Documenti di Didattica
Documenti di Professioni
Documenti di Cultura
slang and expressions of life out there – the life of the “outsiders,”
yet explaining them to the person who had not been exposed to
that life.
The ten chapters of Cry Freedom too were deliberately selected to
have some bearing on the Ten Commandments. Touching on
Toltec and even earlier philosophy one becomes aware that very
little is new in life.
Take note that this manuscript was not accepted by any South
African publisher – one claiming it not to be credible. When
responding that it contains no fiction, just names, places and
careers changed, the response was that reality is often stranger
than fiction. Although the author has success with writing short,
Afrikaans humor stories (also published in Huisgenoot, but mostly
as “Herrie se Kerrie” in Vrystaat, and stories read on radio” one
should not expect something that should have been accepted by a
publisher, politically correct or not.
Since the original text was published, political correctness more or
less was thrown out of the window, with first black editors stating
that they have been humiliated enough by the artificial “protection”
from criticism black leaders enjoy. The then president, Thabo
Mbeki, became an early victim of this new objectivity, and “white”
newspapers joined into the freedom the dropping of political
correctness brought.
This resulted in new racial polarization, though, as is demonstrated
by the 2009 election results with the ANC, despite the Cope rift, still
almost gathering a two thirds majority. Traditional SA is not yet
ready for a situation where a white woman, opposition leader Helen
Zille, can get away with mocking a black man with several wives.
4
Aggenbach’s bread
1. The awakening
Unless, off course, they have some immense hunger to still. Or are
on their part being ripped off.
7
But some nights, a bench in the park is better than nothing at all.
Last night Jason and I were sitting on a park bench studying the
stars and every now and again observing a satellite passing over.
These topics mostly do not interest Jason, but some time yesterday
he struck it lucky. He got hold of almost a quarter bottle of spirits.1
Or Blue Train as we call it.
“What the %$# prevents the satellite from dropping on our heads?”
And to my surprise: “Like Skylab?”
1
Spirits is usually not a hobo’s number one choice. It has a terrible
smell on it, and gives away one’s intoxication very easily. It is also
not to good for one’s health. To “purify” it somewhat, hobo’s who
happen to have a piece of white bread, filters it through the bread,
taking out most of the blue color. Often, bread is not around, or
one does not bother.
8
I like explaining these things, even knowing that the next morning
Jason won’t remember asking these questions, let alone remember
the answers.
After a while the Blue Train ran Jason over. He was fast asleep on
this hard, cold park bench. I took some old newspapers from his
bag, and put some under his bony frame. Then I blanketed him with
some more. I knew that I would have to check that he is covered a
few times during the night. It’s not quite winter yet, but chilly enough
to kill an intoxicated person exposed for too long.
“My lad,” I explained. “With me almost seven foot tall, I can find no
bed long enough so that my feet don’t stick out. I absolutely detest
having cold feet.”
The kid’s mother was within hearing distance, and she giggled.
Jason, too, could hear what I was telling the youngster, and was
roaring with laughter.
Table Mountain. But it also spells the coming of winter, and with
winter in the Cape, rainy weather.
There are the rare occasions that a dead hobo might turn out to be
a millionaire. A large enough amount of money where interest and
capital are not eroded and destroyed by banking costs and taxes -
money somewhere in an investment not touched on for decades
and often forgotten about. But not always forgotten. Some know
pretty well that they are rich, and draw up a will. Those who forsake
them, rarely benefit. Rather the SPCA to have strayed cats and
dogs; which shared life and friendship, been looked after. Or an
orphanage, or soup kitchen or shelter, making life more bearable
for those who have shared life’s less attractive ends.
2
Early indigenous people, residing mostly on the coast when the
first Europeans arrived, mostly living from the sea after apparently
been robbed of their cattle by other tribes.
10
But mostly, hoboes really die poor, without penny to the name.
Because pennies can accumulate, and accumulated pennies can
buy a bottle of Blue Train.
Yet, very few die poor in the mind. With him, Silver de Lange took a
unique ability to do magic with the accordion to the grave. Others
can tell stories that would enrich the country’s literature endlessly,
yet these masterpieces are buried with the hobo. They can tell
stories that will make a youngster think twice before experimenting
with drugs.
They carry in them a wisdom that can not be learnt from books.
The wind also stirs at the tips of old newspaper sheets spread over
the length of my park bench. The stirring of the pages serves as
alarm clock.
“Praise the Lord for another beautiful day.” This I do every morning
when waking up, even if I am drenched wet to the bone if it started
raining during the night. This morning I am greeted with squirrels
from the park, dashing up and down century old oak trees with
acorns picked up for the coming winter. A few early pigeons also
start walking up and down the park walkways, impatiently waiting
for the first visitors to start feeding them and the squirrels some
peanuts.
“Babelaas3” I mutter.
“%$#@ yes Fred,” comes a voice from under the newspapers. “But
what kind of outie4 are you who does not drink?”
Not only hoboes suffer when the Cape winter sets in. Cape Town is
surrounded by thousands of squatter structures, people who have
mostly migrated from far of Transkei in search of a better life.
These squatter areas spring up as from no where, initially hidden
by the dense Port Jackson trees covering the Cape Flats. But flat
are the flats, and once it starts raining, these makokoos (shelters)
offer little shelter from rain and dampness. Apart from dampness
finding its way through the tiniest of openings, floodwater can add
more misery and cause damage to the belongings of those who
have almost nothing.
3
Hang over
4
Hobo
12
“Do you have plans to go somewhere?” come the voice from under
the newspapers.
The funny thing, those who have voted for the government in
masses, and are still celebrating their fifteen years of freedom, are
probably those least free – being exposed to the harshest sharp
side of the Cape winter when it lashes down on the Cape Flats.
Recent figures show that some Black folks have indeed bettered
their living standards, but they are a few, and that the poorer have
indeed become poorer. Only now there are some white folks, even
if not all that many, added to the poorest of the poor.
But Mbeki is history now – even more than his predecessor, Nelson
Mandela, still fondly called Madiba by the haves and those still
believing the washing machines he promised will one day start
raining down.
I not only use the newspapers to sleep under. I also read them
thoroughly. With my tall frame of more than six and a half foot it
takes quite a lot of newspapers to get me covered. Thus quite a lot
of reading material as well.
I’d been a bright pupil when still at school. At least that was what
everybody told me, including the teachers, and that should account
for something. It was only my father and myself, after my mother
died when I was still very young. My father, the tall blonde
Dutchman working on a fishing trawler, us living in a neat rented
fisherman’s style built house, looking out over the sea.
Our West Coast fishing town might not have been as picturesque
as those fishing villages on the Cape South Coast, with blue
mountains dropping into the sea right next to the village’s flanks,
but the colorful painted houses made up for a lot. Red and blue
roofs, with walls varying from bright white to olive green, make a
terrific impression on a person as well. Fishermen and their wives
would often sit on the rocky beaches, mending fishing nets before
the trawlers once again head out to the deep blue to bring some
more bread to the table.
When the quotas are right, and the fish are plentiful, the people in
the village have not too much to be bothered about. They can make
jokes the entire day, displaying their unique sense of humor. In the
evenings they can hang around the bar, making jokes while the
liquor starts to take toll. Inevitably this will end in a nice brawl, with
policemen rushing in to break up the fun.
Life was not always all that easy, however. My father, when first he
came to this country, fell in love with the most beautiful girl in our
fishing village. She happened to be the daughter of a Cape Colored
family. A very rich family moving in the highest circles, often across
16
the color line, something very rare back then. She was actually a
Malaysian5 girl who had a Muslin upbringing. Marriage over the
color line was against the law until a few years ago. With the utmost
difficulty, my mother was re-classified to white to be able to marry
my father.
Once on the “right” side of the color line, these has-been non-
whites would become more white than the whites themselves. A
few years ago one even made a number of tiny statues for a right
5
Although called Malaysians, the Muslim population in the Cape
mostly actually descends from slaves brought from Indonesia and
other East Indian islands. Indonesia, as the old Cape Colony, used
to be Dutch possessions in the 17th century.
17
wing white political party. Not that he had ever been paid for all of
them.
The real trouble during that period in history came when a colored
family would make enough money to bribe their way into the white
community, despite appearance actually allowing this.
This opened the door for getting married legally, but her
community, especially the Muslims, initially rejected my mother.
Muslims generally do not take kindly when one of their kind leaves
the faith. The white community never accepted my dad, let alone
my mother or me. According to my dad, his family in Holland cut
him out of their lives. Yet, my parents and I found, living with the
coloreds was more tolerable than living amongst whites.
One would have thought that race would not matter as much now
that apartheid had been abolished. Yet, nowadays race is much
more important than the last few years before the New South Africa
was officially born in 1994. One must indicate one’s race on census
forms and a lot of other documentation. How else would
18
When my mother died, I was a three year old blonde boy with blue
eyes. Nothing in the law books prevented us from moving to the
white area. But my dad resisted. The coloreds accepted our family
over time, and stood by us. When I had to start attending school, I
went to the colored school with my friends. This was illegal, and my
dad went to all the trouble of having me classified as a colored.
This, in the end, succeeded on account of my mother’s original
classification.
“Your mother must have had a lot of white blood in her veins, to
have a blonde child with blue eyes,” the registration officer
remarked when scrutinizing me to establish my race. He was
clearly reluctant to have me classified a colored.
“The whites are such a few. The coloreds are multiplying like rock
rabbits. Let alone the blacks,” he complained. “You even have hair
on your arms,” he objected, as I have just passed another test to be
Caucasian … having body hair.
Our more or less content living all changed one day. The trawlers
were set to go out to sea, staying away for a week or so. As usual,
I, then aged 15, took my father’s suitcase to the docks, where my
dad and the other crew were noisily doing the final preparations.
Typically, they were pulling the legs of the others, making funny
remarks, and laughing full of joy.
6
Dutch gin.
20
utter a word because of the lump in his throat. My father was a well-
known figure on the docks, tall, blonde, always walking very upright
even when under the influence. Always walking with fire in his
entire motion and posterior, unless the gin had the upper hand.
That day his shoulders were hanging, and he dragged his feet. He
had more gin inside his body than usual, I realized.
A few crewmembers tried to stop me, but I burst through their best
efforts, and dived into the ice-cold darkness of the harbor waters.
I grasped for air, and again dove into the icy cold depth.
When I came up once more from the depth, an arm reaching from
the quay pulled me onto dry land.
“Come now, come now” said the reassuring voice of the man who
pulled me, by then a dog-tired shivering boy, from the sea. “There
are professional life savers here now. They will find him for sure.”
I was taken home, and put to bed. I sobbed myself to sleep. When I
woke up I was delirious. I caught pneumonia from his ordeal in the
cold water.
After a week the fever left, and I started taking in what was going
on around me. I realized the fishing company had put another
family in the house. A severe shortage of housing was experienced,
and a vacant house was a vacant house.
22
I also realized that the doctor was paid from my father’s savings.
I heard the new family speaking at night.
“What a pity. Now we won’t be able to find work for him here” I
heard the father of the new family saying that night.
That same night, on my way over the sandy Cape flats, I was
mugged and robbed of most of my belongings. This is where I
decided to use every opportunity I have to become as strong as a
horse, and to be able to use my fists in self defense.
3. Changing seasons
Eventually, one day, I felt that I had written something worth wile. I
went to the nearest magazine to show some one what I had written.
It was one of the most beautiful ladies I had ever laid my eyes on. I
was painstakingly aware of my untamed bearded face. My worn
clothes. My battered boots without socks. Yet, she seemed to look
right past my appearance, Right into my mind and soul. This made
me uncomfortable, imagining that she could read my thoughts and
especially of what I was thinking on seeing her. Long blonde hair
being stirred in the light breeze, blue eyes – and she was smiling at
me! A deep sincere type of smile, not as with most people, simply
laughing at me.
25
“Hi” she said. I noticed that she was standing there with the papers
I had chuck in the dustbin shortly before.
“If you don’t mind I’d like to type them for you. As I work at the
magazine I can easily submit them.” She was already talking in the
plural, as though I was going to write many more stories.
She even let me use her computer. This was quite an experience,
as this was my first real contact with one. I realized then that it
would become harder and harder for a less privileged to break into
the open world where everything evolved around computers and
other forms of new technology. Even by using a computer for the
most basic thing, such as typing, one needs to have a major
26
One day chatting with Sally, she said: “You know, you are not just a
writer, you actually write things of literature value.” I looked at her in
amazement.
“You don’t just write what you see. You write what your characters
think and feel; you give them souls. You have the ability to see
inside a person’s soul, and dot that down. That first day I saw you,
and you looked at me, I could see that I could hide nothing from
you.”
“I…that was precisely the thought I had, actually still have, when I
first saw you looking at me. That you can see one’s soul through
his own eyes.” We laughed, realizing that we were soul mates.
