My Franschhoek Story – Coming Home!

The Dreams of the Afflicted

I trudged through the avenues, my feet dragging along the slick pavement as shadows stretched and deepened around me. An insistent urgency gnawed at my insides, a desperate need for refuge before night fell completely. The sky churned with dark clouds, an ominous prelude to the tempest brewing above. My legs felt like lead weights, and my stomach twisted in a painful knot of anxiety. Alone in my desolation, I grasped at the emptiness around me; there was no one to shield me from the impending storm.

The night descended swiftly, cloaking everything in a suffocating darkness as rain began to hammer down on my worn shoes. Each drop crashed like a bucket of sorrow, drenching me not just in water but in my own despair. I huddled against a cold wall, peering into the abyss that yawned before me, trembling not from the chill but from an overwhelming dread. Would dawn ever break? I cried out silently as the storm unleashed its wrath upon me.

A feverish heat coursed through my veins, igniting an internal blaze that contrasted sharply with the icy rain. I gasped for air, but it felt as though invisible hands constricted around my chest, squeezing tighter with every breath. I… I… felt myself slipping away into that consuming darkness…

All Is Not Well In The World

I jolted upright in bed, my heart pounding furiously against my ribcage. The rush of blood coursing through my veins sounded like a torrent, echoing in my ears. I was back in Franschhoek, the remnants of that tormenting dream still swirling in my thoughts. Leaping from the sheets, I dashed to the window and yanked the curtains apart; dawn’s soft glow kissed the peaks of the Franschhoek mountains. A wave of relief washed over me—yes, this was home, unmistakably home.

Yet, the dream gnawed at me. Was it a haunting echo of my past life as a homeless man, or a glimpse into an uncertain future? In these turbulent times, each dawn feels like a gamble; we can never predict what the day holds or if tomorrow will even arrive. Death lurks in every shadow, economic strain grips countless lives, and uncertainty casts long shadows over our aspirations.

For twenty months during the Covid era, I had felt the steady hand of providence guiding me, always providing just enough to get by. A glimmer of hope flickered as the mingled sounds of German and French voices danced through the streets of my cherished village, punctuated by the familiar twang of American accents. Promises swirled in the air that soon the Brits would return to fill our cobbled lanes with laughter once more. But in an instant, that fragile hope shattered; booking cancellations at our holiday cottage poured in like rain after a drought. I found myself staring down at my clenched fists, my stomach knotting painfully as despair morphed into raw desperation. And then it hit me…

e Is Always Hope

On November 28, 2021, our Church marked a significant milestone—forty years since its inception. Founders Johnny and Deleste Bell, alongside Derek and Rosita from the Franschhoek Art House, guided us through a vivid narrative of the Church’s origins and evolution. This place has blossomed into a sanctuary where love and acceptance flourish, embodying the very essence of its mission.

As I lingered in that moment, gazing at the intricate dance of light painting the mountainside, my mind drifted back to my own tale in Franschhoek. Today, November 29, 2021, marks a poignant milestone—twenty-one years since I first set foot in this enchanting valley. The memory is as vivid as the dawn breaking over the pass from Villiersdorp; I can still feel the thrill of hitchhiking here, clutching a tattered backpack filled with little more than a few clothes and a brand-new tent.

As we crested the pass, the valley unfurled before me like a vibrant tapestry, and deep within my soul, I heard a gentle whisper, “Welcome Home, Son.” Tears brimmed in my eyes as an overwhelming sense of tranquility washed over me for the first time. I sat mesmerized by the lush greens and golden fields that stretched toward the horizon, each detail shimmering in the sunlight, while those words reverberated softly in my mind all the way down to the village nestled below. The driver caught sight of my emotional response and noticed my worn backpack; with a kind smile, he pressed an R100 note into my palm before letting me out in the heart of the village.

What A Time It Was, It Was!. A Time To Remember Or Forget?

To grasp the weight of those words, allow me to transport you back through the years. For over two decades, I was ensnared by the grip of pharmaceuticals, a wandering soul lost in a haze of addiction. I roamed the streets like a ghost, chasing an elusive paradise that had slipped through my fingers—a fleeting dream buried beneath layers of time. Homelessness wrapped around me like a shroud; I scraped by with odd jobs—washing cars under the glaring sun and serving tables in bustling diners—while my mind floated adrift on a cocktail of tranquilizers and stimulants. Cough syrups mingled with dagga in a numbing brew that dulled my senses and masked the relentless ache of existence, allowing me to survive what felt like an endless cycle of despair.

