edge, giving space for the public to move and admire. Sonja felt a lift in her chest. Their table was the first on the right - exactly as planned. Today marked her first entry into the Landbou Unie Best in Show Competition - her jam from Lindiwe’s family. She felt confident and felt a swell of pride. This meant everything to her. Failure was not on the cards today.

Lindiwe went straight to work, smoothing the cloth, placing the jars by flavour. Wooden spoons for tasting. A bucket for the used ones. Sonja borrowed Pieter’s cash box and set it at the back, just within reach. Two chairs. Behind the table, a rug, and toys for Boetie, boxes of extra stock stacked neatly. Lindiwe was nervous - but thrilled. Her family recipe being showcased today was such a unique and wonderful combination of berries and herbs. Her smile was huge and she felt honoured to have shared the recipe with Mevrou Sonja. Her heart was overflowing.

At the stalls, Pieter and Diederick settled Rascal. Water, grass, and the important shade. They lingered, watching the movement around them. This was Pieter’s first year showing. He tried to keep his nerves quiet.

Jacob Rautenbach walked over.

“Ja, Pieter,” he said. “Looking good. Only one ram?”

Pieter nodded. Jacob always unsettled him - too loud, too proud.

“Jacob. First year. I thought I’d see how it goes.”

Jacob nodded, a smirk lingering as he moved on. Diederick laughed.

“Have you seen his rams? Good stock - but Rascal outshines them.”

They walked toward the ring, greeting farmers along the way. Several stopped to congratulate Pieter on his new position as Chairman of the Boerevereniging. Pieter thanked them, aware of the weight now resting on his shoulders.

Back at the Landbou Unie tent, Hester Rautenbach arrived early, as she always did. She glanced at Sonja and nodded.

“Môre, Sonja. Ready for the Vees? It gets busy.”

“Môre, Hester. Sarie and I are looking forward to it,” Sonja replied, smiling.

Hester’s eyes flicked to the jars. “Blou Bos too? May the best win.”

She moved on. Sonja looks good she thought. She glanced down at her floral dress - compared to Sonja’s beautiful Navy dress she felt a little underdressed. She should have listened to her mother. ‘Wear the plain frock - the one from Marie’s weddidng.’ Too late.

Sonja and Sarie glanced at the jars; each topped with a stitched doily. Different. Distinct.

“Sonja - the table looks amazing”. Thanks to you and Lindiwe we are in for a great day.” Sonja smiled.

“Ja, we waited a long time for this day to arrive. I am going to take the children to look around. See you later.”

Blaze walked beside her mother, holding Boetie’s hand as they made their way around the grounds. Calvinia was heaving. Bakkies, horse trailers, donkey carts, and the odd polished car rolled in from before sunrise. Dust hung low, mixed with dung, leather, tobacco, and coffee. Where you parked mattered.

This was not a fairground.

It was a statement of survival, pride, and hierarchy.

Sheep pens stood freshly whitewashed, chalkboards listing breeds and weights. Dorper, Merino, Persian. Men moved through them in pressed khaki trousers and shirts, veldskoene polished for once, hats tipped only when greeting a lady or someone of consequence. Women arrived later, dressed carefully, children in tow. The Vleisfees was not to be missed.

The judges walked quietly among the stalls, hands feeling muscle, eyes checking backs and teeth. Notes were made. Tomorrow would decide everything.

Food fires burned steadily in the main arena. Sheep had been butchered early, meat waiting to be turned on the braais. The air was thick with expectation. Pieter and Diederick stood with the Hantam Braai team, watching preparations, banter sharp with competition.

At the tent, the jam sold steadily. Blou Bos proved a favourite. Compliments were offered without flourish. Money changed hands quietly. Sonja and Sarie worked with ease. Lindiwe replenishing and standing proud.

Blaze sat beside Boetie, overwhelmed. It wasn’t the stares that unsettled her - it was the skinnering (gossip) behind hands, the glances that lingered too long. She tugged at her mother’s sleeve and asked to go home.

Sonja looked at her daughter and nodded. She would return after dropping off the children. Tomorrow would be another day.

The first day belonged to the people.