These beaches are not all that safe any more. Drug gangs and a lot
of riff-raff from society have moved in, often using dilapidated
apartment buildings, the owners keep for tax write-offs. These
buildings also offer some ideal accommodation for illegal
27
I one day by accident came to know why Sally reached out to me.
We were walking on an isolated beach, when she suddenly
indicated she wanted to take a dip.
“But you do not have your swimming gear with you!” I objected.
“That’s right, that’s why you are going to sit behind that rock and
keep cavy!” 7
Once behind the rock, I realized what impractical plan this was. If
someone did come, what am I going to do? Just start shouting,
hoping that Sally would hear me above the noise of the waves? Not
likely. So I sat, hoping she would try to surprise me where I sat
before someone pitched.
7
Keep watch, so as not to be surprised.
28
I could think of no other plan than to first peep over to see where
she was, and then decide on the best strategy on how to draw her
attention with least embarrassment to her. But she was very close
by, however, her back turned in my direction. But before I sank
back on my heels to start shouting to warn her of the approaching
motorbikes, I saw something that startled me badly. Even now, I
can not speak about this.
I sank back against the rock, deciding that I will chase the bikers
away, come what may. My heart had grown even more tender
towards Sally in a few seconds. I will protect her with my life, if
need be.
I knew I had to find out what the story was, but how? So I started
asking her about her past, and found at first severe reluctance to
talk about that. Yet, later she started confiding, and a horror story
started unfolding. Drinking parents, broken home, and in the end a
children’s home.
I listened in silence. “It takes but one sick dood to destroy all the
good of a children’s home. Especially if that person is head of the
institution, and even worst, if he is a reverend.”
29
“That same guy who molested and beat us – boys and girls - that
sick bastard writes gospel literature and is in high standing with his
church.” I have never seen Sally so enraged.
“The dirty bastard! Why don’t you lay charges against him?”
Sally shook her head. “Who do you think they will believe?
Orphanage children, most of whom could not manage to pick up
pieces of their lives after that treatment, or the esteemed
dominee?8
8
Reverend in a major Afrikaans church grouping
30
The Child Protection Unit recently said that seven cases were
reported in three years in our area where children in crèches were
molested by men linked to the management. Some of the girls were
as young as three years. In fact, many cases are reported where
adults in supervisory positions, such as teachers, clergymen and
pre-school caretakers molested kids.
But as usual, the human rights of the offender weighs much heavier
than that of the victim. Do children not have human rights too, apart
from children’s rights mentioned in the constitution?9
9
Children’s rights in the constitutions bill of human rights are
described as follows: Every child has the right –
(a) to a name and nationality from birth;
(b) to family care or parental care, or to appropriate alternative
care when removed from the family environment;
(c) to basic nutrition, shelter, basic health care and social services;
31
For some time after this, Sally kept some distance between the two
of us. From my side I tried to remain as supportive as I could.
Eventually things turned more or less back to normal.
Then came the new South Africa, and soon I found another topic to
write on. The new under dog. These are whites who have lost their
employment to make room for affirmative action appointments.
When loosing their work, they not only often loose a life style and
possessions carefully put together in almost a lifetime. They often
also find their wives and family turning their backs on this
embarrassment. Worst of all, they loose their dignity, and often they
end up on the park benches.
“My magazine can’t publish this” Sally told me. As she remained
silent, mingling her thoughts, I asked: “Why?”
apartheid the entire world is not ready to accept that one misgiving
is replaced by another.”
Jan first came to the park some two years ago, his eyes deep in his
forehead.
10
Bribery money, often disguised as “handling fees” to have the
tender considered.
33
He kept to one side, mingled with no one. Every day a neat young
man would come to the park, and sit with Jan, and leaving a parcel
with the bearded man when he leaves.
"My son," Jan one day said, but did not elaborate then.
"I was a big farmer at Bothaville in the Free State," he said one day.
"Big farms, big cars, fancy wife, intelligent kids. I could refer to 'my
attorney', 'my auditor', 'my bank manager' and everything. I was an
'ouderling'11 as well.
On this farm I found some families whom I had no work for. They
had to live, though, so my stock and fodder started disappearing
then. The police were not much of help though, and I started legal
procedures to get those people removed from my land. They
reacted by sabotaging me. Whenever I sat my foot from the farm, I
would return finding a cow with a spike through the belly. Soon I
was wiped out.”
11
Elder in the church.
34
“Once wiped out,” Jan continued, “I saw my wife leaving me, and
my kids not knowing this man," pointing a finger to his heart.
"Only this boy in Cape Town has any time left for me. He brings me
food and whatever I need. That's why I moved to this park."
He looked at his shoes then, which had been expensive field shoes
once. By then, they were mere rags. Now, they had to make way
for a pair of battered tekkies.12
12
Running shoes.
35
When they drive with their expensive four by fours, or visit their
expensive holiday houses, they do not whish to be reminded that
their are some of their own people, even own flesh and blood, who
are not so fortunate, who are in dire straits.
13
Some more on this topic: Bribe money, very common in Africa.
In some cultures it is not actually regarded as being wrong – if you
are in a position to benefit from bribery, it is expected of you to do
so.
36
I expected Jan would say something like his son's wife does not
want him around, or that the kid's mom would not come to visit if
Jan were around.
But much harsher is the self-laid exile from friends and family,
because one does not have the courage to face them under these
circumstances.
Jan is very good with his hands. He can fix about anything. Kids
often bring their bicycles for Jan to fix. More often than not, Jan
would have a parked car that would not start when the owner
returned running smoothly long before the mechanics could arrive.
We, who observed Jan fixing a car, often thought he used magic
words. For, when the place where he had to adjust or fix was a bit
tight for his big hands, he would start using some words, which
would soon do the trick. We recognized most of the words,
however, such as ^%$$, ^&% and %^$, and they were definitely not
magic words.
14
Refers to an old car, usually large, but with plenty of character,
associated with the owner.
37
“I understand how you feel,” Sally said. “I really do. Do not throw
the stories away. Keep on trying. One day you will hit a nerve, and
the gate will open. In the mean time, do not stop writing on your
present topics.”
One day, I realized that a story had been published when paging
through a second hand magazine, but Sally did not pitch.
I went to her flat, finding that other people had moved in. I then
went to the magazine. There I learnt from the same rude person at
security that Sally had gone to visit friends in Gauteng. She was,
however, killed instantly in a car accident on her way back. She
was already buried - as though I never existed in her life.
“Hello Uncle Fred, hello Uncle Jason.”15 I heard the tiny footsteps
coming up from behind.
This is only partially true, as more often Samantha and her parents
sleep in the open, often sharing the park. Samantha’s parents,
Johnny and Fatimah, are unemployed. Yet, they would turn the
world upside down for little Samantha, the girl with the gray-blue
eyes, and dark reddish hair. Maybe not quite the world, but at least
all rubbish dumps they can reach on foot, dragging a retired pram
with them that serves as their mule to carry whatever they found
that might be sold.
15
Afrikaans kids, whether white or colored, often call grown ups
“oom” “tannie”, meaning “uncle” and “aunt”, whether related or
not.
40
Samantha’s schooling was not much fun earlier. The other kids
would tease her and call her a Bergie. That, despite, being cleaner
than most, with all her stationery in place. Her parents comforted
her that at least her school fees were paid in full, something many
kids can’t say.
Nowadays you will also find kids standing in the middle of the
street, begging for money. They hold crude little placards, mostly
saying: "Please help. No Dad, no Mom."
Almost all of them have parents, if one can call monsters like that
parents.
“When you live on the street, you have no mother and no father.
There is no one to kiss you good night, or to tuck you up in bed at
night. In fact, there will probably be no bed nor blankets, all sold to
buy booze.”
A street kid once told me something about daily life: “When we ask
motorists for something, they would often swear at us. That hurts
more than the beatings when we return home empty handed.”
42
Yet, there are those wise cracks who’d say in public that a person
who gives street kids or beggars something, worsen the problem.
Statistics do indicate that neighborhoods where softhearted people
live, attract the homeless.
But have these folks seen how a kid looks like when being beaten
for returning home empty-handed? Or, if he no longer has a place
he calls home, what he is going to eat? They actually need love
more than anything else, and swearing at them when chasing them
away empty-handed does mot help much.
So often, they will not go home any more to escape the beatings.
Children of less than ten years of age will wander the roads till late
at night, and then find some kind of shelter to sleep. They meet the
seasoned street kids, and soon adapt to their ways. Whatever
money can be begged from a motorist, will end up in the pocket of
a hardware shop owner, who sells them glue. To sniff this, sends
one on a trip.
They soon learn where to buy the more potent stuff. Glue for fixing
shoes is the most popular. But some dealers with rotten brains sell
“specials” to these kids. They know pretty well that a kid, who has
probably never worn shoes in his life, is lying through his teeth that
he wants to mend shoes. So, not the yellow glue, but the red glue
will be sold. The red glue is more or less useless for mending
shoes, but has up to twenty times as much drug elements in that
sends the poor kids on their trips.
This trip takes you far away from the reality of merciless parents,
harsh living and hunger. Even better, you often die mercifully
young, before enduring this for to long.
43
You soon learn to know when a street kid had passed from simply
lying passed out on a pavement somewhere, to the stage where he
is never going to wake up again. That’s when the green flies start
walking on the body. Then one can go and tell the nearest cop that
the government’s morgue has some fresh work coming in.
They also do not keep on sniffing the stuff, but start to “smoke” it.
This means that they pour some in a plastic bottle; they then hold
the opening to their mouths, and squeeze the bottle while they
inhale. This works much faster than sniffing. It is especially effective
when they could lay their hands on some dagga as well. South
Africa’s dagga is potent, not that sissy stuff smoked in Europe to
which they refer as marijuana. As though being more sophisticated
or less ghwar-like16 than smoking pot.
Usually these kids are quite sober when they pester motorist in a
busy traffic crossing. One is amazed at the agility they have at
moving between cars, and not being run over. This is dangerous
work. Yet, sometimes one would find a kid who starts collecting for
his next trip, whilst not yet completely sober from the previous.
They do not last very long, though. If they survive being run over,
one would think they would appreciate being in hospital with warm
sheets, food and caring people. But there is nothing to sniff, so of
they go and back to the streets whenever they are able to move.
16
Rock bottom for being common.
44
to the southern tip of the continent, the wild ones did not come to
the kraals at night, and became lion prey.
Only the other day a few street kids surprised me. It was the still
period just after the early morning traffic rush, and they were
squatting, playing fahfee17 on the pavement. When I came close,
one looked up:
“Dissam ‘n lekka storie wat djy oor ons gespinnet.”18 The others
nodded in agreement, al looking very pleased. I was not only
surprised that they have read something, but I have not written for
quite some time, and that story was thus not new either.
One of the kids, the seventeen year old Edward Campher, told
reporters afterwards that he had been living on the streets for 11
years, and had never taken something from anyone. “But that thug
17
A form of knots and crosses, played on the pavement, involving
some form of gambling, but usually with pretty worthless or
symbolic objects.
18
“That’s a really nice story you have about us written.”
45
said he was going to come and sort us out when he comes out of
jail.”
Not all street kids stay on the right side of the law. Some time ago
German tourists complained that street kids had followed them for
two hours, before being robbed. I personally wonder whether
foreign tourists would know the difference between street kids and
young Bergies.
Word soon spread that Jason was “contracted,” as he put it, by the
cops to inform the hoboes about this urinating thing.
“Now where must one now urinate?” Jackson asked when cornered
by Jason.
46
Jason was momentarily taken aback, with the rest roaring with
laughter. He soon regained his composure: “Well, that’s what the
cops say.”
But using public toilets are easier said than done. With all the riffraff
on the streets nowadays, messing up toilets, folks tend to lock even
the public toilets, with a note that the keys could be picked up at
this or that place. Hoboes do not usually qualify to pick up the keys.
It is also not fair to blanket all street kids with this name. Samantha,
for example, would not qualify for being called a street kid. She
stays with her parents, who, according to the criteria of government
are not unemployed, and had her parents not been on a waiting list
for a home for more than a decade, she would not have been
homeless either.
Well-meaning officials from time to time round these street kids up,
and take them to children's homes or shelters for the homeless. In
theory, they can even go to school.
wandering the streets once again, with a few rags that ought to
share as clothes.
Monday nights, for example, are hot meal nights for the street kids,
and even some hoboes who succeed in slipping through. Then the
two bakkies19 of Voices of the Rainbow Nation would park on the
Grand parade across the city hall, bringing with them hot meals …
and love. Street kids will swarm the bakkies within seconds, to get
probably the only warm meal of the week. The volunteers try to
make a different pot of food every week. Sometimes even
chocolate would be dished out.
As one kid told me: “It makes us feel good that some one cares
about us.”
The kids also receive medical attention. Every week one or two of
the kids will have stab wounds. Life on the street is rather harsh.
