Die Reine Waarheid En Ander Liegstories

Die reine waarheid e n a nd e r liegstories Herman Toerien

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Voorwoord Wie in hierdie geskrif iets diep letterkundigs gaan soek, of

enige filosofiese

spoor van soewereiniteit in eie kring of so iets, gaan maar bekaf wees. Die stories is bloot bedoel om gelees en geniet te word. Van humor, tot self so ‘n tikkie spookagtigheid hier en daar. Tog is ook ‘n ernstige poging aangewend om van die land se verhaleskat, wat so ver bekend nie deur ‘n ordentlike skrywer vasgepen is nie, vir die nageslag op te teken. Van die verhale handel oor die skrywer self, nie soseer oor hy iets het om oor te spog nie, maar sodat iets deurskemer van die konteks waarbinne die geskrifte vasgevang is. Van die verhale is ook vir voorlees oor die radio, Radio Rosestad en die nou wyle Radio Hoogland geskryf. In die proses is Oom Boegie en Tant Breggie gebore. Hoewel die skryfrant van die voorleesverhale vir die betrokke voorlesers se stemme en style geskryf is, is dit nie vir die opneem in hierdie bundel aangepas nie.

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Sondaghaas Neef Abrie was nog jonk toe sy pa hom en sy broers en susters ontval het. Abrie se ma is die oorlede ou dominee se tweede vrou, en daarom was Abrie heelwat jonger as sy pa. Maar ouderdomsverskil ten spyt, was daar ‘n baie hegte band. Vertel Abrie van die geleentheid, lank-lank gelede, toe sy pa predikant by op ‘n dorpie doer in die Bosveld van die huidige Noordwes was. Eintlik uitgestrekte plaaswêreld. Daarom het die Boerematriek ook nog soos in die ou dae plaasgevind. Hier teen die einde van die jaar, word daar een naweek behoorlik gekerk. Van vroeg Vrydag af trek die karre en waentjies langs die rivier in, en meld die jongklomp hulle vir die Boerematriek aan. Die hele Saterdag deur woel die dominee en ouderlinge met die klomp, en die wat genoeg van die Bybel weet, word die Saterdagaand aangeneem. Sondagoggend is dit voorstelling, doop (vir die kleingoed) en daarna Nagmaal. ‘n Lang diens. Met so ‘n lang diens staan die katkisante toe die Sondag in hul kispakke en netjiese rokke en mooiste hoede mooi voor die preekstoel in gelid, om aan die gemeente voorgestel te word. Buite die kerk sit al wat dorpsbrak is vir hul mense en wag. Met so ‘n naweek het die hondegeledere gewoonlik ook heelwat plaasversterkings bygekry. Sommiges sit kiertsregop voor die deur waar hul huismense in verdwyn het, en wag dat hulle moet uitkom. As daar iets in die kerk gebeur, soos dat gesing word, word

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die koppe skuinsgedraai, en ‘n oor die lug in gesteek. Later word die kop na die ander kant gedraai, en die ander oor gelig. Dis gewoonlik die jonger honde wat die ding nie gewoond is nie, wat die kerkdiens so met aandag volg. Die ouer honde soek vir hulle ‘n lekker koelteplekkie uit, en slaap doodgewoon tot hul mense uitkom. Dié Sondag was egter bestem om ietwat anders te verloop. Een van die jong woelige honde snuffel-snuffel al om die kerk, en daar jaag hy ‘n haas op! Binne ‘n ommesientjie is die hele lot honde al blaffend agter die haas aan. Die honde wat agter die haas aan is, is ‘n bonte mengelmoes. Kort op die haas se hakke is die windhonde. Eintlik meer skralerige, vinnige honde, as wat hulle enige bloedlyntoetse sou slaag. Dan kom die gewone plaas-waghonde, die rifrugge, die basterboele en selfs ‘n foksterriër of twee. Elke soort hond het sy eie soort blaf, wat tot die versteuring van die Sondagoggend se gewydheid bydra. Daar is die hoë keffies van die klein brakkies, en die diep blaffe van die Boele. Alles is in beweging, sodat dit die desibels nog so op- en afjaag. Lekker deurmekaar geroer deur die verskillende snelhede waarmee die bewegende gebit agter die ongelukkige haas aankom. Soos ‘n dwarrelwind suig die hondekommando boonop die dorpsbrakke wat die lawaai hoor, ook in. Ook ‘n los brak of twee wat in die omgewing was, besluit hy gaan sy geluk op haasjag beproef, en skraap ook die voortsnollende haas.

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Aanvanklik is die haas lekker windmakerig – ore regop, en wip onnodig hoog om die oog van sy agtervolgers so veel as moontlik te vang. Met die hoog-hoppery kan hy ook makliker flous oor die rigting waarin hy gaan. Net soos die naaste brak se bek oopgaan vir ‘n bol haasstert, wip hy effens skuins, gebruik sy stert as flikkerlig, en vlieg dan in ‘n ander rigting. Dié taktiek is een te veel vir ‘n opgewonde brak, wat al ploeg - ploeg van rigting moet verander, en terselfdertyd luidkeels sy ongelukkigheid met dié toedrag van sake te kenne gee. Gewoonlik val ‘n klomp honde boonop oor die voorste hond wat in sy poging om van rigting te verander, met moeder aarde kennis maak. Dinge begin later half ingewikkeld raak vir die haas. Veral toe hy benewens tant Souf se vet Boeldokhond ook van die ander brakke van agter begin verbyhol. Dié sit so ‘n keel op, dat die gevaar bestaan dat ‘n hond vorentoe straks kan begin omkyk, en kortom kan vlieg. Buitendien begin die haas ook nou moeg raak, en hy lê toe die rieme met sy ore styf teen die kop neer. By die naaste hoek van die kerk, wys die haas met sy stert hy gaan wegdraai van die kerk af. Maar hy kierang, en vlieg teen die anderkantste muur af. Die honde wat kort op sy stertjie was, kry nie hul draai so mooi nie, en gaan draai al keffend en tjankend doer by Oom Basie se sinkdam. Dan skraap hulle die haas weer. Weer glip die haas kort om die kerk se volgende hoek, en weer gaan draai die lawaaierige honde doer ver. Dis net Tant Souf se vet boeldokhond wat rustig agterna draf en so af en toe ‘n hees “Hoef! Hoef!” laat hoor om te wys hy is darem deel van die jagekspedisie. Die haas is om die volgende hoek, en maak dit weer vir die hoek waar hy begin het. Weer gooi hy sy stertjie vir regs, en vlieg links om. Die keer is van die honde

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al so losgehardloop dat hulle om Oom Basie se sinkdam gaan draai. En hulle raak al kwater vir die haas wat hulle so flous. Binne die kerk wil hoor en sien vergaan van die honde se gejuig al agter die haas aan. Amper soos met ‘n motorresies. Die klank wat al harder word, en dan weer al sagter soos die spul daar ver gaan draai as die haas kortom vlieg. Die haas is naderhand al ‘n hele paar keer van agter by tant Souf se boeldokhond verby. Toe die moeë haas weer ‘n slag by die kerk se hoek, met die klomp klappende kake hier kort agter hom, kortom vlieg, draai hy te kort en is hy by die kerk se deur in. In die proses verloor die honde hom heeltemal, en gaan in ‘n kring om die kerk aan’t blaf. Die uitgeputte haas wip ondertussen al in die gangetjie af, na waar die katkisante netjies in ‘n ry voor die preekstoel staan. Langs die een op die verste punt, gaan lê die haas op sy pens, en trek sy ore plat met die hoop dat hy tog nie raakgesien moet word nie. Maar omtrent almal wat kon sien, het gesien. Die dominee inkluis. “Broeder”, beduie hy vir die koster, “Verwyder asseblief die haas”. Die koster stap nader, en buk voor die haas met die gedagte om hom op te tel. Die haas kry egter lewe, en spring teen die koster se bors vas. Die koster kry nog luidkeels ‘n woord wat nie in die kerk hoort nie uit, voor hy so uit soos ‘n kers neerslaan.

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Die haas vat koers onder die naaste bank in. Hier van voor af kan ‘n mens mooi sien hoe die haas vorder, want so ver soos hy gaan spring die tantes heel onwaardig op die banke. Neef Abrie het nooit gesê wat van daai haas geword het nie.

Die zolle Ons is nou ook reeds goed gewoond aan dinge op “onse” TV waarvoor baie Suid-Afrikaners nou die dag nog in “Walletjies” anderkant die groot waters gaan kuier het. Maar so elke nou en dan is daar tog so ‘n ietsie van die nuwe Suid-Afrika wat ‘n mens se aandag trek. Soos nou die aand in ‘n program oor die Lesotho-Hooglandwaterprojek. Die vrou wil nou nie ondankbaar wees oor die nuwe deftige huis sy wat in ruil vir haar pondokkie gekry het nie, maar darem. Waar haar pondokkie gestaan het, is nou diep blou water van die Katsedam. Hier waar haar nuwe huis staan is nie genoeg grond om weer dagga te plant nie. Die daggageldjies het sy nodig om vir haar seun se studies te betaal. Sommer so oop en bloot en skaamteloos. ‘n Jaar of wat gelede sou die blatantheid my nog ‘n fronsie besorg het. Maar nie na ek ‘n paar maande op ‘n “saait” gewerk het nie. Het met hande-arbeid gehelp om ‘n HOP-behuisingskema in Lourierpark in Bloemfontein die lig te laat sien, nadat die nuwe Suid-Afrika my uit my joppie waarvoor ek my twee grade gebruik het, gehelp het. Maar dis nie oor my teenspoed met die nuwe gôwerment dat ek dit hier het nie. Ook nie hoe koud dit in die kaal dakbalke kan raak as die Vrystaatse windjie kortpad van die Suidpool af deursteek nie. Ook nie hoe ‘n mens van donker tot donker maak as daar nie kleinhuisies in die omgewing is nie. (Wat het tog van Ontwikkelingshulp se surplusse geword?) Nee, ek het dit hier oor die daggarokery.

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Die messelaars is meestal Xhosas. Hulle roep hom by Mthombi, of so iets. Die elektrisiën se handlangers is Suid-Sotho’s, en hulle gooi hom by die Setompie. Die “carpenters”, (ek glo nie hulle weet wat skrynwerkers is nie), is Tswana’s wat al goed verafrikaans het. Vir hulle is hy sommer “zol”. Nie dat al die benamings en kulture ‘n babelse verwarring veroorsaak nie. In elk geval nie as een ‘n papiertjie begin rol nie. Maak nie saak waffer papiertjie nie. Lourierpark is berug vir sy morsjorsery en waaipapier is daar te kies en te keur. Van sementsakke tot daai papier wat in die vertrekkie gebruik word wat, soos ek gemeld het, in Lourierpark heeltemal makeer. Maar as die skouers krom maak, rugkant windop, dan staan almal nader. Dan is die “apartheid” tussen die ambagte wat die outydse gildes sou laat bloos, skoonveld. Dan kry elkeen ‘n teug. ‘n Lekker groot teug en die werk staan ‘n bietjie links. ‘n Paar stappe volg hierna. Nommer een, ek kry opslag ‘n verblindende hoofpyn, later selfs 50 meter windop. Dis nou benewens die huisbewoners wat ook goed stook. Soms lyk dit of ‘n huis binne vlamgevat het soos die walms daar uit trek. Of boeta, as jy bo ‘n huis se plafon vasgekeer sit as jy drade lê en jy hoor die gevreesde woord, setompie. Nie lank nie, gillende dreigemente bo uit die “trapdoor” uit ten spyt, lyk die “trapdoor” van bo af soos ‘n gesellige skoorsteen van ‘n opstal in die winter. Nou meet ek die volgende stappe aan ‘n ou kennis uit die plakkersgebiede, Rasta, se wysheid. Rasta sit nie sy mond aan drank of sigarette nie. Maar dagga is ‘n ander saak. Dié, sê hy, is die swart mense se tabak. Die feit dat twak wettig is, en nie dagga nie, is oorle’ apartheid se skuld. Om

Anton Rupert se

tabakbelange te beskerm. Hy glo dagga het geen nadelige uitwerking nie. Destyds in my gôwermentjoppie moes ons ook met ‘n projek die handdoek ingooi. Ons wou naamlik ‘n gemeenskapsprojek loods met die gedagte om van daai nuwe soort dagga, wat nie kan bedwelm nie, maar wat heerlike jannas maak, aan te plant. Ou Rasta was vuur en vlam, tot ons agterkom sy gedagte

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was om die janna-dagga bloot as - en verskoon die sinspeling - rookskerm te gebruik. Die ware Jakob, het hy gereken, kan hy mildelik binne-in verdoesel. My hoofpyne tel nie. Wat ek dan as eerste stap van die stokery (na die hoofpyn) bemerk is dat die hande-arbeiders baie harder werk. Die ouens wat slote grawe en so aan. Daarvoor het ‘n mens nie ‘n oormaat van helder verstand nodig nie, inteendeel is dit vir die kontrakteur handig as sy hande-arbeiders vergeet om moeg te word. Iets om te vergeet dis na aan tjaila-tyd moet nog uitgevind word. Die tweede is dat die manne begin skoorsoekerig raak. Veral met diegene wat nie saam ‘n paar trekke gevat het nie. Dan gaan logika by die agterdeur uit - dis nou waar die deure op die “saait” nog nie gesteel is nie. Dié word sommer so met kosyn en al uit die mure gebreek. Dan volg skoorsoekery. En moenie dink jy kan met ‘n gerookte redeneer nie. Hy is vas van plan om met sy skoorsoekery vol te hou tot ‘n ander gerookte hom genoegsaam vererg en die werkery eers moet eenkant staan terwyl heen en weer verduidelik word. Maar skermutselings is nie noodwendig die gevolg nie. Hoe maak daai ou op TV, daar digby die Suidpool as een van die manne die trekklavier nadertrek? Hy skink gou nog ‘n koppie boeretroos, voor dinge hand uit ruk. Net so sal een skielik krom skouers in die wind gaan staan. Almal staan dan weer nader en al die onredelikheid is vergete.

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En iewers in die berge word iemand se studies betaal. En iemand anders sit met ‘n hoofpyn.

Hulle stink so lekker want hulle drink so lekker Wat is die groot verskil tussen gaan rugby kyk en gaan krieket kyk? Die kanse dat jy as toeskouer in ‘n bakleiery betrokke gaan raak is vermoedelik skraler by die krieket. Soos.... Ons was ‘n klomp jong ongetroudes wat direk na ons studentedae aan Kovsies in Pretoria gaan werk het. So wan en dan het Vrystaat op Loftus Versveld kom kragte meet. Dit was in die tyd na die Vrystaat se gloriedae van Jackie Snyman, Kleintjie Grobler, Johan de Bruin, Rampie Stander en hul makkers. Maar die Vrystaat het nog die nuk gehad om gereeld eers ver teen NoordTransvaal te gaan staan en voorloop. Daar op Loftus. Net as ons Vrystaters se bekke op hul grootste is, gaan verklaar die Vrystaat. Dan sit ons lelik gestrand op erg vyandiggesinde bodem. En onthou, wat ‘n Noord-Transvaalse fanatikus betref, is sy span altyd die sterkste, ongeag hoe nugter hy is. As sy span agterloop is dit omdat daar iets fout is met sy span - hy vra die vraag oor wat fout is seker ‘n honderd keer oor en oor, sonder dat hy ooit ‘n antwoord kry. Dis in elk geval nooit omdat die ander span dalkies beter is nie.

