Cry Freedom Too (revised 2009)

1

2

Cry Freedom too (Revised 2009) Foreword Are South Africans really free after 1994? Fifteen years of democracy has been celebrated with big fanfare and spending millions of dollars, but the question remains: “Are all South Africans free?” Are all South African actually and equally free? Does the constitution, the fifteenth anniversary also now celebrated, really offer the freedom guaranteed in the Bill of Human Rights? The writer, Herman Toerien, who has an Honors Degree in Political Science

and

is

an

experienced

news

reporter,

studied

Constitutional Law part time in 1994, thus under the new constitutional dispensation. He was also a political researcher for the African Christian Democratic Party, but free lance for the past year. Yet,

the

year after he

completed

his Constitutional Law

qualification, he himself became a victim of the new dispensation. The resulting conflict, utilizing the instruments to protect human rights, such as the Human Rights Commission and the Public Protector, had not yet been resolved, a decade and a half later. Yet, Cry Freedom too, rich in symbolism, is not his own story, not quite. He explores reality as how many others battle to have their human rights to be upheld. The tales of most characters in this book are true, drawn from electronic newspaper archives, and some are based on reality, some he met in person, all carefully woven into a single story. Not all try to make the constitution work. Some have given up hope of a life as painted in the constitution. Rather than criticizing the constitution, he points out that not even the best constitution in the world can guarantee heaven on earth. He uses footnotes in order to have the text itself flow easier with the

3

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

Cry Freedom too Herman Toerien

Foreword Index 1. The awakening 2. Ripped by the sea 3. Changing seasons 4. Ripped by the tide 5. Let the children come to me 6. Hobo excursions 7. The exodus 8. Sheltered at Genesis 9. To the White House 10. Revelation

Aggenbach’s bread

An evening in South African suburbia

They eat horses don’t they?

5

Preamble of the South African Constitution

We, the people of South Africa Recognize the injustices of the past; Honor those who suffered for justice and freedom in our land, Respect those who have worked to develop our country; and Believe that South Africa belongs to all who live in it, united in our diversity. We therefore, through our freely elected representatives, adopt this Constitution as the supreme law of the Republic so as to – Heal the divisions of the past and to establish a society based on democratic values, social justice and fundamental human rights; Lay the foundations for a democratic and open society in which government is based on the will of the people and every citizen is equally protected by law; Improve the quality of life of all citizens and free the potential of each person; and Build a united and democratic South Africa able to take its rightful place as a sovereign state in the family of nations. May God protect our people. Nkosi Sikelel’ Iafrika.

6

1. The awakening One probably never gets used to sleeping on a park bench. Contrary to popular generalization that those park benches are the favorite “beds” for hoboes; that definitely is not the case. For starters, they are very seldom placed at venues that offer some protection against a cold wind, or rain. Some dirty alley is much more in the line of what the doctor ordered. Even be it a Cuban doctor, imported by the South African government after getting rid of a lot of our own top doctors. Cuban doctors

whose

slave

like

contracts

signed

between

two

governments, were carefully upheld by the South African government. Even if that means that a doctor is arrested and deported after his contract expires, and he does not whish to return to Castro’s communist paradise. Hoboes are also prime targets in South Africa’s present crime wave. It makes little sense that a hobo may be murdered for the pair of worn shoes covering his bare feet, or a dime he might have picked up still being in his pocket. But so too, the explanation that crime is to be blamed on the growing unemployment rate, also makes little sense when taking into account that robbing a person of his Mercedes, smuggling Crack and ripping old people of their life savings by pyramid schemes, do also not look like the work of people struggling to survive unemployment’s hunger. Unless, off course, they have some immense hunger to still. Or are on their part being ripped off.

7

A lot of crime, it seems, is the result of a mental state of mind. The homeless seldom bother to bend their minds, such as is the case with the academics, why some people go about murdering, robbing, stealing and raping. Their mind is much more focused on the practicalities of not being the next crime victim. 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. South Africa’s luxurious Blue Train, a top-hotel on wheels, is world famous. The real Blue Train takes the rich and the fortunate on trips. The hoboes’ Blue Train takes one on a trip as well. Thus, Jason was more talkative than usual, and commented on a lot of things that usually would not interest him at all. Even asking some questions: “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. I, then, made myself as comfortable as possible on a park bench close by. I stared at the stars for some time, before also drifting off to a world far removed from where life can turn its back on one. I recalled that once a little boy came sitting next to me, and asked me why I sleep on a park bench rather than a bed. “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, world famous asset of South Africa’s Cape Town, is covered under a cloud sheet when sunrays start filtering through the early morning darkness. A light breeze from the north stirring the dry odd oak leaves will soon dispatch of the cloud cover on

9

Table Mountain. But it also spells the coming of winter, and with winter in the Cape, rainy weather. The Cape’s rainy weather is rather harsh on the homeless, even with the festivities of the ten years of democracy still in the air. It can rain for days no-end. Roaring wind gusts pump dampness into every possible shelter a homeless person might hope to find. Deep in the alleys the whirling dampness will follow, drenching the clothes and blankets issued by the Salvation Army. The next day the police van will pick up another stiff for yet another paupers’ funeral. Yet, as from no where relatives will pop out, curious as to whether the old gent or lady might not have left some fortune behind. The winters are as miserable to the homeless as they had been since the first Strandlopers2 and even earlier humanoids wandered these parts millennia ago. 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. A wealth in the head, not in the pocket. 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. I sit upright, stretching my arms upwards: “Ah!”

11

Walking over to another bench, also covered with newspapers, I apply a battered boot to a somewhat elevated part of the heap, which, it soon becomes apparent, is Jason’s bottom. “Wakey, wakey” I urge the sleeping figure under the newspapers. This one does not move so soon, however. “Babelaas3” I mutter. “%$#@ yes Fred,” comes a voice from under the newspapers. “But what kind of outie4 are you who does not drink?” “That’s my private business,” I snap, clearly shaken by this remark. “It seems as though winter is on us,” I continue, changing the subject deliberately. 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

Elsewhere in the country these structures are mostly built from corrugated iron and wire stolen from farmer’s fences, but the ones in the Western Cape are mostly built from wooden material. This adds misery, as virtual entire squatter towns regularly burn down, the flames consuming most of the meager earthly belongings, and often an elderly, handicapped or helpless baby as well. This, tragically does not often happen during the dry, hot summers, but in winter when poor people use any means of getting some heat into the structure they call home. It is amazing to see at what rate a burnt down squatter town can be resurrected after being torched from the face of the earth. A mere few days later, the entire community life will proceed within the newly erected structures, as though it had been there for a long time. It is believed that at least some of these fires were set deliberately, as the squatters are flooded with new blankets, food parcels and much more after such fires. It is even alleged that it was observed how squatters puncture or cut the fire hoses preventing the fires from being stopped too soon. Not all benefit. Chrisjan and Sarie Coetzee, a white couple I once met, were kicked out of the soup kitchen line set up by a super market after such a blaze, simply because they are white. Their black neighbors shared. Not only do the people living in these structures adapt to conditions. With them they bring cattle, goats and other live stock. One informal farmer farms with more than 300 head of cattle, without owning a square centimeter of land. The cattle simply share the open spaces with other animals, not being very selective on what is

13

being regarded as edible.

Another township farmer taught his

animals to cross a busy highway near Cape Town’s international airport every day, using a pedestrian bridge, to go grazing in a nature reserve. “Do you have plans to go somewhere?” come the voice from under the newspapers. Wintertime is no fun time for South African hoboes. Although only the southern tip of the country gets winter rain, the rest of the country is bitterly cold at night. Winter night temperatures frequently drop to way under freezing point. The exception is the Durban area, and hoboes all over the interior migrate there in wintertime. But Durban is approximately a thousand miles from Cape Town. Hoboes don’t easily get lifts anymore – not with all the hijacking going on in this country. 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. No wonder some newspapers and academics were getting worried with former President Thabo Mbeki, a former Communist, making socialist noises some time ago. Of course, there are many who have been very opposed to the slightest signs of socialism, as coming from the ANC’s trade union partner all the time, which now

14

suddenly came to a better understanding of socialist practice, since Mbeki has figured this out. “Hippocrates” Jason would call them, about the only learned word he ever uses. In a country like ours, that is not all that strange, however. 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. This year, I simply feel I need to go to a place that offers better protection against winter. I recently saw a brochure advertising the many benefits of the Hermanus area, and that had been bugging me mind ever since, even though Hermanus also falls under the winter rain section of the country. Maybe I need a mental break as well. Maybe the festive celebrations to feast on fictional improvements are driving my mind out of Cape Town, where Parliament sets the carnival tone. But Jason’s reference to me not drinking, did sling my mind back some years – to my childhood. Childhood is to where the origins of the life on the streets of many of the homeless can be traced.

15

2.

Ripped by the tide

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. The application succeeded eventually because my mother could argue that her parents could often play white without being caught. To play white was a somewhat snobbish game played by some coloreds to prove that they can pass for white. This was done by getting on a whites only buss or train without the conductor kicking one off. One could also enter a police station on the whites only side of the division at the complaints’ counter, or the counter in the post office or bank. Those whose complexion gave them away to easily, would often see a neighbor or relative standing in the wrong queue, not to notice those who recognized him or her. This often led to a whole lot of unpleasantness. Sometimes a family would silently pass into the white community, with only relatives in the far off town of origin being any the wiser. Once on the “right” side of the color line, these has-been nonwhites 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. I can remember my mom as a woman who looked like a well tanned white. I have seen many whites who were actually darker than she was. 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. Ironically, very few white South Africans can really claim to be white. In early settlement days white women were rather scarce. Slave girls from the Far East, or Koi women became wives. Children with parents from different racial groups were borne ever since, even when it became officially against the law. Skin color can be very misleading in establishing one’s race. 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

government be able to establish whether one should be on the short end of affirmative action, if they can not establish from one’s appearance whether one should be subjected to a complex series of racial discriminatory measures, called non-racialism? Soon after my family turned to the colored community for acceptance we were part of that community, and happy. 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. But in the end I cried so much, he gave in.

19

We were a content family after that. At least, more or less content. My father always had a licking of Hollandse Jenewer6. After my mother’s death, he often drowned his sorrows in the bottle. He lost his job more than once as a result, but on each occasion got the job back when pleading, holding me with my deep blue eyes on his arm. But even when drunk, my father treated me as a prince. So unlike other families where a drunken father or mother would beat up the kids and spouse. When I was a bit older, I started feeling very self-conscious, to see my father drunken, and especially throwing all self-respect overboard to plead for his job. I realized he did this for me. I decided never to indulge in drinking. But that was not the main reason. 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. I still remember the ice-cold shivers running down my spine when greeting my dad, and seeing the deep sorrow in his eyes. Though being accustomed to see my dad sad, this time there was raw, shocking sadness in my father’s eyes, which I have never seen before. “Bye-bye, Daddy.” My voice was rather thin. My father squeezed my shoulder, and started walking to the boat, for the first time saying nothing. I could see my father could not 6

Dutch gin.