Children ran freely between the pens, laughter rising and falling, some crying from scraped knees, others from pure excitement. They chased one another through the dust, climbed fences until shouted down, begged for extra vetkoek, and stared wide-eyed at the rams as if they were kings. No one hovered. This was how children learned where they belonged.

The stalls were overwhelmed almost from the start. Brown paper parcels passed hand to hand - biltong, droëwors, beskuit wrapped tight against the dust. Jars of konfyt caught the sun, cloth lids tied with string, spoons tapping softly against glass. Money was exchanged quietly. No boasting. Everyone noticed.

The food arena throbbed with appetite at midday. Fires burned steadily, braais lined shoulder to shoulder. Meat turned slowly, fat hissing as it met flame. The smell was everywhere - lamb, smoke, spice - settling into clothes and hair. People queued without complaint, plates balanced, tastebuds quivering, conversations breaking and reforming as if the whole town had loosened its breath at once.

Music drifted in and out, never loud but always present. Concertinas, a guitar or two, an old fiddle tuned by ear. Afrikaans folk songs, hymns remembered more than rehearsed. Someone always knew the words. Someone always sang too loud. Laughter followed.

Men stood in loose groups, hats tipped back, brandy passed carefully. Women gathered first apart, then together, exchanging glances that held history - alliances remembered, grievances softened or sharpened. This was where reputations were metered, and quietly adjusted.

By afternoon, the dust hung thicker, the joy deeper, the noise gentler. Calvinia was alive in a way it never was the rest of the year.

This was not spectacle.

It was belonging.Tomorrow would bring much of the same but the tensions will be boiling over.

Day two began wrong.

Pieter had barely stepped off the stoep when his foot caught the uneven edge of the paving stone. It was nothing dramatic - just a sharp twist, a sudden breath and the unmistakable heat that followed.

He stood still, jaw set, knowing before anyone said a word.

Sonja was at his side in seconds.
“Pieter.”

“It’s nothing,” he said, already testing the weight. The ankle swelled beneath his sock, stiff and uncooperative. Oupa sat quietly, hands folded over his stick, watching. He did not rush to speak. He had seen enough seasons to know when a moment didn’t need his intervention.

The ring walk.

That was all anyone was thinking.

Blaze stood just behind her father, listening. She felt the tightening inside her. She felt Rascal in the kraal, calm and solid.

“He won’t walk with anyone else,” she said softly.

They all turned to her.

“He doesn’t like strangers,” she continued, eyes steady. “He only listens to us.”

Pieter crouched despite the pain, his hands on her shoulders. “It’s not a child’s job,” he said gently, even as he knew the truth of her words.

Oupa cleared his throat. “The ram knows her,” he said. “And she knows him.”

Silence settled - not doubt but understanding.

Sonja exhaled slowly. This was not the plan. Navy had been yesterday. Forest green was today. Blaze’s ribbon was already laid out. And yet - some things were larger than dresses.

“She must look proper,” Sonja said finally. “Not mismatched.”

So, Blaze was dressed differently. Brown trousers pressed but practical. A checked green shirt buttoned neatly. Strong boots, scuffed already from farm life. A hat was placed carefully on her head - not for show, but to hide the silver streak that caught the light too easily. Sonja adjusted it once more, then stepped back.

“You walk tall,” she said. “And you stay close to your Pa until they call for the ram.”

Oupa took Blaze aside with the rope – once his, now gifted to his son - the grasses smooth from years of use. He showed her again how to hold it, how to keep her shoulder aligned, how to walk without pulling.

“Don’t lead him,” he said. “Invite him.”

At the showgrounds, the dust rose early. Laughter broke out easily, children darting between legs, the occasional cry breaking and mending just as quickly. The stalls were busy again - jam selling steadily, spoons clinking, Sarie and Sonja exchanging quick smiles as jars disappeared from the table. Lindiwe kept order quietly, apron worn with pride, Boetie settled with toys at her feet.

The Food Arena was busy again.Smells filtering through the air. Meat ready for the braai’s which were burning low and slow. The smell of koffie was tempting visitors over.