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Nou so gebeur dit weer op ‘n dag dat Vrystaat weer ordentlik ver voorloop. Soos die noodlot dit die dag wou hê was my mede-oud-Kovsies die slag net ‘n paar dames. En ons SKREE!. Agter ons sit ‘n groepie Noord-Transvaal-ondersteuners. Doodstil. Net die een se opgeskote seuntjie gil deurlopend benoud oor sy span so waragtag teen die Vrystaat, van alle spanne, kan staan en agterloop. En hoe benouder die mannetjie te kere gaan, des te lekkerder is dit om grootbek longe uit te pak. Tot die mannetjie my op die skouer tik. “Hoekom skree oom vir die Vrystaat?” vra hy, skoon oorbluf dat iemand so dof in die kop kan wees. Ek meen, as die Vrystaat deesdae teen van die paloekaspanne verloor, wonder ek soms ook, en ongelukkig baie van die ander ondersteuners ook. Sonder om mooi om te kyk laat loop ek met: “Omdat ek nie vir gemors kan skree nie!” Iets sê vir my ek moet liewer behoorlik omkyk. Die laaitie se pa sit en biltong kerf, en hy het behoorlik kennis geneem van wat ek gesê het. En hy was glad nie van plan om vir my biltong aan te bied nie. En hy was bietjie groot. En sy pêlle was groot. Daai slag kon ek my darem uit ‘n bakleiery uitgebluf kry. So verduidelik hoeveel karate ek geneem het en so aan, tot die ou begin dink het daar is dalkies ‘n buite kans dat hy tweede sal kan kom. Met krieket moet dit vermoedelik beter gaan. So besluit ‘n klompie van ons kollegas ons gaan na die eendag-eindstryd op die Wanderers kyk. Nie een van

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ons het ‘n belang by die twee spanne, OP en Transvaal, wat die dag kragte meet nie, en ons besluit ons ondersteun maar die “under dogs”, die OP. Nou moet ek sê ons was almal ‘n klomp spaais gewees, al het ons kantoorjoppies gehad. Omdat party van die manne dalk nog “in” is, gebruik ek maar liewers aliasse. En ons was seker ook nie aldag engeltjies nie, hoewel die spookstories wat nou voor die WVK (Wanvoorstellingskommissie?) ‘n bietjie erg wyd klink. Ons stoutigheid was meer die soort soos om op 1 April, let wel, 1 April, ‘n slim kollega na “ons kantoor in Saoedi-Arabië” te verplaas. Dr. Niel Barnard se handtekening mooi nagemaak en als. Nietemin, ons besluit ons wil nog sien of die ouens by die hekke ons kan uitvang as ons ons voorradetjies saam inneem. Nie dat een van ons nou eintlik ooit ‘n stywe dop gemaak het nie, maar ‘n mens moet darem so nou en dan jou vernuf op die proef stel. En daar is die deurgaan ook so maklik soos om by ‘n oop venster uit te kyk. Binne sou ons die rede agterkom. Die borg se lorrie staan oop en bloot en voorraad is feitlik onbeperk beskikbaar. Dis dalk hier waar die lollery begin het. Want kort voor lank is dit wat ons ingesmokkel het vuurwarm, en die borg se voorraad lekker yskoud. En die goed had nie dieselfde oorsprong nie. Ek bedoel, dit sal glad nie lekker smaak as die borg se produk ook met Coke gemeng word nie. En hoe warmer die dag raak, des te gladder van bek raak van die toeskouers. En hoe kreatiewer ook. Toe die borg se trompoppies hier oor middagete weer passies maak, was daar reeds ‘n hele aantal onpubliseerbare variasies op die advertensie van “hulle smaak so lekker, want hulle eet so lekker”. Sêgoed wat

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nog mooi gerym het ook. Soos die trompoppies wat so lekker swaai, want.... Nee sies. Hier vlak voor ons sit ‘n groot ou, ‘n regtige GROOT ou, goed gekoring. En hy lê vreeslik aan by ‘n ou wat skuins voor hom sit se meisie of vrou. Maar hy is Afrikaans, en die meisie is Engels. ‘n Ander toeskouer tolk baie gewilliglik. Die meisie se ou KYK verbete krieket na hy gesien het hoe groot die ou is wat so blatant in sy slaai krap. Dis toe dat ou Piet hier langes my sy skerpste sêding vir die dag inkry. Sê hy vir die vryer voor: “Jy stink so lekker want jy drink so lekker!” Ta vlieg om en ek laat sak my kop tussen my knieë. Hier is ek nou waaragtig in ‘n bakleiery, en dit nogal by die krieket. Piet is nie klein nie - speel buitemuurs vir Tukkies flank. Maar teen dié ou is Piet maar ‘n buksie. Maar die ou kyk nie eens vir ons nie. Sy oë dwaal daar doer bo in die pawiljoen. Daar gewaar hy sy pêl Johnny. “Johnny!” gil hy. “Hoor jy wat sê die ou?!” “Nee!” laat hoor Johnny daar van bo af. “Hy sê ek stink so lekker want ek drink so lekker!” En onder groot gelag van die hele pawiljoen gaan sit hy, sommer so ‘n kitsheld geword.

Oom Brokkie se kontrêpsie

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As jy aan Skuinstevlei dink, dink jy aan Oom Brokkie. En as jy aan Oom Brokkie dink, dink ‘n mens aan ‘n vreeslike klomp goed. Sommer so gelyk. Maar meestal dink ‘n mens aan ‘n man vir wie se hande niks reg staan nie. Of ‘n regte ongeluksvloël, en alles wat daarmee gepaard gaan. Oom Brokkie is oud. So oud dat almal in die ouetehuis al vir hom Oom sê. Wat nie beteken dat Oom Brokkie afgeleef is nie. Tot ‘n jaar of wat gelede was Oom Brokkie nog ‘n verskrikking op die rugbyveld. Darem nie as speler nie, maar as skeidsregter. Want het iemand nou iets oor Oom Brokkie se jongste kontrêpsie gesê, wat nie vir die Oom alte vleiend geklink het nie, dan het die hare die Saterdag op die rugbyveld gewaai. Want sien, Oom Brokkie dateer uit die dae lank voor neutrale skeidsregters. En elkeen wat na Oom Brokkie se smaak hom te na gekom het, het of self rugby vir Dorp, of Spoorweë gespeel. Of daai een het iemand geken, of was verwant aan iemand wat vir een van die twee spanne gespeel het. En so ‘n sondaar se span het die komende Saterdag les opgesê. Soos die slag toe die kaptein van Dorp in die konsistorie laat val het dat Oom Brokkie nou vir seker tender om te verongeluk met sy nuutste gier, waaroor ons nou-nou meer gaan vertel. Ongelukkig vir die kaptein het Oom Brokkie pas selwers ingestap, en hom gehoor. Daai Saterdag het Dorp dit ontgeld. So erg dat ‘n vlakhaas eers na rustyd uit die helfte van die veld wat Spoorweë voor rustyd moes verdedig, gejaag is. Maar terug na Oom Brokkie se kontrêpsies. Hy had ‘n alewige strewe daarna om te verbeter op al wat ryding is. Dit dateer glo al uit die tyd van die perde- en donkiekarre uit. Toe dit nog net perde- en donkiekarre was, het dit glo nog gegaan, behalwe daai een keer. Dis toe Oom

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Brokkie ‘n wiel in die middel van sy laaiwa geprakseer het om te keer dat die wa in die middel ingee met die swaar vragte bouklip wat hy uit die berg aangery het. Die patent het tot ‘n punt gewerk, maar teen ‘n opdraandetjie het die vrag effe agtertoe geskuif. Oom Brokkie het dit nie agtergekom nie, maar toe het die voorwiele nie meer lekker grond gevat nie. Dit was nogal ernstig, want dit was die draaiwiele. Met die gevolg dat Oom Brokkie, sy span muile, die wa, die vrag klippe en Oom Brokkie in die spruit beland het. O ja, ek het al van Oom Brokkie gesê. Maar toe die petrolgoed eers op die pad kom, toe lol Oom Brokkie se patente. Hy kon aanvanklik nie self ‘n karretjie koop nie. Maar die eerste een wat verongeluk het, se stuurwiel het hy gekoop. Dié monteer hy toe op sy perdekar. Met ‘n vreeslike ingewikkelde kombinasie tooms en ratte had hy toe ‘n stuurwiel. Nie baie suksesvol nie, maar dit kon min of meer stuur. Weliswaar moes ‘n mens links draai om die perde te laat regs, en andersom. Hiermee het Oom Brokkie nooit mooi vertroud geraak nie, met die gevolg dat hy ‘n hele paar keer in die hospitaal beland het, en ook ‘n paar keer nuwe perde moes koop. Tot die DBV hom gedreig het, en die stuur-kontrepsie afgehaal is. Toe hy uiteindelik self petrol-rygoed kry, was die ambisie vir verbeterings nie minder nie, net heelwat minder suksesvol. Met die modes het hy goed bygehou. Soos die slag toe hy van turbo begin kennis neem het, en opsluit sy eie afgeleefde Angliatjie wou turbo. Aan vindingrykheid ontbreek dit toe ook nie. Min of meer kom dit toe daarop neer dat hy met ‘n pyp uit die uitlaatstelsel van die ekstra uitlaatgasse terug in die blok in gepomp het. Om die ekstra druk te kry, sien.

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Die Angliatjie - dit wat herkenbaar na die karretjie was na die modifikasies gedoen is - het sommer op een slag op die skrootwerf beland, en Oom Brokkie amper in die begraafplaas. En dis hier in die hospitaal waar Oom Brokkie se nuwe patent die lig gesien het, wat indirek tot die vlakhaas se rusversteuring gelei het. ‘n Vliegmasjien. Of eerder seker ‘n vliegkontrêpsie, as dit wat die kontrepsie gedoen het ooit vir vlieg gekwalifiseer het. Oom Brokkie het niks aan die toeval oorgelaat nie. Wel, amper niks. Sy aanloopbaan het meer aan ‘n lanseerbaan herinner. ‘n Skotige bultjie op sy plaas is hiervoor ingespan. Dae lank het die skroppe ‘n reguit pad teen die koppie uit, en anderkant weer afgemaak.. Bo op die knop is twee reuse trekkerwiele sonder buiteband gemonteer. Lekker fris toue is aan ‘n waentjie vol klippe gepak wat bo-op die knop gemaak staan is. Die toue is oor die twee wiele gespan wat as katrolwiele moes dien. Vandaar, na die onderkant van die randjie, loop die twee toue tot waar dit aan Oom Brokkie se vliegmasjien vasgemaak is. Die waentjie moet nou anderkant afhardloop en oom Brokkie se vliegmasjien spoed gee teen die randjie uit. As hy bo kom, is dit op eie krag die bloue lug in. Dis die teorie. Die vliegmasjien self. Wel, dit kan ten beste beskryf word as ‘n paar stukke sinkplaat, styf met bloudraad aan ‘n raamwerk vasgedraai. ‘n Ou trekkersitplek is die stoel. Die perdekar van vanslewe se stuurwiel is weer ingespan, en n fris kragparraffinpomp is in ‘n enjin omskep. Iets wat soos ‘n kruis tussen ‘n motorbootskroef en ‘n windpomp se lemme lyk is die - soos oom Brokkie dit

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gestel het, propeller. ‘n Onpaar kruiwawiele rond die prentjie af. Alles mooi rooi geverf. Min of meer die hele dorp en die hele omtrek se plaas-kleingoed is die dag daar toe Oom Brokkie die lansering aanpak. Niemand glo Oom Brokkie sal die bloue lug haal nie, maar niemand wil die dag misloop as die Oom die noodlot ‘n slag te veel uitgedaag het nie. Baie waardig klim Oom Brokkie agter die stuur in, skuif sy stofbril oor sy oë en swaai sy serp reg. Filemon moet die enjin se tou trek. Dit kry hy eers reg nadat Oom Brokkie ‘n tweede keer uitgeklim het en ou Filemon net lelik moes koes. Dis Saterdagmiddag, en Filemon het by voorbaat Oom Brokkie se groot oomblik gevier. Die enjin brul, en die vliegmasjien verdwyn binne ‘n ommesientjie in ‘n reuse stofwolk. Dan kom Oom Brokkie se stem bulderend uit die stofwolk: “Klaas, laat waai!” Dit beteken Klaas moet die waentjie op die knoppie aan die ander kant begin afstoot. Klaas hoor nie, maar die toeskouers het gehoor, en wys en swaai vir Klaas. Hy laat waai! En Oom Brokkie se lansering begin. Al vinniger en vinniger snol die gedoente die randjie uit, later half uit die uit die stofwolk uit. Dit lyk naand skoon die ding het lus om aan’t vliege te gaan. Bo-op die randjie kom daar toe moeilikheid. Niemand, Oom Brokkie inkluis, het gedagte gehad dat die tou daar bo gelos moet word nie. Dié is stewig aan die onderstel vasgebind.

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Die vliegmasjien ken toe net een baas, en dis die voortsnellende waentjie. In plaas van op, gaat Oom Brokkie se vliegmasjien toe af, agter die waentjie aan. Die waentjie haal egter die onderkant, en keer tussen die klippe om. Oom Brokkie siet hier kom groot fout! “Briek, briek!” gil die oubaas, maar daar is min wat die toeskouers aan die voortsnellende gevaarte kan doen. Daar tussen die einste klippe het hulle Oom Brokkie meer dood as lewend loop uithaal, en hospitaal toe geneem. Daar het sy dogter uit Pretoria haar pa op die Bybel laat belowe hy is klaar met dié streke. Skaars is sy by die deur uit, of Oom Brokkie fluister vir die dominee. “Dominees, as ek net my voet daar kon bykry om die tou los te trap, het ek seker nou al daar duskant Bethlehem loop draai. Luglangs,” voeg hy by net om alle moontlike misverstand uit die weg te ruim. Hy wis nie hy was dae lank in ‘n koma nie, en die kragparaffien sou lankal nie meer gehou het nie. Oom Brokkie is later dieselfde jaar weggeneem na daar waar niks onmoontlik is nie. Hy het in die bad op ‘n koekie seep gegly.

Oom Oog se spook Soos gebruiklik is hulle weer almal daar. Pottie Potgieter, Frans Viljee, Oog Visagie, Koekoes van Rensburg, die kroegman Sarel Venter en al die ander. Dis nou in Sarel se Oog.

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Vrydagmiddae na die veilings gaan dit vrolik...baie vrolik in Sarel se Oog op Kransfontein. Veral as dit die dag warm was en die vee die stof snuif getrap het. Stof wat weggespoel moet word. Na die stof weggespoel is, moet eers afgekoel word. Dan kan die manne eers begin kuier. Hulle het mos nie vroeër die dag kans daarvoor gehad nie, veral nie as hulle ‘n wakende ogie moes hou dat hul tollies en ander vee vir ‘n appel en ‘n ei weggeraap word nie. Na die kuiery moet eers gespog word oor dié of daai bees wat so ‘n mooi prys gehaal het. Dan word oor die droogte gekla. Maar uiteindelik is die manne ook, soos in enige ander oog, gewoon net slim. Die land en die wêreld se probleme word opgelos. Om die dooierigheid in die knieë weg te steek, word teen daai tyd gesit. Om die dooierigheid in die wange te verbloem word baie besadig en baie beredeneerd gepraat. Klink mos baie intelligent en deurdag. Net jammer niemand, ook nie die orator, kan die volgende dag onthou hoe die ondermaanse in ‘n japtrap uit sy probleme verlos kan word nie. Dis nou na die hoofpynpoeiers die werk gedoen het. Vanaand...ja, dit het al aand geword, gaan dit oor spoke. Niemand kan agterna onthou hoe die gesprek op spoke gekom het nie, maar dié keer kan almal presies onthou hoe die aand geëindig het. Trouens, nie een sal dit sommer ooit ligtelik vergeet nie. “Daar is nie so ‘n ding soos spoke nie” sê Karel beslis, terwyl hy sy voet in die voetreëling haak om te keer dat die kroegstoel waarop hy “ry” nie omduiwel nie.