Only one involved with something like this can know what pleasure
one derives of holding out a helping hand to a kid: “We’ve got a
passion for what we are doing,” one of the volunteers told me.
19
Pick up trucks
48
Recently the street kids had the privilege of having fun on the
beach with sports legends such as the American, Edwin Moses,
and Daly Thompson of Britain. Even the very popular former
Springbok captain, Morné du Plessis took part in the proceedings
arranged by the Laureus Sports for Good Foundation. Yet, tragic
that the kids meet roll models, and then return to the streets. If only
these projects could have been a bit more sustainable.
Bums, especially lady bums, offer a soft target for street kids with a
criminal inclination. Getting hold of something of value, almost
never escapes the eyes of an ever watchful street kid. Once he
sees a hobo scurrying of with some loot of value, he will round up
some mates. They run in flock, straight at the victim, running him or
her to the ground. But before the bum would hit dirt, he or she will
be minus whatever asset that could be snatched.
Any other person could be robbed this way, but is usually averted,
as other people have the nasty habit of go complaining to the
police.
But alas, if a kid is hooked on glue sniffing, chances are very slim
that one can chat them into changing their ways.
49
Some unbearable cold winter night they might break into a church,
standing vacant for most of the week. The same church where
congregation members would pitch on Sundays, clad in warm
clothes, but complaining about the severe cold despite heaters
being switched on. The same churches in which the street kids
would only be too glad to find shelter for the cold night, without the
warm clothes, and without the heaters being switched on.
But many parents and other grown ups apparently can't read, when
it comes to the rights of children. Some unmarried mothers do not
even want to apply for government allowances for their kids on
account of the stigma. I would imagine that a kid crying of hunger,
and clothed in rags, would be an even worse stigma.
50
Aids bring more misery to kids, and in various forms. Many shelters
are crowded with kids suffering from aids. Government does not
seem to be all that eager to provide drugs to aids infected mothers,
so as to prevent transmission to the child. But with more treatment
of this kind, the number of aids orphans would probably also
increase at an accelerated pace.
I did not ask then what he meant, because Jason was whining like
a kid then. Only much later did I come to know the story.
20
Skunk in a figurative sense, literally meaning “lightning.”
51
Ironically, not many of the bums are aids sufferers. The rather
harsh life style has something to do with bums contracting the
disease soon departing to the government morgue. But the lack of
privacy and experiences of broken relationships also has
something to do with the fact that most live more or less a celibate
life. A hobo also very seldom has enough money to spend on
designer drugs, or even the dirty rubbish sold to the poor.
Only once did I see a bum using a needle, and that was not for
injecting drugs. Old Morrisson was very addicted to his Blue Train,
so when once he had the fortunes of having both an injection and
spirits, he proceeded injecting the blue poison directly in his veins.
Doing this, he thought, he would not have to taste the Blue Train's
horrible taste, and he would be run over much faster.
That was more or less the last thought old Morrisson ever had. I
was standing not more than a hundred meters away when I saw
what the old man was doing. Before I could reach him, he was flat
on his back. He barely had time to squeeze the Blue Train’s
conductor coach through the needle, before he was kicked from his
feet. Some agonizing kicks later, he was a gonner.
As worthless as old Morrisson's life might have been, his death was
very expensive for a pharmaceutical company. We split to the
police where the company had been illegally dumping medical
waste, including used needles. The Bergies were very angry with
us for quite some time, because they sold these needles to junkies
in town.
52
Her face lightens up. “Thanks a lot, Uncle Fred. I haven’t had a real
present for quite some time – but lots of love.”
“And how was school today?” I ask. I know Samantha likes school,
and this question will cheer her up. She learns hard – one can often
see her on a park bench, swinging her short legs as she works
through her lessons. She soon finds out which bum can help her
with what subject. These tutors often don’t last very long. Once
there was a doctor, struck from the roll, but excellent with biology.
We never realized what agony it must have been for him, helping
Samantha. We only learnt after we found him hanging from a worn
bandage, tied to an oak tree that a little girl died while he was
53
“Whoah, we had lots of fun, Uncle Fred. We read some, and made
some sums. We also played during break.”
“”But my girl is really getting clever. What are you going to do when
you have grown up, being all that clever?”
Her face lightens up even more. She digs in her schoolbag I once
bought for her, and brings out a picture, carefully covered with
cellophane.
The fact that he did the books of the school, required some fancy
footwork to prevent him from getting any the wiser as to the fact
that some-one else is paying Samantha’s school fees.
Fatimah, on her part, would from time to time prepare the finest
Malaysian cooking at the school. The school supplies the
ingredients, and Fatimah starts preparing. The school kids would
then have a meal they seldom encounter at home.
What a shame that gifted people such as these are not offered a
second opportunity in life.
55
Today, with all the thoughts that had gone through my mind, I am
determined to take a brake from all this.
“But how are we going to get there?” I am relieved that Jason has
invited himself.
Before trying the bank, Jason and I clamber up Signal Hill to say
goodbye to Cape Town. Table Mountain dwarfs Signal Hill and
Devil’s Peak; the flat topped landmark that has made Cape Town
famous. But getting to the top of Signal Hill for a bird eye’s view is
so much easier, and a lot safer. Many people have lost their lives
trying to scale the Table’s sheer cliffs. Tourists prefer the cableway,
but that is out of bound to hoboes.
Sitting near the old cannons that used to blast away signaling
midday; we overlook Table Bay’s magnificent view. The harbor is
not quite as busy as it was when the Egyptians closed the Suez
Canal. Almost in the middle of the bay is Robben Island, also well
56
known all over the world where many political prisoners were held,
including former president Nelson Mandela.
But getting hold of the money at the bank proves to be not all that
easy. Some one from the magazine eventually comes to my
rescue, properly identifying me at the bank.
I buy Jason and myself a suit each, and bus tickets to Hermanus.
The suits are complemented with the necessary – shirts, ties,
shoes and socks. Socks for me, that is. Jason refused them. “I will
freak having them ^%$# socks on these rough *&^% feet,” he
objects. He has pulled one of the worn shoes from a foot, and
indeed, one can not imagine a sock being pulled over that. But one
would rather expect the objection coming from the sock’s side.
57
Yet, with the new suit on, the trousers hanging over the shining new
shoes, no one will be the wiser as to the state of hidden affairs.
What does stick out from under the suit, however, is a completely
different matter. The hands and head are weather beaten. Not even
the best face beautician in the country stands any chance of hiding
the tracks left by years of nature’s less kind battering. The Blue
Train’s effects do not help much either in keeping either the face or
body in tip-top shape.
I also buy Samantha her mackintosh and two jerseys, as well a few
things I believe she might need in winter.
Dressed in our fancy clothes for the bus ride, Jason and I seek out
the Ashton couple. Sam Ashton is an old gent, who on his
wanderings met Sue, and married her. Sue, a bulky lady, had in
many ways been a mother to me. The two of them are in many
ways the royal couple of the hobo kingdom of our park and
immediate surroundings. They have wisdom; they assist with the
authorities when for some reason a specific hobo is sought, always
hoping that some relative has pitched to make life easier for one of
their "subjects."
Sue is in tears when hearing the news that we are going to depart.
"Fred, you have been one of us. Yet you have not been either. You
are going to make it one day, you have fiber. Maybe a young
woman will give you the kick-start you need. You do not belong with
us, but we enjoyed and appreciated your company."
Young lady? The Lord has taken every young woman I had respect
far away. Sally. I swallow tears.
58
Both Sue and Sam, one could hear, had a fine upbringing.
But back in the present, Sue hugs me: "What strong young man
you are. I've seen with what ease you managed to beat up the
Bergies when they attacked us. Use your strength wisely. The
Good Lord be with you."
I can easily understand why this couple has been far more effective
in bringing bums to the Lord than any well meaning evangelist
taking on the task.
I had my bit of fun with them. Waking up on the park bench, and
finding a person introducing him or herself to me as an evangelist, I
would kindly explain to them that they are mistaken. I am actually a
59
colored. But I could refer them to a very kind white bum, indicating
Jason who would be sleeping on another park bench not far of.
This usually had those evangelists very confused, for I looked much
more a white than Jason did with his curly, black hair. Him not often
washing his face, also attributes to his darker complexion.
Once realizing that I was the one, who was forever referring
evangelists to him, he returned the compliment by referring the very
confused missionaries to me.
But, life rarely makes logic sense. That’s why its life, not heaven.
Or what arse hole would keep to the speed limit, rather than go
crashing into Sally’s car when he was severely intoxicated?
What value do the Bill of Human rights in the constitution have for
us in the park? Such well intended stipulations on the right to
property, the right to privacy, the right to economic wealth, shelter
and what not? The constitutional court made a ruling that
government can be forced, by court order, to uphold the
constitution. For that one needs money – lots of money.
All this about race does not have much effect on me. When a
colored under the previous government, one often was at the
receiving end of some rather harsh racial discrimination. Under the
new dispensation, one needs to be much blacker than I am to hope
to benefit.
Being part of the bum community, however, one's color does not
matter that much, especially nowadays. The Salvation Army seems
to really be color blind when helping.
21
A disgruntled black passenger of a mini bus taxi once said, after a
horrific ride: “Hiace is the abbreviation for High Impact African
Culling Equipment.”
62
Yes, from time to time one would read of Cape Town’s municipality
that would implement this or that holistic approach to solve the
growing problem of people living on the streets. Government
recently made a law that shifts the responsibility to municipalities,
which generally do not have the funds or other means. Much talk is
then given of how this holistic plan is going to involve social
workers, industrialists to create jobs, and so on.
But when it comes to the push, it all boils down to by-laws making
things difficult to stay on the streets. Like the one of not urinating in
public. Cape Town is a tourist attraction, and one would like to keep
the unsightly homeless out of sight. Recently a beggar was fined
R10022 for begging. If he can not pay the fine, he will go to jail, and
probably be sodomized. To pay the fine, he needs to beg, and
that’s what caused him to end up in trouble in the first place.
22
Approximately $12,00
63
Tobie would join in the singing at the top of the voice. He would
also sing the melody he knows, irrespective of the version the
organist would use. More than once, because the congregation
preferred the old melody, Tobie would hijack the singing. The
frustrated organist would then stop playing, with Tobie herding the
congregation to the final ending of the song.
Every now and then, one would find an organist that has a lot of
nerve, proceeding right to the end with the new melody, causing
pandemonium. Those nearest to the organ’s pipes, would stick with
the determined organist, and the rest following Tobie.
one end. Martin was the one to first receive the basket. For a
moment he seemed to be taken unawares. He pretended to be
very surprised to see that there is money in the basket, and then
very pleased. He even got up, and made a very polite little bow to
the deacon. Then sitting down, quite content with the basket on his
lap, leaving the deacon quite dumbfounded. But only for a brief
moment, before Martin passed the basket on. I do not think the
basket managed to get very many contributions in our quarters. In
fact, I think it came out the other side with much less in than it
entered with.
“If hoboes were angels, they’d be flying al over the place on not
died from sleeping in the chill,” remarked Jason dryly on hearing
that our park’s bum community had been banned from that church.
For once Jason uttered a complete sentence without &^%$
swearing. As though, maybe so indicating that the bums are not all
that bad either.
Going to church and funerals are not the only excursions hobos
undertake. A wise man once said one can never be free when
ignorant. Sometimes I have my doubts – knowledge causes one to
realize what one is missing in life. But never the less, hoboes
generally also want to know what is going on. Walking into town
just at sunset is thus a hobby of many park dwellers. At night the
display areas of shops look very nice, with the bright lights shining
on items very neatly displayed.
But shop windows where TV’s are playing, are most popular.
Especially at news time. One would always find a few bums loudly
commenting, between them trying to make out what was going on
in the news, for they could obviously not hear sound. They could
66
Leon had been standing on the pavement outside the park, near a
street corner, as he often does, minding his own business. Then we
saw a Bergie come running along from the blind side of the corner,
running his hands through the contents of a handbag he had
snatched. Two policemen were giving chase on foot.
67
“We heard you yelling to this man to pass the handbag over the
fence,” the one policeman said. Yes, we did, but that was precisely
to prevent the misunderstanding that now prevailed. And off they
marched with Leon.
When Leon made his brief appearance in court we were all there. It
so happened that a Cape skollie was to be sentenced for knifing a
member of a competing gang just prior to Leon’s appearance. We
have encountered that gang on several less fortunate
circumstances in the past. The court ordinances were rather
surprised to see the gang dispersing when we approached. In the
end we sat on the one side of the partition put up in the olden days
between white and non-white in the public gallery. The skollies
were sitting on the other side, and we made a point of teasing them
for sitting in the former non-white section.
The magistrate sentencing the gang member had a short fuse that
day. “Too many lives are lost through gangsterism, and it is high
time that and example should be made,” he said. We cheered at
this remark, but the magistrate threatened to chuck us out. We sat
very quite then, for we actually came to support Leon.