20

utter a word because of the lump in his throat. My father was a wellknown 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. Almost turning to return home, I caught from the side of my eye my father disappearing over the side of the quay. I yelled and started running to the place where I saw my father disappearing over the side, yelling as though insane. My father, like most crew of fishing trawlers, could not swim. 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. To my horror, I felt nothing. I dove as deep as my lungs could take me, piercing through the darkness to see my dad. But nothing! I went up for breath. One glance to the expressions on the faces of the people on the quay told me that my father had not miraculously surfaced either. I grasped for air, and again dove into the icy cold depth. Up I went for air, going down repeatedly. By know I was joined by some holidaymakers who saw the ruckus at the water edge, and sensed the opportunity for some action in the form of heroism.

21

When I came up once more from the depth, an arm reaching from the quay pulled me onto dry land. “Let me go, let me go!” I yelled. “I saw him!” Indeed, just before I had to resurface, I saw my father, staring into the pitch darkness with wide-open eyes. I grabbed hold of my dad’s arm, and started pulling him up. But his leg was stuck, probably held down by strong see weeds. I had to let go of my father’s desperately clinging hand to get some air, and that was when I was pulled from the sea. “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.” But despite me carefully indicating where I found my dad, there was no trace. I must unwittingly have just succeeded in pulling my father loose from the grip of the deadly seaweed. The outgoing current, which was to take the fishing trawler out of the harbor, must have swept the body and life, as I knew it, out to sea. 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 is to become of the boy?” “He has no relatives.” “That’s not true!” I wanted to shout. I have relatives. My mother’s people. But they have left town long ago, and I have no idea where to find them. Or, if I find them, whether they would want to have anything to do with me. My father also had relatives, but they too are unknown and very, very far away. “Without money nobody will take care of him”. “Yes, and a white boy won’t find work, even if he is allowed to work…” By then affirmative action did not officially exist, but preference was often given to non-whites when a job required unskilled labor. Even though I was bright at school, at fifteen I did not have enough schooling to be considered for skilled work. When I was strong enough to walk around a bit, I realized I could not face the sea. “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 I slipped through the window with most of my earthly belongings tied in a blanket. I headed for the nearby Cape Town, where I knew I could be near the sea, without ever really having to see the sea.

23

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. In Cape Town I soon proved to be a crafty hawker, making a relatively good living, but in the nights joining the bums when, for my own safety, I slept on a park bench in the vicinity. But as I often had money with me, the same people to whom I turned to for safety often robbed me. I soon learnt to know whom to trust, and whom not to trust. This is how the much older Jason and I became friends. I soon became known as Cape Town’s hobo with a difference. Not only did I sleep under newspapers, I also read them. Also every magazine which I could lay my hands on. My apparent sharp intellect enabled me to master many of the wide-ranging topics I read about. At first my transformation from being mainly a homeless hawker to being a sober hobo was intended to be somewhat of a learning experience. My reading sparked an ambition to write. And what better topic than to write on the life and experiences of the city’s homeless? The stories they tell, their hardships and simple joys?

24

3. Changing seasons I started writing, carefully saving my work in a plastic bag I carried with me. 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. This was a bitter experience. First I had a humiliating experience at security. Then, when reaching the office staff, was coldly told that I had to present his material in computer typing, one and a half line spacing. I turned on my heel – my dreams over months shattered carelessly in a brief moment. I chuck my writings in the nearest dustbin, and hit the streets. The transformation was now complete, I realized, after my way out of life on the streets had been trampled on like that. I sat on my favorite park bench, eyes closed, trying to come to grips with the latest set back in my young life. I became aware that some one was standing in front of me, and I opened my eyes. 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. “I saw what happened at the magazine,” she said. “I work there. I took the liberty of taking your manuscript and looking at what you wrote. I like what I saw.” I still looked at her as though in a trance. She invited herself to take a seat beside me. “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. And so started a strange friendship. Soon I was not only known as Cape Town intellectual hobo, but as the hobo writer as well. When I completed a text, I would take it to Sally Morkel’s flat. In her kitchen, we would sit over a mug of coffee each, with Sally reading and making comments. I will take note of recommendations, and use this knowledge in my next story. More and more of my stories were accepted, and the bank account I had to open for the payments, became sizable. 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

knowledge. A person growing up with a computer would probably never realize what amount of skills and knowledge he has. Over time, and with Sally’s assistance, I managed to get along on the computer quite well. 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. In the warm summer evenings we would walk Cape Town’s beaches, Sally forever looking for rare undamaged seashells. Myself, I rather watched out for surprise waves, having noticed that Sally becomes so pre-occupied in looking out for the shells that she is often surprised by a wave. I my self, have not yet completely shrug my resentment of the sea, and kept some distance. 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

immigrants, mostly Nigerians, Congolese and Mozambicans. Some people reckon up to eight million illegal immigrants now live in the country, stealing jobs of South Africans – if they themselves can find jobs. Often they can’t, and these apartment buildings become filthy, serving as bases for prostitutes and drug trafficking. Muggings and murders, especially at night, are common in the areas. 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 I was not surprised at all that Sally would go skinny-dipping. She could be very impulsive, getting a kick out of doing something daring. She would often tease me and call me a square. Keeping watch is a good idea, not only not to be surprised by unwanted eyes, but also not to be surprised by a bunch of no-goods who might have raping or even murder on their minds. 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

But that was not to be the case. Three bearded blokes on scramblers came roaring down the beach trial, directly in our direction. Sally had to be warned, and fast! 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. “You know, I believe that most children’s homes do excellent work,” she said. “In any case, conditions are much better than in most homes where the kids were taken from – and believe me, I can tell horror stories!” 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 thoughts of remembrance lay sharply on her face. She was in shock - even after so many years. I poured her a sherry from her own flask. She took a sip, then stood up and clung to my chest while sobbing her heart out on my shoulder. “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 I remembered a recent newspaper heading: “I thought it was the end of the world.” The words of a young girl testifying in a case after she was kidnapped and raped twice by a man who was standing trial on more than a hundred counts of rape. But it was not so much the rapes that left its impressions on the minds of the girl. “I thought I will get some support and understanding from my mother,” she testified. Yet, her mother, believing the girl was to be blamed for the assaults, told her: “I wish you will rot in jail.” As though more than a hundred girls would lay complaints against the same man, if they “were looking for being raped.”

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. It is even sadder that only about 9 percent of cases ending up in court, lead to convictions. Only about half the cases reported to the police, end up in court. It is any-one’s guess what percentage of child rapes are actually reported to the police, precisely because of the standing of the sick sex pest in society, very often known to the victim. No wonder the Western Cape Minister of Poverty Upliftment, Marius Fransman, recently suggested that a public name-andshame list should be published, naming the sex offenders in public, especially the pedophiles.

The national Minister of Safety and

Security even referred to the old day practice where the elders ostracized the offenders in public. 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. Whenever a story was published, Sally would look me up, mostly finding me in the park, and hand me a copy of the magazine in which it was published. 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?” “This is called ‘political correctness.’ The new dispensation is not yet ready to be criticized for that they have fought against. After

(d) to be

protected from

maltreatment, neglect, abuse

or

degradation; (e) to be protected from exploitative labor practices. A child’s best interests are of paramount importance in every matter concerning the child. In this section “child” means a person under the age of 18.

32

apartheid the entire world is not ready to accept that one misgiving is replaced by another.” “Tell that to the victims!” I momentarily lost my temper, recalling Fanie’s stiff body being taken away to the morgue the day before. Fanie, only recently still being a well respected civil servant. His former life was too comfortable to survive hardships out in the park. I believed then, that fellow whites who still had fortunes smiling on them, also preferred not to be reminded of those less fortunate. So that their own comforts do not turn sour on them. Some are entrepreneurs, and some opportunists. Some have soon learnt to form companies, including some of the black workers as directors. These directors are often the domestic servants or cleaning ladies. This has the advantage of producing political correct letterheads, and lucrative government contracts. I had my doubts that some of these directors even knew that they were directors, or could read well enough to make out that their names appeared on the letterheads. Some whites soon understood the secret language of tshôtshô.10 If ever I saw a heartbroken man, it was Jan. Jan the farmer. 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. The young man had tears in his eyes when he leaves. "My son," Jan one day said, but did not elaborate then. It took me quite some time to make friends with Jan. Slowly a picture unfolded, not all that uncommon of the park dwellers, but yet unique. "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. At some stage I had some tough luck with investments, meant to cover possible losses through drought or other forms of tough luck. The drought came then, and I ended up in a cash flow situation. I sold out, and bought a dairy farm in the Eastern Free State. 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

Yes, I thought then, the constitution guarantees one’s right to property – as long as you are not a white farmer. Government owns quite a lot of farms – if one living on such a farm is fired or leaves on his own account, he is of the land. But if the farm belongs to a white farmer, he has to go to expensive legal processes to have that home available for the next family to move in. “Once wiped out,” Jan continued, “I saw my wife leaving me, and my kids not knowing this man," pointing a finger to his heart. Raw sobs came from deep inside this man. "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 "Why don't you move in with your son?" I asked. He looked at his shoes long. "I am like Jonah," he said in the end. It took me several more conversations before I could even start to understand. "My people,” referring to fellow Afrikaners, “…are so content with the new South Africa. When they themselves find work, or are in a 12

Running shoes.

35

profession where they can generate their own work, or understand how to survive with the tshôtshô13, they have little sympathy for those of us who can not find work amidst of affirmative action and job scarcity. What are chances of me finding work at my age?" He continued after a while. "We are an embarrassment to those who have made it. Or an unpleasant reminder to those that all is not all that well for some in this country. If they end up short because of affirmative action, they simply take their nice qualifications we enabled them to get, and find work abroad." 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. “Even at church. When the church sermon is on, everything must seem fine. Those who have lost it, are not welcome - not so much in the church building, but in the eyesight and mind of those who reap the benefits. Those who have not, cause uneasiness in the heart. They can not afford to even mention this to government. That is regarded as disloyal, and those who want a new contract with government, or a new tender. Disloyal people can not get contracts."

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. Jan also seemed to be the only person able to keep Sally’s skedonk14 in working condition. He wanted no payment for the work he did on her car, but insisted that Sally teaches me to drive. “One day this lad is going to be on the other side of society,” he said, indicating some real line dividing to different types of people.

14

Refers to an old car, usually large, but with plenty of character,

associated with the owner.

37

"Good mechanics are so scarce nowadays" I once told Jan. "We can try to ask the reverend to try and get you fixed with a garage." "I have no papers," Jan said, turning on his heals. One could understand more of another aspect of Jan's problems, then. When Jan started farming, a farmer was a farmer. Now, through all kinds of legislation, a farmer needs to be a tax expert for value added tax and the regional services councils, he needs to be an HR expert to manage the wide range of labor relations acts, and he needs to be an administrative clerk to handle all the piles of paper work. The irony, government does many of these things under pressure from trade unions, which actually believe they improve conditions of the, as it is called, previously disadvantaged. The way in which minimum wages had been introduced lead to thousands of black people loosing their work. Even before these Acts had been introduced, a well known leftist professor found that the poorest 40 percent of the black population had a 21 percent decline in income since the ANC came into power in 1994. If this makes one “previously disadvantaged,” one shudders to imagine what the conditions

would

have

been,

had

they

been

“presently

disadvantaged,” such as Jan. Yes, about ten percent of the black population improved their position, but they were more or less the elite even then. To me it looks like the development of a typical Mandarin society. To say this, is very, very political incorrect. Sally and I had some heated discussions on some of my writings being political incorrect:

38

“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. I was devastated; I cramped together at night with pain on my heart. Tears often running down my cheeks, with Jason and the rest trying clumsily to console me. My sole link to the world of the living was severed. I realized that I had fallen hopelessly in love. When you are a homeless person, death is one’s next door neighbor. Unlike people might believe, the homeless are probably the most sensitive people, which in the first place caused many of them to end up on the streets. I had no intention of writing, or even reading ever again. I looked up Jason, and joined him in his daily activities of scanning through dustbins and picking up litter that could be recycled. I realized that I did not detest the sea any more. The land also took some one from me I dearly cared for.