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“Maar ek het self al een gesien” protesteer Bennie terwyl hy die stand van sy bier heel wetenskaplik onder oog hou. “Ja, daai oggend toe jy jou vrou gesien het na jy in die kar moes slaap” laat hoor Frans. Almal skater van die lag. Hulle weet maar al te goed dat Bennie se vrou skuins befoeterd kan raak, veral as hy in ‘n ongeleë uur by die huis aangesit kom na hy te veel gekuier het. “Ek en my vrou het een nag laat in so ‘n misreëntjie daar naby Willowmore gery toe ek ‘n vrou druipnat uit die veld sien naderkom en beduie ek moet stilhou” vertel Pottie. “Ek het net van die pad af begin trek, toe skree my vrou hard ek moet ry, dis ‘n spook. Toe sien ek dit ook. Die vrou sweef so ‘n voet bokant die grond!” “Ek wed jou daar is spoke”. Almal draai om. Dis Jan Visagie van Ficksburg. Niemand het hom hoor inkom nie. Jan is ‘n voorslagboer, en het al die vrygeselle van Kransfontein se hand in die as geslaan toe die plaaslike laerskool se mooiste onderwyseres, Marié du Plessis, haar aan hom verloof het. Jan het seker die naweek vir haar kom kuier, maar niemand ken hom as ‘n kroegvlieg nie. Jan kyk somber en stil na Karel. Karel ruk hom reg. “Wil jy geld mors? Nou kom ons wed dan”.

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Hy diep ‘n twintigrandnoot uit sy sak op. “Voor die aand om is, sal jy aan spoke glo, my vriend” sê Jan terwyl ook hy ‘n twintigrandnoot uithaal. “Kom ons skud” sê Karel. Karel en Jan skud op die weddenskap en Sarel die kroegman kap deur. “Ek sit die twee note hier onder die leë brandewynbottel neer” sê Sarel. “Nou maar dan sê ek eers goeienag” sê Jan terwyl hy aanstryk deur toe. “Waar moet ons jou in die hande kry om jou die geld te gee?” spot Karel nog baie braaf agterna. “Moenie bekommerd wees nie” sê Jan. “Ek sal dit wel in die hande kry”. Sy stem sny so kil die Oog in, dat niemand meer lag nie. Met dié verdwyn hy in die skemerte. Skaars is hy uit, of die Middagbladverkopertjie kom by die deur in. “Blêd!” roep hy. Die manne wat nog kan, staan nader om die koerant aan te skaf. Die ander wink van hul hoë ronde stoeltjies af.

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Niemand lees baie ernstig nie - dis maar more op die Saterdag se werk, maar die meeste laat hul oë so oor die belangrikste opskrifte gly. Al is die Middagblad se opskrifte teen die tyd ook al sleg uit fokus gedruk. Niemand wil darem die land se probleme oplos, en daar was intussen ‘n staatsgreep nie. Dan was al die harde dinkwerk pure verniet. “K..k..kyk hie..hier!” stotter ‘n doodsbleek Pottie. Die manne staan of slinger een na die ander nader om te kyk wat Pottie so uit sy geloof laat skrik het. “D..d..daar!” en hy druk met sy groot wysvinger op ‘n berig op bladsy twee. Die manne konsentreer. Die opskrif lui: “Jong boer verongeluk tragies”. Frans lees voor: “‘n Jong boer van Ficksburg, mnr. Jan Visagie, is gistermiddag dood na sy motor onderweg na Kransfontein in ‘n kop-aan-kop botsing met ‘n vragmotor betrokke was...” Die oë kyk almal in die rigting van die leë brandwynbottel, maar nog voor mooi gefokus kan word, weet almal reeds. Daai twee twintig randnote is nie meer daar nie. En niemand lag meer nie.

Freedom, o freedom, waar is djy? Onlangse uitlatings van regeringswoordvoerders dat ouers, veral dié wat kan betaal, bereid sal moet wees om meer skoolgeld te betaal, het ‘n vlammetjie van herinnering laat flikker.

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As student moes die uwe by geleentheid die Freedom Charter onder oë kry. My destydse oorheersende indrukke, soos ek my dit in herinnering geroep het, was ‘n vreeslike idealistiese stukkie twak. Maar iets wat vreeslik pertinent in my kop vasgesteek het, was die onderneming van gratis, verpligte onderwys vir alle kinders. En dit was nie net die ANC wat hom al byna ‘n halwe eeu gelede tot die Freedom Charter verbind het nie. Die VN het ook by geleentheid besluit dié dokument is die mees demokratiese en morele dokument wat nog ooit sy oorsprong in Afrika gehad het. Watter kompetisie! Die meeste van die UDF se geaffilieerde lede het dit onderskryf. Aartsbiskop Desmond Tutu en dr. Beyers Naudé het die potensiaal van die dokument om vrede in Suid-Afrika te bevorder, besing. Met die nuus dan dat ouers die hand dieper in die sak vir skoolgeld - en brandstof en so aan, sal moet steek, besluit ek toe om die dokument weer onder oë te kry. Die naslanery en lesery daarvan het my nogal aan min dae laat dink. Ek bedoel toe ek min dae in die “army” oorgehad het - daar by Rooikop binne-in die Namibwoestyn. So met ‘n week of wat oor en die mindaetrein al net om die duin, besluit die hoë offisiere dis weer tyd om die skietbaan te vee. Nee, darem nie met besems nie. So ‘n lang linie troepe wat stap en al die projektiele en mortiere wat nie ontplof het nie, met vlaggies merk, sodat dit later met dinamiet aan stukke gehelp kon word. ‘n Mededeling het skielik oor die tweerigtingradio gekom een van die troepe is deur ‘n slang gepik. Dit blyk toe dat die troep die woestyn- of horingaddertjie al so ‘n paar kilometer terug raakgeloop het. Gedagtig aan die min dae besluit die

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troep om die slanggetjie saam te neem huis toe. Die slangetjie het nie saamgestem nie. (Dat die troep toe nog boonop 15 cc van die verkeerde teengif in die hand ingespuit is, is ‘n ander storie.) Terug na die punt. Die oplesery oor die Freedom Charter skep die oorheersende indruk dat as die ANC regtig sou probeer om die inhoud te implementeer, sou dit wees soos om ‘n onwillige giftige slang aan die boesem te druk. Of dalk ‘n honger luislang. Behalwe gratis onderwys, sal die wese, gestremdes en selfs siekes deur die staat versorg word. ‘n Hele boel pryse sal verlaag word. Almal kan ook gaan bly net waar hulle wil, sonder om te sê wat sal gebeur as twee gesinne ‘n ogie op dieselfde lappie grond het… Alle volke sal die reg op selfbeskikking en onafhanklikheid hê (u het reg gelees) mits die volke net in Afrika is. Nie ‘n woord oor regstellende aksie nie. Trouens, enige optrede wat daarop gemik is om ‘n sekere ras te benadeel, sal strafbaar wees. Plakkergebiede sal gesloop word sodat almal mooi huise met elektrisiteit en als kry. ‘n Mens wil amper sê, smeer aan en kom! Ja, selfs taal- en kultuurregte word so mooi omskryf dat dr. Neville Alexander se bedanking uit Pansat oorhaastig lyk. Maar dan kom die fyndruk wat nie alte fyn gedruk is nie. Nasionalisering van mineraalregte, nasionalisering van banke en groot nywerhede, en beheer oor die

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res. Tot voordeel van die volk. Natuurlik met ‘n teenstrydigheid hier en daar. Nie alte ge-Gear nie, veral nie met die goudprys wat is wat dit is nie. Die beloofde gratis mediese dienste en hospitalisasie het ook nie kon voorsien dat Vigs eendag sulke afmetings sou aanneem nie. En dan is die ekonomie na boikotte, sanksies en disinvestering daarmee klaargespeel het ook nie wat dit moes wees nie. Soos wie wil dan nou ook ‘n goudmyn hê wat op ‘n reuse verlies loop, met werkers wat net 40 uur per week (die Charter se belofte) werk. Heel realisties maak die Charter ook voorsiening vir betaalde kraamverlof, maar net vir moeders en nie ook vir die vermeende pa’s soos wat die aandrang nou is nie. Maar in geheel gesien - ‘n “paai” in die “skaai”, amper net soos die beloofde wasmasjiene. G’n wonder nie sinici sê die titel van pres. Mandela se volgende boek is: The Freedom Charter, forgotten memory”.

Die wegstuur en wegstuur en wegstuur van ‘n faks Vandag is rekenaars ook so slim dat ‘n mens amper net ‘n vuurpyl aan een moet kan sit, dan kan hy self maan toe vlieg. Dis nou dieselfde plek waarheen menige gebruiker al gewens het sy rekenaar heen moet verhuis as hy deur programme en so meer rondgefoeter word. En rekenaars is die in ding. Van die kleinste pikkie tot die onwilligste senior burger sit deesdae agter ‘n rekenaar. Die pikkie gewoonlik met heelwat meer selfvertroue as die senior burger!

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Soms gebruik ‘n mens ook ‘n rekenaar sonder dat jy eens daarvan bewus is. As jy jou motor afskakel en jy hoor ‘n fluitgeluid, dan moet jy weet dis die motor se rekenaar wat afskakel. ‘n Rekenaar om te wat? Veral as dit nie eens ‘n besonder elektroniese motor is nie. G’n wonder van ons minder ingeligtes sal ook enigiets van ‘n rekenaar glo nie. Sommige fotostaatmasjiene het rekenaars in wat die wonderlikste dinge kan doen. So kan ‘n tegnikus deur die regte knoppies te druk op die beheerpaneeltjie lees presies wanneer het die masjien hoeveel storings gehad. Maar selfs die wonderlikhede het perke, maar nie almal weet dit nie. So vertel ‘n tegnikus dat hy en sy baas na ‘n fotostaatmasjien wat moeilikheid gemaak het, by ‘n onderneming in Bloemfontein se nywerheidsgebied moes gaan kyk het. Die fotostaatmasjien het in die vertrek gestaan waar die dames teetyd kom skinder het, en terloops, ook ‘n koppie tee kom drink het. Nog lank voor enige knoppies gedruk is, kon die tegnikus aan die meterlesing sien dié masjien word heelwat meer gebruik as waarvoor hy gemaak is. Dit nadat voor die masjien gelewer is presies bepaal is wat die onderneming se behoefte is. Terwyl die tegnikus toe die towerknoppies druk, besluit sy baas dis tyd om die nuuskierige dames ‘n streep te trek. “Kan jy daar sien wat se tipe goed hier gefotostateer is?” wil die baas ernstig weet.

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Die tegnikus, ‘n regte platjie, speel saam. Hy druk nog ‘n paar knoppies, tuur toe aandagtig na die paneel. ‘n Groot stilte sak op die vertrek toe. “Ja!”, kondig hy klokhelder aan. “Ek sien breipatrone, ek sien resepte, ek .....” Rooi in die gesig verlaat die een dame na die ander die vertrek. “...ek sien skooltake....” Teen daardie tyd was dit nog net die baas wat luister. ‘n Tegnikus van dieselfde maatskappy moes vir ‘n LUR van die nuwe regering se sekretaresse ‘n faksmasjien gaan installeer. So gesê, so gedaan, en boonop die dame ook touwys gemaak. Skaars terug op kantoor kom die noodoproep. Die faksmasjien is stukkend. Dit ontvang, maar verseg om te versend. Terug by die sekretaresse sê sy vir die tegnikus sy het die LUR ook gevra wat aangaan, maar hy het gesê hy verstaan nie veel van die masjien nie. Sy moet die tegnikus laat kom. Die tegnikus skryf toe gou ‘n boodskap op ‘n papier aan sy kantoor om ‘n faks aan hom terug te stuur, sodra hulle sy boodskap kry. Die faks is nog nie mooi deur nie, toe die dame opgewonde uitroep. “Kyk! Kyk! Daar doen hy dit weer! Die faks kom al weer hier uit!”

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Darem nie so erg nie soos die bode wat dieselfde faks 24 keer gestuur het omdat dit taks weer anderkant uitgekom het nie. Dan het ‘n rekenaaronderneming ‘n rekenaar aan ‘n dame gelewer. Skaars by die huis, kry hy die boodskap die rekenaar se muis werk glad nie. Gesteld op goeie na-sorgdiens is die eienaar dadelik terug na die huis van die ongelukkige klant. Net om die dame aan te tref waar sy hard probeer om die muis soos ‘n naaimasjien se voetpedaal in te span. Of ‘n predikant wat dieselfde man bel en sê sy rekenaar se muis is dalk stukkend. Hy het per abuis ‘n gaatjiepons op die muis laat val. Sal dit saakmaak? Nee, meen die eienaar, maar hy sal kom kyk. Die eienaar tref toe inderdaad die muis amper fisies flenters aan. Amper of ‘n baksteen daarop geval het. Dit blyk toe een van die groot industriële gaatjieponse het van bo uit ‘n boekrak op die muis geval. G’n wonder nie sy blus was so goed soos uit. By die dagbestuursvergadering van ‘n politieke party kla ‘n stadsraadslid dat die lede in die toekoms tog moet seker maak voor hulle ‘n amptenaar aanstel. Hy vertel sy oorgangsraad het ‘n dame met baie goeie “papiere” aangestel om ‘n rekenaar te bedryf. Toe die dame voor die rekenaar gaan sit, lyk dit of sy, handjies gevou, telepaties met die rekenaar probeer kommunikeer.

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“Wanneer begin sy nou werk?” wil een naderhand weet. Nee sê sy, sy weet nie hoe om die rekenaar aan te skakel nie. Seker maar met ‘n rekenaar leer werk wat op ‘n ander manier aangeskakel word, meen die amptenaar en skakel die rekenaar aan. Steeds sit die dame handjies gevou, skynbaar in ‘n beswyming. “Wanneer begin jy werk?” wil die amptenaar weer weet. “Maar ek het geen benul hoe die ding werk nie” verweer die dame haar. “En daai indrukwekkende papiere?” wil die verbaasde amptenaar weet. “O dit, ek het dit sélf by die ‘taxirank’ gekoop!” kondig sy baie spoggerig aan. Vloeksteen ‘n Kat! Dis wat ek moet kry het ek besluit toe ek sowat anderhalf dekade gelede ontdek muise het saam met my in my amper nuwe huis ingetrek. Synde in daardie stadium nog nie in die heilige staat van die eg verbind nie, was daar ook geen nodigheid dat die kat enige ander rol hoef te vervul as om muise te vang nie. Daar is geen kinders in die huis nie, en ek self is amper die heel dag by die werk. Die aangewese weg is dus by die DBV aandoen en dan sommer terselfdertyd ‘n kat van sy ongelukkige aangewese einde te red.