68
“I take into consideration that the incident did not claim the life of
your victim – also that there was a lot of provocation. I sentence
you to five years in prison. Next case.”
Unfortunately for the gangster, “appeal” sounds a lot like calling the
magistrate a penis in Afrikaans. Turning to his mates in the public
gallery, the leader said:
The magistrate, understanding Afrikaans quite well, did not like that
in the least, also sentencing the poor bloke for disrespect towards
court.
When Leon was brought before court from down in the cells, we
almost did not recognize him. He was neatly shaved, and wore a
smart suit. He could easily be mistaken for a lawyer, the way he
looked. A young man came in as well, and introduced him as
Leon’s attorney.
23
Roughly translated, meaning: “He’s no penis, he’s a f&^*ng…!”
and then referring to that part of a female’s anatomy which a man
does not have.
69
“Not now dad!” the young man whispered from the front.
Leon got bail, that day, and he went to stay with his son. The case
itself was a mess. Leon’s son called us all who saw the Bergie
shoving the handbag in Leon’s hands. When it was my turn, the
irritated magistrate asked me why, if we new what really happened,
did not tell this to the police.
“Your Honor, we did tell that to them on the scene. We also went to
the police station on several occasions to tell, but we were only
mocked. In fact, we could even tell the police who the Bergie was
who flipped the handbag to Leon …the accused.”
When acquitting Leon, the magistrate was furious with the police.
He had a lot to say about courts crammed with cases not properly
investigated.
6. The exodus
When saying goodbye at the bus, Sue hardly gives Jason a second
glance. But on us leaving, she does turn to Jason.
"Never dare keeping this man back. Fred is going places, and if you
dare be a stumbling block, you will feel my fist!" she threatens.
Sam greets me like a gentleman. "If ever you need any help, my
lad, you know where to find me." He struggles with a lump in his
throat. "We are so proud of you - if only my own children could have
given my as much joy."
Before turning pro Sam had been a clerk on the railways, and quite
content.
71
But turning pro changed all that. By the time he became South
African champion, he had to accustom himself to being a celebrity,
and being the property of his fans. He had to attend endless parties
and other functions. With those came the drinks. Lots of drinks.
"You know the rest of the story," Sam said when eventually he
confided in me.
I did not know his story, yet I could imagine. Once in the slipstream
downward, the version of those ending up as citizens of the streets
and park, do not vary much. Yet, he was keen on training me.
Somehow I got the impression that this gave him some purpose in
life. Teaching me boxing and life skills.
While greeting now, Sam smiles and boasts a fine set of teeth, but
for one missing in his lower jaw. As a person having been in the
international arena, that is not strange. But Sam did not loose that
tooth in the professional boxing ring.
One day during practice, Sam was urging me to hit harder and
harder.
Since I could remember, I never tried to hit Sam, yet, he would urge
me to try my level best at connecting him. He prided himself in
being as agile as ever in ducking away from blows.
When the blow landed, I could hear the sickening sound of the
lower jaw breaking. The blow knocked Sam over backwards, and
landing on the gravel with his bottom plowing a furrow before he
tipped over, out cold.
I often went to see him in hospital. His upper and lower jaws were
tightly attached with some unseemingly wiring. Being an unpaid
patient, the government hospital did not want to waste much
professional expertise in getting Sam’s jaws attached with neat
wiring.
Sam is one of the very rare species of hoboes who had a perfect
set of teeth. Teeth, or rather the lack of teeth, are also why the
homeless regard it as cruel when asking for money to buy a loaf of
bread, to be handed a loaf of brown bread in stead. Firstly, because
the money was seldom really intended to use for buying food. Folks
would be rather reluctant if you ask for money to buy booze.
Secondly, a loaf of white bread has a much better exchange rate
73
than a loaf of brown bread when converted into Blue Train. But the
main problem arises with eating brown bread, especially whole
wheat bread.
Does a person have any idea what pain is caused when something
hard ends up between the raw gums of a hobo? Covered with
sores caused by the Blue Train? Even if there are some worn teeth
on those gums, it is no better.
But I could not just feed Sam when visiting. Sam demanded, by
scribbling me a note the first time, that he wants me to do fifty push
ups on the ward floor every time I came to visit. He was not mad at
me at all. Rather very proud that a student of his being able to
make such sound contact, and with such devastating effect.
Sam was not the only person who taught me to be able to defend
myself, and on occasion or two the fellow bums.
Martin, the pavement artist, used to have a black belt in karate. The
black belt was about all Martin had. His karate suit long ago finding
its way to being exchanged for some liquor.
But the black belt he kept with him. He wore that when meditating.
Meditating to practice, what he called, placing mind over body.
He could not sell those pictures. Yet, many tourists took photos and
paid handsomely. This, however, kept Martin out of work, for
money meant liquor, and liquor meant that he was out cold.
“Precisely.” But no one really dared telling Martin in his face that he
too mostly tipped over when “mediating” with too much Blue Train
rushing through his veins.
I once asked Martin why he does not use other, more conventional
material.
75
It was still dark, and Martin woke me where I lay on my park bench.
Getting up, I looked in the direction where Jason was snoring like a
steam train. Like the Blue Train in the olden days.
“Leave him alone!” Martin snapped. That’s why I came to fetch you
early.”
Martin led me out of the park, and up a steep road towards the
mountain. We walked through some rough bushes, and then came
76
to the entrance of a huge storm water pipe. He entered, and then lit
a candle he dug somewhere from his shreds. Graffiti artists have
been very busy within this pipe. Some art pieces were clearly the
work of Bergies, others of Satanists.
“That is what I feel. In fact, I can not rid my mind from these
thoughts.”
“Take a good look, and never try to draw my story out of me again,”
Martin said, turning on his heels and walking away. He left me with
the burning candle. It took me the best part of two hours to fully
comprehend the picture. A masterpiece of art, if ever I saw one.
Even the angel was brought into the picture with such taste, that it
reflects no kitsch at all.
I knew then that I have found the cover page picture for a book I
had been working on in my mind for some time. How true – a good
picture says more than a thousand words. Not even a million words
77
could say what I had been seeing here deep under the surface of
the earth.
“The bliksem”24 he said. “To keep his best piece from me!”
But Reggie had quite a bit more to say when once inside the pipe,
and seeing the picture.
“Forget about that, I will pay you handsomely, once the book is
published. Just take a photo of that, and keep it with you until I
contact you.”
One evening, with a cold, wet spell on its way, Martin wanted to
demonstrate his ability of mind over body. He lay down on a park
24
Thunder bolt. Many South African are of Swedish and Norwegian
decent. Even after the Nordic nations became Christians at a very
late stage, did many go on to worship Thor, the god of thunder, on
the sideline. Thor played an important role in the life of the usually
illiterate farming community, as it was Thor’s duty to drive of the
“Ice giants” (Winter). The habit of saying “Bliksem” and “Donder”
(thunder) seems to have stuck long after the missionaries got rid of
the Thor worship.
78
bench, with only thin clothes on. During that night, several of us
tried to convince him to get out of the rain and cold.
The next day the government morgue people carried him away, not
needing a stretcher, as he was as stiff as could be.
These Cape skollies are far more dangerous than the Bergies.
They are armed to the teeth with all kinds of weapons, the craft of
making them mostly learnt while in jail. Sharpened combs and
bicycle spikes, daggers and the occasional hand gun.
This causes the victim to be paralyzed from the spot where the
spike entered downwards, until usually the bum or skollie dies an
agonizing month or two later. For the skollies make sure that the
spike is to cause severe inflammation, by for example dipping it in
urine.
Often the skollies do not come fighting. But then they have a
detrimental effect of the moral fiber of the hobo community, selling
pot and things like that. To pay for the pot, a hobo usually needs to
steal, and this can cause one to end up in trouble.
But even if he does manage to buy the pot that is not bound to be
the end of his woes. Pot usually does not agree well with Blue
Train, or any other liquor for that matter. It causes fighting, even
without liquor. A person under the influence of dagga would
become very pig headed, and getting involved with another person
also under the influence, is a nasty business indeed. With the
Bergies also come the art of sniffing glue. That, combined with pot
and spirits, really takes one on a trip.
But pot on its own - it has an even worse effect as well. Pot gives
the smoker incredible make-belief stamina. He does not feel the
sensation of chilliness creeping into his bones at night, either. With
the result, the next morning off goes another stiff.
It’s even worse now with all these Nigerians and Congolese all
around, bringing real heavy dope along.
But Martin was by no means the only bum with a talent for art. Take
Jason for example.
80
Looking after that banjo, was also not one of Jason’s shortcomings
either. He looks after that banjo far better than he looks after
himself. When not playing, he will put the banjo in a large plastic
bag. This he carries with him everywhere. When feeling like it, he
would sit on the low wall on the pavement, playing his heart out.
Some folks would put money on the pavement near him. He uses
no hat or any other item to collect money in.
That’s true. The bums usually are no beggars. Cape Town has
quite a number of beggars, though. Some of those are people who
drive to Cape Town with their own cars from as far as Paarl, a town
regarded by many as being snobbish, some thirty miles away,
every day. Not all come with their own cars, however, some come
by train. Some indeed, earn good money sitting on the pavements
of Cape Town's CBD, looking miserably. Especially those who have
some limb missing, could earn quite a bundle on top of the disability
allowance they receive every month. So, it seems, the disabled do
benefit sometimes, although it is unlikely that this can be attributed
to the constitution. Nowadays, officially begging is against the law.
Begging tends to remind the haves that there are have-nots.
81
Jason was playing his banjo, as I have never heard him play
before. Tobie put in a baritone performance as in his performance
days in opera.
"I am not the only musician in my family," Jason once said. "My wife
plays the trombone in the Salvation Army's band. My son ..." He
stopped right there, I could never drag any more out of him. When
urging him to talk, he would only get tears in his eyes and walk
away. Some time later I am sure to find him, playing a sad tune on
his worn banjo.
"I have sentimental value on this one," he would say. "If ever you
knew the whole story, you'd understand."
The best of the Bergies are Tjommie, Ghabba, Moegoe and Tsotsi.
Tjommie and Ghabba both mean something like "friend", Moegoe
has the meaning of something to the nature of "no good" and Tsotsi
is what a member of a gang of black youngsters is normally called.
Not that it is all that easy to leave any place surrounded by devils
fork fencing. But a hefty hobo boot on the butt does seem to help
folks to get some height, and not minding too much about the razor
sharp "forks" on top of the fencing.
But this Free State hobo's talking to them in his version of Tsotsi
language was most fascinating, while encouraging them to get over
that fence:
Initially I only understood the *&^$ sections. These are more or less
universal. But when repeating the other words more slowly, I
grasped some more. Especially the word "grype" interested me. It
was obviously derived from the Afrikaans word, "gryp," meaning
grab. It refers to the police. The tsotsi’s' encounters with the police
are indeed seldom that of a peace loving individual asking the
police officer on the corner the way to the nearest church.
The crash landing had him elevating his voice, swearing non-stop.
So was the bang he had when the police officer pulled away with
the van. And also, when a few yards further, the officer mistakenly
though he saw a dog running in front of the van. He applied the
brakes to a rather hasty dead still.
I could imagine that the Bergie must have been smoked stiff with
pot, to be able to bear that much hammering without losing any
steam.
84
Nobody knows what Mother Theresa’s real name is. She is named
this for she not only knits from plastic bags, but also uses wool
whenever she can afford. The jerseys and blankets she knits are
given to fellow bums, who would do her some favor in return. She
never asks for these favors, yet never refuses them either. Be they
handing her a bag full of neat plastic bags, or coming to her aid
when we were under attack.
85
"Now you are on your own," Sam says to me. "But you have been a
good student, and you will fend for yourself well."
On departure we not only leave behind the hoboes, the Bergies, the
street kids, the beggars and tsotsi’s, but also the weirdest city
species I know. People whom I call zombies. Those people who,
when returning from work, switch of from their fellow humans.
When in the lifts, being elevated to their apartments high up in
glass structures look at the roof, rather than risking catching the
eyes of a fellow human being, even be it the next door neighbor.
They slip into their apartments, totally insulated from the world till
the next day. They live out to the world through the images on their
TV’s.
Lonesome, oh so lonesome.
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7. Sheltered at Genesis
But on our arrival I decide that this excursion will be some Easter
experience for me, irrespective of what it takes.
The bus ride took us past the Cape Flats, where we could see the
sprawling squatter towns. Townships where good people live, soon
building churches from meager means. Where black folks sing on
Sundays without any musical instruments, but more beautiful for
sure than any congregation in Europe or America with the best of
church organs in aid.
Black people can sing. Yet very few really make it in the
international musical arena. Most of those making it, do so in the
jazz world, which has little in common with ancient tradition.
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Good people, but also bad people, such as the tsotsi’s. A lot of
tsotsi’s, it seems, are sorted out when going to the donkerskool25.
