| dc.description.abstract | His brown hands, tanned darker than they already were from hours of supervising men
shoveling sand and mixing concrete on building sites, gripped the steering wheel. Hendrick
Vermeulen drove down Voortrekker Road after a long day’s work. He had dropped off the
last of the guys with his bakkie and was looking forward to resting. He was enjoying the cool
night air blowing up his arm. And there it was, that mountain. There was nothing more to
think about it. It meant nothing to him; a big rock, a marker to remind where he was. The rich
people were there by the mountain; he was not. He drove on. | en_US |