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Wat my op die onaansienlike strepieskat laat besluit het, kan ek nie onthou nie. Ek weet net dat die ander katte se hovaardige houdings my nie op hulle laat besluit het nie. Nietemin, die keuse het op die strepieskat geval. Nie ‘n katjie om sonder handskoene aan te pak nie, het dit spoedig geblyk. Redelik vol krapmerke land ons by my huis aan. Die kat-sonder-naam glip uit die motor uit en ek vermoed sterk dis dan ook die laaste sien van die blikkantien. Langenhovenpark was toentertyd nog maar yl beboud en meer veld as woongebied, en buitendien ‘n ent buite die stad. ‘n Ruk later kom ta ewe nonchalant die huis ingestap, reguit deur sitkamer toe waar ek sport op TV kyk. Ook reguit vas in Jafta en Gin, twee jong basterbrakke. Die gort was behoorlik gaar, hoewel die honde nie veel aandag geskenk het nie. Halfpad teen ‘n binne-ysterhek op, daar sit die kat en pak verwoed tanne uit vir die honde, terwyl sy terselfdertyd skynbaar haar bes doen om die tande uit haar bek uit te probeer blaas. ‘n Poging om die kat tot redding te kom eindig in ‘n diep sny onder die oogbank, nog verskeie ander snye en ‘n hemp wat in die snippermandjie beland. Vloeksteen! Ja, so het Vloeksteen tot haar naam gekom. Later vasgestel Vloeksteen was half wildekat. Vloeksteen het gebly, mak geword maar my nog so af en toe ‘n hemp gekos as ek en sy verskillende planne gehad het. Een keer selfs ‘n amper splinternuwe

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fluweeltrui in ‘n ommesientjie in die ander tyd ingehelp toe ek wou gaan vakansie hou, en sy liewer aan diens wou bly. Vloeksteen moes egter aanvaar ‘n kat van ‘n vrygesel beteken daar sal gery word. Selfs gevlieg word. Soos die slag toe my knie geopereer is en ek by my ma in die Kaap moes gaan aansterk. Vloeksteen het ‘n spesiale mandjie gekry, en is daarmee vragruim toe. ‘n Enkele groot benoude miaau het aangekondig dat Vloeksteen op die bagasieband op die destydse Lughawe DF Malan aangeland het. ‘n Tweede hoofstuk in Vloeksteen se lewe het aangebreek toe ek net meer as ‘n dekade gelede getroud is. Vloeksteen het intussen mak geword, en rusbanke, beddens en ander eintlik verbode plekke as gunsteling-rusplekke en plekke om hare af te skud uitgesoek. Toe die kinders kom, was Vloeksteen lankal nie meer ‘n kandidaat vir ‘n kinderkat nie. Sy het gewoonlik versigtigheidshalwe die pad gevat as ‘n baba of kind naderkom, maar as daarin geslaag is om haar onverwags te betrek, het sy selde meer as die nodige geweld ingespan om haar vryheid te herwin. Nie dat Vloeksteen nie meer spelerig was nie. Sommige aande het dit soos ‘n perderesies geklink soos sy in die gange haarself vermaak het deur op en af te galop. En dit op volvloertapyt! En so ‘n bietjie ligte getorring aan Vloeksteen het gou die ou natuur, en dus krapmerke, na vore laat kom. Maar nou het sy gespin terwyl sy die lastige hand gekarnuffel het. Nou is Vloeksteen nie meer nie. Met haar laaste rit veearts toe het sy vir oulaas besluit sy wil nie saamry nie. ‘n Pynlike krapplek aan ‘n vinger sorg

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daarvoor.

Ko’ laat ons ga-a-at drink As Afrikaners bymekaar kom, hoef hulle gewoonlik nie baie diep te delf voor hulle agterkom hulle is iewers familie nie. Seker dié dat die Afrikaner alewig so verdeeld is. Niemand baklei mos lekkerder as eie bloedfamilie nie. Maar so loop ek by geleentheid iemand op Parys raak. Dis nou, soos die bekkige haarkapper by geleentheid vir my oom gesê het toe hy nog op Parys skoolgehou het, dis seker die Parys in Transvaal, nie die een in Engeland nie. So met die geselsery blyk dit toe ons deel ‘n herkoms. Dis nou daai wêreld wat in die TV-reeks, die Manakwalanners, bekendheid verwerf het. Die man vertel toe dat hy ‘n jaar of so tevore sy vrou aan sy geboortewêreld bekend gaan stel het. Hulle kuier toe ook by ‘n neef wat daar by Loeriesfontein rond boer. So sit hulle op die stoep en gesels, toe die neef se vrou vir hulle koffie bring. Omdat dit nie eintlik beeswêreld is nie, het baie van die mense eintlik verleer om melk by die koffie of tee te drink. En daar sit my verteller, Danie, se vrou toe opgeskeep met ‘n koppie swart koffie. En sy is een wat nie swart koffie drink nie.

Danie bemerk sy vrou se

verleentheid, en trek sy neef se aandag. Die neef snap gou en sê toe vir sy vrou in daai swaar Manakwalanse aksent:

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“Mê-êt-jie, lô tjsarra da biekkie bies virrie kjênd se ga-a-at”. In Vrystaatse Afrikaans sou dit min of meer vertaal kon word met: “Mieta, gaan haal asseblief ‘n bietjie melk vir die kind se koffie”. In elk geval, Danie se vrou wou niks weet van daai koffie drink nie, met of sonder melk. En dit bring my by die eintlike storie. Die woord “Ga-a-t” vir koffie het sy herkoms uit die skaars dae toe die mense sommer self plan gemaak, en ‘n aftreksel uit die witgatwortel geprakseer het, wat hulle vir koffie gedrink het. En iemand van elders moes darem regtig baie lus vir koffie gehad het as hulle daai konkoksie in hul lywe kon inkry. Selfs toe koffie weer meer geredelik in omloop gekom het, was die plaaslike mense blykbaar so erg oor die onaardse smaak, dat hulle hul koffie nog so aangemaak het dat dit soos ga-a-t geproe het. En om dit reg te kry, moes die spulletjie behoorlik sterk aangemaak word. Nou nog spot besoekers en sê die teelepel het sommer so vanself regop in die koppie bly staan. Nou is dit so dat predikante in daai wêreld selde daar grootgeword het. Huisbesoek, met die Noordwesters se gasvryheid, was dus ‘n nagmerrie. ‘n Ander besoeker kan nog beleefd die uitnodiging vir ‘n koppie koffie van die hand probeer wys, ek sê probeer, want nee word nie sommer as antwoord aanvaar nie, maar ‘n predikant kan straksies aanstoot gee.

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Dié storie word die befaamde ds. Steenkamp toegedig. Die einste man wat later ‘n rukkie oorsee was, en met sy terugkeer vertel het hy’s nou ‘n mediese dokter. En toe later SAP-parlementslid geword het. Maar die dominee het sy ding as dominee gedoen, en gaan huisbesoek doen. Later voel dit vir hom kompleet sy wange wil skurf-kuwe trek van al die sterk gaa-at wat hy in het. So kom hy by ‘n vrinlike ou tante, en sommer met die intrapslag gesels sy gesellig dat sy gou vir dominees ‘n heerlike koppie ga-a-at gaan skink. Net om tant Breggie se siel te versônne, noem ek die tante tant Breggie. Vir bedank was daar nie eens kans nie, en vir nog ‘n koppie sien dominee ook nie kans nie. Kyk, die dominee het ‘n rekord van vrede bewaar gehad. Nie altyd sonder duwweltjies nie, maar darem vrede. Soos die slag daar op Niewoudville toe ‘n ou oom en tante stry gekry het. Ek weet nie of hulle met mekaar getroud was nie, maar die onmin was erg genoeg dat die dorp naa’nd in twee uiters vyandige kampe verdeel was. Omtrent al 50 inwoners. Dis toe dat die dominee ingryp. Eers met die oom gepraat oor vrede en naasteliefde en so aan. Nee, dis reg, seg die oom. Toe afgesit na die ou tante toe. Ook reg, seg die ou tante. So as nagedagte sê die dominee vir die ou tante: “Tante moet maar vir die oom bid ook”. “Wat!” gil die tante. “Wat sal die Here van my dink as ek met so ‘n k*% gebed by Hom aangesit kom!”

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Maar terug by die huidige storie. Tant Breggie stop hom die halwe dam ga-a-at in die hande. “Dominees, ek het sukke lekker beskuide gebak. Ek kry gou vir dominees daarvan.” Met die is sy weer kombuis toe. “Aaa’ gered” dink die dominee. Hy skuif die venster op en skiet die koffie in die tuin in. En daar staan die dominee net met die koppie se oor in die hand! Maar, soos die spreekwoord sê, die nood leer lieg. Toe Tant Breggie met die beskuide haar opwagting maak, vertel die dominee met groot gebare. - Die tante was net by die deur uit toe kom hier net so ‘n groot brommer, (en die dominee beduie ‘n ordentlike grootte met sy vingers) hier ingevlieg. Hy maak so twee draaie, en sowaar, woeps, daar val die brommer binne in die koffie in. En dis nou met die uitgooislag dat hy nou die vreeslike skade oorkom, en hy beduie na die oortjie wat al te beskuldigend daar tussen sy duim en wysvinger sit. “Ag, toemaar dominees”, sê die tante. “Dominee het seker groot geskrik. Ek maak dominees ‘n koppie heerlike sterk ga-a-at teen die skrik!”

Die gelanseerde geweer

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Ons was al, in weermagterme, redelike ou manne toe ons op Rooikop buite Walvisbaai gestasioneer is. Teen daai tyd was die manne nie in veel meer geïnteresseerd as om te luister of hulle nie die min dae trein kon hoor aankom nie. En toentertyd het hy nog tussen die duine in die see geloop. So naby aan die see dat as ‘n mens half waterpas by die trein uitgekyk het, dit kompleet gevoel het of die trein in die see loop. Maar dit sou tog ‘n baie produktiewe tyd wees...dis nou in terme van gebeurtenisse. Aanvanklik het die manne die geleentheid benut om sommer so met die naweekpasse amper die hele Suidwes te gaan verken. Een het selfs ‘n meisie op Outjo aangeskaf, nogal ‘n vryersvernuf as ‘n mens die afstand wat sonder ‘n eie ryding aangepak moes word, in gedagte moes hou. En nog een is saam met kennisse van sy pa anderkant Windhoek vir wilddiefstal aangekeer. Maar toe word ‘n verbod op ryloop geplaas. Kort daarna verongeluk die Siekeboegsuster se kind op Duin Sewe, en ‘n verbod word op duinry geplaas. Toe beteken ‘n naweekpas ook nie veel meer nie as om Vrydagmiddag Rooikop uit te klim, en vir die manne wat nie pas het nie, te loop lag. Maar ou manne wat so vasgevang raak, raak op ander wyses produktief. Ek bedoel, watter luitenant by sy volle positiewe stuur ou man-kanoniers om vir hom sy pyp te gaan haal? En ruik, met permissie gesê, nie lont as die pyp sommer klaar gestop arriveer nie.

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Die luitenant, so ‘n lui Duitser, het nogal ewe dankie gesê vir die gaafgeid om sy pyp te stop. So drie weke later, nadat die kordiet in die pyp sy werk gedoen het, het die luitenant weer na ‘n Duitser gelyk. En hy het sy nuwe pyp maar altyd by hom gedra. Om die een of ander rede het die Pee-efs destyds besluit so ‘n maand of so voor ons uitklaar, is ‘n gawe tyd vir ons om met R-eens en blinde patrone kruis en dwars deur die Kuseb te loop, en skynoorlog te voer. Dis darem baie moeite vir ‘n ou man, maar ons het darem die kuns vervolmaak om tydelike basisse in ‘n japtrap in te rig en ‘n uiltjie te knip. Dis juis met so ‘n indommeling wat ek die verruklike geluid van ‘n roomyskarretjie se klokkie hoor aankom het. Dit was onmoontlik - ons is seker minstens dertig kilometer van duine van enige beskawing af, maar kopskud help nie. Die klok kom. Tot die trop bokke binne-in ons basis inloop. Die plastiese blinde patrone, kortweg blênks genoem, het hulle tot veelsydige aanwending geleen. Veral die kuns om daarvan plastiese koeëls te maak, en dan gaatjies deur die voertuigloods waarin ons gehuisves is, se dak te skiet was saans ‘n gewilde tydverdryf. Dit reën mos nie eintlik daar nie, en wat is ‘n gaatjie in die dak nou? Maar terwyl ons nou daar in die verte was, was dit opmerklik hoeveel van die troepe se ouers het destyds toevallig besluit Suidwes is ‘n gawe plek om te gaan vakansie hou.

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So ook my ouers, en ek kry pas om die naweek op Swakopmund vir hulle te gaan kuier. Ek kom die Sondagaand terug by die basis. My vriend, André loop my by: “Jis Trompie, het jy gehoor wat Klaasvakie gemaak het?” Amper almal het byname gehad. In kort, die Saterdagaand het die manne weer soos gewoonlik gesit en die tyd verdryf met enigiets wat moontlik vir tydverdryf ingespan kon word. Die gebruiklike skyfskietery en die selfvervaardigde plastiese koeëls was seker die gewildste. Dis toe dat Klaasvakie besluit hy gaan vir iets besonders sorg. Hy laai sy R-1 met ‘n “blênk”. Toe sny hy nog sewe “blênks” oop en gooi die kruit voor by sy geweer se loop in. So mik hy dakwaarts om te kyk hoe ‘n groot lawaai dit gaan maak. Gelukkig kry die ander dit reg om hom om te praat om dit liewer buite te gaan doen. Ons 110 troepe slaap immers almal in die loods, en ‘n mens weet nooit wat gebeur nie. André vervat met sy storie: “Heng, vanoggend lê ons almal nog so en slaap toe hoor ons ‘n helse slag afgaan. Dit klink kompleet of iemand ‘n kanon in die basis afgevuur het.

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Ons storm uit. Agter die boonste ‘hênger’ kry ons vir Klaasvakie en vir Visagie. Klaasvakie staan nog daar in sy Pietiebroekie met sy hand in die lug. In sy hand hou hy sy R-1 se kolf vas! Klaasvakie en Visagie ewe wit geskrik”. Ons moes daarna vir weke rondom en in die basis in sulke lang rye loop en die stukkies van Klaasvakie se geweer soek. Die blitsbreker en magasyn is nooit gekry nie. Die magasyn het seker heeltemal gedisintegreer, en die blitsbreker, geoordeel aan die afstand waarop ons stukke geweer gekry het, seker gelanseer. Klaasvakie moes uiteindelik R87 skade aan die geweer betaal. En as iemand dink dis min, ‘n R-1 het destyds ‘n skamele R117 gekos. En toentertyd het ‘n man in die maande wat 31 dae gehad het, darem twee groen note soldy uitgekry. Korter maande was dit onder die twintig rand.

Van ‘n Rolls Royce tot ‘n donkiekar “Was dit omtelbaar jare gelede?” Aan die woord is my oudste, nou in graad drie. Ons onderwerp van bespreking is hoe die ou Karoo miljoene jare gelede daar uitgesien het. En as u dink dis darem ‘n woeste onderwerp vir ‘n graad drietjie, moet ek darem net sê die outjie stel nogal belang in die hooghere dinge van die lewe...ongelukkig dikwels meer as in sy skoolwerk. Soos die slag toe die Shoemaker-Levy-komeet se stukke op Jupiter gaan val het. Die kannetjie kry toe sy feite half deurmekaar, en vra met groot ontsag of sy oupa gehoor het van die klippe wat op oom Pieter se kop loop val het? Oupa speel saam. “Nou wie sou die klippe dan op Oom Pieter se kop gaan gooi het?”