39

4.

Let the children come to Me

“Hello Uncle Fred, hello Uncle Jason.”15 I heard the tiny footsteps coming up from behind. “How’s my favorite girl today?” I ask gleefully as I turn around. Samantha is coming in our direction, hop-scotching all the way. It seems as though she is always smiling. Yet, when asking where she lived, she would say: “In a toilet.” 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. “Fine,” says Samantha, who has by now reached Jason and myself. “We had lots of fun at school.” The ANC’s Freedom Charter states that school education will be free and compulsory, but nothing came of that. Samantha’s school, a shabby old house some philanthropists run is also not free. Her

15

Afrikaans kids, whether white or colored, often call grown ups

“oom” “tannie”, meaning “uncle” and “aunt”, whether related or not.

40

parents work themselves half to death to keep Samantha at school. They may not have a home, but at least she has caring parents. 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. The change in attitude, I believe, has a lot to do with a visit I brought to the school. I stuck around till I identified the big troublemaker, walked into the schoolyard, and picked him up by the scuff, marching of to the principal’s office. There I explained the problem at the top of my voice. I told the principal that I would come and check from time to time, and if ever I catch one again… But Samantha is by no means the only homeless kid. 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." If only that were true. Almost all of them have parents, if one can call monsters like that parents. As one former street kid told a UN World Summit examining the plight of children all over the world:

41

“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.” The kid, Sipho Mathebula, told the summit: “I used to be one of those snotty-nosed, glue sniffing kids. We are part of the outsiders of society. Many of us leave home without a birth certificate. Folks don’t bother to find out why we live on the streets, or about the turmoil of dysfunctional homes, domestic abuse and the neglect suffered by us. We are not to be feared, or treated with suspicion. All we want is love and a ticket to a brighter future.” Without a birth certificate, buying a ticket to a brighter future is almost impossible. Before ending up with the outsiders of society, life often has a similar pattern for those kids. Children sent out irrespective of cold or rain, or the blistering sun, to risk their young lives in the traffic to beg for money to satisfy the parents drinking needs. If they come home empty handed, or with too little money to the parent's liking, the poor kid will be beaten half to death. 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. Some do not survive the traffic though, almost as though being subjected to some natural selection process. Same as with the indigenous cattle ranges. So docile, for when their ancestors came

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. “Thanks. But where did you get to read the story?” “The guy there at the BP garage, Uncle Francois. He put it up in his window for us to read.” This explains more or less everything. Francois, the garage owner is a good Christian, always looking at ways to help the street kids. The kids are very fond of him as well. Recently three street kids got hold of a burglar breaking into Francois’ garage. 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. In fact, most people fail to draw a distinction between the different categories of outsiders of society. When municipal by-laws are made to drive in imaginary walls between the outsiders and those on the inside, those who do not whish to know that we exist, they tend to blanket us all with one name. So we, the hoboes, have been called beggars and Bergies, and, imagine that, even tsotsi’s. If the bylaw, for instance, stipulates that no Bergie may urinate in public, a hobo caught in the act would dearly protest for being mistaken for a Bergie. Or, as Jason once protested when caught in the act, said: “I’m not urinating, I am only pissing! This is also not in public; I am standing around the corner.” After that, Jason knew the meaning of the word, urinating. He also went about informing all the other hoboes, the condition on which the cops released him without charging him. 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

“In a public toilet,” Jason replied. “But aren’t public toilets in public?” Jackson inquired, very pleased that his preparations for Jason’s visit played of so neatly. 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. But this means discipline, often harsh discipline. It also means no more glue sniffing. It reminds these kids too much of a hell called home. Some of these shelters indeed are so dilapidated and rotten dirty that they do in fact resemble home. So most abscond almost immediately, the rest a day or two later. Then you will find them

47

wandering the streets once again, with a few rags that ought to share as clothes. Volunteer organisations seem to have a bit more luck than the officials do. 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.” Ayesha Lottering stayed with a volunteer family for a week. She told a reporter on the scene: “Not only do we like the volunteers, we love them. When I stayed with one the volunteers I felt like living in my own home – only better. They don’t treat me any other way than they treat any other people.” 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. Sometimes Martin and I would catch a few of these young rascals, and spank them a bit after the property had been returned. But we don't like that at all. Spanking these kids hurts us much more than the kids. We rather try to talk to them. After all, we are good examples of what can happen to one if one does not take responsibilities towards society serious enough. But alas, if a kid is hooked on glue sniffing, chances are very slim that one can chat them into changing their ways.

49

In fact, according to the constitution children (as long as they have been born) are of the most protected people in the country. Apart from the human rights they are entitled to, they are also entitled to a wide range of children's rights. But when winter comes in the interior, with night temperatures frequently dropping beneath zero, the freedom to go any place in the country means very little to these kids. The hobos usually migrate to Durban’s subtropical weather in winter. But the kids, clad in their thin rags, stay put. After all, they are only kids, and kids tend to stay near home, irrespective of what is called home. 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. Sometimes, of course, the kids breaking into a church would do quite a lot of damage. Kids are often not all that experienced in using matches. Sometimes the damage is caused by accident, but sometimes vandalism does occur. A way of asking: “Is this the way you treat God’s less fortunate created kids?” 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. Some bliksem20 or another, apparently a witch doctor, created even more aids related horror for kids. This son of a bitch said having sex with a virgin would cure aids. Unfortunately, chances are best that a baby girl would be a virgin. So quite a number of babies have been raped. But in the evenings, when we walk the streets, we see another species of aids victims. Rich kids, mostly infected by drug needles. When eventually they die, and it is known that the untimely demise was caused by aids, the grieving parents would blame a blood transfusion for some operation of which no record exists. As mysterious as the abortion the girls never had. And make no mistake, those parents do experience severe grief, fed by guilt. "Quality time - spending quality time," Jason once said, when I shared some of my concerns. "But spending quality time with your kid can end up in disaster." 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

“And how are my uncles today?” Samantha asks, quite unawares of the distant loops my mind had taken in a few seconds. “Why, we are on our way to say goodbye to the others, Samantha. We are leaving for the winter.” For the first time I could remember, I saw disappointment on Samantha’s face. “I whish we could also go to a place not so wet in winter. But where am I going to find another school?” “Before we leave, I will bring you a brand new mackintosh and a jersey,” I promise. Her face lightens up. “Thanks a lot, Uncle Fred. I haven’t had a real present for quite some time – but lots of love.” How true. Last Christmas a church rounded up some street kids, including Samantha, and took them for a boat ride out in the bay. No money for presents, though, but Samantha and her parents beamed for a month. “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

operating on her. He could never come to grips with himself after that. Fortunately, Samantha knows nothing of this. “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. “I want to buy my parents a white house such as this!” It is a copied drawing of a well-known water paint painting of Waenhuiskraal. Neat, bright white houses, but simple in their extreme beauty. This, I realize, reflects Samantha’s true nature. She also clearly has a lot of art talent, the way she copied that painting. If ever, I decide, I am in a position, I am going to buy such a white house for Samantha and her parents. I have been paying Samantha’s school fees on the sly since I started earning money. Samantha’s parents, knowing nothing about this, insisted on working for the tuition of their child. I persuaded the school to let them have it their way. This gives then self-esteem, so important to even a hobo. Samantha’s dad has thirteen thumbs, so he was no-good at doing odd jobs around the school. But he is master of figures, and could do excellent bookkeeping. That was his initial undoing as well. He was sent to jail for embezzlement at his last employer. He was unable to find work since.

54

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

5.

Hobo excursions (to Homo erectus)

Today, with all the thoughts that had gone through my mind, I am determined to take a brake from all this. “I’m thinking of going up coast – Hermanus”, I react to Jason’s question as to where I plan to go for the winter. “But how are we going to get there?” I am relieved that Jason has invited himself. “I have some money in the bank from my writings.” Hoboes usually do not have too many preparations to do before leaving. There are no electricity bills that need to be paid, no-one to arrange with that your mail are correctly forwarded, and very seldom relatives to go and say good bye to. 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. In our silent way we say goodbye to this breath taking experience. But, we know, in a few weeks, if not in a few days, the cold, wet fronts will start lashing the Cape, making life for the less privileged unbearable. Only the Bergies (traditional, mostly colored hoboes living in shelters against Table Mountain) seem to have become accustomed to surviving the peninsula’s extremes. Then we beat a foot track down the hill to be swallowed up by the city’s bustling life. We greeted from Signal Hill, rather than from Table Mountain, on behalf of Jason. “No self respecting hobo will care to be mistakenly taken for a Bergie,” he explained. I realized that the height of Table Mountain had a lot to do with this sudden self-respect. Yet, the Bergies are known for quite a lot of criminal behavior. Pick pocketing in the crowded streets, burglarizing houses near the mountains, all in a day’s “work.” 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

Sue squeezed me tightly. I wipe the tears from her weather battered face. Her gray hair still boasts a ting of red of an age gone by. She must have been a terrifically pretty girl when young. "Drugs," she explained once how she ended up being a hobo. "When getting out of jail my folks wanted to know nothing of me. I was simply rejected. It is very difficult to get employment once you had been in jail, and you do not have a family support structure to help you finding some solid footing." 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. These evangelists would be well meaning. Until a few years ago, they called themselves evangelists when working with white bums, and missionaries when working with non-white bums. 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. Now, officially registration according to race has been abolished. The previous government, even now being referred to as the apartheid government, had in fact abolished it. The new government, it seems, is far more race aware than the previous. Black empowerment, affirmative action, they call it. Ironically, every representative from a group somewhere in the world struggling to get some kind of autonomy, would refer to the country denying that, as practicing apartheid. So as to drum up support, for apartheid had been sufficiently villianized. Even declared by the UN as a crime against humanity. Ironically, because those governments now criticized, rather practice precisely the opposite to apartheid. Apartheid urged groups to have their independence, allegedly even bribing leaders to take their people on the independence road. But not to be recognized by the world. Without apartheid, those formerly independent groups have lost their autonomy. Had

the

Israeli

government

implemented

apartheid,

Palestinians would have had independence long ago.

the

60

But, life rarely makes logic sense. That’s why its life, not heaven. In fact, to us in the park living in a country with a constitution that is often described as one of the best in the world, has little meaning. It too, seems to have little bearing on the government as well. One constitutional institution after the other finds that government is the biggest transgressor of the constitution. If government wipes its arse on the constitution, what hope does one have that the general public will go to any trouble in not transgressing some act of parliament, or municipal bylaw? What murderer would bother to uphold the law preventing one to go about murdering others, if government sets an example of civil disobedience? 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. For the homeless the constitution means as little as what it means to the unborn babies. That same court decided that the right to life does not apply to them. Thousands are murdered legally every year. Yet, murderers can not be hanged because they have a right to living. Their victims, whether they had been borne or not, apparently not.

