Op soek na Maskam

The Catalyst and the Contrast

I spend a lot of my time trying to articulate the value of story to accounting departments. People in these rooms think in quarters and financial years. As they should, accountants need to be accountable and you only measure that by the tangible.

It is extremely difficult to explain how a narrative impacts the bottom line, yet we live and die by the rule of show, tell, and experience. Classic storytelling principles survive the test of time. A powerful story becomes a passive product that transcends time and context, continuing to work and be told for generations.

It took me a long time to figure out what I want to do with my life. I have had the privilege to travel, to work in cities, and to make all kinds of content for other people’s agendas. Somewhere in that process, I realised that stories truly do change worlds. To prove it, I started with the place I know best.

I grew up in the Matzikama. I know it intimately. Returning there over the last few years, I systematically saw the town’s infrastructure and the agricultural- and mining driven economy struggling. I lack the skills to contribute as a farmer or a miner, but my job is to solve unique challenges with the skill set I have. 

We set ourselves a massive challenge. Can we do what we do for brands and positive impact organisations, move the needle, for a geographical area? Can we aim at the fluffy metrics of community involvement, cultural pride, and a shared reference point?

Op soek na Maskam became our ultimate case study. We created a major awareness product to encourage tourists to look deeply at the unique biome and the resilient people who thrive there. Furthermore, we wanted to show our clients that we believe in our product enough to be vulnerable ourselves. We relied entirely on a compelling story, operating completely independently of massive budgets.

 

The Engine of Constraint

In production, constraint acts as a unique creative power. Many production companies abandon projects the moment they fear missing their standard. Quality, however, comes in a myriad of different ways. All we had to do was take our process, apply it to this case study, and work with the constraints.

We had extreme parameters. Dewet van Rooyen and myself were on the ground for exactly three days, using the kit we already owned, and a budget of maybe R30,000 cobbled together through community funding. Local businesses offered free accommodation, fuel, and food. Anything extra would blow the budget.

Then the ultimate constraint arrived in the form of the weather. I started panicking.

We had planned a very specific aesthetic. We wanted to capture the mountain’s famous purple hue during the precise light of the blue hour. We went out there when the skies are historically crystal clear. Instead, from day one, we got low cloud, fog, and drizzle. Locals have a running joke. When Noah prepped the ark for the massive flood, Namakwaland only received a dense mist. That perfectly describes what we encountered.

For three days, the mountain refused to show her face. Much like life, when you are in the thick of things, flustered and pressured, the environment eventually aligns exactly as it should. Opening ourselves to possibility leads to moments that are timeless.

On the very last day, in the single hour we had set aside to take the one picture we needed to close the loop on our story, Maskam realised what we were busy with. The sky opened. The sunset hit the rock, giving us this beautiful purple hue contrasting with a dark foreground featuring a small farm house. It captured human smallness and temporariness perfectly. The contrast was unbelievable. You had this intense light on one side of the mountain and deep, dark shadows on the other. It was a perfect visual representation of the area itself, an environment defined entirely by extremes. 

Then, an hour later, she drew the veil yet again, letting us know how aware she was of our presence.

 

Structuring the Unstructured

We actively chose to ignore trends and narrative hooks, remaining fully responsive to the environment. Authenticity is key. We built the story around how life actually is. Life in the Matzikama is a slower burn. It is measured. The farmers here think in cycles of five, ten, or twenty years, and the doccie mirrors that exact patient energy. The narrative maintains a constant, grounded rhythm.

Oom Sypie’s story perfectly anchors this. His forefathers bought their farm on that mountain, which was an incredible feat of human resilience given the terrain in the early 1900s. The farm is called Kantoorshoek, which translates to Office Corner. Back in the day, Griqua and San tribes administered tribal justice in the corner of that farm. Going to the magistrate meant going to the office, so the land kept the name. It is a profound piece of verbal history.

 

Legends, Truths, and the Language of the Land

This brings me to the absolute core of what makes this place so fascinating. It is a place of stories, a place of legends, and a place built on the deepest contrasts.

There are a bunch of colloquialisms about where the name Maskam comes from. The tongue-in-cheek legend goes that during the Anglo-Boer War, the Cape Rebels and Boers fled up the mountain. The English soldiers waited at the bottom for fleeing rebels, declaring that they “must come” down, completely unaware of the escape road at the back. It is a fun story, and it sounds exactly like Maskam. 

The reality of the name is far more rooted, far more ancient, and far more beautiful. Maskam actually means the mountain that yields water. Both Maskam and Matzikama are words rooted deeply in the Khoi and Griqua languages. This history was consciously chosen and honoured in the year 2000 when the name Matzikama was selected for the municipality. It was a deliberate move to acknowledge that complex and traditional history rather than making it something that it is not. It honours the indigenous roots of the people who knew exactly what that mountain meant for survival.

You see this same deep, layered history in the Knersvlakte. There are so many stories about how that flat, unforgiving landscape got its name. Some say it comes from the word “Knegte”, meaning servants. It was the area of the servants because it was the only land cheap enough for the poorest workers to afford. They went out into the harshest terrain to build something out of absolute nothing.

Other stories say it comes from the small quartz stones that literally crunch and gnash under your feet as you walk, giving it the name “Kners”. Then there is the legend of a rider and his dog setting up camp by the Salt River. The dog drank the salty water and gnashed its teeth, birthing the idiom that to survive in this region, you have to bite on your teeth and be incredibly tough.

Every single name in this region holds a contrast between a cute local anecdote and a profound story of survival. That is the big theme here. The contrast is locked up in the people, just as it is locked up in the mountain itself with its stark light and dark sides.

The Griqua tribes see this as a holy place. Their prophet, A.A.S le Fleur, servant of God, made predictions that came true and was revered as one of the most prolific seers of the 20th century and held in the same regard as Siener van Rensburg. Another origin of the Kenchtsvlakte name, as told by his descendent and chairperson of the National Khoi-San Council (NKC), Cecil le Fleur, was that seeing as this was where the the servant of God chose to establish the Griqual holy-place of Ratelgat, this became the area known as the Knechtsvlakte.