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Nee, dit weet die kannetjie nie. Oupa het die week baie probleme met Mamparra, sy een plaaswerker gehad. “Sou dit nie dalk Mamparra wees nie?” Ja, reken die mannetjie, dit was seker niemand anders as Mamparra nie. Maar terug by die Karoo. As ‘n mens darem sien hoe droog dit daar kan wees, en die vreeslike hitte voel, dan kan ‘n mens nie dink miljoene jare gelede was dit pure moeras met welige varingagtige plante nie. Nog minder dat nie minder nie as vier reuse gletsers vir duisende jare oor die Karoo gelê het. Darem ‘n plek van uiterstes. Van gletsers toentertyd tot die vreeslikste hitte nou. Soos die slag wat ek ‘n geleentheid saam met my oom Kaap toe gery het. Oom Lourie wikkel maar goed deur die warm Karoo, en net daar duskant Laingsburg, toe ek weer vir my oom ‘n koeligheidjie uit die koelsak op die agterste sitplek diep, hoor ek die gevreesde “tik-tik”. En ja, daar spring die Karooridder vanuit die niet voor die motor in. “Meneer het so ‘n ietsie vinnig gery” vertel hy my oom. “Werklik?” wil my oom weet, pure onskuld. “Ja, die gatsometer sê 141 kilometer per uur” “WERKLIK!” Die keer is Oom Lourie regtig verbaas. Hy dog dit was baie vinniger.

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Deesdae is die Karoo natuurlik nog lank nie klaar met sy uiterstes nie. Destyds, toe volstruisvere en wol so ‘n goeie prys gehaal het, kon ‘n mens dit veral opmerk. Van die deftigste karre tot die lendelamste donkiekar op dieselfde pad. Van paleisagtige huise tot pondokkies. Nou moet ‘n mens sê talle van die paleise was ook net half gebou toe die pryse weer destyds, soos die Rand nou, getuimel het. En die bouwerk net daar moes gaan staan het. Maar die karre, die kon gouer bekom word. Soos die omie van Aberdeen wat by sy ouditeur daar in die Baai gaan verneem het of hy genoeg geldjies vir ‘n nuwe ryding het. Ja, reken die ouditeur, die Oom het meer as genoeg geld vir ‘n nuwe ryding. “Selfs ‘n splinternuwe?” Ja, ‘n splinternuwe. Selfs ‘n goeie wil die Oom weet. “Selfs die heel beste” sê die ouditeur. “Nou wat is die heel beste?” wil die oom weet. “‘n Rolls Royce” sê die ouditeur. “Nou laat kom dan maar vir my een van daai karretjies”. So gesê, so gemaak. Toe die Oom later weer in die Baai kom, wil die ouditeur weet hoe dit met die nuwe kar gaan.

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“Nefie” borrel die oom, “dis darem nou ‘n agtermekaar moustertjie daai. Veral daai glas agter die voorste sitplek. Nou kan die rammetjies nie meer so in my nek blaas as ek hulle mark toe vat nie”. Maar aan die ander kant van die munt, die donkiekarretjie het ook sy kant gebring. Soos met daai Dingaansdagvierings, soos Geloftefees destyds genoem is, daar by Graaff- Reinet. So baie mense het opgedaag, dat die tent heeltemal te klein was vir al die mense. Die sy-flappe word opgeslaan, en al wat ryding is word om die tent getrek sodat die mense kan luister na die feesrede. Amper reg agter die dominee sit twee groterige tantes baie stemmig op ‘n donkiekarretjie, sonsambrele oop om ‘n ou lafenissie te maak. So halfpad deur die diens skuifel die een ou tante blykbaar te veel. Die disselboom vlieg regop die lug in, en die twee tantes rol ‘n slag of wat soos styfgepompte rugbyballe met los veters oor die Karoobossies. Met die omtipslag stel die tantes nog so in die verbygaan hul niekerbokkers, wat toentertyd hoog mode was, aan die feesgangers ten toon. Baie waardig word die twee tantes opgehelp. Die donkiekarretjie word weer reg gemaak staan, en ‘n paar van die fris manne dra ordentlike groot Karooklippe aan en pak die disselboom mooi vas. Die twee tantes kry weer hul sit, en die dominee gaan voort waar hy onderbreek is.

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Dis toe dat ‘n jong man uit die gehoor uit skree. “Julle kan my maar skiet, maar nou gaan ek eers lag!” Natuurlik was dit die einde van die diens.

Op die waterkar ‘n Bekende ekonoom het by geleentheid gesê: “Hy wat nie in spoke glo nie, is nie ‘n realis nie”. Of het ek die spook straksies nou aan die neus beet? Nietemin, min troepe wat hul diensplig by Rooikop naby Walvisbaai gedoen het, sal nie in spoke glo nie. Toentertyd het daar ‘n luitenant Philips glo in die basis verongeluk. Van toe af, so is die een troepe-inname na die ander ingelig, spook dit daar. Selfs die mees ongelowige Thomas kan nie altyd alles verklaar nie. Soos hoe die Kanontrekker self by ‘n oop loodsdeur uitgery, self gedraai, en mooi netjies tussen twee Bedfords gaan stilhou het. Of saans, as die maan so helder skyn, die twee waghonde gelyk wegspring van waar hulle rustig by die wag gelê en slaap het, en verwoed na iets begin hap. Behalwe dat die wag niks kan sien waarna die twee honde so verwoed hap nie. Iets wat ook baie na spokery gelyk het, maar heel maklik verklaar kon word, was die gemors met die kleinhuisies. Die basis se kleinhuisies het amper soos putlatrines gewerk, maar was met ‘n ondergrondse geslote waterstelsel met mekaar verbind. Die stelsels is ontwerp om ‘n paar wagspanne te bedien. Maar

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toe kom bly ons hele battery daar, en die stelsel verstop. Maar die pompe hou aan met pomp, tot die spul van onder af uitblaas. ‘n Regte k*&-spul, met permissie gesê. Veral as jy op die troon gesit het as die ongeluk gebeur. ‘n Regte putstelsel word toe aanvullend gebruik. Maar te veel aanvullend, sodat die ou stelsel se inhoud te dun word. Met dieselfde gevolge. Dis toe dat die Sammajoor by die troepe pleit om tog die ou stelsel ook te benut. “Hy huil vir k*%!” het die Sammajoor beduie. Maar die toppunt was die slag toe ons gereed gemaak het om die volgende dag daar by Usakos te gaan oefeninge doen. Die troepedraers, met hul waterkarre volgemaak en aangehaak, word mooi in gelid getrek daar tussen die boonste voertuigloods, en die middelste een waarin meer as ‘n honderd van ons troepe gehuisves is. Alles net reg om die volgende dag te vertrek. Maar daai nag gaan ‘n Megirus in die boonste loods aan’t lope, gooi twee van die loodsdeure dat hulle doer trek, en peil op ons loods af. Maar voor hy dood en verwoesting in ons loods kon aanrig, tref hy een van die vol waterkarretjies. Die waterkarretjie is pap gestamp, maar nie voor hy die reuse vragmotor in sy spore gestuit het nie. Nou dis oor die waterkarretjie waaroor die storie eintlik gaan. Twee van die troepe raak een naweek met hulself opgeskeep, en steel een van die jeeps om mee te ywôl. Met die Jeep gaan ry hulle toe boonop op die skietbaan waar die Infanterie besig was om met mortiere te skiet. Sonder seremonie word vuur gestaak, en die twee troepe gearresteer.

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Dis toe dat ons Sammajoor ingryp. Ons was almal mal oor hom, maar hy het twee wette van die Mede en Perse gehad. Die eerste is, ‘n Gunner maak nooit skande vir die artillerie nie. En die ander, geen troep kuier by sy mooi dogter nie. Laasgenoemde sou seker hedendaags as ‘n onbillike arbeidspraktyk deurgegaan het. Maar omdat die blou vitrioel wat hulle destyds by ons kos ingemeng het, nou nog nie begin werk het nie, het van die manne destyds maar skelm gaan kuier. Maar die twee troepe is nou vir ‘n anderster storie gevang. Soos ‘n wafferse skoolhoof wil die Sammajoor toe by hulle weet of ons hulle sommer self moet straf, of moet die gevreesde Empies ingeroep word. Dis toe dat die twee troepe met ‘n vol waterkar doer in die woestyn gelaat word. Hul straf is om die waterkar terug basis toe te sleep. Rooikop, seker dig by die 200 meter hoog, is ver. Omtrent so groot soos ‘n vingerhoed wat ver staan. Skaars is die Bedford buite sig, toe besluit die twee slim troepe ‘n vol waterkar is darem baie moeite om so ver te sleep, en hulle tap die water uit. Als. Maar skaars het die laaste watertjies in die gulsige woestynbodem verdwyn, toe steek die Oosweer op. Die Oosweer is die berugte bergwind wat oor die Kgomas Hochland ontstaan, en vuurwarm en kurkdroog oor die woestyn waai. En soos hy waai tel hy stowwe op, asook miljarde fyn stukkies mika wat die stofwolk so vreemd laat blink. En gewoonlik is ‘n mens se uitsig dan maar tot ‘n paar meter beperk. So sleep die twee makkers hul leë waterkar in die rigting van Rooikop, of die rigting waarin hulle reken Rooikop is. Maar as die stof bietjie gaan lê, dan sien

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hulle Rooikop lê skoon in ‘n ander koers. Dan weer soontoe loop, net om later te ontdek Rooikop is reg agter hulle. En terwyl die twee die woestyn platloop, reken ons alles is honkiedorrie, want hulle het genoeg water by hulle om hulle weke te hou. Dis al skemer toe die twee met die leë waterkar die basis ingesteier kom. Van die mika blink hulle dieselfde kleur, van hul stewels tot hul hoede. Dis net as hulle oë oop is dat daar twee wit kolle in die stofkleurige blink verskyn. En selfs daai wit was al goed dof.

Die saamryklub G’n wonder hulle sê Bloemfonteiners kan nie bestuur nie. Ry ‘n mens mooi binne die toelaatbare spoed, is jy byna gewaarborg om al wat verkeerslig is rooi te kry. En moenie ewe onskuldig die oorgangsraad vra wanneer die verkeersligte gesinchroniseer word nie. Jare toet is ‘n ingenieur al genoeg betaal om een van die strate se verkeersligte te sinchroniseer sodat hy ‘n Porsche met daai geld gekoop het...het ek gehoor. Seker nie ‘n Bloemfonteinse ingenieur nie, want dan sou hy self met die gebakte pere opgesaal gesit het. Dan is daar natuurlik daai bestuurders wat die middelste baan van ‘n driebaanstraat af kruie sodat hy weerskante van die straat kan parkeerplek soek! G’n wonder nie motoriste sit voet in die hoek as hulle die slag die kans kry. Maar die doel van hierdie stories is nie om te kla nie. Trouens, dié een handel nie eens oor Bloemfontein nie.

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Twee van my destydse kollegas in Pretoria, Sarel en Fred, het met die styging in brandstofpryse ‘n saamryklub gevorm. Fred het in Silverton gebly, en Sarel in Meyerspark. Twee baie ordentlike landsburgers. Gesinsmanne, kerkgangers en hardwerkend. Behalwe dat hulle vir ‘n gerespekteerde intelligensiediens gewerk het, was hulle gewone sewe tot vier kantoorwerkers. Eintlik was die amptelike kantoorure van half agt soggens af, maar die arme drommel wat daarvoor gemik het moes of met die bus werk toe kom of vergeet om binne loopafstand van die werk af parkeerplek te kry. Na vier het ‘n man ook nie sommer gewerk nie. Behalwe dr. Neil Barnard, die direkteur-generaal. Hy is ‘n werkesel en tel dus nie. Maar die dag waaroor hierdie verhaal handel, het Fred en Sarel ‘n spesiale opdrag gekry wat klaar moes wees voor hulle huis toe gaan. Fred het mooi pligsgetrou deur etenstyd gewerk, en vieruur was hy klaar. Sarel moes egter vir vroulief iets in die stad gaan kry, en hy pak toe die ongewone aan om oortyd te werk. En om na-ure in daai gebou te werk, is nogal ‘n storie. Vieruur word die alarm- en ander sekuriteitstelsels geïmplementeer, en om te kan oortyd werk moet ‘n ongeaktiveerde korridor vir die arme drommel oopgelaat word. Die belangrikste rede waarom iemand wat nie later as vieruur hoef te werk, sommer tot na vier werk nie, is egter die spitsverkeer. So het almal gesê. Maar tog is gepraat van daai hysbak wat saans soos klokslag eers op die sewende vloer gaan stilstaan het voor hy na die vloer toe is waar ‘n mens wou wees. Die

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sewende vloer is dieselfde een waarvandaan een van die werkers in die hysbakskag afgeval het toe die gebou gebou is. Of so sê hulle. Fred is met Sarel se laat werkery toe met homself opgeskeep, en dis toe dat hy die ongewone doen. Hy gaan besoek die kroeg op die eerste vloer. Dié is spesiaal ingerig sodat as die spaais nou ‘n dop moet maak, hulle dit saam doen. As Bacchus dan begin uitpraat, word nie te veel skade aangerig nie. Fred bestel vir hom ‘n biertjie, en vergeet skoon hy het mos nie die middag geëet nie. Ook nie eintlik die oggend nie, want die kos by die werk is so goedkoop dat ‘n mens spaar deur die groot hongerte vir die werk se kos te los. Toe die bier in is, is Sarel nog nie klaar nie. Fred besef die bier het hom gevang, en hy bestel dus maar liefs ‘n brandewyn en coke. ‘n Enkel brandewyn, en dubbele coke. Hy is nie die drinktipe nie, en allermins die getrek raak tipe. Eenkant eet hy grondboontjies sodat dit darem nie alles op die leë maag moet wees nie. Nog is Sarel nie klaar nie, en Fred bestel nog enetjie, so eintlik om die grondboontjies mee af te spoel. Later is dié dop meer water as iets anders soos hy knaend ys in gooi, net om nie nog ‘n dop te moet bestel nie. Fred is bekommerd oor sy lippe wat so dood is. Maar uiteindelik is Sarel klaar. Omdat Sarel in elk geval vir Fred daar op die eerste vloer moes kry, bestel hy sommer vir hom gou ‘n biertjie, en sonder om hom van omstandighede te vergewis, vir Fred nog ‘n kleintjie ook. Arme Fred, toe hy buite kom, en die koue lug - die koue front het dié slag tot in Pretoria bygekom - klap hom, toe is dit klaar met Kees.

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Sarel help ‘n erg vrolike Fred tot by die motor, en skuif hom aan die passasierskant in. Eintlik is dit Fred se rybeurt, maar Sarel sien dit gaan lol. En dis nou skuins na vyf, dan is dit buffer aan buffer verkeer. Met moeite het Sarel die motor in die verkeerstroom. As ‘n mens ‘n klomp karre wat drie - vier bane wyd buffer aan buffer staan, ‘n verkeerstroom kan noem. Want dit staan. En staan. Daai naaste verkeerslig slaan groen, oranje, rooi, groen en so aan, sonder dat die karre ‘n snars beweeg. En dis dan wanneer die manne agter die stuur erg gefrustreerd raak, want hul vrye tyd is nou besig om heel onproduktief verlore te gaan. Almal is suur, behalwe Fred. Maar hy bestuur nie. En met die besluit Fred dis ‘n goeie tyd om darem sy eienaarskap van die motor waarin hy nou ‘n passasier is, te onderstreep. Hy leuen oor, en voor Sarel kan keer, druk Fred die toeter. Die motoris voor vereg hom sleg, en sommer so met die omkykslag wys hy al vir Sarel vuis. Sarel probeer nog met die hande beduie dis die dronke hier langs hom, maar die ou voor kyk al weer voor hom.

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Fred het die petalje egter baie geniet. Hy leuen dus weer oor, en druk weer die toeter. Sarel kry sy hand van die toeter af, maar Fred ruk los en druk weer die toeter. Weer kom die vuiswysery van voor af, en weer wil Fred hom doodlag. Derde slag is skeepsreg, of skeepsverkeerd of wat ook al. Die ou voor vlieg met die getrompetter in sy ore uit sy kar uit en stap nader terwyl hy mou oprol. Sarel, ewe ordentlik, draai nog venster af om te verduidelik. WAP! Die reuse vuis ontplof teen Sarel se kop, en Sarel syg so uit soos ‘n kers agter die stuurwiel ineen. Die moeilike motoris is terug motor toe, net betyds voor die verkeerstroom weer aan die gang kom. Fred wil hom doodlag, en waai al te vriendelik vir die ouens wat nou al toeterend agter hulle gestrand sit. Om die een of ander rede was dit die einde van die betrokke saamryklub.