All these towns nestle between the mountain range and the sea.
On the other side of the lake, Bettie’s Bay, Hangklip and Kleinmond
25
Initiation schools, when boys become men. Whenever a parent
can afford it, he sends his son to a traditional initiation school in
the Transkei or Ciskei. Sometimes the boy, regarding him as
westernized, has to be abducted to go to the initiation school. For
this purpose the father can rely on a sort of initiation school
“police” force. More and more parents can no longer afford the
expenditure of sending the children away, and have to rely on
people pretending that they are properly qualified in the ancient
traditions. More and more sons die every year as a result of the
mess made by these imitators. Most die of the complications of the
circumcision that makes out an important part, but others die on
account of the hardships through which they are put at such
schools.
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Soon after our arrival we find ourselves against the sheer cliffs
dropping into the sea far down below, looking for a suitable
overhanging rock under which we can sleep. These cliffs are some
of the most famous in the world, sheer cliffs dropping a hundred
foot or so into Walker Bay, but for a tiny beach hosting the old
harbor. Calling that a harbor is indeed a misnomer, if ever there
had been one. It consists of little more than a cement ramp running
out of the sea, suitable for bringing rowing boats on shore. Some of
these lie basking in the sun in their bright colors.
“Wow! What have we here?” exclaims Jason. “Just look at all these
Bushman paintings!”
“It seems to me”, I say, “that we had rediscovered a cave that had
last been used by ancient man.” The paintings against the wall do
not look very much as any Bushman paintings I have seen in
magazines before. I rather expect them to be much older.
“Whatever” says Jason. This type of talk from the youngster is far
too academic to his liking.
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Rather, he investigates practically what good the cave holds for us.
If stone-age people could live here, we probably can as well.
We collect some of the brush against the cliffs for bedding, and
then place some dry grass on top of that. Lying down, I realize that
far many years I have not slept in such comfort; that is, bedding as
soft as this, and a roof as water tight as this.
We buy fishing gear in town, and soon discover that the pool offers
shelter to large numbers of fish.
We started living like kings after that discovery. We have the best
the ocean can offer – lobster, calamari and fish, other sea
delicacies as well, and we sell fish to tourists to buy fruit and
vegetables.
By now I am convinced that the paintings against the wall are not of
Bushman, or San as they are called now that they are basically
extinct, origin. I read somewhere that these ancient paintings were
actually the way the ancient dwellers “wrote.” Since we arrived I
have tried to “read” the paintings, and in the process started to
learn to “know” some of the characters who inhabited the cave.
It seems as though the water level must have risen and dropped
over time. I heard that prehistorical tools have been discovered on
the floors of Table and False Bays. At such stages the
subterranean waterway must have been an entrance to the cave.
At some other stages Table Mountain was an island, and then most
of this cave must have been submerged. This I could establish from
the different levels at which one would find paintings obviously
painted by people of different levels of civilization. The rising sea
level had obviously washed away the paintings of lower levels.
One day in the not too distant future, this cave will again be filled by
water. This time on account of humans, destroying the world they
are living on. Global heating. These ancient people might have
been barbarian, probably eating some enemy from time to time. But
they did not have the capacity of destroying an entire planet. With
this global heating the poles have started melting, and at some
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places the water level has started rising. Most of the world’s major
cities will first become Venice’s, and then be submerged.
The paintings from one stratum are even more fascinating than
those of the others. The people on the paintings were all rather
hunched, with flatfish foreheads. Their hair was dark. But not all.
Amongst them was a tallish woman with fair hair. She could have
been the girl next door. Yet, almost always somewhat to the side,
always seeming to serve. At first I pondered the thought that these
painting might have been painted within the past 400 years or so,
but this did not figure. In the end I came to the conclusion the girl
must have been taken a slave from a nomadic Cro-Magnon tribe.
This tribe must have wandered far from any area so far thought that
they occurred. Maybe during an ice age in the Northern
Hemisphere.
Gradually I discover that the cave must have been isolated from the
outside world for thousands of years. The rock rabbit and bat guano
was not as thick as one would have imagined. All life, so it seems
had come to an end in this cave thousands of years ago, and only
quite recently have started to develop again, but this time without
humans.
of to sleep again. Then the ancient people leave the cave, with only
the girl with the fair hair remaining. She always seems to have a
better grasp of what I wanted to know from her.
Sal indicates that I must follow her. I crawl from under the blanket,
and I follow her to the entrance. Outside, she turns, and points to a
huge rock hanging over the entrance. Then she demonstrates with
her hands how this rock at some stage tipped over, and blocked the
entrance. She indicates that quite a number of people were inside.
Making gasping sounds, she indicates that the people started
running out of air, dropping down.
This time, I indicate her to follow me, and we again enter the cave.
Pointing to the hole in the roof, so as to inquire how the people
could have suffocated, she shook her head. That hole did not exist
then.
After that dream, I often dream of people trapped inside the cave.
How the poor devils stoked the fire, not realizing that they were in
so doing running out of oxygen faster. Sal is not with the trapped
people.
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The bats must have been occupying the cave again since the roof
collapsed. This must have been longer ago, as some of the sea life
in the pool would not have flourished in total darkness.
Night after night, I dream of Sal, whom by now was Sally to me. We
learn to communicate more and more. Her fortunes at the hands of
the ape people also remind me a lot of Sally’s experience in the
orphanage.
people all fast asleep, Sal draws my attention, and then buries the
pebble and lace near the side of the cave in the soft cave floor.
When waking, I go to the precise spot Sal had buried her shining
stone. Believing myself to be a fool I start digging. The soft guano
in which Sal has dug, is now nearly petrified. But after some time, I
get hold of something even harder. A few moments later I hold the
green, yellow and red pebble. To my further amazement I find it to
be hand carved.
After this I did not dream of Sal or the ape people any more. At
least not in such a realistic way. It seems as though Sal had left me
a present when departing. This stone, I realized, must mean
something special – such as that it must give some clues as to
where Sal and her people originally came from.
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The dogs in town, and even a cat, do however not take it all that
kindly that a pair of bums come sight seeing in their quite town, and
make quite a ruckus. Jason has quite a lot to say to the bewildered
animals as well, such as ^&&%$ and *&^%!.
“This might not be the real White House, Jason, but I doubt whether
we would have been more welcome at the real one.”
“You both walk so tall, you must be Homo erectus!” replies a voice
from somewhere.
“You can call us moffies27 as you like, but we are not. And we need
not eat stolen perlemoen to have erections – with women!”
Our lift back to Hermanus drops us of near a school, where kids are
practicing to kick a rugby ball to the posts. Jason and I stand at the
fence, watching them.
“Hey you, do you want to take a shot at the posts?” a kid with
freckles asks. His mates standing behind him, apparently under the
impression that we are now going to beat a retreat.
26
Mother-of-pearl. Over the past few year thieves stripping the
coast have become a major headache. The thieves believe that
they have a right to this asset, whilst government hands out
quota’s, and the licenses often benefit people from elsewhere.
27
Slang word for gays.
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I, however, hop over the fence, holding out my hands for the boy to
pass me the ball.
“I have never been good with direction, but I could make the ball go
quite some way.”
With the ball in hand, I walk to a spot some thirty meters from the
posts. After carefully placing the ball, I step back, take a deep
breath, and then run in.
My boot hits the ball with a loud thud, launching the ball more or
less in the direction of the posts. I miss by quite some distance, but
that does not prevent the ball from traveling even further – over the
fence, over the road, over the vacant yard on the other side of the
road, and then disappearing over the side towards the beach. One
of the kids gives chase, returning with a wet ball.
“No, but Jason has,” I smile. I know this is not true, but to my
surprise Jason takes the ball, and drop kicks it through the posts
from 35 meters out.
“Yes!” one of the kids yelled. “You must have played flyhalf! Was it
with Danie Craven’s side?”
I feel a bit sorry for Jason. He might look old on account of his
weather-battered skin, and he is no spring chicken either. But
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Danie Craven must have been retired from playing when Jason
was born.
“Yeach!” says one of the kids. “You played for the enemy!”
“And you, did you at least play for Province?” another asks, pointing
to me.
“For Western Province League28,” I lie. It will be far too much effort
to explain to the boy that I have sabotaged any aspirations I might
have had, when running away from home when I was still a boy.
This is irony, I think. One person can launch his life far removed
from present misery, such as by winning the lotto. Yet, he misses
the point totally, just ending up in another mess. Another can hit the
target all right, but still end up to close to his present circumstances
to really be a new person.
I like these kids. They are tanned from outside life, they enjoy life.
Some evenings Jason and I wander into town to enjoy the night life
atmosphere. We like to sit on a bench on the high cliffs with a
slight breeze coming in from over the sea, starring out over Walker
Bay. Behind us diners make a roaring trade, and often a roaring
noise, especially over weekends and holidays.
28
The side for coloreds in the old apartheid years
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People laugh and have fun. But seeing this for a while, one also
starts seeing the tragedy. Girls whom would probably not have
seen a dozen summers in their short lives, working the streets to
pick up some-one. They are clearly hooked on drugs, and need
money for more. They are usually from very decent houses, with
parents quite content that their kids are out having fun.
In fact, I recently read in a police newsletter that the police are quite
frustrated with some parents. Like picking up a girl well after
midnight walking the streets alone, poep drunk.29 Taking her home,
the parents were very mad with the police for spoiling the kid’s fun.
This had me wondering. Are these parents any better than those of
the street kids?
The next day we kick ball with the kids, and then walk back to our
cave. On the beach we notice some smoke coming from behind a
huge rock. Almost simultaneously the sweet aroma of dagga smoke
reaches us.
We carefully approach the rock, Jason from one side, and I from
the other. Then we charge. Before even noticing anything further, I
pull the dagga cigarette from the person’s mouth, and chuck it in
the sea. Only then do I realize that the offender is but a boy of
approximately thirteen. I also notice that he is dripping wet, and
shivering, while placing perlemoen in some plastic bags.
29
Common slang for as drunk as a lord
30
Common slang for a dagga cigarette.
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“And what have we here?” I ask, but already feeling sorry that we
ever got involved.
“Is djulle die under cover kopse?”32 the boy wanted to know really
frightened.
“Why are you poaching perlemoen?” I ask not quite knowing what
else to ask.
“What else must I do?” the boy asks. “Become a Bergie or a street
kid?”
“Those were my early hobo days. I believe I would have gone back
to normal life then, but I could not leave Jack. We were
inseparable. Yet, he also always seemed to have some lady
friends, and babies to look after. I could thus not tag him along if I
left, either.”
31
Local dialect, meaning: “No man, what are you doing?”
32
“Are you under cover cops?”
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I know that Jason was trying to find some understanding for him
never returning to normal life. What is true, however, is that Jason
was extremely fond of that squirrel, and the squirrel of Jason.
The irony, the small timers usually sell their illegal harvest to the
people who have the quotas for next to nothing, and take all the
33
A special, multi-disciplinary operation set up to combat perlemoen
poaching in the area.
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risk. With the meager earnings, the small time poachers can not
afford wet suits. A colored boy walking around with a wet suit would
also almost certainly draw the attention of Neptune’s people or their
informants. The water at Hermanus is very chilly indeed.
My heart bleeds for this shivering boy, who risks big trouble for
meager earnings, so as to survive. In a country with almost half the
potential work force unemployed or in informal jobs they do not
regard as careers, one’s options are limited. This is in stark contrast
to the poaching big timers, living in extreme luxury.
“Dzissem man, wie’ djulle dannie hoe koud is daai waterrie? ‘n Man
se tottertjie is amper skoen weg vannie koue. Da’ ka’ mannie nie
eens vuur maakie, want dan kry Netptune se manne djou.”34
34
“Gee man! Don’t you know how cold that water is? Its so cold
one’s male organ almost shrinks away. And on top of that, one can
not dare to light up a fire, for that can draw the attention of
Neptune’s people.”
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Some of the rascals arrested, were out on bail for the same
offence, others had a number of encounters with police. Most had
previous convictions for poaching.
Jason and leave the boy with his poachings, our minds trapped in
frustration. Is there no way out?
Some folks have arrived, thought. They are the kids who have just
completed writing Matric, the final schools exam. Nowadays, it is
rather an art to fail Matric. So these kids have little worries when
coming to Hermanus to celebrate, even though the results are
expected only much later.
Jason and I soon learnt that this flocking of these brats was an
annual tradition. One not looked forward to by the permanent
residents. We soon learnt why. Not only do they spend most of
their time boozing and making love on the beaches, but they are
extremely rood to the town’s people. Especially old ladies, because
they know that these old folks won’t be able to give chase after
rood remarks, and give them the spankings they so much deserve.