61

The constitution also says one may not discriminate against another on the ground of race, gender, disability or so. Yet, laws are made to instruct firms to discriminate against whites, who, according to the population registration act, no longer exist. The preferential treatment the disabled are to receive according to the constitution, also has little impact. One can for instance, not appoint a blind person as driver of a mini bus taxi. Though, pondering on the thought, one might not always be any the wiser, the way some of these drivers handle their mobile coffins.21 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. We bums are not all that irresponsible when on religious affairs either. Medical science has long found that being a drunk is as much an illness as is cancer. So too are the raw nerves of those ending up on street when not being able to control the nerves. The only way out of life on the street was, it seems to really be converted.

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. At some stages, such as recently with the Ashtons, some one in our community would take the lead, in getting most of the bums to an evening church service. This usually follows an invitation of a well meaning congregation, wishing to reach out. Not everybody in this church service would have expected a bunch of hoboes to pitch. We usually pack the back-benches in church, causing a constant looking around by curious churchgoers. Very few things give a hobo such a pleasure as meeting such a backward glance with the holiest smile he or she can manage. Winking an eye usually does the trick. No more backward glances from that quarter.

22

Approximately $12,00

63

Going to church is probably the most nostalgic thing I could do. This would remind me of my young childhood days, going to church with my father. Those people in the missionary church can sing like no other people can, without an organ or piano. Poverty does prevent these luxuries, but the poor congregations learn to do without. As hoboes do not always come to church as often as they should, the hymns and songs tend to change without us keeping up. Usually this does not matter much, as we would rather stand listening to the joyous songs of the congregations. That’s also why we prefer going to the rather charismatic churches on account of the joyous singing. But Tobie is not content with listening. Apparently he had been some baritone in operas. He has a loud voice, which must have been quite something before the Blue Train cut deep tracks in the vocals. 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. Collecting the money was some other treat. After hesitating a moment the first time, the deacon handed the collection basket in at

64

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. At some stage during one of these sermons, the reverend welcomed his friends in the back of the church. I later learnt that that almost caused him to get his marching papers. Sometimes the gathering after the church service would be a further motivation to go to church. With nice sandwiches, soup and tea being dished out. The bums always return the friendship by looking very pleased and thankful. Most of us are also quite able to speak very gently, and lots on how thankful we are, and how the kind Lord was sure to reward them. A lot of us can quote quite a lot from the Bible as well. Things like that seem to get stuck in the mind when spirits seem to wash most recollections of better days away. The reaching out program would loose some of the heartiness however, when the cleaning lady keeps on reporting to the reverend the following Mondays that the spirits used for cleaning windows, had gone as well. Well, one can not take kids to a candy shop and tell them they need to eat vegetables.

65

“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. Sam is a gentleman if ever I saw one. I will always remember him as the polite man who would spend a lot of time-consuming minutes in painstakingly directing people into Cape Town's tight parking spots. When the thankful motorist wants to give him some money for his trouble, old Sam would have long disappeared. Yet, he has become so well known that he is often placed some money in the hand by a passer by who recognizes him. Soon the Blue Train will be on its way, but even heavily intoxicated, Sam will never be but extremely polite. 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

see the bombs raining on Baghdad, see the horror of fleeing people. Radios are also popular with bums. Never bought, though. A dustbin might contain a radio now longer in use. Mostly it needs some fixing before being able to do its one night stand. For a one night stands it would be. The next day the radio will inevitably find its way to a pawnshop, and the money to a bottle store. Even foreign tourists would now and then give a helpful bum a radio. A radio bought in South Africa for very cheap, thanks to the exchange rate, and thus not worth while getting through customs when returning to the far of country. Another excursion undertaken from time to time is to court. Every now and then a bum would end up in court. Sometimes it would be because a long forgotten former wife traced down a park dweller, and turn on the screws for sustenance in arrears. The others would pitch in court for moral support. Nowadays legislation for husbands who have absconded are becoming rather tight, and more often than not such a hobo would spend some time in jail before returning to the park. Only recently we went to court as well. That was in support of Leon, the lonely bum. A number of us witnessed from within the park what happened, that caused Leon to end up in trouble. 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

Running around the corner, the Bergie handed the slow-to-grasp Leon the handbag. Realizing the trouble Leon was to face, we started shouting to him to throw us the handbag over the devil’s fork fence. But Leon was not quick enough to react, and was still standing with the handbag in his hands when the cops came around the corner. There was no trace of the Bergie by then. We tried to argue with the cops through the fence, then. “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.” Shock spread over the face of the gang leader – he expected a month behind bars at the most. It took his gang members a few seconds to regain presence of mind as well. “Appeal, man appeal!” one shouted. 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: “’n P^&l se moer, man, hy is ‘n f*&^n d**s!”23 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

“How do you plead?” the magistrate asked Leon. “Not guilty, your Honor. And these are my witnesses!” he continued unasked for, waving at us sitting behind him. “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. Leon came to the park the next day to say goodbye.

70

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. "You will soon be back with us!" 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." This time it is I whom struggles to keep my tears back. "The two of you - you have been as parents to me. Good parents." If only Sally could have had parents like them. I also have a special relationship with Sam. He used to be my boxing instructor. But far more than a boxing instructor. With his training he taught me self-control, self-discipline. Sam was an excellent boxer in his younger days. Provincial amateur middleweight champion, before he was lured into a lucrative professional career. 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. I had to do endless push-ups and other exercises, in the process building muscles to top up my length of about six foot seven. 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. "It is no use practicing, but keeping your blows back during practice. Then, when you are in real danger, you are not accustomed to hitting hard, and hitting where you were aiming at," he urged me.

72

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. That day I aimed my blow to an area next to his face, bargaining on him moving even further away when seeing the fist coming. But I had it all wrong. Sam saw the blow coming, yes. And he ducked in time as well. But in the wrong direction. 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. "Fortunately you knocked out a tooth as well," remarked his wife, while I was liquid feeding him through a straw. The straw entered his mouth through the hole left by the missing tooth. 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. One would usually, whether permitting, find Martin on the pavement near parliament where he created the finest pictures with bright chalk on the rough cement surface. He drew Table Mountain covered in a cloud sheet, he drew the sea. He drew the faces of amazed tourists.

74

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. It seemed that Martin was more inclined to meditate when he had had something to drink. When meditating, he used to say, you go into a trance. This, most bums understood well, because they too go into a trance when drinking too much. “You idiots,” Martin would say, “With a meditating trance you remain sitting up straight. When drunk, one tips over unconscious!” “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. That was when Reggie, a former bum turned photographer, saw the opportunity of

earning good dollars

himself.

Because

nowadays, one gets more or less ten Rand to the American dollar. A number of years ago, at the Rand's peak during the apartheid years, one could exchange a Rand for almost two American dollars. Reggie would forever be taking Polaroid photo's of tourists with Martin's art. With the dollars he received, he would pay Martin, mostly in natura, in kind, as they say. The "payment" would consist of things such as food, clothes, blankets, medicine, and chalk off course. I once asked Martin why he does not use other, more conventional material.

75

"Because I want to make a living," he said. I urged him to explain. "You see, my style is quite out of fashion, when I use canvass," he said. "Too realistic," the art collectors and critics say. "They want artists to express what they feel, not what they see. But what you see down there on the pavement, is what I feel. Reality, be it beautiful reality, but stamped on by people, and worn away by time and nature." I could then understand precisely what Martin meant. I could not imagine him as feeling any other way than realistic. Bright colored pictures when the sun was shining, gloomy when the dark clouds indicated coming misery to the outside folks. But I also realized that that was not entirely true. Like most bums, deep inside Martin too carried with him a sore he could not handle. I often spoke to him, trying to dig into his soul. One day my thoughts were confirmed. “Come, I want to show you something. I believe you will be able to understand.” 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. We walked into the pipe even deeper, the masterpieces on the walls becoming fewer and fewer. Eventually he came to a stand still, and then bringing the candlelight closer to the side, said: “That is what I feel. In fact, I can not rid my mind from these thoughts.” It took my eyes some time to adjust to the darkness of the picture. When adjusting my eyes met those of a beautiful smiling woman, her eyes filled with intense sadness however. I made more out in the picture, which soon appeared to be an entire story. I saw a little coffin, with an angel flying above. I saw people looking on in pity. At an open grave a man sits as he collapsed under intense emotion. I clearly recognized Martin. Some distance away, under trees, stood a few youngsters, showing the Satanist finger sign while laughing. “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. I ran to Reggie’s place as fast as my legs would carry me. I briefly told him what Martin had showed me. “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. “Whoah” he said. “This must be worth a fortune if we can get it over on canvass somehow!” “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.” When referring to Martin one needs to use the past tense. 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. But he refused, scolding at us through teeth chattering as a machine gun. The next day the government morgue people carried him away, not needing a stretcher, as he was as stiff as could be. Martin's passing away was a disaster to the hobo community. Not only did he earn plenty of bread, which he shared with the rest, but also he came in very handy when the hoboes were under attack from the Bergies or even the Cape skollies. 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. The spikes are a real nightmare. The "art" is to move up to an unsuspecting bum or member of another gang from behind, and then running the sharp end in between two vertebras of the spine. 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. Martin's karate had the better of many a Bergie or skollie. He taught me everything he knew about karate.

79

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. A number of us went to Martin’s funeral. We stood at some distance, for when a pauper’s funeral is done, the authorities do not like to see people around who might have been able to pay for the last respects. Yet, that day Sam did go forward, placing Martin’s black belt on the hardboard coffin. But Martin was by no means the only bum with a talent for art. Take Jason for example.

80

He might have many shortcomings, but playing the banjo, is not one of them. "There is no art in playing the guitar," he said. "The real art is playing the banjo properly." 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. "I have my &^%$ pride, man. I am no blooming beggar." 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

We all then sang: “Oh Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder…” at Martins funeral. 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 often offered buying him a brand new banjo, but he wanted nothing of it. "I have sentimental value on this one," he would say. "If ever you knew the whole story, you'd understand." But I never learnt to know the whole story. 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. With these four Bergies we have little trouble. The tsotsi's are another species of unwanted rubbish drifting into hobo territory from time to time.

82

Each of the riffraff groups has a distinguished language, as do the hoboes as well. The Tsotsi "language" is the least known in these parts. The "dialect" also differs depending on where the group's forefathers came from. Most in the Western Cape have come from the Eastern Cape, formerly Transkei - Xhosa territory. The tsotsi's usually keep to the black townships, yet sometimes they move out, terrorizing other folks. Once to often, however, have they dared terrorizing Sam's hoboes; or rather, they intended to. But they were terribly mistaken. Martin, Sam, a black hobo originating from the Free State and I, teamed up and had them scurrying. They understood especially well that they were unwelcome when cornered in a far corner of the park. So clearly did we explain to them that we did not want them around, using our fists and so on that they decided to leave immediately. 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. I do believe that some of them were not able to father any offspring’s after that incident, though. 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: &*^% moegoes. *(&^ futsack! Ke skreie &^% ya mo &^%$ grype!"