Die *&% mot en die skuiwergat My vrou vou behoorlik dubbel soos sy lag.

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Sy’s met tant Breggie oor die telefoon aan’t gesels. En as tant Breggie aan die ander kant, soos hulle sê, op die telefoon is, beteken dit ek moet hierdie kant maar behoorlik wag om te hoor wat so snaaks is. Tant Breggie is nie skaam vir ‘n hoë telefoonrekening nie, en Telkom maak maandeliks ‘n goeie oes by haar. Toe ek uiteindelik aan die beurt kom, is ek teleurgesteld, want al is die storie hoé snaaks, geen digterlike vryheid kan die ontknoping deur ‘n ‘n ordentlike nievloekende skrywer behoorlik tot sy reg laat kom nie. Al is dié storie nou ook regtig egtig die waarheid, sonder selfs ‘n ou stertjie bygelieg. Maar laat ek probeer. Soos die ou Oom gesê het. “Bring vir my ‘n kind wat nie in die kerk gekriewel het nie, dan wys ek jou ‘n kind wat nog nie in die kerk was nie”. G’n wonder nie die wilde woordeboek se definisie van ‘n skuiwergat is iemand wat nie in die kerk kan stilsit nie. En al te dikwels is die skuiwer van skuiwergat later die oggend of sommer so tydens die diens met die woordjie “brand” vervang. ‘n Kind wat nie so nou en dan ‘n ou ietsie aanvang nie, maak grootmense se lewens ook maar saai. Selwers was ek al groterig toe ek ook ‘n ding met reperkussies aangevang het. Daai een keer wil die kerk toe mos basaar hou, en my sussie besluit dis ‘n gawe gedagte om ‘n spookhuis onder die kerksaal se verhoog in te rig. Maar dis die kerk se stoorplek, en ek en ‘n paar maters moet inspring om ‘n lekker korridor deur te kry, waardeur die kinders kan loop om bang gemaak te word.

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Ek het later verneem van die opgekommandeerde spoke was so entoesiasties, dat ‘n paar brawes wat nie vanself wou bang word nie, sommer daar onder in die spookhuis reggesien is. Met die plat hand en so aan. Dis met die skoonmakery daar onder dat ek en vriend Matie op ‘n kas leë Nagmaalwynbottels afkom. Nog so gewonder, toe raak die versoeking te groot, en ons gaan tap die bottels vol water. Maar as ‘n mens die prop afskroef, dan ruik dit steeds na die ware Jakob. Wat ons gedink het gaan gebeur, kan ek nie onthou nie. Maar ek kan dink wat sou gebeur het as daar die slag Nagmaal gehou is, en daar word geskink, en dis pure water! So ‘n week of so later besoek dr. Frans Burger, ons destydse predikant, die KJA. So terloops vertel hy daar is by die kerksaal ingebreek. Die diewe het die kerk se stofsuier daar onder die verhoog uitgehaal. En om die een of ander rede het die diewe ook die kas met leë nagmaalwynbottels weggedra. Nou ja, ek hoop daai diewe het ‘n duidelike boodskap gekry oor wat gebeur as ‘n mens die kerk se wyn steel. Maar dis nie eintlik tant Breggie se storie nie.Vriende van haar laat doop daar op Kimberley. Vir die mense is dit ‘n groot geleentheid en hulle steek die hand diep in die sak om etlike groot blommerangskikkings in die kerk te laat sit. Al te pragtig. Maar die dopeling het ‘n ouboet van so net oor die twee jaar. En die ouboet is met die dopery en die min aandag wat hy kry, net min tevrede.

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Boonop is hy ‘n berugte skuiwergat, en die familie span saam om te kyk hoe dinge geprakseer kan word om hom die kortste tyd moontlik aan die kerkgangers bloot te stel. Uiteindelik word gereken hy moet by die ouma bly wat die dopeling die kerk moet inbring. Op die manier is ouboet minstens tot en met die doop in die konsistorie, en direk na die doop darem weer uit die kerk uit ook. En moontlik sal die doop van kleinsus darem sy aandag genoeg boei om hom ‘n rukkie stil te hou. Maar selfs die verkorte weergawe van stilsit is vir die mannetjie darem erg. Sy ouma se lippe is naand half seer van so tussen die tande deur vir die mannetjtie sis-dreig om stil te sit, en nie so te gesels nie. Maar die blomme trek toe mos bye die kerk in. Een van die verdwaalde bye meen

die kriewelrige kannetjie se poenskop is ‘n gawe landingsplek. Die

mannetjie hou nie daarvan nie, en klap die indringer. Maar die indringer kry vir oulaas sy angel ingelê. “Eina!” gil die mannetjie. “Hoe byt so ‘n *&% mot my!” Sy eintlike byvoeglike naamwoord vir dit wat hy a la boklied vir ‘n mot aangesien het, moet leser welvoeglikheidshalwe ontneem word. Natuurlik is daar toe pandemonium in die kerk. Dominee versoek die orrelis om asseblief ‘n langerige stuk te speel om die gemeente en doopbesoekers kans te gee om tot bedaring te kom.

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Ek weet ongelukkig nie of die welsprekende se ouers gereken het die brand boop die kop was genoeg straf vir sy onvanpaste woordeskat nie, maar seker maar darem.

Engtevrees en ander vrese Oom Boegie met sy ronde lyfie kry sy sit. Sy hele gesig vertel die verhaal dat hy ‘n groot storie het om oor te vertel. Vertel is sy lyn. “Man”, val hy weg, “Ek hoor daar op die radio hulle lees ‘n storie wat jy geskryf het. Daai tannie kan darem vir jou lees, hoor!” Dat die “tannie” verseker jonger as Oom Boegie is, is gewis, maar ek is nou ‘n luisteraar. Ek wil nie Oom Boegie se spoed breek nie. Dan is ek die lekkerte van sy storie kwyt. “Die storie is oor jou eie familie” sê Oom Boegie. “En dié storie moet uit. As ek dit self moet bly oorvertel, dan gaan ek nie genoeg dae in my lewe hê om dit vir almal te vertel nie”. Hy vervat ‘n slag aan sy woorde voor hy sy sêgoed hervat. “Ook hoog tyd dat jy oor iets anders as drank- en kroegstories skryf!” Sjoe, ek is effektief ‘n geheelonthouer. Maar so in die vinnigte dink kan ek nie gou op iets kom waar Oom Boegie nie die spyker op die kop geslaan het nie. Freud met sy dieptesielkunde sou straksies hiervoor ‘n verklaring kon kry.

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“Kyk, jou ouma en haar broer was mos sukke bang mense. Bang vir die donker, bang vir die donderweer, bang vir hoogtes, bang vir noutes, bang vir spoke....” Dis waar. Die twee, nou albei saliger, was in hul eie leeftyd reeds legendaries vir hul vrese. ‘n Mens het trouens die gedagte gekry dat hulle trots was op hul vrese, en onderling meegeding het om te kyk wie die meeste kon lys. “Toentertyd is jou oupagrootjie dood na hy met sy diabetes en al in die negentig jaar oud geword het”. Toentertyd weet ek, was meer as veertig jaar gelede...my ma was met my in die kraamsaal toe my pa Mosselbaai toe is vir die begrafnis. “Die begrafnis, vertel Oom Boegie, is uit Oom Tienie se huis gehou”. Oom Tienie synde my ouma se broer. Nou laat ek Oom Boegie klaar vertel. “Kyk”, vervat Oom Boegie, “ons Suid-Afrikaners dood mos oor lyke kyk. So asof die kykery sal help. Nou so het die kis voor die begrafnis op twee bokkies in Oom Tienie se huis gestaan. Dit moes vreeslik vir hom gewees het. Na die begrafnis is die bokkies stoep toe verskuif. Die stoep het ‘n pragtige uitsig oor die see, en dis hier waar die meeste begrafnisgangers hulle na die verrigtinge sit en staan gemaak het vir die tee en eetgoedjies. Eintlik was dit ‘n goeie begrafnis. Oupa het ‘n mooi leeftyd gehaal, en sy diabetes het glad nie sy spoed gebreek nie. Bloot elke dag ‘n bekertjie aalwynsap gedrink en dan geëet net wat hy wou. En van aalwyne is daar by Mosselbaai genoeg. Die stoep het egter nie net oor die see uitgekyk nie. Die uitsig see toe het oor Oom Tienie se agterplaas gegaan, en in die agterste, verste, hoekie was daai klein vertrekkie wat sommige mense destyds, Oom Tienie inkluis, nie in die huis geduld het nie.

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Gou was dit duidelik Oom Tienie loop sukke ongemaklike wye draaie om die bokkies. Maar hy, soos die ander, kuier al te lekker. Tot dit tyd raak dat Oom Tienie die vertrekkie daar in die hoek moet gaan opsoek. Nou hier was ‘n moeilikheid. Met Oom Tienie se engtevrees kon die deur nie heeltemal toegemaak word nie, en dit met ‘n stoep vol mense wat soos van ‘n pawiljoen af op die vertrekkie afkyk. Hoekom Oom Tienie nooit die huisie andersom gedraai het dat hy dan minstens privaat kan wees, en boonop oor die see kan uitkyk nie, weet ‘n mens nou nie. Dalk was hy bloot bang iemand kom onverwags van agter op hom af. Dit kon nie anders nie. Oom Tienie se vrou, tant Hilda, moes buite die deur sit en kywie hou. (Nou moet ‘n mens net hier tussen hakies invoeg, Oom Tienie en Tant Hilda was die opperste platjies). Tant Hilda het soos die ander gaste gesien hoeke wye draaie Oom Tienie om die bokkies loop. Toe Oom Tienie nou sit, sit gekry het, sluip die Tante stilletjies weg en keer met ‘n bokkie onder elke arm terug. Hier druk sy dit sonder seremonie by Oom Tienie in, druk die deur styf toe, en skuif die buiteknip in.

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Dis doodstil op die stoep waar almal in groot afwagting wil kyk wat gaan gebeur. Dis ook doodstil binnekant die gemak. Maar net vir ‘n paar oomblikke. Die volgende oomblik vloog die deur deur die lug, skarniere en al. Die twee bokkies volg kort op die deur. En toe kom Oom Tienie ook agterna, broek op die enkels. En so al gillend spring hy die bokkies fyn en flenters”. (Oom Tienie is so twee jaar gelede aan kanker dood. Tannie Hilda bly steeds op Mosselbaai.) ‘n Ander vrees is natuurlik hoogtevrees. Kobus en Jan is ‘n identiese tweeling – soos vinkel en koljander. Net in een opsig verskil hulle. Kobus het geen hoogtevrees nie, terwyl Jan in die huis gaan sit as Kobus selfs net op die afdak klim. Hy kan dit eenvoudig nie aanskou nie. Broers kan mos heelwat verskil. My oudste is ‘n babbelkous, die jongste ‘n mannetjie van min woorde. Die oudste het geen hoogtevrees nie, en sy lekkerste tydverdryf is om saam met sy pa op die dak te werk. Eintlik, pa werk en grootman hardloop van die een kant na die ander, en kom tot sy pa se ontsteltenis op die randjie tot stilstand. Die jongste bekruip weer behoorlik die muur van die galery in die kerk, en loer versigtig oor. By geleentheid kry Kobus en Jan saam met hul Geografieklas die geleentheid om Mount Aux Sources te gaan klim. Kobus is dadelik “in”, maar Jan besluit om liewers in Bethlehem af te klim, en by sy ouers op die plaas te gaan kuier. Destyds het die berghut daar bo op die berg nog mooi gestaan, en was ‘n gewilde oornagplek vir mense wat Suid-Afrika se hoogste spits baasgeraak het.

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Die studente het hulle eers aan die vreeslike afgronde waaroor die Tugela tuimel, verwonder. So in die amfiteater skiet pilare uit die dieptes op, en was klaarblyklik eens deel van ‘n plato. “Dis so hoog hier af, dat as ‘n mens die regte dag kies, ‘n vaardige hangvlieënier tot op die strand by Durban kan vlieg” sê die dosent, tong in die kies. “Nou hoekom is dit dan nie ‘n gewilde bedryf nie?” wil een van die studente weet. “Dit was” sê die dosent. “Maar van die hangvliëniers het gaan kla dat daar op hulle geskiet word as hulle so ‘n ent weg is. Een het selfs die koeëlgate in sy vlieër vir die polisie kon wys. Die polisie volg dit toe op en kom by 'n‘boer. Wil toe by hom weet of hy van 'n‘skietery op hangvlieërs weet. Die boer sê hy weet niks daarvan nie, maar die laaste tyd kom daar reuse roofvoëls daar van die berg af. En skiet soos hy wil, die voëls wil nie die prooi los nie”. Die spulletjie lag, maar die meeste weet, kwaai boer of de not – daar gaan hulle nie met hangvlieërs oor nie. Kobus droom al klaar dat hy dalk die eerste sal kan wees om Durban se strand hier van die berg af te haal. Die nag, daar in die berghut, oorval die nood vir Jan. Hy stap na buite, en stryk ‘n entjie weg. Die maan skyn helder, en die plat omgewing bied ook nie veel privaatheid nie. Dus stryk hy nog ‘n ent verder aan, en steeds voel hy nie privaat nie. Uiteindelik kom hy by ‘n lekker rots, en gaan hurk aan die anderkant. Dis terwyl hy hier sit dat die mis skielik van die see se kant af hom oorval. Hy kan nie eens sy hand voor sy oë sien nie. Half ongemaklik begin Kobus aanstryk terug in die rigting van die hut. Na ‘n ruk besef hy egter hy het die hut misgeloop.

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Hy gaan staan, en werk in sy kop uit waar die hut dalk kan wees. Dan stryk hy op gevoel in daardie rigting, maar hy kry weer niks. Weer aanpas, en begin loop. Slag om slag kry hy die hut nie, en hy besef hy is heeltemal verdwaal. Dis toe dat die gedagte van daardie vreeslike afgronde hom tref. Hierna stryk hy aansienlik versigtiger voort. Handjie-handjie naderhand. Later kry hy ‘n lekker stewige lang stok vasgevat. Hy gebruik dit min of meer soos ‘n blinde sy wit kierie gebruik – voelvoel met die kierie sodat hy darem waarskuwing sal hê as hy op die rand kom. Minstens hoef hy nou nie meer hande viervoet te beweeg nie. Skielik voel hy daar is niks voor hom nie! Hy word yskoud, en die rillings jaag in sy nek op. Voetjie vir voetjie draai hy om, en voelvoel met die stok voor hom. Die rillings gaan weer in sy nek op, want voor hom voel hy ook niks! Dan voel hy links van hom, maar daar is dit ook die ene gapende afgrond. Regs van hom – daar ook! Hy swaai sy lang stok al om hom, maar hy het sowaar op ‘n eiland beland! Al die kante is daar doodeenvoudig niks. Erg benoud gaan sit hy op ‘n bondeltjie en wag dat dit lig moet word, dat hy kan kyk hoe hy op een van daai pilare kon beland het. Met die ligwordslag lig die mis ook en sien hy hy sit hoog en droog op die vlakte, nie ver van die berghut af nie. Sy “kierie” is kort onder sy hand afgebreek. Maar van toe af was Kobus en Jan volkome soos vinkel en koljander. Altwee is ewe bang vir hoogtes.