Jason and I are also targeted. From some distance, because these
kids might have big mouths, but they are no heroes. I think Jason
actually likes this, because this gives him ample opportunity to
shout all kinds of words back to the kids, in the process being very
educational. He teaches them quite a vocabulary of swearing words
they have definitely not come across before. This superior
knowledge makes Jason very proud. In the park, he had teachers
from all over the country.
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I wonder at what prehistoric stage in our cave these kids would best
fit in. Probably somewhere between homo africanus and homo
erectus. They do tend to walk more or less upright, if not to boozed
to stand on their feet. They would most definitely not pass the test
for being Cro-Magnon people.
“The motorists probably head another way because you are too
ugly,” Jason teased them.
“We might be ugly, but we earn our money through hard work,”
Jason was silenced.
“Yeah, as the Good Book says: ‘In the sweat of one’s sufferings
you will earn your bread,’” another replied. The quote from the
Bible, irrespective of how wrangled it might be, triggered the three
of them to rehearse the Ten Commandments. Between them they
came to about 24 commandments. These include: “You may not
want your neighbor’s treasures, you may not smoke dagga, you
may not desire one’s neighbor’s beautiful wife, you may not call
another ugly.” The last apparently designed to make Jason feel
bad.
As the saying goes: “The pot can not call the kettle black,” or in
Jason and the parking attendants’ case, Jason can by now stretch
of imagination call the others ugly.
The next day one would find me working, cleaning up the garden. I
soon discover that the church congregation had moved to a new,
modern church complex some distance away, and that this old
church was basically only kept as an office for the reverend. The
“not pay” part is more a matter of not being budgeted for, than the
non-availability of funds.
The reverend, rev. Smith, and I soon discover that we share a lot of
interests. The reverend is amazed at the knowledge of this
apparent homeless bum. He is even more impressed when he
discovers that I am the writer whose stories he did not miss for
anything in the world.
“You know,” says the reverend. “Our scribe is retiring. Would you
consider taking up the position. The pay isn’t much, but we can ad
accommodation in the room behind this building to this. You will
also have lots of time to write.”
That day my entire life changed. Returning to the cave and telling
Jason, Jason just stares at the floor. My heart turns ice cold when
Jason walks directly at the pool. In my mind’s eye, I again see my
father disappearing into the sea.
Jason turns around, however, his eyes sad in the dim light.
I nod. I know, once Jason had left, I will probably never see him
again.
“I have some news for you,” continues the reverend. “This girl is
looking for you, I think.”
“My name is Rozanne Behrsma,” she says in Dutch, holding out her
hand.
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“I think you are a distant cousin” she continues. “When I read one
of your books while visiting this country, I remembered my
grandfather said his second cousin had a son who left for South
Africa, but that all contact was lost.”
“If we are related, at least you will be one of the very few people I
would not have to bend over to kiss,” she continues smiling, as
though kissing a bum is the most natural thing on earth.
I cut my words short. What is the sense of now blaming any one for
the past? This lady certainly has nothing to do with it.
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Soon I know that my dad came from a very wealthy Friesian family.
According to Rozanne he was some kind of rebel, who took to the
seas, never to return. But when coming to South Africa for
holidays, Rozanne did not have finding relatives in mind. She was
surprised to find a story written by somebody with her scarce
surname, and started investigating. The publishers referred her to
the reverend at Hermanus. She phoned a few days ago, but the
reverend kept the visit as surprise.
“You are definitely staying over with us tonight,” says the reverend
when returning with the coffee.
“I’m definitely not going to leave before I have learnt to know this
remarkable relative of mine better, either. But I have booked
accommodation in the hotel,” says Rozanne.
Or even my dad? Or maybe Sally. All I know for sure, I feel like a
schoolboy who has really fallen in love for the first time.
Rozanne and I walk through the Onrust River, flowing quite strongly
from the lagoon, now fed by late winter rain. This gives me an
excuse to pick her up, and carry her to the beach on the other side.
“The pollution in this lagoon is often very high. The ecoli count often
reaches about 500. That’s very dangerous.”
Apart from the usual problems facing many South African estuaries
– alien vegetation sucking up scarce water, rising populations
drinking the water, and agricultural flow offs enriching water
stimulating algae growing, some arse hole built a sewerage line
right in the river bed. The water seldom flows strong enough to
wash the silt out to sea, resulting in most estuaries suffocating to
death.
We walk the beach, holding hands. I can feel the years of hang-
ups running out of my system.
go, and she seems quite content. After a while we realize that the
reverend might be on his way back to pick us up, and we turn back.
I haven’t been around rough life for nothing. I know the other two
are coming in from behind, and I drop low down on my knees,
rolling over. This catches them completely by surprise, and I
manage to get a boot to the chin of the one nearest.
second. I grab hold of his wrist, and falling backwards, I put a boot
in his belly, kicking hard.
This sends the thug flying over my head, pulling the recovering two
who were just getting up, down. Together they drop down a straight
height of some twenty feet into the chilly sea below.
But my anger does not abide. I pick up a nice sized rock, and sling
it at the fleeing thug. It smashes into the back of his head with a
sickening, cracking sound. He drops like being shot in the heart.
And here come these thugs, scaring the living daylights out of yet
another foreign tourist! How many times have I not read of tourist
surviving attacks, saying they are never, ever to set foot in South
Africa again? To loose Rozanne before even being sure I have won
her heart, makes me crazy.
I grab hold of the first thug I can lay my hands on, picking him high
above my head, and making for the cliff. I plan to have him meeting
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"I'll hang around for a while, seeing whether you ever come round
in asking me to get married," she laughs, starting to run in the
direction of the Onrust River mouth, but not letting go of my hand.
The same evening, Rozanne, the reverend, Jason and I sit on deck
chairs, looking at the magnificent stars while a cod is roasting on
the charcoal. I have an unusual chilliness on my face, despite it
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“A well built lad reaching for seven foot, having a baby face?” she
said jokingly. “I want no man with me looking like a sissy! But we
can have it trimmed a bit if you like.”
The way Rozanne worked with my beard and hair is far removed
from what I had become used to in Cape Town. Mandy used to do
the hair of all the bums in our park. She was a hairdresser once,
she claims. Whether she was, or not, does not matter much - if you
are a bum.
The price for having Mandy tending to one’s hair was a new pair of
scissors. For hygienic reasons, she would explain. We all
suspected rather that the price was fixed by the fact that one could
have a pair of scissors, basically brand new, more or less
exchanged for a bottle of Blue Train. The current exchange rate of
the scissors to the Blue Train was more or less equal, we would
tease her.
"One can not but get the impression that this new constitution tends
to favor the criminal more than the peace, God loving citizen," the
reverend complained when leaving the police station.
The attackers had the audacity to come and lay charges for being
attacked. They beat us to the police station.
I had no answer. If ever the police in Cape Town got wind of even
the slightest possibility of the Cape bums going to be attacked by
the skollies or Bergies, they made the split very fast. Later, some
would come round and make some notes before the wounded, and
now and then even a corpse or two, are taken away.
Jason sits on the railing of the veranda, playing his banjo. He has
mastered the ability to play individual notes, not making use of
simply pressing. He plays the one cheerful tune after the other,
tunes he knows by listening to them. For he has never learnt to
read music.
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While waiting for the meal, fit for a king, Jason plays on again. This
time the tunes are rather dreamingly, some actually being sad. I
realize that he is saying good bye.
The reverend and I have pleaded in vain he stays on. "I appreciate
you worrying about me, but I have seen in the past. I simply can't
handle work stress."
The country has indeed lost some of its most brilliant writers and
reporters this way. People who have just started making a mark in
the wold of literature or fine journalism, when they were swallowed
by this dark monster. Some were fortunate, and ended up in
newspapers’ sub offices, where they change the average writing of
others into masterpieces. As long as they themselves are not
exposed.
Those, who can so truly say to the less fortunate who have this
black monster pulling then right down to the existence of being
hoboes: "There, but for the grace of the Lord, go I."
Jason surprises me, however: "I also miss my wife. I haven’t seen
her for quite some time ... I really do miss her."
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"The two of you being so happy, having found soul mates, reminds
me of what I am missing. The wife and I are sole mates,
irrespective...”
He is still gently playing on his banjo, but now one could not be
mistaken. He is playing a very sad tune...a favorite of many moons
ago: "I na wanna play house, because when mommy and daddy
played house..."
"She was such a beautiful little girl. She went to work with me,
because my wife was a professional person - a theater nurse.
Being with me she could play. All the folks at my work loved her.
Enjoyed having her around...
He stops playing. His voice is trembling. "I stood in the street with
her broken little body in my hands. I was torn apart. To tell my
wife..."
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I feel a chill running up my spine, and then thinking of the little coffin
in Martin’s picture, with the little angel flying above. So Jason at
some stage told Martin his own story. Nobody will probably know
Martin’s story, especially now that Martin’s gone to where one day
we will all go. I really need to write that book. That picture can do so
much heeling.
Jason starts playing again. "In time my wife forgave me, but I could
not forgive myself. Not only for what I had done to my little girl. At
least she is an angel in heaven...one of the most beautiful ones
mind you, but also what I did to my wife. She is with the Salvation
Army now, you know." He does not recall once mentioning to me
that she plays in the Salvation Army band. But is also strikes me
that Martin had in fact not revealed some of his soul to me. Jason,
at some point, must have told Martin his story, and Martin made the
drawing in a safe, dry place. So Martin has died with his own
secrets quite intact, unless he too lost a child. I remember the child
on the picture is a boy.
"I am going to see her. Maybe... If at least she can get back on her
feet, I will have the courage to try..."
At this point, the reverend gets up. "Jason, come into my study with
me."
The two of them goes into the house, leaving Rozanne and me with
the fish nearing being fully roasted. We are silent.
Later, when the reverend and Jason return, I notice that Jason is a
changed man. For sure, the reverend has found something
applicable in Bible of forgiving, and doing the Lord's will. Later, I
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learnt that he also referred Jason to the part stating that the Lord
has known one before you had even been born. That the Lord had
by then, already decided on what would happen to you.
"Maybe I will bring my wife visiting ...in fact, I will definitely bring her
visiting. To also make sure that she sees things the Lord's way..."
We say grace before eating the cod. The reverend prays, saying
thank you for the many beautiful things that had come together
today. Us surviving the attack at Sand Bay, and then knowing for
sure that we are in love; Jason finding his way with the Lord again
with hope to patch up things with his wife again…
“Amen.”
“Madame, if only you know what miracle you have witnessed today,
you will not doubt in the least that there is a living, loving God,”
Jason says with the most convincing voice.
“I can not argue that …I want to be sure that I too am a child of the
Lord…”
With Jason playing his banjo much more beautiful than was the
case at Martin’s funeral. Or so it seems.
“That too,” she insists. “But you have a huge inheritance waiting to
be claimed. It had been taken care of by a family trust – taken well
care of.”
for Samantha and her parents. “You can buy them many white
houses,” she replies.
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10. Revelation
The next day Jason leaves by bus. Jason’s expression on his face
tells it all: He is going to try his level best. With him, he takes a
Christmas gift from Fred and Rozanne for Samantha. It is a
portable radio in a watertight suitcase.
“But please tell her that her big Christmas present is still on its
way,” Rozanne says, and the bus pulls away.
The next moment the kids from school, with their rugby ball, are
swarming all around him. “Come and show us again how far you
can boot the ball!” they urge.
This time, for safety reasons, the kids had Fred kicking away from
the sea. The ball clears the road and disappears through the
window of a top floor apartment. Unfortunately, the window was
closed to keep out the breeze. Instinctively Fred dives for cover
with the kids. A moment later the head of a very mad man appears
through the hole in the window, swearing viciously at whatever
rascal was responsible.
126
Realizing that the kids would be minus their rugby ball, Fred
marches off to the apartment building, requesting the kids to come
along. “That gent there won’t give the ball to a bum, and he won’t
hit you with me around, Fred stated.
He knocks on the door, with the door being flung open a moment
later. The man comes out screaming, but stops abruptly when
realizing he was viciously addressing the belly of a very big man.
He immediately calms down quite a bit.
“Why do you kick the ball in the street, with an entire rugby field just
across the street? You can cause a lot of damage that way.”
“That’s precisely where we had been kicking the ball” Fred states to
the surprise of the man.
“Yes, Uncle, he kicked the ball right from his own half of the field!”
one of the boys ads.
“He did!” the boy insists, with the others nodding their heads in
support.
“That I have to see!” the man says,” collecting the ball on the way
out.
“Don’t worry, I will gladly pay for any damage you cause at the
apartment building, kicking from here.”
On the house, Fred thinks. That’s an idea. But then he will have to
kick even harder than a few minutes ago. Fortunately the wind is
now blowing right from behind. Striking the ball, Fred knows that
he’s never struck a ball with such force.
The ball climbs high, and then starts flying with the aid of the wind.
Fred is so focussed on where the ball is going to land, that he does
not even notice it flying high through the upright posts. Then the
ball hits the asbestos roof of the building, shooting up straight,
before dropping back on the roof, and then rolling over the side to
land in the garden in front of the apartment building.