83

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. Not that the Bergies have a less impressive vocabulary when getting wrong ended with the fuzz. I recall once when a Bergie was chuck in the back of a police van near our park. He was already swearing while traveling through the air, on his way to the back of the van. 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. Realising his mistake, he pulled away rather hastily to make up for some imaginary lost time. Again the Bergie went down banging. I could hear that Bergie swearing two blocks away, especially clearly each time the van stopped abruptly, and pulling away again. I can not recall that Bergie repeating one single swear word, though. 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

It seems to me that the constitution had as little value to the rights of the Bergies as it had for the hoboes. The tsotsi’s, however, seemed to benefit to some degree from the constitution, as they would hardly ever end up in court without legal representation from the Legal Aid Board. The Legal Aid Board is supposedly non-racial – as long as you get a black lawyer. When there are no black advocates, this offers no problem – the Board simply flies one in from distant Gauteng, and books him into the best hotel. The Bergies have the advantage of being able to plant dagga in hidden spots against the mountain slopes. Mostly for own usage, but they often sell as well. That means that they more often have money, and are therefore more inclined to littering than hobo's, who have learnt lately that one can make a pocket of money by selling a lot of litter to recycling places. Especially those aluminum tins. These can buy some spirits. Plastic bags also seem to have no long life expectancy where hoboes are around. Especially Mother Theresa. She is seemingly forever knitting. She spins the colorful plastic bags into thin threads, and using them to knit with. She knits anything, that way. Hats, purses ...you name it. Those a friend sells at the flea market to the tourists. 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." A surprising number of hoboes from our park came to the bus terminus to wave us goodbye. Jan also came, bringing his son along. The lad, I heard, is an auditor making good money. In the eyes of both I saw something else than sorrow for the first time. Could it be hope? “We have been selected to represent them at the international Hobo Conference held in Hermanus,” I told a few fellow passengers who were clearly puzzled as to who so many hoboes have pitched to see the bus off. “You see, I can write, and Jason here can read. We supplement each other. I do believe we will be doing just fine at the conference.” 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.

86

“I wave to my friends, and blow a kiss to Samantha, who is waving her hand of. Oh God, I am going to miss that child.

87

7.

Sheltered at Genesis

We arrive at the Hermanus station, one of only two railway stations in the country with no rail or train. We imagine that could easily be mistaken for businessmen on a business excursion. It is Easter – a long weekend lay ahead of us. I soon learnt that Hermanus becomes a bustling town over weekends, and especially long weekends, with people form Cape Town and other surrounding towns flock into town like herds of sheep. They flock in to get some rest for their souls, but, so it seems, many leave God at home. Bringing God along can dampen too much of the fun lined up. Back at work, being faced with the daily difficulties of work and life, then God is OK. Every year more than two hundred people die on South African roads, many of them intoxicated pedestrians. A bloody Easter, year after year. People never learn. 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.

88

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. The bus took us through Somerset-West, up Sir Lowry’s pass overlooking Vals Bay. Over the mountains and through pine forests and apple orchards. A troop of baboons even came to the road as though to bide us well for the rest of the journey. Then down the mountain again, turning from the freeway at Bot River, a small village, and we cross over a large lake. We follow the shores of the lake through an opening in the mountains, running parallel to the coast. We pass Hawston, a colored town, and then we are on the narrow coastal plain. Past Vermont and Onrust River known for many famous South African artists and writers, most of whom have died in recent years. 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.

89

squeezes open breathing space on the narrow coastal plain. Bettie’s Bay is well known for the marine reserve, now also plagued by poachers. Then came Hermanus, and eventually the picturesque white station building, built the same as many other rural town train station, yet this one has no railway or train. 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. These steep cliffs, with the sprawling town of Hermanus on top, also offer some of the best vantage-points for whale watching. Hermanus is world famous for the whales coming into Walker Bay late in winter, to have their calves. The authorities are fore-ever having their hands full with reckless adventurers taking their tiny boats to very near these whales. A flip of the mighty tail could see such a jolly boat crashed to blisters. Yet, the fate of these law breakers are of less concern to whale enthusiast traveling from all over the world to come and see them, than the fate of the whales being disturbed by these crazy fools on the water. We soon leave civilization behind us, battling our way through shrubs, following a dim rock rabbit path.

90

Suddenly the path disappears in the bushes. Surprised, I stick my head into the bushes where the path had disappeared. And am even more surprised. I am looking into the mouth of a cave – the entrance just large enough for a grown man to crawl through. A fresh breeze comes blowing out of the cave mouth, indicating that another entrance must exist. To Jason’s surprise he sees my legs disappearing into the bushes. He follows, and soon finds me standing upright in a huge stalactite riddled cave. Bright sunshine is visible some distance ahead. “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. “You mean those ape people?” asks Jason. “More or less” I reply. “Some recent archeological findings seem to indicate that the Southern tip of Africa was the cradle of mankind. In fact, had been twice. Once, the development from ape to early human, and then man-ape to modern man”. “Whatever” says Jason. This type of talk from the youngster is far too academic to his liking.

91

Rather, he investigates practically what good the cave holds for us. If stone-age people could live here, we probably can as well. “I never thought ever becoming a *&^% Bergie,” Jason remarks dryly after convincing himself that we more or less struck the jackpot as far as accommodation is concerned. 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. The cave proves to be as ideal as could be. It slopes down inside to where the sea comes flushing in through a subterranean tunnel, ending in a clear deep pool. Bright sunlight comes basking through a hole in the roof high ahead. The collapsed roof partially filled one corner of the pool, offering ideal habitat for lobster and prawn, far from the greedy hands of smugglers, striping the South African coast of a valuable asset. 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. Nowadays one actually needs to buy a fishing license for angling. But if we rediscovered this cave only after a couple of tens of thousands of years, chances are that the authorities will only

92

discover us having been inside in a couple of another tens of thousands of years. I, in the mean time, have started with archeological excavations, carefully documenting each find, as well as the place and depth found. One day, I dream, I will write a book, and surprise the world. 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

93

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. These people painted against the wall started pre-occupying my thoughts. At night I start to dream that these people are alive around us. Trying to communicate with me. The fair hared girl always at some distance. In my dreams she started looking a lot like Sally. 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. Lying in my “bed” I give this some thought. Then, the ancient people start walking about, and I realize that I must have dropped

94

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. “What is your name?” I ask. She looks at me, puzzled. I point to myself, saying: “Fred, my name is Fred.” Then pointing to her, I asked: “Name?” “Sal” she whispers. Somehow I am not surprised, as though I had been expecting this. The other cave people refer to her as “Nyesh,” but I gathered that that was probably a word meaning something like slave or dog. 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.

95

Some try to escape through the submerged tunnel. Some seem to make it, not returning. Others are back after a while, gasping for air, others wash up after a while, their lifeless bodies floating in the pool. I wake up with terrified faces all around me disappearing in the process. I immediately haste to the outside of the cave. I can clearly see against the cliff where an overhanging boulder once broke free. Then, studying the surroundings, I find a furrow drawn by a heavy boulder not very long ago. I follow this furrow, and to my amazement find the boulder where it dropped in the sea, and now lay half submerged. How long ago could this rock have slipped away from covering the entrance? Twenty years ago? Maybe even more recently? I sit in the fresh breeze to sober up somewhat. Have I become so pre-occupied with my research that I have started living as part there-of? 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. Sal has a beautiful glaze-like pebble hanging from a piece of leather around her neck. It shines red, yellow and blue. The ape people often try to get hold of this pebble. One night, with the ape

96

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. I again fall asleep, only to be woken by an earth tremor. I am just in time to see Sal dashing for the cave exit, a few ape people chasing after her. Sal slips through the exit, but before the others could reach it, the heavy boulder drops and blocks the exit. I know I am only dreaming, but things are so vivid. Again I experience the agony of the ape people trying to get out, while suffocating. 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.

97

8.

To the White House

One beautiful day, with the sun shining brightly, we decide to go and do some sight seeing. Winter had passed at last, and with it the many rainy days. The town folks complain that it was a very dry winter, leaving the town’s main water dam perilously empty. We, who mainly live outside, did not really notice that it had been such a dry winter. We get a lift with a truck driver, who takes as to Waenhuiskrans. I could not resist seeing with my own eyes the houses that so fascinates Samantha that she works so hard at school to buy her parents one. This tiny seaside village near Africa’s southern most tip is well known for its picturesque white houses with tiny windows. An Afrikaans poet once wrote, roughly translated, “Between the white house and the white house…” 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.” “Darn hypocrites” Jason replies. He’d seen the curious eyes of people peeping from behind their curtains. They surely do not want an influx of hoboes in their town.

98

“You perlemoen26 thieves! You hipocrats!” shouts Jason at the top of his voice, causing a stir at some curtains. “You both walk so tall, you must be Homo erectus!” replies a voice from somewhere. This remark really unleashes Jason’s unique vocabulary, which enables him to swear for half an hour on end, without ever repeating a single word. Jason’s knowledge of science and Latin let him down somewhat, causing him to misunderstand the meaning of “Homo erectus.” He confuses the “Homo” part with the general word referring to gays, and the “erectus” part with the resulting sexual behavior. “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.

99

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. “Hell, he kicked it right into the tidal pool!” “Did you play for the Springboks?” one wants to know. “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

100

Danie Craven must have been retired from playing when Jason was born. “No, I played for Northerns with Piet Uys” Jason continues to my surprise. “I only made it to the Springbok trials.” “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

101

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. I look at Jason: “Let’s teach that zoll30 smoker a lesson,” I whisper. 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 30

Common slang for as drunk as a lord Common slang for a dagga cigarette.

102

“Nei man, wat maak djulle nou?”31 the lad protests. “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. “Us, cops. Now ways,” protests Jason. “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?” When hearing “Bergie,” Jason spits on the ground. To him a Bergie is the lowest and most disgraceful life form imaginable. It took me some time to learn why he hated the Bergies so much. Jason once tamed a baby squirrel, he called Jack. Jack would often sleep on a park bench with him. “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?”

103

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. One day Jason was mugged by a number of Bergies. This often happened to Jason. That day, however, the squirrel started attacking the Bergies, biting wherever he could grab hold. Then those *&^% Bergies started kicking Jack, killing it. “What is your name, son?” I ask. “What do you want to know my name for?” “Because I like you, boy,” I insist. “Robin, Uncle. Robin Cloete.” “Now Robin, are not scared of going to jail?” “Neptune33 has never succeeded in getting hold of me,” the boy boasts. “I have no choice,” he explains again. “With all the corruption going on, we will starve to death.” 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.

104

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. “That is still no excuse for smoking dagga!” I scolded. “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 Indeed, Neptune has stepped up operations, even introduced a special court. Residents, and especially holiday visitors who do not realize that they should take the intimidation of the poacher gangs seriously, frequently clash with poachers. Shots are often fired. Recently poachers in a fancy speedboat openly poached in the marine reserve at Betty’s Bay. A resident, accompanied by a nature conservationist, took their own boat in to confront the poachers, after phoning the police. The police arrived just in time to save the

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.”