Hoede, hoede, oral hoede en nogmaals hoede

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Tant Breggie lyk baie ingenome so met die gaan-sitslag. Sy het haar sin gekry met ‘n storie sonder ‘n kroeg of drank. Maar min het ek kon weet watter eis sy nou aan my sou stel. “Man, daai storie van Oom Tienie se engtevrees was nou sommer baie oulik. Maar jy het nog nie vir ons ‘n regte vroumensstorie gegee nie”. “Maar tant Breggie...” begin ek. Ek wil nog sê die een resensent vir wie ek van my stories gegee het, het dit as mannetjiesagtig beskryf. En darem bygesê sy beskou dit as ‘n kompliment. Maar Tant Breggie is op stoom. “Ek bedoel nie dat jy dit soos ‘n vrou loop skryf nie”. Gaaf, dink ek. As naamgenoot Herman Charles Bosman Afrikaans in Engels kon skryf (of is dit Engels in Afrikaans?), kan ek probeer om ‘n vrouestorie soos ‘n man te skryf. Maar dan, ek is darem nou ook nie so ryklik met skryftalent geseën soos Herman Charles Bosman nie. Bosman self sou seker op sy humoristiese wyse bygevoeg het, ook nie met sy skiettalent nie. Bosman het op sy nerwe na geswaai nadat hy sy swaer doodgeskiet het. “Het jou pa jou nooit vertel van daai slag wat hulle so teenspoed met jou Ouma se hoede gehad het nie?” vra Tant Breggie Ek onthou, en terselfdertyd is ek hartseer en spyt. Hartseer oor my pa wat ons 20 jaar gelede ontydig ontval het, en spyt omdat ek nie pligsgetrouer was om my pa se stories neer te skryf nie.

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Om dié storie te vertel, kan ‘n mens ongelukkig nie soos die Engelsman sê, ‘n scenesetter doen nie. ‘n Hele paar is nodig. Toentertyd was hoede hoog mode. Vroue wat ‘n paar hoede vir elke moontlike geleentheid gehad het, was eerder die reël as die uitsondering, en wat dit betref was my ouma geen uitsondering nie. En die hoede moes ‘n ieder en ‘n elk saam gaan vakansiehou. Maar motorkarre van daai tyd het nie juis met kattebakke gespog nie. Agterop die kar was gewoonlik ‘n rak, en die bagasie is hierop vasgemaak. Maar teerpaaie was ook maar skraps, veral doer in die Noordweste, op Nieuwoudtville, waar my oupa bankbestuurder was. Om die hoede, of hoedens, soos dit destyds genoem is, saam te karwei, is sulke spesiale ronde tasse gemaak. Ook hiervan het my ouma ‘n groot verskeidenheid gehad. Ander koffers het haar kinders haar later maak koop, of vir haar gekoop, omdat al haar ander bagasie in inkopiesakkies vervoer is, en vir hulle ‘n verleentheid geword het. So in sakkies kon die ander bagasie in allerlei hoekies en gaatjies gedruk word, en baie plek vir die hoede laat. Maar ‘n hoed was ‘n mode, en dis in styl vervoer. Met hierdie storie het my oupa-hulle land in gery, om soos gebruiklik uiteindelik by Mosselbaai uit te kom. Dis waar my ouma grootgeword het, en dit was gebruiklik dat die gesin Somervakansies daar gaan, soos sy dit gestel het, kamp het. Hoekom sy dit kamp genoem het, weet ek nie, want my ouma sou tien dode sterf as sy nie binne die veilige mure van ‘n huis geslaap het nie. En ry was destyds nogal ‘n groot affêre. Behalwe stofpad, was plaashekke nogal ‘n groot pyn in die nek. Motoriste wat Nieuwoudtville van Van Rynsdorp se kant af wou besoek, het nog ‘n ander riller beleef. Veral as ‘n mens met die andersins wonderlike Model-T Fords geseën was. Die karretjies se petrol het met

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swaartekrag na die enjin geloop. Maar op die pas net voor Nieuwoudtville was die helling te skerp, en het die petrol teruggeloop tenk toe. Die drywer het dan geen ander keuse gehad nie as om die hoogtes in trurat aan te durf nie. My Oupa se koers het hom die keer darem daardie marteling laat vryspring. Maar daai smoelslaner-hekke! Om ‘n orige bokkapater aan sy kant van die hek te laat bly moes ‘n hek behoorlik bedraad en gespan wees. En om genoeg spanning in die hek te kry, is ‘n stewige stok as hefboom gebruik om om die hekpaal te trek, en in te hak. Maar boetie, as daai stok nie mooi gehak word nie! Dan vloog daai stok met ‘n vaart om, en klap die ongelukkige hekoopmaker ‘n taai hou teen die kop. Net iemand wat nog nie met die smoelslaner tussen die karoobosse ingeslaan is nie, sal dié aksie sweepslaan noem. Dis baie, baie erger as sweepslaan. Geen wonder nie die motors het daai tyd ‘n lekker staanplank (ek weet nie wat die regte woord is nie) lang die kant gehad. Op die wyse kon bruin kindertjies ‘n paar pennies verdien deur op die plank te staan, en saam te ry om hekke oop te maak. Naderhand soek hy so ‘n geleentheid weer terug huis toe. Kortom, om daai paaie aan te durf, was moeite. Nou, die vakansie is die rak agter op Oupa se karretjie weer goed volgepak, met hoede-tasse wat omtrent die helfte van die beskikbare ruimte opgeneem het. My tante het later volgehou daar was nie genoeg dae in die vakansie vir my ouma om al haar hoede

gedra te kry nie. Maar almal moes saam vir ingeval ‘n

onverwagse geleentheid opduik.

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Ook nie ver buite die dorp nie, word ‘n aspirant hekoopmaker opgelaai, tot die groot verligting van my pa en sy kleinboet wat andersins met die reuse taak opgesaal sou sit. En so ry hulle. Nou waar hulle fout agtergekom het, weet ek nie. Die hekoopmaker was egter al poegaai - en straksies ook al wild geklap - toe iemand agterkom minstens een van die hoedetasse het iewers langs die pad oopgegaan. Al die hoede in die betrokke tas het toe sleg makeer. ‘n Blik terugwaarts het ook geen lig gewerp oor waar die ongeluk kon plaasvind nie. En ouma was beslis. Daar sal teruggery word om hoede op te laai. Ek meen dis waar die hekopemaker toe die kuns van staak heel voor die nuwe Suid-Afrika se tyd uitgevind het. Hy het gemeen om darem eers by sy draaiplek asem te skep voor hy terugry. Maar nou was daar nie ruskans nie. Hy verseg om terug te ry! En hoop vir herindiensneming wanneer die duusman-goed die slag terugkom. Ouma kon nie oortuig word daar is meer as genoeg hoede in die ander tasse nie. Oupa se mooipraat en die kinders se gekerm help niks. Terug moet daar geterug word. Later word ‘n hoed opgemerk waar hy in ‘n karoobossie in vasgewaai het. Ongelukkig net die een hoed ook, want oupa was ‘n versigtige bestuurder, en het die hoede een een laat verloor.

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So is baie myle en talle hekke teruggery en elke nu en dan ‘n hoed opgetel. En toe moes die pad see toe weer aangepak word, en die string hekke vir die derde keer aangedurf word. G’n wonder nie, my pa het sy lewe lank nooit ‘n hoed gedra nie. En g’n wonder ook nie dat my pa gereken het ons klomp dorpsjapies is nie lekker nie as ons so onder mekaar baklei oor wie die voorreg het om die volgende hek gaan oopmaak, die slag wat ons op ‘n plaas gaan kuier het.

Die proffie en die kous Tant Breggie se gesig straal. Ai, daai hoedestorie het darem te lekker oorgekom. “Maar waar het jy geleer om met al die goed wat jy so skrywe die draak te steek? Kan jy dan oor niks ernstig wees nie?” Ek self weet nie mooi nie. Ek weet my pa het ‘n aangename droë humor gehad. ‘n Soort diep humor. Hy is doer in Amerika dood, en ons kon hom nie begrawe soos ons sou wou nie. Maar op die roudiens kom een van sy kollegas by ons gesin en sê: “As ou Jan vandag hier kon wees sou hy stellig weer ‘n grappie te gemaak het”. Dis so waar. My pa sou selfs op sy eie begrafnis in iets humor gevind het. My pa het natuurlik in die storiewêreld, die Noordweste, grootgeword.

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Maar ek nie. Nee, ek het die grootste deel van my skoolloopbaan op Stellenbosch deurgebring. En die manne daar wat eintlik vir hul spitsvondigheid bekend staan, is die Kaapse bruinmense. Het iemand al ooit ‘n bruinman raakgeloop wat hom bekgewys in ‘n situasie laat ondersit het? Nie sommer nie. Dis vlymskerp ‘n situasie opsom, en dan met die kostelikste sêding laat loop. Soos die slag wat my pa en ma Strand toe gery het. Dis op dieselfde pad as wat Koos Meyer en sy trawante met die kar sonder enjin Strand toe gery het om te gaan uitspan. So in die ry sien my pa ‘n bruin man op ‘n fiets oop en toe in ‘n plaaspad teerpad toe aankom. My pa gogga die man se vermoë om betyds gestop te kry, en ry maar oor na die verkeerde kant van die pad toe. Nog steeds lyk dit nie of daar betyds gebriek gaan word nie, en hy ry heel van die pad af. Dis daar waar die fietsryer toe aan my ma se kant van die motor in die deur vasry. Baie apologeties, pet in die hand. “Sorrie my maastah, my briekse het gefyl maar ek sal darem nie ‘n saak maak nie!” Of die slag wat ma ma agterkom ‘n splinternuwe rok, wat sy nog nie eens gedra het nie, is soek.

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Einde raad gaan kyk sy in die bediendekamer, en daar hang die rokkie. Nee, nooit was die plan om dit te steel nie, verduidelik die bediendetjie, skaars uit die skool uit. Sy het ‘n “date” gekry strand toe die Sondag, en het net die rok geleen. Ek glo nie dit was hieroor nie, maar nie lank daarna nie moet my ma gaan getuig in ‘n saak waar die einste skepsel die beskuldigde was. My ma voel soos ‘n wurm, veral toe sy ingeroep word en die verwese wese in die beskuldigdebank sien staan. Maar toe my ma instap, kyk die bediendetjie op, en haar gesig verhelder by die aanskoue van ‘n bekende. “Mirrag mêrrem!”, roep sy vreeslik bly uit. Nou getuig nou teen so ‘n skepsel. Maar tog het ek gehoor van een wat amper sonder woorde gelaat is. Let wel, amper, en ek het maar net van hom gehoor. Boonop was die gebeurtenis lank gelede. Die Rapportryers of iets van ‘n klein Oos-Vrystaatse dorpie nooi ‘n geskiedenisproffie van Kovsies om hulle ter herdenking van die 35ste herdenking van die Tweede Vryheidsoorlog te kom toespreek. Die proffie ry trein, en stap die hanetreetjie in snerpende koue na die hotel waar hy moet oorslaap. Binne die hotel maak ‘n paar kolestofies korte mette met die koue en skep ‘n heerlike knusse atmosfeer.

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Wat hy gedoen het om die bruin portier aanstoot te gee, weet ek nou nie mooi nie. Vermoedelik het die proffie in sy verstrooidheid vergeet om die man ‘n fooitjie te gee vir die aandraery van die tas. Die proffie gaan bad vroeg, met die gedagte om nog bietjie voorbereiding vir die volgende dag se lesing te doen. Goed donker, gaan soek die proffie die vertrek met ‘n mannetjie op die deur. Hy wis nou nie dat die mannetjie lankal van die deur afgeval het nie, en keer onverrigter sake terug kamer toe. Later hoor hy die portier verbyskuifel en roep hom nader om te verneem waar die vertrekkie nou eintlik is. Die portier stap na die venster toe, en trek die gordyne weg. Buite is dit stikdonker, behalwe vir ‘n skrapse sekelmaantjie wat ‘n beduidenis van ‘n liggie gee. Die portier beduie in ‘n koers. Eers sien die proffie niks. Later merk hy die donker silhoeët van sipresbome uit, met so ‘n staangemakshuisie onder die een. En dié staan effe skuins sedert die weerlig die boom die vorige somer raakgeslaan het. En tussen die sipresse deur sien die proffie die kerkhof se grafstene netjies in gelid staan. En ‘n mens kan amper sien hoe koud is dit daar buite.

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“En die laterntsjie is oppie hys” kondig die portier grootmoedig aan. Die proffie besluit wat enigsins kan wag, moet tot die volgende dag oorstaan. Hy kruip ongemaklikerig tussen die lakens in. Nie lank nie, besluit die proffie hy sal maar die donkerte en koue moet aandurf, maar skaars is hy op, of die donkerte buite jaag hom weer tussen die lakens in. So met die vierde terugklimslag val die proffie se oë op sy paar skoene wat netjies langs die bed gemaak staan is. En, weet die proffie, die sokkies wat hy die dag aangehad het, is in die skoene. Hy besluit terstond dis die moeite werd om een van die kouse op te offer. Nou moet ‘n mens net vinnige verduidelik, dis van daai soort wat tot amper by die knie gekom het, en daar met ‘n rek om die kuit gemaak sit is. As die kous uitgetrek word, sit daar so ‘n ring om die been. ‘n Rukkie later maak die proffie die venster oop, en erg verlig slinger hy die lang kous in die rondte voor dit akkuraat deur die venster die donkerte in verdwyn. Met ligword die volgende oggend ontdek die proffie daar het fout gekom. Die simpel kous het ‘n gaatjie by die toon ingehad, en soos hy die ding geslinger het, het hy die kamer al in die rondte geverf. Nie eens baie netjies geverf nie. Die proffie sluip die kamer uit, kry die portier voor by ontvangs nog lekker vas aan die slaap, en amper sleep hy hom kamer toe.

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Binne druk hy die deur agter die oorblufte portier toe. “Kyk,” beduie die proffie, “ek gee jou tien pond as jy die mure skoonmaak en vir niemand daarvan sê nie”. Die bruinman is ‘n hele halwe minuut of so sprakeloos, terwyl hy hande op die sye in die middel van die kamer die skade staan en betrag. “Sjieeeeeeee” fluit hy deur sy tande terwyl sy kop nog so al met die verflyne langs draai. “Maastah!” kry hy dit uiteindelik uit. “Ek gee maastah daai tien pond terug en nog tien pond as maastah my sê hoe maastah dit reggekry het!”