As the clock struck midnight and the year 2000 unfolded, the much-feared Y2K bug—predicted to unleash chaos on global systems—turned out to be a mere whisper of panic. I stepped into this new era in the city of George, clutching the remnants of my past like frayed threads, ready to weave yet another tapestry of fresh beginnings after countless attempts had unraveled before me.

I was discharged from Knysna Hospital for the fourth time, my body still reeling from the effects of a spastic colon—a cruel reminder of my struggle to break free from codeine addiction. They referred me to the psychiatric ward at George Hospital, where fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, illuminating a stark reality. The psychiatrist, an older man with kind eyes and a weary smile, glanced at me and declared I was far too lucid for this place. He suggested a night shelter instead. I nodded in agreement, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over me as I stepped cautiously through the ward, navigating past the hollow-eyed figures who drifted aimlessly like lost souls in a fog.

The Train Station Between Two Worlds

Shortly thereafter, I landed a job at the Station Restaurant, a quirky eatery located on the railway platform in the quaint town of Wilderness, just outside George. When I refer to it as a “restaurant,” I use the term loosely. The tables were scattered across the sheltered platform, offering sweeping views of the tracks stretching into the distance. However, the excitement of watching trains was fleeting; the Knysna/George steam train rolled through only twice daily and never after sundown.

The absence of a kitchen meant that all meals were supplied by a catering service dedicated to the sparse flights departing from George airport. The food, delivered in the same trolleys utilized for airline provisions, was typically unappetizing, accompanied by low-quality wines, dry desserts, and questionable coffee. Yet, despite its lackluster offerings, it managed to gain an odd sort of popularity, becoming a quirky rite of passage for travelers passing through the town.

Once again, my fresh beginning had crumbled like dry leaves underfoot, and I found myself reaching for the familiar comfort of pills.

On a crisp Friday evening in the fall of 2000, a couple arrived for dinner, though calling it dinner would be generous. Much like the fare served on budget airlines, the options were limited to Chicken or Beef that night. The chicken appeared somewhat appetizing, while the beef resembled something straight from a can meant for pets, unworthy even for the most desperate of diners at a soup kitchen.

They introduced themselves with a flourish, “We’re Jack and Rika Louw from Franschhoek!” I responded with a theatrical bow, as if announcing royalty, before recommending the Chicken in an exaggeratedly grand voice, while whispering about the Beef like it was a family secret. Their wry smiles told me they were entertained by my antics as they opted for the Chicken—clearly swayed by my over-the-top enthusiasm. They picked a crisp white wine to accompany their poultry masterpiece. As I poured them a Sauvignon Blanc that resembled the aftermath of a cork fight—sediments swirling at the bottom and rogue cork bits floating like confetti—I couldn’t help but chuckle. With their meals on wheels ready to roll, I left them to navigate this culinary adventure!

I sank into the worn fabric of a nearby chair, retrieving the book I had been engrossed in—Are These the Words of Jesus. As I flipped through its pages, my mind wrestled with the unpleasant thought that only dreaded beef would be left for my dinner.

As I spotted their plates, still sporting remnants of the meal like a crime scene, I meandered over with all the grace of a cat on roller skates. I scooped up their dishes and presented them with an South African Airways pudding that looked like had been left behind on the runway, probably due to its uncanny resemblance to a science experiment gone wrong. They politely turned it down—probably sensing it was more of a culinary dare than a dessert—and instead asked for coffee. With the enthusiasm of someone who just found an old lottery ticket, I grabbed the pot of what could only be described as Ricoffy in disguise and poured them each a cup, hoping it wouldn’t require a safety warning. Whilst doing so Jack asked, on noticing the book that I was reading, if I was a Christian.

I gazed into their eyes and saw a spark of true curiosity, igniting an overwhelming compulsion to speak my truth. In that instant, the world around me faded, while a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions surged through my mind, heightened by the lingering effects of the substances coursing through my veins. It felt as if the universe had conspired to bring us to this pivotal moment, one that would slip away forever if I didn’t seize it. The weight of fate pressed upon me; revealing my truth felt like a matter of life or death. A wild thought crept into my mind—could they be angels cloaked in human form?

I answered that I was a Christian who struggled with addiction, a believer in Christ caught in the grip of drugs. As they sipped their steaming cups of filtered Ricoffy, I poured out the tale of my troubled existence. Their expressions shifted to one of deep sorrow as they absorbed my story. When it was time for them to go, they placed a generous tip on the table, a silent acknowledgment of my pain.

The following evening, to my utter astonishment, they waltzed back in for dinner, clearly undeterred by the previous night’s culinary catastrophe. This time, they boldly ordered the beef, which I set down with all the delicacy of a bomb disposal technician.