105

bacon of the two law-abiding citizens, their boat being smashed by that of the poachers. 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. At Onrust a holidaymaker took pot shots at poachers, poaching in open daylight close to the shores, right in front of houses. A month earlier, a poacher took his wife along to stay on the lookout in the rubber dinghy while he did the diving. Suddenly the wife saw the boat of Neptune coming, and shouted at her husband, who started to swim away. She started throwing the perlemoen over board, but realizing she was not going to get rid of the evidence in time, started taking her clothes of. She was quite naked by the time the Neptune boat came near, and started yelling at the top of her voice. This drew the attention of the inhabitants of the houses on the nearby shore. The Neptune people, realizing what embarrassing spectacle it would be to arrest this naked, screaming lady with so many people looking on, turned the boat around and sped off. Jason and leave the boy with his poachings, our minds trapped in frustration. Is there no way out? In the mean time, billions of rands of government money for poverty alleviation are not taken up. It simply lays there – no proper delivery system.

106

9.

Fruits of the sweat

Christmas is nearing. One can see that because the municipality is putting up bright, colorful lights all over town. At night one would feel

some

festive

joy

inside

one’s

chest,

although

the

holidaymakers and the real festive season have not arrived yet. 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.

107

It is also not often that a bum could be so content at swearing at a bunch of young hooligans, knowing very well that he is quite safe. Only once did the kids approach to come and teach Jason some lesson, but when I rose to my full length and gave some strides in their direction, they wisely decided to do the rest of the tormentation from some safe distance. 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 next year some of them would be freshmen at university, being cut to size. This is despite these “welcoming” practices being banned, as it transgresses one’s human rights of not being humiliated. But as with most human rights, very little of this survives reality. Others have the opportunity to first go abroad for a year or so, at the expense of a rich daddy. There, I read, many of these kids would continue pulling their country’s image through their arses. One day, in Hermanus town, walking past a quite little thatch-roofed church, I notice the garden being covered with weeds. While still looking at the garden, the reverend comes walking around the corner. It is almost Christmas time, and everybody seems to becoming more aware of the meaning of the season. This is probably what drew me to the church in the first place, this morning.

108

Take yesterday for example. Jason and I were sitting on a bench overlooking the bay, with three self-appointed parking attendants hanging around idly. It was still too early for shoppers to start squeezing into parking areas. “It’s still with you,” I said, making conversation. “Yes, it’s almost Christmas. We should have had more customers by now,” one replied. “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. My mind is plucked by reality when the man speaks.

109

“May I help you?” inquires the old gentleman. “May I please clean the garden?” I ask. “We can’t really pay,” says the reverend. “That’s fine with me,” I respond. “As far as I can remember, I haven’t done anything much for a church in my life. It is high time.” 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. That day I started writing again. I write about my Cape Town experiences with hoboes. I write up the stories I can recall from bums now long dead. Masterpieces told, often when the orator was half on a Blue Train trip. These stories I hand to the reverend, who has them typed and sent to the publishers. Soon money is coming in again, and the typist paid. Some money goes to the church

110

“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. “Would you mind buying me a bus ticket to Cape Town? I’m missing my friends”. I nod. I know, once Jason had left, I will probably never see him again. The next morning I walk into the little church. “I’m taking the job.” Looking up from behind his desk, the reverend seems pleased. He comes walking to me, followed by a very beautiful girl. “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.

111

Behrsma?! That’s my surname. Could she be a relative of my father’s? She has a striking resemblance to Sally. But Rozanne is well over six foot tall, but not clumsy looking at all. Rather looking like those tall beauty queens of a few years ago, when tall girls winning Miss South Africa competitions was in high fashion. “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.” I realize that the reverend must have warned her that I am a homeless wanderer … or rather used to be one until an hour or so ago. I was standing with my mouth full of teeth, feeling very awkward, and not knowing what to say. Yet, she continues as though talking to me was the most natural thing. “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. “Glad to meet you, distant cousin.” She takes my outstretched hand between both of her soft hands, and I feel shivers running down my spine. She looks at me, her eyes deep blue pools. “The way I was made to remember, my father’s…” 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.

112

“I am very impressed with your work. It seems to me that I must have known you for ages. And here I find you in perhaps the most beautiful place on earth!” “I am going to make us some tea,” the reverend says, moving of to the kitchen. “Now tell me something of yourself and your family. I know very little of my dad’s family.” 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. But the reverend wants nothing of her staying at the hotel. A telephone call later, the booking is cancelled, and I can bring her luggage into the house. This I do with my feet floating. Is it possible to be in love just like that? Or does she remind me of my mother?

113

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. We chat till lunch, finding to be complete soul mates. She is the first person, after Reggie, I have told of plans of writing a book, with Martin’s drawing on the cover page. After lunch, the reverend drives us to Onrust River beach, while he has an errand to run in the nearby Hawston. 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 hangups running out of my system. We cross the sandy beach of Onrus, and at the rocks on nearing Sand Bay I help her up by holding her hand. Once up, I do not let

114

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. High up on an elevated stretch, we are so occupied in our discussions, that we are completely surprised. They are on us before we could react. Tsotsi’s! Six of them, four coming for me, and two grabbing Rozanne, immediately beginning to rip at her clothes. Her yells shock me into action. The first knife-wielding thug runs straight into my right hook, sending him down like a falling log. The second one, coming at me from slightly to the left, thrusts the knife at me, but I manage to chop his forearm away with mine. The knife rips open my shirt, but draws no blood. “&*^% moegoes. (&^ futsack! Ke skreie &^% ya mo &^%$ grype!" I shout. One of the lessons learnt from Martin was that it was to one’s advantage of getting your attackers mad. They tend to loose concentration, and are thus more open for being (&^% up, as Martin used to say. “Tsotsi, moegoes ^&%$!” I yell. 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. I am on my feet in a flash, as the two remaining thugs come in, knives wielding. Again my fist outreaches the stretched out knife of the nearest, and this time I do not chop away the knife of the

115

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. The fourth thug has had enough. Coming to my feet, he was scrambling for the thick bush to get away. But my eyes want to find Rozanne, who is no longer shouting. I relax, seeing that she was doing just fine. In fact, she is giving the attackers a sound lesson in karate, both trying in vain to get away. 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. Barely making two paces, I am with Rozanne. I am outside myself with rage. For the first time in many years, things were working out for me. I was dreaming dreams of settling, getting wed with a person I have fallen hopelessly in love with. 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

116

the same destiny as his three companions, who are now desperately trying to swim to safety as they are being tossed to and fro in the raging surf down below. But Rozanne yells: "No, no don't kill him!" brings me to my senses. I turn around and throw the man deep into a sprawling Port Jackson. The other man was limping away as fast as his injured knees would carry him. He obviously ended up with telling karate kicks onto both knees, and pain was making his getaway a real agony. Then Rozanne is in my arms, sobbing. I squeeze her tightly, also sobbing: "Please, please do not leave me on account of what happened today. Please, I can not loose you!" Rozanne stops sobbing, and looking up into my bearded face: "Are you asking me to stay with you? Maybe asking me to get married?" As reply I squeezed even harder. "At least give me a chance," I plead. She smiles, and as reply kisses me hard on the mouth. "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

117

now being high summer. Earlier today I wanted to know from Rozanne whether she'd prefer me shaving of my beard. “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.” So that’s how ended up with my beard neatly trimmed. Rozanne also got hold of my hair, and now I boast a hairstyle high in fashion. 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. We had quite an ordeal with the police, earlier today, when reporting the incident on the rocks. I almost had myself arrested for suspicion of attempted murder. Not even the presence of the reverend had the police officers on duty moved that I did not use excessive force.

118

"Even if were accompanied by Pres. Mbeki himself, you would still have been in deep s&^%!" one of the policemen said. Rozanne threatening to phone the Dutch consular in Cape Town, however, did the trick "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. From their perspective, one could probably understand that. Some criminals attacking worthless creatures such as hoboes. They have never experienced life from that angle, have never been exposed to the vastness of humanity and richness of soul existing. 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.

119

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." I have come to know that it serves no purpose to argue with some one on this topic. The evangelists have sometimes, with the aid of social workers, gone to quite some length in getting a bum rehabilitated. But as soon as he gets a whiff of working, work stress pulls

him

down

under

immediately.

Some

people

have

claustrophobia, others are scared of heights, others simply can not cope

with

the

pressures

any-how

related

to

handling

responsibilities. 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."

120

Before I could make up my mind on whether to try and exploit the moment to come behind the story, he continues: "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 stops abrupt. Looking at the sea, now covered in darkness. "Sometimes some wounds do heal," he continues. 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... One day, when concentrating on my work for a moment to long, Mandy slipped out of the panel beating yard, and ended up in front of a speeding taxi..." 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..."

121

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

122

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. We all know now that trying to keep Jason in Hermanus would be a crime. "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.” “Amen,” comes the confirmation from Jason and me. We then learnt that the night is far from over. “Are you both Christians?” Rozanne asks, referring to Jason and myself. “Oh yes,” I reply. “Are you not?” “I, I don’t know. In Holland we are basically post Christian now. Though I do believe that Christianity is a good religion.”

123

“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…” Taking Rozanne in my arms, hugging her tightly… “Rozanne, you are now at the best place in the world to find that assurance.” Can a beautiful evening ever become more beautiful than this? It could, we found out that night, with Rozanne making absolute peace with the Lord. We sang: “Oh Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder, consider the works…” With Jason playing his banjo much more beautiful than was the case at Martin’s funeral. Or so it seems. When saying good night, Rozanne whispers in my ear: “By the way, you are a very wealthy man.” “I know, I have a treasure in friends…” “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.” “Will I be able to buy Samantha a white house?’ I asked hopefully. I have earlier told Rozanne about my dream of buying such a house

124

for Samantha and her parents. “You can buy them many white houses,” she replies.

125

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. Fred then takes all his documentation on his archeological excavations to the very surprised curator of the local museum, giving instructions as how to find the cave. 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. He jogs with them to the school grounds. He again walks to his sixty meter mark, places the ball, and kicks the heck out of it. This time the ball goes straight for the posts, only to swing away in the side breeze from the side at the last moment. He realizes that life can be well on course, but things can still turn out less than ideal. 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. “That’s impossible, no one can kick like that!” “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. On the field he stands in disbelief, looking at the distance the ball traveled: “This I ant to see!” he says, still with a lot of doubt on his face.

127

“But what if I hit another window?” Fred asks. “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!” Fred stretches out his hand, to introduce himself. Somehow he knows that he has made his first friend in Hermanus. He then walks to the old church building, to start a new life. He realizes that despite his own change, the constitution is not changed. He prays desperately that now that his own fortunes had changed, he will not forget or forsake those who are still crying for freedom – freedom from racial discrimination, freedom from

128

intoxication and hunger, and freedom from the slavery chains of one’s own sorrows. 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. But these thoughts are far removed at Christmas time. Walking hand in hand through the streets one must simply be moved by the joy, added by Boney M’s Christmas carols that so to speak pour into the streets through the open windows and doors of Hermanus’ many diners. Former president Nelson Mandela had the often outspoken ideal of a rainbow nation. Many, beautiful colors, forming one even more beautiful rainbow. But alas, with some colors being more important than others, the unity remains out. Social scientists have even somewhere excavated a mummy called the North-South division, and tried to blow life in it. Trying to resurrect something that was buried with the bottom layers in the cave Fred and Jason used as a shelter. Nowadays reference is made to the two nations' theory, but people who refer to this, can obviously not count further than two, or have not been exposed to the many strata of life Fred had encountered.