Jacob Rautenbach noticed Pieter’s limp and smiled to himself. He said nothing, but his confidence grew. He had dressed well, walked his ram earlier, spoken loudly. He did not look twice at the child standing beside Rascal.

That was his mistake.

Blaze stayed close to her father and Oupa, her hand firm on the rope. When the ring opened, Rascal moved with her as if they shared breath. No pulling. No resistance. Just quiet understanding.

The judges called them forward. The dust hung thick. Conversations stilled. Blaze walked. And Rascal followed. Tomorrow will reveal all.

Sunday began with church.

It was the first time Blaze entered the huge church between her parents, their hands steady on either side of her. She felt taller somehow, aware of the hush, the scrape of shoes on stone, the way voices strained without intention.

She wore her wine-red dress - the one Sonja had saved for last. Cream lace framed her collar and cuffs, it suited her. Her patent leather shoes caught the light, silver buckles polished, lace socks pulled straight. Her hair perfectly tied with the ribbons. Boetie matched in his outfit, was already fidgeting. Behind them walked Oupa and Ouma, and Sonja’s parents who had driven up early just for the day. A full line. A family visible.

Pieter stood straighter despite his ankle, hat removed, eyes forward. This was how Sundays were started. Sonya beside him lifted her head high with pride. Boetie on her hip and Blaze’s hand in hers.

After church, the showgrounds felt different. Quieter, but heavier. Best clothes replaced work shirts. Hair was pinned again. Shoes brushed clean of yesterday’s dust. Blaze changed into her trousers and checked red shirt – boots and hat. Ready for the ring again.

The Vroue Landbou Unie tent filled first. Sarie and Sonja stood looking around. Today would make someone’s year. Being a winner and presented with a cup was an expectation the ladies of the Landbou Unie could not miss.

The judging of the jam drew a respectful crowd - women standing close, hands folded, smiling. Jars were lifted, tilted, opened. Tasted. Notes made. Whispers stopped when the judge cleared her throat.

When their name was called - Best Blou Bos Konfyt – announced, Sonja felt it before she heard it.

Sarie’s hand flew to her mouth. Lindiwe stood very still, her smile slow and certain. Sonja stepped forward, heat rushing to her face, applause breaking around her like rain. Hester Rautenbach clapped too - late, tight-lipped - her own jars marked second.

Outside, the livestock ring was already drawing a crowd.

This was always last.

First the ewes, paraded and judged – prizes given. Lastly the rams were brought forward one by one, handlers quiet, expectation high. Hands pressed along backs, teeth examined, muscle weighed by touch rather than talk. Judges spoke softly. No one interrupted.

The air held its breath.

Children climbed onto fences. Men leaned forward. Women shaded their eyes. Losing was visible here - shoulders rounding, hats pulled lower. Winning would ripple far beyond the ring, into sales, into futures.

When Rascal was called, Blaze stepped forward without hesitation.

She walked him as she had been taught - not pulling, not rushing. Rascal moved with her, solid and calm, his presence undeniable. Pieter watched from the rail, Oupa beside him, his hand resting briefly on his son’s shoulder. Sonja’s parents sat nearby watching.

The judges circled once more.

Then it was done. They pointed to Rascal – Blaze smiled. Today proved something, the best isn’t always as expected.

Applause rose - some loud, some restrained, some not at all. Smiles bloomed. Others faded carefully. Jacob Rautenbach turned away before anyone could read his face.

By late afternoon, the smells dwindled with the wind, laughter and chatter faded. Fires died down. Food stalls packed away. The dust settled as cars were loaded, trailers hitched, children lifted - asleep now, heads heavy on shoulders.

Calvinia exhaled.

Three days of Vleisfees over.

What remained were the quiet things; trophies wrapped in cloth, jars gone from tables, stories already being retold. Pride stood beside disappointment. Plans forming for next year.

Blaze walked back to the bakkie between her parents, tired and full, her boots dusty now, her shirt untucked, trousers creased. She did not look back.

Lindiwe held the rosette, a prize humbly accepted. Some things, she sensed, had already taken root.

And they would grow.

NEXT WEEK: Chapter Seven.

Home School starts for Blaze. A totally new start. What will be her expectations.

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