I poured a red from a bottle that screamed “fancy” but smelled suspiciously like it had once lived in a cardboard box, I noticed the cork had already made its escape. They devoured every last morsel with the tenacity of competitive eaters but turned their noses up at the SA Airlink pudding—an unfortunate dessert that looked as if it had survived an emergency landing.

While sipping what was essentially glorified brown water masquerading as filter coffee, they regaled me with tales of their lives. Jack proudly proclaimed himself the curator of the Afrikaans Language Museum in Paarl, while they resided on a charming little smallholding nestled in the Wemmershoek mountains of Franschhoek. Before leaving, they handed me their number and insisted I call if I ever found myself wandering through Franschhoek. In that moment, I felt a wave of relief wash over me; thank goodness they were just kind humans and not celestial beings sent to judge my waitering skills!

To Be Or Not To Be

The inaugural winter of the new century draped itself in a shroud of relentless cold, punctuated by icy rain that seeped into every crevice. With the restaurant shuttered for the season, an oppressive silence settled over me, deepening my weariness and wrapping me in a cloak of solitude.

Two decades of swallowing handfuls of tranquilizers, diet pills, and codeine-laced syrups were exacting a heavy price. My spirit felt like a flickering candle, its flame dimming with each passing moment; the horizon ahead was shrouded in darkness and despair, as if an unshakeable gloom had settled over my life. I was like an Israelite lost in the desert, the promised land tantalizingly close yet forever out of reach. I resonated with Job in his deepest anguish, lamenting the very day I drew breath. Exhaustion weighed on me like a leaden shroud, and all I longed for was to slip into a deep sleep from which I might never awaken. 

As spring blossomed, the restaurant flung open its doors once more, and I started stashing away my earnings. A vision took shape in my mind: I would purchase a tent to serve as my final resting place, stockpile a cache of drugs, and vanish into the mountains, never to return. In my twisted reverie, I envisioned myself as a disillusioned Moses—cast out from the promised land, ascending the mountain only to dissolve into legend. By November, I had quit my job serving chicken or beef, secured my makeshift tomb, amassed a three-month supply of pills from various doctors and pharmacies, and booked a one-way bus ticket to Grabouw.

Perched atop the rugged peaks overlooking Theewaterskloof dam, I prepared my final resting place. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow that danced among the scattered clouds, I began to swallow the pills that would lull me into slumber. The last image etched in my mind was of me crawling into my makeshift grave, where the echoes of my past began to dissolve like mist. With a heavy heart, I settled into the darkness and surrendered to sleep, closing my eyes against the world.

Destiny Is The Journey To The Destination

Whispers drifted through the air, soft and familiar, reminiscent of laughter shared around a campfire long ago—echoes of friends now lost to time, their spirits resting in an everlasting slumber. Yet these murmurs tugged at me, drawing me from the depths of darkness and into the warmth of daylight. As I blinked against the brightness, two figures emerged from the shadows of my tent: a pair of game rangers, their expressions a mix of concern and curiosity.

I jolted upright, my mind a foggy haze. When they inquired about my well-being, I instinctively nodded and muttered an affirmation. They pressed for my purpose there, and I offered a vague explanation about passing through and wanting to avoid sleeping on the roadside. Their expressions hardened as they insisted I had to leave, warning me they’d return later to ensure I was gone.

Once they had departed, I emerged from the confines of the tent. A tempest of fury surged within me, a searing heat coiling in my stomach, yet words eluded me. Instead, I remained rooted in place, shaking as tumultuous feelings roiled beneath my skin. Eventually, the dam broke, and I sobbed with fierce intensity, each breath wracked with great heaves of grief until exhaustion finally silenced my tears.

“I’m such a failure!” I shouted into the void, my voice echoing back like a mocking specter. “I can’t even end my own wretched existence!” A hollow laugh escaped me, bitter and sharp. Here I was, a lost soul with no hearth to call home, no glimmer of hope for the future, no job to anchor me in reality, and not a single woman who cared enough to notice my descent into despair. Ahead lay only an endless stretch of desolation—a wilderness that mirrored the chaos within me.

I pushed myself upright, legs trembling beneath me as I staggered toward the precipice. The abyss yawned below, its depths calling out with a seductive pull. “I can’t go back to that life!” I roared against the wind, feeling the weight of gravity tugging at my very core as if it wanted to claim me for itself.

I stood at the edge of the mountain, my gaze fixed on the valley below. The air was thick with silence, as if time itself had paused. Suddenly, a voice broke through the stillness, resonating from behind me: “Why don’t you go to Franschhoek? There, I will grant you all these things.”