129

He wonders how many of his years had gone wasted. None, he realizes. Money can not buy the knowledge of life he accumulated. All he has experienced made him the man he is, the man that knows God, and the man that Rozanne had fallen in love with. And that makes his heart ringing and singing with joy. 35

Government is failing the poor, says HRC 35

Epitaph. Fred bought a panel beating shop in Cape Town, and

appointed Jason as foreman. He also bought two white houses adjacent to each other, one for Samantha and her parents, and one for Jason and his wife. The houses are not quite like those on Samantha’s picture, yet Samantha was over joyed. A year later, tragedy came in the form of an accident at the rubbish dump, when a tip lorry dumped its contents on Samantha’s parents. Soon, Jason and his wife’s life became whole again, when they became the foster parents of Samantha. Samantha would, however, always fondle the memories of her own, very loving and caring parents.

130

By Rapule Tabane, Makhudu Sefara and Sapa

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.

Court rulings are progressive but departments and officials lapse in implementation. The commission also urged the government to carry out the Constitutional Court's ruling on the treatment of mothers living with HIV and Aids and their newborn babies.

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, based on information provided by state departments, exposes the government for failing to deliver on key social issues such as health, housing and welfare (see box).

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.

To simply characterize the entire process of administering grants as chaotic is

131

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.

The report was compiled on the basis of departmental responses to various questions, but doubt was cast on whether government responses were always accurate or if it painted a glowing picture of situations that did not exist on the ground.

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.

Joel Netshitenzhe, head of the Government Communications and Information System, said: "One is not quite certain that they (the commission) had all

132

necessary information to make such authoritative statements and conclusions." He added that 84,3 percent of South African households were, by 2000, accessing clean tap water.

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.

The administration was continuously being improved, Netshitenzhe said, adding that there had also been a massive intake of people who qualified for the grants.

This article was originally published on page 1 of The Star on 23 April 2003

133

Aggenbach’s bread The following is a real Afrikaans story. Although also called Herman, I am no Herman Charles Bosman who could write Afrikaans in English. But here goes for trying. 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. Aggenbach’s “achievements” often ran through the North West like a typical dust storm, the story spreading form mouth to ear. The story which contributed most to Aggenbach’s fame, started when he went hunting with a shot gun. His intention was to shoot some sea bird for the pot. His wife made him some dough in order for him to bake himself some bread, called stokbrood, over a drift wood fire, just adding some seawater to the ready mixed dough.

134

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. Soon the early morning sun started backing hot between Aggenbach’s shoulder blades, off course also heating the dough. The dough soon started rising, but having no where to go, considerable pressure was soon built up in the can. 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. “I’m a dead sea duck!” 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. Having no means, such as mirrors, to inspect the gaping wound at the back of his head, he carefully shifted his free hand to the wound. Feeling some dampness he brought his hand, covered in dough, in front of his eyes.

135

“Just as I thought! Brains messed all over the place!” So, again he lay, seeking peace with the Lord. Eventually Aggenbach realized dying was not all that easy. Or maybe, Aggenbach thought who was by now very religious, he was the object of a miracle taking place. The idea of going for a walk on the Atlantic crossed his mind, but he shrugged the idea away, since he was not quite sure that his faith was strong enough yet. And getting cold seawater mixed with his brains might not be such a good idea. Heavily wounded, he struggled to his feet, and started walking straight into the semi-desert, away from the Atlantic Ocean to the west, straight to the nearest farmhouse. Missus Sielie Wiid was shocked to see Aggenbach in this terrible state, staggering from the desert to her house more dead than alive. “Magtag Aggenbach, what happened to you?” she cried out when the poor fellow was within hearing range, which was still quite some distance away. Aggenbach eventually had the opportunity to tell his story, but in a very week voice. Missuss Wiid wasted no time in bandaging up Aggenbach’s head, forcing as much brains back through the mess that must be the gaping wound. She used her cleanest bandages, since, as she

136

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. How Aggenbach was transported to the nearest hospital, where eventually the true nature of the deadly wound was established, is the topic of another story.

137

An evening in South African suburbia The aroma of onions being fried is almost always a certain way of working up an appetite for a passer by – and working it up fast. 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. “Hi there, what can I do for you?” That’s me making conversation. A stupid question, as the person has come into a pizza place. “I’d like a pizza.” What a brilliant answer. Who would have guessed that one was to get the answer right?

138

“What do you have on special?” We are now getting down to the point. By now I have rehearsed the specials’ details by heart. I must sound very enthusiastic when promoting our products, and that can not be done by stumbling over one’s words. To break even in this business one must sell every possible pizza one can – to make some profit one needs to sell even more. 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. Our clients represent the wide spectrum of suburban life. People who grew up on the countryside, hearty and with no nonsense. Others, however, walk in as though you are something inferior.

139

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. Afrikaners are fore-ever joking about a practice that’s blown over to a large extent. Those women who marry medical doctors, and then call themselves “Mrs. Doctor Valerie Brink,” or whatever their name happens to be. A relative once told that a Free State town bordering on Lesotho had a districts doctor, who was a real dubious character. These doctors are funded by government, and it is a general perception, whether deserved or not, that many of them ended up as such as they were no good making it in a private practice. They once sent their black garden assistant to this doctor, when not feeling well. The assistant returned after a while, holding his upper arm: “Daai baas dokter het my sommer deur die baadjie se mou ingespuit,”

36

he complained. 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. Many of us now penalized by being on the short end of affirmative action, have not even been born by the time apartheid was abolished. Yet somehow, this is justified – your parents having been privileged and that somehow passed on to you. Yet, those Afrikaners who have somehow managed to slip past the guillotine, are often the dogs that bite their fellow dogs the most

141

painful gashes, because wounds of that nature leave permanent marks. My wife, Susan, grew up in an orphanage, and had no parents. I am still looking for answers as to how she benefited from apartheid. Especially if one knows what she had confided in to me. 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… If by some fortune, you have the correct contact details of the person who ordered the pizza which was not picked up, you can always take revenge by phoning him at closing time the next day to ask whether he is still coming to fetch the pizza, as you really want

142

to go home for a change. But more often than not, it is impossible to trace this Mr. Smith, or Mr. Johnson, or whatever. Many of our clients become our friends. In clinical terms that’s called goodwill. They will never try to be difficult, phone to place orders, come and pick them up at reasonable time. They will also, if things are not hectic, sit down awhile, and drink a cooldrink. Kobus, for example, always orders an extra large Vegetarian for himself, a medium Hawaiian for his wife, and a large Regina for his three children. One must haste to ad that those kids are still very young, and always get a hump of French fries as well. Observing Kobus’s magnitude, one would believe he would inherit most of his children’s pizza as well. 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. Mostly Susan stays in the kitchen section of the den when customers come in. But when Kobus’s family arrives, she comes to the counter as well, chatting for a few happy moments. When they leave, Susan is back in the kitchen. Even if the kitchen is open from the counter, it does seem as though she finds some comfort in putting some distance between herself and the world. 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. Statistically South Africans are overwhelming Christians. Religious as well. But seeing how some behave, one would never have guessed that …all the backstabbing and so on. Yes, when speaking they are against the country’s liberal abortion laws, and shocked by the thousands of unborn babies being murdered. But when their own daughters trap oor die tou

37

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.” One of my hobbies is to read anything I can about the preColumbian civilizations. The Incas, the Mayas, the Toltekes and the Aztecs and all the others. My country is regarded as the cradle of mankind. Twice actually – once when primitive man developed from the man ape, and then when modern man developed from ancient predecessors. But South Africa does not boast any ancient civilization resembling the ancient American civilizations, or even the mysterious Zimbabwe ruins in neighboring Zimbabwe. Zimbabwe, ironically meaning more or less “ruins”, the state in which Pres. Robert Mugabe has turned his once flourishing country in over the past few years. I learnt of the pre Colombian civilizations via – and you’d probably never guess, through reading a Dennis the Menace comic book

145

once. The Mitchell family visiting Mexico, and going to see the Aztec pyramids. The long run up to the pizza story is to demonstrate that South Africa probably has more to thank Dennis the Menace for than merely some humor and laughs. Or sympathy for poor old Mr. Wilson. While I can attribute my discovery of pre Colombian civilizations to the Menace, South Africa as a whole probably has Dennis to thank for discovering Pizzas. Until a mere few years ago very few South Africans knew what pizzas are. From the Dennis cartoons we knew it existed, probably due to the name from Italian origin, and it was supposed to be very nice. Suddenly pizzas were high in fashion on the southern tip of the Dark Continent. American (not Italian) franchises selling Pizzas sprang up all over the country. At first, very few people knew how to correctly pronounce this newly discovered delicacy, but that was soon put straight. My grandmother, born in 1900, dies at the age of 93 still referring to pizzas as daai nuwwerwetse goed.39 We became a Pizza consuming nation. Hawaiians, Tropicana’s (how far could one get from Italy, with the product still being called Pizza), four seasons, vegetarian, and …sure enough, pizzas for those on diet.

39

More or less meaning a new fashion – something recently

invented.

146

The ingredients contained delicacies such as mushrooms, bacon and olives, and, yeach! Anchovies. 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-laItaly. No cheap stuff, these South African pizzas, either. Despite having to compete in the fast food and take away business with typical South African delicacies, such as boereworsdogs (hot dogs with real meat barbecued sausages, pap en wors (porridge with sausage and a tomato and onion based gravy, or the traditional braaivleis (barbecuing steaks, chops or sausages, and often drinking South African beer. In the Western Cape, world famous for export wines, the beer is often replaced with wine. Red wine to complement the red meet. 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

One would expect a government reckoning folks such as Ghaddafi, Saddam Hussein, Fidel Castro and the likes as their closest friends, to be making some booboos as well. 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. But one guy, Joseph, was apparently immune to getting the message. Mary openly flirted with her boyfriend, Mark, in front of Joseph. She turned down every request for a date with Joseph, at first politely, but later less politely. 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? Joseph immediately accepted, not realizing by any stretch of imagination what he was putting his neck into. The Sunday afternoon Joseph showed up just after church. He brought Mary a nice bouquet of flowers as well. Then he sat with

148

my father, myself and my irritating little brother in the lounge, waiting for the women folk to finish the pizzas. Both my father and I were a bit perplexed to Mary’s sudden friendliness towards Joseph. We both thought in silence that she and Mark probably had a fall out, and that she was now spiting Mark with Joseph. Finally we sat at the table. The pizzas smelled very appetizing indeed. My father asked the grace, and we started eating, sipping ice cold white wine in between. We noticed a few things in silence. Joseph apparently had a hectic time in cutting his pizza into edible pieces. He also became strangely quite. Mary, for some reason also became pale and silent. Both my mother and father, I learnt later, were becoming very anxious, expecting the worst from the sudden friendship, silence and paleness.

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. Eventually, Joseph swallowed the final bit, but in a way resembling swallowing a prickly pear with the thorny skin still covering the delicious fruit.