“Well, if I haven’t seen this with my own eyes, I would never have
believed this!” the man says. “By the way, my name is Jack!”
By now the Christmas season is really on. Fred and Rozanne often
go walking the streets, living the experience of joy and fun. The
multi-colored lights flash, making a most beautiful whole. What pity
that this country’s people of different color, which should be the
most valuable asset, could not do the same. Rather, these
differences are to often the reason for conflict and sorrow.
The poor have been betrayed. The state - which vowed to fight for a better life for
those who had been disadvantaged - has fallen horribly short in its vows to deliver
health, welfare, land and opportunities.
This indictment was delivered on Tuesday by the South African Human Rights
Commission, a body appointed by parliament to monitor human and social rights.
The SAHRC said the government's failure to the poor was not because of lack of
funds. It added that the government's promises to deliver had been undermined by
gross under spending, maladministration and general incompetence.
It said a plan for universal access to anti-retroviral drugs by those with HIV and
Aids should be the government's top priority, and the health department's budget
should reflect this.
"The urgency of reducing new infections and treating people living with HIV/Aids
requires not only political will but additional funding to tackle the pandemic. The
court ruling needs to be implemented immediately," according to the report
released by SAHRC chairperson Jody Kollapen in Johannesburg.
The report assessed the national, provincial and local governments for the years
2000 to 2001 and 2001 to 2002. Overall the commission found policies and court
rulings to be progressive, but many departments and officials lapsed in
implementation.
unfair Kollapen said the commission was shocked by the gap between those who
qualified for government social grants, such as child support grants and pensions,
and those who were actually receiving the grants.
The Eastern Cape came up for criticisms, including that the province was planning
to cut its health budget by two percent "despite the fact that it is one of the poorer
provinces with huge problems in service delivery as well as administration and
corruption".
On the right to land, the report found that one of the biggest obstacles to land
reform was the under-spending of land-reform funds.
"For instance, of the R327-million targeted for the 2001/2002 financial year, only
R162-million was spent."
The report concluded that about 80 percent of the land was still owned by white
commercial farmers. The state and the previously disadvantaged groups,
particularly Africans, share only 20 percent and between 13 million and 14 million
rural inhabitants are affected by lack of access to land. Poor implementation,
corruption and lack of capacity continue to affect the land reform process, the
report added.
Kollapen said that even if the government could argue that there had been some
improvements from the time the report was compiled, these would not significantly
change the message of lack of delivery.
He referred to a recent experience while visiting the Eastern Cape where people
were drinking water from the streams without even purifying it by boiling it.
"The report on farming conditions, which we intend releasing soon, will also point
to this lack of delivery," Kollapen said.
Netshitenzhe explained that massive efforts had been made to try to improve the
administration of the child support grants.
He said the government acknowledged that there were problems in the detail, but
to simply characterize the entire process of administering grants as "chaotic" was
unfair.
This article was originally published on page 1 of The Star on 23 April 2003
133
Aggenbach’s bread
Ever wondered why the West Bank of the Jordan is called the West
Bank, but the stretch of Cape coastal land lying to the east of the
Atlantic Ocean is called the West Coast?
This apparent paradox does not make out part of the story, except
for giving some geographic indication of where this true story had
its origin.
Oubaas Aggenbach was well known is this West Coast land, lying
to the east of the Atlantic. Everybody knew him - the people form
Bushmanland, everybody from Calvinia, Niewoudtville,
Loeriesfontein, Springbok, all the way up to Steinkopf and
Nababeep and the entire Namaqualand. In fact, he was as well
known in the entire Noordweste as is Eugene Terre’Blanche in the
now-days North West Province.
The wife placed the dough in a tin can with a tight lid, which he
strapped to his back.
The loaded shot gun was also slung over his shoulder, and of he
went.
After a while the dough had enough, being cramped up like this,
shooting of the lid like a rocket, first hitting the unfortunate
Aggenbach behind the back of his head, then slinging his hat some
distance away. Some dough followed the lid, smearing the back of
Aggenbach’s head.
Aggenbach, thinking it was the shotgun that hit him, fell down in
order not to die on his feet, which he heard was very unhealthy.
And so he lay, flat on his face in the sand of the West Coast to the
east of the Atlantic, waiting to die. Realising after some time that he
was not dead yet, he started wondering whether maybe, just
maybe, he had not been hit quite as fatally as he first thought.
explained, brains are very easily infected. In the mean time she got
very upset with the dog for insisting to lick up some of Aggenbach’s
brains which dripped on the floor.
Because that is what the fast food business is all about. Especially
if one’s pizza den is situated in a suburban shopping center. Folks
usually only come to the center on their way home from work, and
pop in at the supermarket in the center. The supermarket, after all,
is the anchor lessor. The people rush past the pizza place, also
past the hairdresser, the hardware shop and the dry cleaners
depot. The bottle store and the drug store are busy, however. The
strange changing weather cause many people to have the flue. It is
not sure why so many people run into the bottle store, however.
Very few of these people would give the pizza place even a second
glance. They are in a hurry.
But the aroma of onions frying does the trick. Soon the first
customers pop in, start looking at the take away menu’s as though
they had planned all along to pop in for a pizza. Soon the aroma of
other ingredients will start filling the air – the bacon, green peppers,
the pepperoni.
“I’d like a pizza.” What a brilliant answer. Who would have guessed
that one was to get the answer right?
138
Life in the pizza business is tough. But Afrikaners now have very
little else they can do – that is, becoming entrepreneurs. If we do
not have a professional qualification, or a rich father or uncle, one
pretty much have had it. No wonder thousands of Afrikaners have
emigrated, though, ironically, many of them professional people.
South Africa is probably the only country in the world where the
ruling majority is also the beneficiaries of the affirmative action
policy. One can not but wonder how long the Afrikaners are going
to be punished for the apartheid sins of their fathers, whether they
ever voted for the then ruling party, or not. Or have even been
borne by the time the previous government has abolished
apartheid. The racism we know now, has been brought back by the
present government. It s called empowerment.
But a pizza den is hardly the place to be involved with the fine
technical details of politics. It upsets one, and takes the appetite
away, and that is very bad for business at a pizza den.
They do not bother to greet. Simply place the order as though you
are some dead rat the cat has brought into the house. Yet, I doubt
that many of them have any reason to have this attitude, but for
perhaps the fortunes of a boot somewhere kicking you into a
position.
There was, indeed, not much refined about this doctor. He kept
some kind of drug store in the boot of his car. He took his black
assistant along when visiting his outpost clinics in the district, more
often than not a mere gathering place under a tree. People swear
to have seen him stopping, and getting out of the car with his shot
in the hand. Without even asking he would start away down the
waiting queue of mothers with crying babies in their arms, dishing
36
“That Master Doctor gave me the shot right through my jacket’s
sleeve.”
140
out shots. By the time the first one to have been given a shot
realizes that he’s been “bitten” and starts crying out even louder,
four others would have had it as well. The assistant would trot
along after the doctor dishing out pills by the hands full.
Government pays so why bother? That was the old South Africa
when these types of medical services had sufficient funding.
Nowadays, it seems, funding about covers the dishing out of
inferior condoms. Neatly stapled to a note stating that this is part of
government’s campaign against Aids, and hiding the: “Made in
India” bit. The Chinese stuff seems to be too small for South African
males. They don’t seem to work very well when the front is cut of to
have them fitting, even if they are neatly pulled over the broomstick,
as demonstrated by the nurse at the clinic.
At some advanced age the wife of this doctor died, and he married
the clinic sister; a real old maid.
She immediately became Mrs. Doctor Naas Benade. But then, only
a month or so later the doctor too passed away. Not ready to be
stripped of her achieved fame, she became Mrs. the late Doctor
Naas Benade. Now try to fit all that on to your checkbook.
Yet, those Afrikaners who have somehow managed to slip past the
guillotine, are often the dogs that bite their fellow dogs the most
141
But those things are so horrible. No person can imagine it, and she
is desperately trying to remove that horror from her mind. No one
will ever learn from my mouth what I know. What I know, makes me
love her even more. I want to protect her from the wide world and
all hostilities out there.
But for now, we are in no position. We have to make things work for
keeping our young marriage afloat. We can not yet afford any, yes,
affirmative, aid in the den. At the moment it is only the two of us,
working until late in the nights. Thankfully people do not want
pizzas early in the morning. But once we are in our pizza den, there
is no way out before late. Very late. Because you will regularly be
on the verge of packing your things for the night, when some
couple who have enjoyed the night, decide they are hungry, and
phone to order a pizza.
Making those past midnight pizzas is one thing, but when nobody
comes to pick them up…
As large as Kobus is, so petite is his wife. One can not really
believe that she would master – if that were the correct expression
for a real lady – a large pizza. Seeing them marching through the
door of the Pizza Den is always the highlight of that particular day.
If some one in that family is absent, it is because he or she is ill or
away on some sports tour.
There are some other families or individuals that give us joy. Martin,
the man with the Harley Davidson, for example. Eccentric is
143
perhaps the best way to describe this bachelor and his dog,
Scoundrel. This dog has its own helmet, compulsory for any person
on a motor bike in South Africa. Nobody will convince Martin of
Scoundrel not being a person. Scoundrel, at least, has much more
character than many of our clients, and despite his name, much
better manners.
One can hear the Harley Davidson coming along two blocks away –
maybe more. Then one can start preparing one extra large
vegetarian, and a small Pepperoni, the latter for Scoundrel. Soon
Scoundrel will be coming running into the Pizza Den, his helmet still
on his head, and hop on to a barstool at the counter. His master will
come in a bit later. Already digging somewhere in the folds of his
leather jacket for his wallet to pay. Never even making a comment
about the price. Even though we might be the cheapest in town,
you will always have those who make a scene of being ripped of.
Yes, when speaking they are against the country’s liberal abortion
laws, and shocked by the thousands of unborn babies being
37
murdered. But when their own daughters trap oor die tou and
ends up in die ander tyd38 there is nothing wrong with an abortion.
Then murdering the grand child-to-be is much better of having to
face the humiliation of having a daughter with hormones.
37
Has sex without being married
38
Becomes pregnant
144
Lillian is another client that draws Susan from the kitchen. The Lord
must have sent Lillian to earth as an angel to bring joy to many
people. She talks no end, and takes liberties. We had barely
opened the Pizza Den, when Lillian first danced into our lives.
Between her chatting away, she placed the order. Before we knew
it, she was in the kitchen with Susan, still chatting no end.
Normally we would have asked some one to leave the kitchen. But
not with Lillian. Some-how, I believe the words would never have
been expressed, even if one had a hard and fast rule on this.
Especially if the person would literally stick his nose into the pot,
and make comments – even telling what to do. But Lillian has the
way about her that does not offend. As she herself once stated it:
“What you see, is what you find.”
once. The Mitchell family visiting Mexico, and going to see the
Aztec pyramids.
39
More or less meaning a new fashion – something recently
invented.
146
They came in all sizes and forms. Mini-pizzas up to family size, and
even larger. Yip, some South African families are very big, a-la-
Italy.
South Africans, in fact, did not miss pizzas. We could eat well, and
a lot, without knowing pizzas. If we wanted to try something else,
we had Wimpy’s, Kentucky Fried Chicken and O’Hagans to go to.
Even the Spur, the one trying to be more American than the next.
The only significant franchise arriving at our shores after pizzas,
was Mc Donald’s, that participated in the disinvestment action
against dear passed away old apartheid. Passed away, but also
kept alive by the new government to use as the horrid Boogie and
when they messed up something, and it could be blamed on the
new government. Then apartheid is quickly dug up, and hanged
again.
147
But how did it happen that we decided to start with a pizza den?
With pizzas only just becoming popular, my sister, Mary was just
old enough for boy friends to start calling for more than just
assistance with homework.
As is usual the case, the most persistent callers were those that
were not welcome. The one after the other got the message to not
call again. After all, she eventually had a boyfriend.
One day Mary had a bright idea. She discussed the matter with
Mark, who thought it to be a bright idea as well.
When Joseph again asked Mary for a date, to his surprise Mary
accepted. But, she said, she had a better idea. She was going to
make pizzas. Why not join the family?
Mary only ate half her pizza. The rest of us had eaten ours, except
Mother, whom politely left a piece, pretending to eat, so as not to
finish before the houseguest. This was the first time, however, that
she had any trouble in finishing after any boy in her house.
After the last bit, Joseph suddenly remembered that he had other
urgent important tings to attend to. He declined an offer for coffee,
the expression on his face resembling being offered a bowl of
poison.
And then he was gone, his motor bike accelerating, the roaring
being heard several street blocks away.
But Joseph had scarcely left the house, or Mary was in tears,
sobbing as though just loosing her first teen-age love. She
disappeared to her room from where we could hear her sobs,
busting deep from inside her heart.