I spun around, a shiver of dread racing down my spine as I searched for the source of the voice, but the air was empty and still. As the words sank in, an unexpected calm enveloped me. I folded up the tent and set off on the winding path to Franschhoek. By dusk, I arrived at the pass and set up my tent beneath a fading sky. The following morning, I caught a ride that carried me up the steep incline of the pass.

The Village People

The man dropped me off in the village, a village on the cusp of its golden age. Laughter and chatter filled the air, radiating a vibrant energy that was almost palpable. Workers bustled along the main road, their tools clinking as they laid fresh asphalt, while nearby, paintbrushes danced across the facades of buildings, breathing new life into their weathered exteriors.

As I strolled along the bustling main road, the words “I’m home” echoed in my mind like a cherished mantra. Each step felt surreal, as if I had stepped out of a dream and into a vivid reality—my heart swelled with joy, a fantasy finally materialized, a long-held wish granted, and the promised land unveiled before me.

I stepped into the pharmacy, my heart racing as I approached Karina behind the counter. Her warm smile faltered when she saw me, a flicker of concern crossing her face. I cleared my throat, the harsh rasp echoing in the small space, and after a moment’s hesitation, she nodded slowly, surrendering to my request for a bottle of cough syrup.

That night, I set up my tent beneath a canopy of ancient oaks, their gnarled branches whispering secrets in the cool breeze just beyond the village’s edge. The following morning, I dialed Jack’s number, and soon after, his car rolled up, its tires crunching on gravel as they welcomed me into their home. As I recounted the turmoil I’d faced, they shared that since our chance meeting at the restaurant, they’d been lifting me in prayer. When I confessed my fears of succumbing to withdrawal—visions of violent shakes, a churning gut, and relentless nausea—they assured me their prayers would shield me from such suffering. Miraculously, they were right. I sank into a deep slumber for thirty-six hours; occasionally, I would stir to find them quietly entering the room to pray over me. The anticipated convulsions and digestive chaos never struck during those days that followed.

After two weeks, I started to connect with the warm-hearted villagers. Lawrence and Adrienne Anger welcomed me first, inviting me over for a cozy supper with their lively children. Then there were Wessel and Mercia Croukamp, along with their playful brood, followed by the cheerful Koos and Esme La Grange. On the third Sunday, just a week before Christmas, Jack and Rika brought me to their church—the Franschhoek Community Church, affectionately nicknamed the Bos Kerk for its serene forest setting and soon to embrace its identity as a Shofar church. There I encountered Pastor Anton Myburgh and his gracious wife Christelle, along with Tannie Blanche and Tannie Betsy. Charles and Belinda Bailey greeted me warmly, as did Pam and Dave Stubbs, Derek and Rosita Manser—all part of this vibrant congregation filled with loving souls. The depth of kindness they extended to this wandering soul from the wilderness was unlike anything I had ever known.

How A Dream Came True

Following the church service, Charles and Belinda’s son was set to be baptized at Dave Stubbs’ picturesque Three Streams Farm. As I arrived, my eyes were drawn to a stunning blonde named Jo, her guitar resting comfortably against her back. She poured her heart into worship, her voice rising in joyful melodies as the little one readied himself for his sacred entrance into Christendom.

I stood there, entranced, a ragged drifter with only a handful of teeth clinging to my gums. My heart pounded violently in my chest, echoing the desperate yearning for something far beyond my reach. When her gaze flickered toward me, shame washed over me like a cold tide, and I quickly turned away. That night, despair returned, its voice a piercing howl urging me to flee into the comforting embrace of oblivion.

Under the warm glow of flickering candles, Jo strummed her guitar at the front of the church, her fingers dancing over the strings with practiced ease. Tara Lee stood beside her, her voice soaring through the sanctuary, wrapping around us like a soft embrace. I fought to keep my gaze averted from Jo, my thoughts wrestling with emotions that felt insurmountable—a bittersweet longing nestled deep within me. As Pastor Anton’s voice echoed across the room, announcing a carol service at the nearby Methodist church later that evening, a spark of determination ignited in me. I made up my mind: I would go.

I slipped into the hall well before the crowd, choosing a spot in the shadows at the back. As time passed, laughter and chatter swelled, and soon every chair was occupied. Just then, the man beside me stood up and joined his friends, who had cleared a space for him near the front. It was precisely at that moment when Jo stepped through the entrance, drawing everyone’s gaze.

Her gaze flickered to the empty chair beside me, and I could see her scanning the room, hope fading as she searched for any other available seats. But fate had other plans; the space next to me was the only one left. I watched her shoulders slump in defeat before she turned to me with a hesitant smile and settled into the chair, the weight of her disappointment palpable in the air between us.

