migration was to form the cornerstone of Afrikaner identity and shared numerous parallels with the settlement of the American West which took place at roughly the same time.
It was a journey Homer would have written off as improbable. Over the course of six years, 15,000 Afrikaners dragged their wagons, families and dreams of autonomy over mountains that shattered axles like toothpicks, interminable deserts and swamps swarming with malarial mosquitos gagging to go Dutch. These calamities were compounded by battles with hostile tribes prepared to kill to protect their ancestral lands. With Bibles in one hand and muskets in the other, the Voortrekkers inflicted and suffered horrific casualties.
The monument commemorates their sacrifices and ethos. It is ringed by a fence made of black steel spears which represents the ocean of assegai-wielding warriors the Voortrekkers had to navigate. Beyond this lies an encircling wall carved with sixty-four ox wagons replicating the laagers into which the settler would manoeuvre their convoy in preparation for battle. Every corner of the building is redolent with symbolism. The busts of slain leaders squint out over the countryside they died to call home. Above the entrance a menacing granite buffalo head â the most dangerous wild animal in the land â dares would-be assailants to have a go if they reckon theyâre hard enough.
I struck up a conversation with a guide named Conrad, whose tour group had descended on the souvenir shop with the giddy lack of discrimination that comes with being armed with pound sterling in Africa.
A proud Afrikaner, Conrad said, âWhen I was growing up, this place was like a church to usâ.
Inside, it is more mausoleum than cathedral. One of the walls is taken up entirely by mosaic windows of a shade presumably intended to have been golden but which instead bestows upon the few sombre visitors an unflattering jaundice. The remaining walls are occupied by the worldâs largest marble friezes depicting a series of crucial moments during the Great Trek. Because the craftsfolk and facilities for creating a work of this size were not available in South Africa when the monument was constructed, sketches were made and dispatched to Italy. As a result, your average Zulu depicted in the frieze possesses a nose so Roman it might as well be diagonally parked across a laneway pavement in the shadow of St Peters.
The most brutal and detailed of these friezes commemorates the Battle of Blood River where 10,000 Zulus were routed by Boer leader Andries Pretorius, after whom the city was named, and his band of 470 commandos. The story goes on that Pretorians vowed to God that if they were victorious by His hard, the day would be forever commemorated.
Nowhere is the import of this battle and the implications victory carried for the Afrikaners more dramatically displayed than on a granite tomb that forms the museumâs altar. Located a floor below the entrance and best viewed through a balustraded oval hole cut into the marble floor, it is made of black granite into which is chiselled the words âOns Vir Jou Suid Afrikaâ (We For You South Africa). The entire monument structure is crafted around this cenotaph and every year at 12pm on December 16 (the day of the battle of Blood River) a ray of sunlight passes over the inscription confirming Afrikaanersâ divinely mandated rights to the land.
For reasons best known to themselves, the initial administrators were so concerned that black visitors would throng this monument to their subjugation that they instituted a policy whereby visitors of colour would only be permitted on the premises on Tuesdays. From the 1950s, however, they were banned altogether. It was a policy that stood firm for half a century and the dozen black teenagers who were dragging themselves around the place on the day I visited seemed somewhat underwhelmed by it all.
I was beginning to feel the same way and decided to
It was a journey Homer would have written off as improbable. Over the course of six years, 15,000 Afrikaners dragged their wagons, families and dreams of autonomy over mountains that shattered axles like toothpicks, interminable deserts and swamps swarming with malarial mosquitos gagging to go Dutch. These calamities were compounded by battles with hostile tribes prepared to kill to protect their ancestral lands. With Bibles in one hand and muskets in the other, the Voortrekkers inflicted and suffered horrific casualties.
The monument commemorates their sacrifices and ethos. It is ringed by a fence made of black steel spears which represents the ocean of assegai-wielding warriors the Voortrekkers had to navigate. Beyond this lies an encircling wall carved with sixty-four ox wagons replicating the laagers into which the settler would manoeuvre their convoy in preparation for battle. Every corner of the building is redolent with symbolism. The busts of slain leaders squint out over the countryside they died to call home. Above the entrance a menacing granite buffalo head â the most dangerous wild animal in the land â dares would-be assailants to have a go if they reckon theyâre hard enough.
I struck up a conversation with a guide named Conrad, whose tour group had descended on the souvenir shop with the giddy lack of discrimination that comes with being armed with pound sterling in Africa.
A proud Afrikaner, Conrad said, âWhen I was growing up, this place was like a church to usâ.
Inside, it is more mausoleum than cathedral. One of the walls is taken up entirely by mosaic windows of a shade presumably intended to have been golden but which instead bestows upon the few sombre visitors an unflattering jaundice. The remaining walls are occupied by the worldâs largest marble friezes depicting a series of crucial moments during the Great Trek. Because the craftsfolk and facilities for creating a work of this size were not available in South Africa when the monument was constructed, sketches were made and dispatched to Italy. As a result, your average Zulu depicted in the frieze possesses a nose so Roman it might as well be diagonally parked across a laneway pavement in the shadow of St Peters.
The most brutal and detailed of these friezes commemorates the Battle of Blood River where 10,000 Zulus were routed by Boer leader Andries Pretorius, after whom the city was named, and his band of 470 commandos. The story goes on that Pretorians vowed to God that if they were victorious by His hard, the day would be forever commemorated.
Nowhere is the import of this battle and the implications victory carried for the Afrikaners more dramatically displayed than on a granite tomb that forms the museumâs altar. Located a floor below the entrance and best viewed through a balustraded oval hole cut into the marble floor, it is made of black granite into which is chiselled the words âOns Vir Jou Suid Afrikaâ (We For You South Africa). The entire monument structure is crafted around this cenotaph and every year at 12pm on December 16 (the day of the battle of Blood River) a ray of sunlight passes over the inscription confirming Afrikaanersâ divinely mandated rights to the land.
For reasons best known to themselves, the initial administrators were so concerned that black visitors would throng this monument to their subjugation that they instituted a policy whereby visitors of colour would only be permitted on the premises on Tuesdays. From the 1950s, however, they were banned altogether. It was a policy that stood firm for half a century and the dozen black teenagers who were dragging themselves around the place on the day I visited seemed somewhat underwhelmed by it all.
I was beginning to feel the same way and decided to
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