Mother went into the room and tried to console Mary. She came out
a while later, with Mary still sobbing, and Mother none the wiser.
When Mark turned up a while later, all smiles, even he had to keep
his trap shut, or is verbally lashed by Mary. Mary soon returned to
her room. And only then, from Mark, did we learn what happened.
Mary told a friend that she could not get rid of Joseph. The friend
then told her of a remedy the young girls had many years ago, to
get rid of boys who were unable to get the message. Simply invite
him for pancakes, with one pancake one pancake not being what it
seems to be. This pancake, called a doekpannekoek, is made by
first cutting a handkerchief the size of a pancake. It is then put in
the wet dough, and then baked with the pancakes. This “pancake”
must end up in the plate of the unfortunate boy. Once, finding that
he had been served with a doekpannekoek (cloth pancake), he will
excuse himself. Even the most thickheaded boy will get THAT
message.
150
“So Mary decided to rather bake Joseph a doek pizza” Mark said.
Not even our laughing made Mary feel any better. Joseph did,
however get the message, although knowing nothing about the
doekpannekoek tradition.
Tonight is our big night. In our till we now have enough money to
pay back the last of our debts to my parents. Soon, if all goes well,
we will be able to start thinking of a family of our own. But more
important, we might have the opportunity to do some catching up in
the less hostile aspects that seemed to avoid Susan throughout her
life.
The three blokes who ran into the Pizza Den had no intention of
buying pizzas however. One is pointing a revolver at us, and his
companions don’t seem to be the friendly type either. Our day’s
takings in the till destined to open up a new life for us, was flashing
through my head.
“And I’ll have a Tropicana – extra large as well,” says his partner,
mocking friendly.
152
The last one seems not be able to make up his mind. For this he is
hammered in the ribs with the elbow of the hand holding the
revolver.
“Come on, get a move on with it,” demands the gun wielding
customer. He, in the mean time, has helped himself to a coke from
our fridge, and sat down. “We have a long way to go to Gauteng
40
…GP . GP for Gangsters Paradise, you know!” He laughs at his
own joke.
The only capital punishment South Africa now has, is the informal
one. Vigilantes taking matters into their own hands, but I am
actually referring to something else. Sending some one to jail, even
for a short period for a minor offence, means sentencing the person
to death. Gang rapes are frequent and even often a way of
“welcoming” a new inmate. This rape often has the inmate
contracting aids, and he’s had it.
40
GP is the car registration letters for the Gauteng province, where
both Johannesburg and Pretoria are situated.
153
With the pizzas in the wood fired oven, and the French fries in the
boiling oil, Mr. Gun turns to Susan. “By the way lady, can you
please hand me the contents of the till?”
The same moment Susan presses the enter button to have the till
kicking open, she swings a hand full of flour in the eyes of Mr. Gun
who was standing close by. In the ensuing confusion, I grab hold of
the gun hand, smashing it on the counter. This sees the gun flying
into the now vacant customer’s section of the pizza den.
The next moment I run the knife through the same hand that’s
carried the revolver, smashing the blade deep into the counter and
so pinning the mischievous hand to the counter. No traveling to
Gauteng tonight for that gent, at least.
I, in the mean time, have kicked the oven door open. A hot oven
can be very useful. The last crook tries to make it around the
counter to the revolver, but my clumsy boot gets into the way and
sends him down. When trying to get up, I grab hold of his one hand,
and put it in the oven. Susan kicks the oven door hard.
“&*^%$@!” 41
Susan and I no turn our attention to Mr. Gun, who did not have our
attention for a while. We usually tend to our customers better than
that.
But there was no harm coming from that side as well. Mr. Gun has
fainted, and hangs from his hand still firmly pegged to the counter.
I kiss her in the neck. “Now our new life can really start.”
41
Not actually translatable
155
“You know, those SeSotho’s are not all that clever as well. When
those folks of Botshabelo stole the horse, they took it to their
makokoo to slaughter.”
Soon after the incident Tsiane went to jail, and was fired. Not
because of mocking the SeSotho’s, but because he helped himself
to a government vehicle over the weekend, and overturned it
somewhere in the Southern Free State whilst under the influence.
This more or less put Tsiane on track for a glorious political career.
But first, he had to be re-appointed by government, and fired again
for liquor-related offences involving a government vehicle.
The last time Tsiane was fired by the government, was shortly
before the 1994 elections, which brought the ANC to power.
Tsiane, out of work, reported to the National Party’s offices as a
volunteer. I was present when my boss, who felt very guilty for firing
Tsiane, advised him over the telephone to do so. I don’t believe my
boss had it in mind that this move would launch Tsiane into politics,
but might open some door as an employee.
But the Nationalist Party, being the governing force behind decades
of apartheid, was determined to change into a non-racial party, and
was desperately seeking black faces. Even be they somewhat
intoxicated faces.
157
When the proportionality list came out, Tsiane’s name was high on
the list. It was evident that he will be elected. His name was even
higher on the list than that of a former black member of the
provincial Executive Committee, a person with a master’s degree
and former schools’ inspector. Tsiane has made it, it was up to him.
Tsiane and my boss’s game were not all that strange to me as well.
I, myself, wrote all the speeches of a colored former colleague who
was parliamentarian under the new dispensation. He too, was
reduced to unemployment by the high position Tsiane took on the
list.
From my side, I cannot say that I felt all that sorry for Tsiane as
well. During all the years, despite him constantly trying and
succeeding in making a fool out of me, I tried to get him on safer
ground. It was my potluck that I once inherited him, and then later,
in another position, found him to be appointed in my division behind
my back.
Discovering that I had been had, and was stuck with Tsiane a
second miserable time in my life, I was determined: either Tsiane
was going to walk the narrow road, or he was going to be kicked
out. The first option proved to very difficult, as Tsiane flatly denied
him having any problem, despite the complaints of the public and
colleagues piling up my desk.
But when I did find out, Tsiane was very upset, flatly denying. He
was so upset, that his belly protested and he could not come to
work for almost a week at a time.
By then there was also not much left of the brilliant Tsiane I used to
know. He was strangely unable to understand even the slightest bit
of what was expected of him in his new portfolio. He did, what most
others would do – try to focus on those aspects of which he had
some know-how. This he found in a sister component, which was
159
But back to the poor horse, which was probably hoarse after the
aborted effort to slit its throat.
“But Tsiane, I thought you and Fair Deal Mohapi were palls?”
42
Flame, often where a person has red hair, but only when the
person has a fiery temper as well.
43
Very eager to work
160
Its very unpleasant writing about this lady, therefore I would like to
concentrate on Tsiane. Because, despite everything, we remained
friends. There were dips, off course. Such as with my second round
encounter with him, my boss warned me that Tsiane had made up
his mind that I was to blame for all his misfortunes. That I need to
take proper care for the safety of my family.
Ironically, both bosses just a few weeks prior to firing Tsiane, told
me that I did not know how to work with black people.
Yet, when things went wayward the first round, Tsiane was very
mad with Boss 1. After being locked up after over turning the
government vehicle, Tsiane used his one allocated call to phone
my boss, to come and bail him out. This was the middle of the
night, in the middle of the weekend. It was some 100 miles off. The
boss simply could not see why he should leave his family alone, to
go and bail some one out in a distant town, after stealing and
overturning a government vehicle.
And so parted our ways. From time to time, I would learn something
about Tsiane, but always the same story. Drinking and looking for a
job. He did get married in the mean time, however. To the mother
of his child.
But our ways were not to be separated for ever. I was tasked to
create a new component to assist preparing the work for the
coming of the new South Africa. This work could not be done by
white people alone.
44
That’s a very bad / evil white man
162
“I know you and Tsiane did not quite see eyeball to eyeball,” Peter
said. That was, to put it in some awkward terms.
With all those excellent applications, plus the one of Fair Deal, I
was, to put it mildly, not very eager to get myself involved with
Tsiane again. What I did not know, was that Peter had also gone to
talk to my new boss, and has apparently struck a deal.
But in this matter, I had the final say. Eventually, to get Peter of my
neck, I said Tsiane could also come for an interview. But knowing
the quality of the other applications, I knew that Tsiane had no
snowball’s hope in hell. Or so I thought.
But one candidate did show up, hours before it was his turn for the
interview. In the end, we had the interview as well.
One vacancy, one candidate. One did not have much of a choice.
163
I only later found out that Peter got hold of the short list, with all the
contact details. Together, Peter and Tsiane went to see the other
candidates. First, being very reasonable. Explaining that Tsiane
was unemployed, and therefore should be offered the opportunity.
By then, South Africa’s unemployment problem had not taken on
the magnitude of what is the case now.
Maybe they also convinced the candidates that I was the worst
person to work for.
Or maybe, as I found out later, Peter was a Griqua chief, apart from
a former head master from the days when teachers were still
allowed to whip kids. His knick name from those days was not
Groot Vuur 45 for nothing.
I got Peter back for that. When I learnt of this incident, I made Peter
Tsiane’s supervisor, and I applied the screws. Being Tsiane’s
supervisor was the worst punishment I could think of. At first, it
seemed as though I had made the mistake of my life, with the two
of them having a ball. Peter, after all, was also well known for his
capacity when hard liquor was to be had.
45
Huge fire
164
pally. He, off course, tried to put as much distance between the
trouble Tsiane was ending up in, and his role in that, that I almost
felt more sorry for Peter than for Tsiane.
In the run up to the new South Africa, came the three chamber
parliament. A house for whites (the dominant one), a house for
coloreds and one for Indians.
Tsiane put in some leave, to assist his old friend with the campaign.
165
This made me even more an unwilling politician. For whist the two
of them went through their campaign the jolly way, some one had to
look into insignificant matters such as election strategy, policy,
speech writing, issuing media releases. This had to be done from
way behind the scenes, for the same legal requirements applied to
me.
Then we hit the jackpot. The MP, with the impressive last name of
Leeuw, subpoenaed Peter46. Independent candidates had to get
the signatures of at least 300 voters in the respective constituency.
Peter got way more than the required 300, but unfortunately some
people liked Peter so much, they signed his lists more than once.
Peter came through, when it was discovered that even by striking
these signatures, Peter still had more than 300 signatures of
support.
But Mr. Leeuw set the pace. We soon learnt that the Tax collector
had a warrant of arrest out for Mr. Leeuw for not submitting his tax
returns. It was a bit of a handicap of conducting an election
campaign whilst running from the law.
We, on the other, new there was one place Mr. Leeuw could not
avoid: The election court where his candidacy would have to be
officially confirmed. Some one tipped of the police. Also the media.
46
Old Afrikaans for Lion
166
Some time later, we discovered that there was a warrant out for the
arrest of Mrs. Leeuw as well. Some civil matter where she did not
pitch at court. So again, it was arranged that she too be arrested
amidst some publicity.
I showered twice that evening. I knew politics were dirty, but I could
not imagine all that dirty.
Had Peter not started celebrating too soon before the election
booths closed, he would most probably have received the eight
votes he needed to win.
But that was not to be the end of this sidetrack. Mr. Leeuw was
sequestrated. In South Africa one may be a parliamentarian even if
one was found guilty of dodging the tax collector, but one is not
when one had gone bankrupt.
All the trouble, to be at some point where one had not been quite at
soon before. Or something like that. Peter would have been the
logical candidate now, had it not been that he had been expelled
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One can be open on this matter now, as Peter has passed away
some years ago. By then Peter was no longer a parliamentarian.
He survived into the new South Africa, but not his political career.
This time round, he came out of politics with some pension as well.
But before this happened, major shifts were to take place. The
house of which Peter was a member, fell in turmoil when an act, the
Act on Political Interference, was scrapped. This meant that parties
could legally have members of more than one race. The ruling
Nationalist party soon started rounding up the members of the
House of Peter’s.
Peter also joined the Nationalist Party. He, for once, did not follow
my advice, which was to hang on, giving enough indications, but
not actually crossing the floor before a major deal was struck. Peter
had had enough.
Soon after Peter came back to home for good, his wife, Hildebrand,
died. This was especially tragic, as she lived in a colored rural area,
called Thaba Patchoa, some 70 miles from Bloemfontein. Peter
was the chairperson of the local council, but because of his own
employment, he basically only came home over weekends. When
he went to Cape Town as parliamentarian, he came home even on
fewer occasions.
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Peter and Hildebrand had never been blessed with children of their
own. The pair did take over some of the brother’s kids, of which
there seemed to be abundance.
Later years, Peter would suffer from hip ailments for these
marathon-distances to his true love.
Now, for the first time in their lives, they were really together, and
together at home. Then Hildebrand died. Peter simply started
melting away after that, and soon followed her to the grave.
That was the second time in my life I heard a boss saying to me:
“You do not know how to work with black people, and I am taking
him directly under my control.”
For the second time in my life a boss fired the same black person
soon afterwards. For the same reason.