It was nothing more than a whimsical daydream. Here I was, a beggar in tattered clothes, seated beside a radiant princess. I let out a silent sigh and turned my attention back to the ceremony, trying to ignore the enchanting aura she exuded. I couldn’t help but scoff at myself as I wondered why the chair had been empty until she graced it with her presence. Memories of years spent in solitude and resentment flooded my mind, each hope and aspiration shattered against the jagged cliffs of my own self-destructive choices. The voice of my inner critic echoed cruelly—no one could ever love you, you pitiful fool. An overwhelming impulse surged within me to escape, to distance myself from the breathtaking figure beside me.

Pastor Anton raised his arms, a gentle smile illuminating his face as he urged the congregation to stand. The warmth in his voice wrapped around us like a cozy blanket on a chilly evening. When he asked us to join hands, I felt a tremor of uncertainty ripple through me. My eyes remained glued to the worn wooden floor, its surface scuffed and polished by years of prayerful footsteps. Then, out of nowhere, that haunting voice from my memories surged forth—a whisper that had once echoed against the rugged cliffs: “Do you realize you’re holding your wife’s hand?” In an instant, my heart melted like wax dripped from a candle flame. I turned toward her, and in that fleeting moment, all the weight of past grievances evaporated, leaving only the fragile beauty of connection behind.

Back To The future

This morning, I found myself perched on the edge of my bed, lost in thought about events that unfolded two decades ago. History holds the keys to our future, shaping not only the grand narrative of the world but also the intricate stories of our own lives. We have the power to glean wisdom from our past missteps or, conversely, to stumble into them time and again. Yet, there’s a glimmer of hope nestled within those memories—moments when everything seemed stacked against us, yet somehow we emerged unscathed, often even stronger than before.

 A Momentary Lapse of Reason, A Lifetime Of Pain

I carry a wealth of thoughts on challenging subjects shaped by my encounters with life’s shadows—issues like medical ethics, the complexities surrounding suicide, and the desperate attempts that often accompany it. These themes weave through this chapter of my existence.

The subject of suicide, or even the mere thought of it, is an excruciatingly complex issue to confront. The anguish it brings to those left behind is profound and often unspoken. In my case, had I gone through with it, I would have found no one mourning my absence. My life was a solitary existence, devoid of family ties or meaningful connections.

For those left behind after a loved one’s suicide, it feels like the ultimate betrayal—a deep, unhealable wound that festers with time. The abyss of despair that drives someone to such a final act is unfathomable, rooted in a profound self-loathing and mental anguish. These struggles—chronic addiction, debilitating depression, the tragic choice to end one’s life—often take root in childhood, exacerbated by a society that shrouds them in silence and shame. Conversations about mental health are inching toward acceptance in our increasingly connected world, yet they remain cloaked in discomfort and avoidance for many. True healing lies in candid discussions, an embrace of vulnerability, and compassionate intervention; these are the lifelines for those teetering on the edge of despair. 

Shadows have enveloped the world, casting a pall over daily existence. Anxiety and dread lurk in the corners of people’s minds, barely contained beneath their routines. The air is thick with grief for those lost, while countless souls find themselves shipwrecked on the jagged shores of financial despair. This turmoil has sent mental well-being spiraling into chaos for many. Nothing erodes the spirit as swiftly as fear, and the gnawing sense of isolation follows closely behind, leaving scars that run deep. 

Franschhoek has long been regarded as a sanctuary for healing and renewal. This tranquil valley was first nurtured by the Huguenots, who sought refuge here centuries ago from persecution, fleeing a brutal genocide for their religious beliefs deemed heretical by the European powers of their time. They arrived in this fertile land, mending their shattered lives and planting roots that would flourish into a rich spiritual legacy still palpable today. Regardless of one’s faith or lack thereof, this profound heritage has blossomed into a vast canopy of solace and restoration, touching the hearts of all who visit. 

I count myself among those who have found their healing here—my brother, my beloved wife Jo, her nephew Simon, and countless others I’ve met over two decades in this valley. Tourists flock to our small village, drawn by a tranquility that wraps around them like the towering mountains encasing us—a haven known far and wide for its warmth and vibrancy.
 

We’re heartened to hear that Shofar Franschhoek is establishing a healing center on its grounds; it will be essential as we navigate the challenges ahead. And let us not overlook those who have departed this life, who have sailed beyond our reach. While their absence brings sorrow, we honor their memories and the joy they brought into our lives. Each was a cherished thread woven into the fabric of our lively community. No, we shall carry them with us always, even as we too face the inevitable journey that awaits all humanity.