149

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. Mary is married now – with Joseph. I soon afterwards met Susan. Susan came to the university with a church grant, as she was a brilliant pupil. We fell in love, and our bond grew throughout our years at university. We married when we received our degrees. But finding work was not that easy. We stay with my parents, for which we are very thankful. My father also borrowed us the money with which we started this pizza den. 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. We will be closing soon, as it is nearing midnight. I walk to the kitchen side of the den, where Susan is washing the last of dishes. I take the cloth and start drying and packing away.

151

They are on us in a flash. We heard a car stopping, but at midnight chances are better that some one has come to the automatic bank teller in the shopping center, than buying a pizza. 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. “We are on our way to Gauteng. Come to fetch us a new BMW. We would like to have some take-away pizzas.” With this, the three of them start reading the display menu hanging over the counter. Our suburb, near the by pass around Bloemfontein, has recently been targeted by car thieve syndicates from Johannesburg. Some have been caught, but had to be released due to lack of evidence. They come to Bloemfontein with a mini bus taxi, from, of all things, the Legal Taxi firm. The occupants are dropped of a various venues where they steal a car. They are mostly very fussy as to what cars they steal, as “clients” ordered specific cars. The rookies steal old cars. They, after all, have to practice on something, and the chop shops have to have business as well. “An extra large Hawaiian for me,” says the spokesperson. “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. “Ah..eh..F-f-rench f-f-ries f-f-for m-m-m-e p-p-p-lease.” “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 …GP

40

. GP for Gangsters Paradise, you know!” He laughs at his

own joke. My head is working in over drive. If they need to travel to Gauteng, some two hundred and fifty miles away, there is no ways they can simply leave us. We will either be tied up, but as they are not masked, more probably be killed. Since the government abolished the death penalty, and allowed abortions, it seems as though the entire perception of the value of life has become all-askew. 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?” For a brief moment I thought I caught something in Susan’s eyes – some message. I know I have to be very, very ready now. I realize that the three of them were now spell bound by Susan approaching the till. The thought of money does seem to have a crook’s mind corrupted. I slip my hand under the counter and grab hold of a large, heavy kitchen knife we use for chopping the onions. 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. But I switch my attention to the rest of the crowd, to lend a hand. But Susan is doing well. She has grabbed hold of one of the long oven spades we use to put the pizzas in the hot oven, and taking them out again. This she ram-rodded into the belly of the nearest remaining crook. “O-o=ow!” he stutters, folding double. This stupid move opens his head for a vicious smack of the same spade.

154

Clang! “Uff!” No stuttering this time as he sags to the floor. 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. Before we phone the police, Susan and I hug. We hug tightly. We are both shaking, but we are also very thankful. Being in South Africa one is always aware of the danger of being robbed and murdered. We were fortunate. I kiss her in the neck. “Now our new life can really start.”

41

Not actually translatable

155

They eat horses don’t they? Tsiane Galeboe folds double with laughter. “You know, those SeSotho’s eat horses as well.” Tsiane is a Tswana, and apparently they, closely related to the SeSotho, do not eat horses. It is 1988, in the hey days of the old South Africa. I am editor of a black newspaper run for the government, specifically for the SeSotho and the Tswana’s, the major black population groups of my home Free State Province. Or as it was called then, Orange Free State. As usual, Tsiane is drunk. But drunk or not, Tsiane is brilliant. It takes him ten minutes at the most to find loopholes in the forms my boss and I take hours to invent to prevent him from taking liberties with the government vehicle. “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.” Botshabelo was quite recently born when the ThabaNchu exclave of the Tswana Bophuthatswana became independent as part of the apartheid policy. The SeSotho’s inside the territory found them at the receiving end of harsh discrimination, and fled to an area just outside the exclave. Botshabelo was born over night, and grew to a city of approximately a quarter of a million people in a few months’ time.

156

“Those stupid SeSotho’s wanted to slit the throat of the horse…probably with a blunt knife as well.” Tsiane is shaking with laughter. “The horse did not take kindly to this treatment, and bolted. It kicked the makokoo in pieces. But even more funny. It kicked the thieves as well, and two of them died on the spot. The third is badly injured.” Tsiane is laughing even loader now. 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. Unfortunately, brilliant as he is, Tsiane has never bothered much in getting his act right in terms of what the “civilized community” expected of him. He also took some encouragement along, in the form of some liquid refreshments. He had everything in his favor. A party that supported him, as a showpiece to prove non-racialism. My boss, by then ex-boss, wrote his speeches for him as well, and advised him on all matters. Ironical, as my boss belonged to a fairly right wing political party with no formal representation in the provincial legislature. That is, with counting Tsiane out. 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. Admittedly, the Nationalist party thought they were to win many more seats. The next election, however, saw them even falling further back, and an alliance was made with the ANC. But by then, Tsiane had been redeployed. In South African terms, that often means one has been fired. Tsiane did not pop out in some senior or ambassador’s position, so one must presume he’s been fired.

158

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. Once, I even learnt, that some of colleagues drove behind him on a distant road, with Tsiane’s car – actually the government car he was driving, slinging all over the road. He was pulled over, and the key taken from him. He was taken to the nearest police station, where the cops were kindly requested to lock him up until he was sober enough to drive further. All, just so that I must not find out. 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

amongst others responsible for publishing a newspaper – for blacks. Those were the apartheid years after all. But, ironically, this also ended Tsiane up in trouble. For he found it very difficult to go and see the editor when he was sober. Also not to take some friends along, as (*&^ed as he was. The editor, Vlam 42

Fourie, was no easy man when knocked up late to receive a

“report” for the newspaper, when the bearer of the report had been all over, and apparently, inside the barrel. 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?” Fair Deal is Tsiane’s SeSotho colleague. Very often these westernized names were not very descriptive of the person so christened. The most ugly woman would have a name such as Beauty, a very lazy person the name Fluks

43

and so on. But Fair

Deal’s name was a fair reflection of what one could expect. “But we are friends,” protests Tsiane. This, it seems, means that Fair Deal will do his utmost to cover for Tsiane when out in a drunken spree. At that stage, as strange as it might sound, Tsiane was not my biggest headache. This was thanks to a white lady with a law

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

degree, married to a doctor. She must have been used to getting away with cheating, as she never stopped underestimating my boss and myself. When in fact, she had done some work, one had to worry. Is it plagiary this time? Or are the facts in the report fictitious? Because when checking whenever she actually made a trip to a town to get a story, one would find that she never set foot in that town. Rather, she would have visited her parents in a town the same distance from Bloemfontein, or friends. Yes, one stood amazed at a false person having so many friends. 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. When, in fact, Tsiane had to be back in that town on the Monday morning for a brief court appearance.

161

Tsiane some-how reached office by Tuesday, but as vicious as a snake after some one had stepped on its tail. “Dis sommer ‘n baie slegte wit man!” 44 he would explode in front of the boss’s office door. What decent man would, after all, cause him, Tsiane, with matric and a decent job, to end up locked up with criminals? Eventually the magistrate took it somewhat further, by sentencing poor Tsiane. As far as I know, Tsiane had the option of paying a fine, but he used a lot the money raised to pay the fine to have parties with his friends. 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. So entered Peter Bergies, a colored. I new Peter more by reputation, a “former” politician who lost his seat when the coloreds discontinued the working of the Colored Representative Council. He approached me, and I appointed him despite some reservations by my head office.

44

That’s a very bad / evil white man

162

The second step was to appoint a black person. We advertised. We received many excellent applications. Plus, Peter brought that of Tsiane. “I know you and Tsiane did not quite see eyeball to eyeball,” Peter said. That was, to put it in some awkward terms. “Tsiane had stopped drinking as well. He can bring you a letter of a priest to that effect.” 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. The day when the interviews were held, to my amazement, one appointment after the other came and went with the candidates not pitching. When the same happened with Fair Deal, I phoned him, for at least I knew where to find him. I got some noncomprehensive response. 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. Whatever means the two of them applied, it was efficient enough for only Tsiane showing up at the interviews. 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. Soon enough the complaints came rolling in. I pretended not to notice that the both of them were implied in the complaints. I merely referred letters to Peter to instruct him to obtain Tsiane’s explanation for this and that incident. Peter, being in cahoots with Tsiane, felt like a sick horse for having to take action against his 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. Despite these non-white houses not offering much in terms of power, at least they offered a lot in terms of salary. This interested Peter a lot and he decided to once again give politics a shot. During one of these elections, Peter had about as much as he could take from Tsiane, and he challenged the parliamentarian in “his” seat. First, he challenged the man for the candidacy of the Labor Party, the ruling party in the colored house. He did not make it, however, and I later learnt that the party leader kept him out because of his reputation with hard liquor. Peter entered the election as an independent candidate. This brought the wrath of the entire Labor Party down on him, with being expelled being the least of his worries. This is how I became a politician as well. Because Peter was automatically retrenched from government service when his nomination was accepted. Apartheid might not have been much of a democracy, but at least it was very strict on keeping the legislative, administrative and judicial tiers of government separated. In theory at least, but for Peter it was harsh reality, as he was unemployed. 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. It does make some sort of big news when a parliamentarian gets arrested at the election court. In fact, it did not go of any of the news bulletins until quite late that night.

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. Peter was unemployed, and not a parliamentarian as well. Positions in the government service were frozen, and because Peter was no longer a candidate transferred, he did not qualify for the position he recently vacated. I had to write one of those mammoth submissions to the Government Service Commission to motivate the reappointment. After some months, this succeeded, and Peter was reappointed in his old position, in a lower rank. One has limits to one’s abilities in working miracles. 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

167

from

the

party

for

opposing

the

official

candidate.

The

embarrassment of having the official candidate and his wife locked up in front of the waiting media, did not do much to improve Peter’s chances as well. 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.

168

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. Peter started calling at Hildebrand when he was a young teacher at the tiny town of Vredefort, and Hildebrand was teaching at Heilbron, some 70 miles away. Weekends would see Peter tackling the dirt roads with his bicycle to go and call on Hildebrand. 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. I, in the mean time, got unstuck from Tsiane. My boss overruled my refusal of some more leave for Tsiane before he had not gone for some treatment. I indicated that I was going to take the matter on appeal. My boss refused me permission to appeal (to which he had no right to). I simply said I have by now more than enough grounds to fire Tsiane on. 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 I said: “Fine, as long as he is not applied in my division.”

169

For the second time in my life a boss fired the same black person soon afterwards. For the same reason. So, imagine my surprise when I learnt that Tsiane was a candidate for the Nationalist Party. Not for parliament, granted, but for the provincial parliament or legislature. Not only was he a candidate, but also was he high up enough on the proportionality list to be sure to be elected. In the process, edging out highly qualified and sober black candidates. Yet, somehow, history was repeated.

Where I wrote Peter’s

speeches, my boss wrote Tsiane’s. I have no idea what happened to Tsiane after he had been sacked as member of the Legislature. Somehow I doubt that he would still be pitching up at job interviews as he used to do after his second sacking from government service, as drunken as a lord. And somehow, I doubt that Tsiane will be shouting back when criticized for this: “I am master of my own destiny.” Somehow I also doubt that he will be laughing at the SeSotho’s for eating horses.