Kampuskaskenades Die jongste vlaag moleste by die Universiteit van Transkei is darem erg uit wans uit. Ek bedoel, hedendaagse moleste is mos normaalweg geskeduleer vir wanneer die studente moet begin aansit vir eksamenskryf. Of wanneer hulle moet begin betaal. Dis dan wanneer die studente skielik onthou hoe min hulle van sekere dosente hou. Hulle het laas dan so min van ‘n kampusdirekteur gehou dat hulle sy deftige motor vuurgemaak het. Terwyl die uwe nou so krities oor ander studente se optrede is, beteken dit nog lank nie dat ons in ons dae engeltjies was nie. Allermins. Maar ons het in daai tussenstadium klas gedraf toe die tipe pret wat Koos Meyer en sy makkers

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aangevang het tot skorsing sou lei, en dit wat sommige studente nou aanvang, tronksake sou beteken. Dus, as ek nou vir ‘n student vertel wat ons aangevang het, raak hy terstond aan die slaap. Met ander woorde, hy boots onmiddellik klastoestande na. Die uwe was ook geen voorbok nie. Kyk, die akademie was nou nie heeltemal hoofsaak nie, maar deurkom was darem noodsaaklik, as gevolg van gesinsomstandighede. Dit synde ‘n pa wat nie lus was vir geld mors nie. Maar vyftig persent was deur. Een-en-vyftig persent los deur. Darem ook net voorgraads. Maar darem tog genoeg pret gehad, en soms amper storings gehad daaroor. Soos die slag wat die uwe die gaping gekry het om vir die eerstejaar verpleegsters ‘n vraestel op te stel. So met die hulp van my matriek-biologie, stensils en ‘n tikkerasie wat eens op ‘n tyd ‘n tikmasjien was. Darem heel aan die einde van die vraestel ingeskryf dat dit net ‘n gekskeerdery was, en toe so stoepid gewees om my naam daarby te skryf. Ek het mos nie geweet die lotjie sou die vraestel van voor af deurwerk nie, met die gevolg dat daar toe te min tyd was om te leer toe hulle agterkom dis ‘n poets. En soveel moeilikheid wat ek vir soveel moeite gehad het! Die ergste seker dat my kleinneef, van ver oor die ses voet, se meisie...eintlik een van sy meisies, een van die slagoffers was. En, vir in geval ek dit nog nie genoem het nie, die kleinneef was baie groot. Maar soms was ek ook verantwoordelik. Of probeer om verantwoordelik te wees en dan agterna verantwoordelik te wees vir die gemors.

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Soos daai slag. Ek kom by die huis en vertel vir my ma ons het die dag ge“general”. My ma was op Tukkies en wis nie wat “general” beteken nie. Ek verduidelik toe dit kom op ‘n massa-ontruiming neer as die dosent nie binne presies sewe minute na die klas begin het, sy opwagting gemaak het nie. Net daar kry ek toe ‘n lesing! Destyds, toe my ma nog ‘n huishoudkundestudent was, het hulle klas ook ge-wat ookal hulle “general” genoem het. Toe hulle weer by die lektrise kom, is sy in trane. Sy het uit haar eie sak vir haar klas goedjies vir eksperimente gaan koop, maar in die stad vasgeval. Toe sy ‘n paar minute laat by haar klas opdaag, was die klas weg. En, vertel my ma, hulle het sò sleg gevoel! Net die volgende dag is die proffie van Afrikaans-Nederlands laat. Ek sien die ouens beginne hul horlosies soos stophorlosies dophou, en ek siet hier gaan daar gegeneral word. Maar geluk is aan my kant. Daar lê so ‘n stuk plank los in die klas. Dié druk en deur die dubbeldeure se handvatsels, soos die ouens destyds hul kasteelpoorte van binne gesluit het. Onmiddellik vergeet die klas heeltemal van general. Almal se oë is in volle afwagting op die deure gerig. ‘n Minuut of wat na die sewe minute verstryk het, loop iemand hom van buite teen die deur-kontrepsie vas. En toe gebeur daar niks. Ek skrik, en dog die proffie het hom verêrre, en die pad gevat. Ek is half opgevlieg om die proffie te gaan roep en om verskoning te vra. Maar voor ek by die deur kon kom, kom daai lang, maer proffie deur daai deure geskouer. Hulle vlieg soos swaaideurtjies van ‘n kroeg oop, ‘n mens sien net splinters waai soos die proffie ingebars kom.

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Hy ploeg so twee, drie rye banke die klas in, skud hom reg, en gaan gee klas asof niks gebeur het nie. Ook maar goed ek het daai plank nie betyds uitgehaal nie. Dan was die proffie stellig onseremonieel by die oorkantste venster uit. Maar dit was die dae van die befaamde prof. Benedictus Kok. En die dae toe nuwe koshuise nog gebou is. Met die vra die Senaat toe voorstelle vir name vir die nuwe koshuise. Maar, word die voornemende voorstellers laat weet, die tradisie is dat dit beroemdes se name of inheemse plante of bome moet wees. Dis toe dat ‘n student vra of ‘n kombinasie moontlik oorweeg sou wees. Nou hiervandaan moet my oorlede pa, destyds lid van die universiteit se Senaat, instaan. Hy het vertel dat die senaat laat weet toe dat dit interessant klink, wat het die voorsteller in gedagte? Kort en kragtig kom die antwoord. “Benedictus Kaktus”. Die voorstel is toe nie aanvaar nie. Dit was ook die tyd van die groot debakel oor die Universiteitsraad se voorneme om ‘n poort by die Kimberley-ingang te bou. Selfs destyds was die bedrag van honderde duisende rande genoem, tot, snaaks genoeg, die ontsteltenis van die

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studente. Daar kan liewer ‘n beter biblioteek gebou word. En kyk wat moet ons vir klasgelde opdok. Nee, sê die universiteitsvaders, die regering het klaar geld daarvoor bewillig. Maar kort daarna spreek die Minister van Opvoedkunde ‘n vergadering daar by Estoire toe, en die studente stuur ‘n afvaardiging. Vraetyd wil hulle by die geagte Minister weet hoe die regering dan in skaars tye geld op ‘n poort kan spandeer. Maar, sê die Minister, hy weet niks van regeringsgelde vir die poort nie. En sommer skielik is die poort toe ook van die baan. In plaas daarvan word die Malteserkruis opgerig, wat vandag nog daar staan. Maar dis toe die rou beton van daai kruis gegiet is, dat student se kind se oorspronklikheid vorendag kom. Mooi bo, daar gaan verf een: “One flew over Kokkies nest”.

Wolwegif As ek aan Ant Mattie dink, dan dink ek aan die Bakke se bungalows en die heerlikste, heerlikste beesbiltong. So lekker sag, soos oom Daan dit met sy sakmes afgekerf het, en vir ons as kinders van die skyfies aangepresenteer het. Maar dis ook nie al manier waaraan ek aan Ant Mattie dink nie. Nie Tant Mattie nie. My Ouma het my verseker “ant” was die afkorting vir “tante”. G’n niks van die Ingelse “aunt” afgelei nie. Hoewel ek hoor daar vorentoe in die familie was twee ou tantes wat so ergerlik geword het as my ma-hulle as kinders voor hulle durf Afrikaans praat het.

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“Kinders, julle moet Ingels praat” is hulle dan vermaan. “Dis ghrênd om Ingels te praat”. Maar die ou tantes se advies is nie aangehoor nie, en selfs my oudste, nou in graad drie, hoop vuriglik die politiek sal nog so draai dat die Rooi taal in die land afgeskaf kan word. Maar terug by ant Mattie. Sy en oom Daan het daar by Hennenman geboer, hoewel veral sy enduit volgehou het dis eintlik Ventersburg. Want sien, toe hulle begin het, was Ventersburg die dorp, en Hennenman net die stasie. En al was Hennenman naand baie groter as Ventersburg, is Hennenman nooit gereken nie. Maar nietemin. Of die Hennenman of Ventersburg, of half tussenin was, geboer is daar geboer, en sommer groot ook. Dis toe dat die tante op ‘n dag besluit daar moet plan met die meerkatplaag gemaak word. Sy laat ‘n voëltjie skiet, maak die dingetjie vol wolwegif, en gee ou Jim opdrag om die voëltjie daar by die meerkatkolonie te gaan sit. Hoe ou Jim se kop gewerk het, weet g’n niemand nie, maar ou Jim gaan druk ‘n stok in die voëltjie, en plant die stok in die grond. Die oorle voëltjie sit toe hoog en droog, heel buite die bereik van selfs die grootste meerkat wat op sy tone staan. Maar natuurlik nie hoog genoeg nie vir ‘n span skaapskeerders wat daar verby trek nie.

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Hulle loop braai die voëltjie, en daar breek toe die groot dood onder hulle uit. Ek kan nie onthou of almal dood is nie, maar genoeg om ant Mattie met die gereg te laat bots. Ek is vertel sy was vir moord voor, maar dit was darem seker hoogstens strafbare manslag. Maar dis nie die einde van die verhaal nie. ‘n Plaasvark gaan help hom toe aan die bene wat die skeerders weggegooi het, en daar vrek die vark toe. Met genoeg moeilikheid klaar op hande, laat ant Mattie die vark begrawe. Ongelukkig is daar toe van die plaaswerkers wat reken dis darem ‘n te groot skade, en toe hulle reken die vark is half vergete, word dié opgegrawe en ook verorber. Dis toe dat daar weer ongevalle is, maar ek glo darem nie daar is weer dood onder hulle nie. Net siek, sleg siek. Maar, hoewel ant Mattie die moeilikheid met die gereg opgelos gekry het, dink ek nie sy het daarna sommer weer van die meer verantwoordelike plaaswerkies gedelegeer nie.

Van spietkops en boetebessies

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Ons is almal gewoond aan die dikke getalle mense wat by ‘n minibus-taxi uitstroom. Net koppe! Maar wat ek nou die dag aanskou het, vat by wyse van spreke die koek. Een van daai “Oe, nou’t ek alles gesien”-karretjies hou by ‘n privaat skool stil. En dis net koppe, en nogmaals koppe. Dis toe dat ek tel toe hulle begin uitklim. ‘n Ronde tien! Die bestuurder en nog twee kinders het in die karretjie agtergebly. Hulle is toe oppad na ‘n ander skool toe. Maar spietkops het dit nie alte maklik nie. Dan praat ek nie eens van daai keer toe my broer-hulle, toe hy nog in die polisiediens was, ‘n Spietkop aangekeer het omdat hy vermoedelik gery het terwyl hy ‘n paar drankies te veel ingehad het nie. Dis toe reguit distriksgeneesheer toe met hom. Maar helder oordag, soos dit was, was dit ‘n vreeslike gespook om die distriksgeneesheer aan die gang te kry. So dronk soos ‘n tor. Die arme spietkop, sy oë het soos pierings gestaan toe die medikus naderslinger om die naald te probeer inkry. Dan vertel my vrou my nog ook dié een wat sy gehoor het toe sy onlangs gaan bloed skenk het. Sy moes toustaan en die skenkers gesels toe so onder mekaar. Een vertel daar in die dorp waar hy eers gebly het, was dit tradisie dat baie mense gaan skenk het. Dan was die ander ondernemings in die omgewing gesluit, en was daar heelwat parkeerplek. Met, ongelukkig parkeermeters. Maar synde Saterdag, en met die ondernemings gesluit en alles doodrustig, het daar ook ‘n tradisie ontstaan om nie geld in die parkeermeters te gooi nie. Tot een Saterdag. Toe die skenkers weer by hul karre kom, pryk die kaartjies daar onder die ruitveërs. ‘n Spietkop se werk.

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Een skenker vererg hom so, vlieg om en gaan maak die vrou by die bloedbank op sy houer bloed skryf dat sy bloed onder geen omstandighede vir ‘n spietkop toegedien mag word nie. ‘n Boetebessie het by geleentheid ‘n bekende Rhodesiër laat aankla van aanranding met die opset om ernstig te beseer Ek sê Rhodesiër, want dié man was nie iemand wat hom sou laat beledig om ‘n Zimbabwiër genoem te word nie. Hy het Rhodesiese kleure in boks en bofbal behaal, en was boonop ‘n Reid-Daly, en daarby broer van die aanvoerder van die befaamde Selous Scouts. Dus nie ‘n man om sonder handskoene aan te pak nie. En tog het sy paaie met die gereg gekruis. Nee, seg hy in die hof, hy het die boetebessie g’n nooit aangerand nie. Ook nie vir haar daai lelike goed gesê nie. Hy het net vir haar gesê “buck up”. Hy weet nie wat dit beteken nie, maar dis ‘n ou Rhodesiese sêding. Die een getuie na die ander word geroep. Het hulle gehoor hoe die beskuldigde so lelik met die klaer praat? Nee, hulle het nie. Wél dat sy die lelike goed vir die beskuldigde gesê het. Haar kollega het dit ook nie gehoor nie, maar die klaer het haar wel gevra hoe ‘n mens die vieslikhede spel. En, sê die beskuldigde, dit was die klaer se eie skuld dat sy aangetrap is. Hy kon nie parkeerplek kry voor die hotel waarin hy oornag het nie, sodat hy darem sy tasse kon oplaai. En elke keer as hy op die laaisone wil stilhou, dan beduie die so-en-so se metermerrie (dit het hy haar tydens die onderbrekings teenoor die

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joernaliste genoem) dat hy moet ry. So met die vierde verbyryslag besluit hy stilhou sal hy stilhou, en die volgende rondte doen hy dit toe. Terwyl hy sy tasse inpak, skryf sy. Toe hy wil ry, is sy nog nie klaar nie. Hy beduie toe vir haar om te gee pad, hy het genoeg tyd gemors. Sy wou nie. En dus edelagbare, sluit hy sy betoog af, dit was haar eie toedoen dat sy raakgery is. En dan was daar die keer wat iemand net te laat terug by sy kar gekom het. Die dame was besig om te skryf, en sy pleidooie en verduidelikings val op dowe ore. Toe sy klaar geskryf het, stop sy vies die kaartjie in die neulkous se hande. Met die wegtrek skree die bose oortreder vir haar: “En wat vra jy om in ‘n drieslaapkamerhuis te spook?!” Vergeet skoon die dame sit met al sy besonderhede. Hy het toe ook nie weggekom nie. ‘n Bloemfonteinse advokaat het darem ligter daarvan afgekom. Hy het skuins om ‘n draai oor ‘n stil stopstraat gery, en kaplaks voor ‘n verkeersman, wit handskoen in die lug, te staan gekom. “U het nie by die stopstraat stilgehou nie meneer” sê die spietkop beleef. Die advokaat besef hy het drooggemaak en is op heterdaad betrap. Sy enigste kans is om die Rooi taal te gooi. “Sorry sir, I realise I did’nt stop, but I paused”. Die spietkop vererg hom, stamp driftig met sy voet op die grond, en laat waai met sy weergawe van die Rooi taal:

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“What does stand there? Es Tee Ou Pee for stop, or Pee Y Dabbeljoe Es for for paws?” As ‘n mens met die gereg bots, is dit een ding, maar as jy met ‘n koerant moeilikheid kry, is dit gans ‘n ander. Soos die vooraanstaande sakeman wat in ‘n onderonsie buite ‘n sportklub betrokke geraak het, en toe ‘n klag van aanranding gaan lê het. Hy het sy beweerde aanrander se motor se registrasienommer afgeskryf. Toe die saak voorkom, gaan die klaer en dreig Die Volksblad se verslaggewers om nie oor die saak te berig nie. Dié besluit dis minder werk, maar die klaer gaan dreig ook die redakteur. Die gevolg: Daar sal verslag gedoen word. Daar sal skerp verslag gedoen word. So erf die uwe die saak, en na my mnr. Kobie Coetsee se dogter, Heleen. Die beskuldigde sê hy kan nie verstaan hoe hy van so ‘n ding aangekla kan word nie. Hy was besig om eksamen te skryf toe die moles gebeur het. Wat meer was, hy het by die klaer se seun eksamen geskryf, en boonop was dit nog Bewysreg ook. Uiteindelik besluit die beskuldigde se broer om te bieg. Dit was hy, wat terwyl boet eksamen geskryf het, sy kar geleen het. Hy wou saam met ‘n meisie by die sportklub ‘n drankie gaan geniet. Maar daar het hy moeilikheid met ‘n beskonke ou gekry. Nou hoekom het hy nie vroeër met die sak patats voor die dag gekom nie? Nee, hy het ‘n vorige veroordeling omdat hy iemand met ‘n papierskêre doodgeslaan het. Nee, hy het nie die slagwerk met ‘n papierskedel gedoen nie.

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Die oorledene het ‘n papierskedel gehad, en hy het dit nie geweet nie. Hy wou nie die risiko van nog ‘n kriminele rekord hê nie. Maar boet is toe los. En dis toe dat die nuusredakteur deur Heleen se notas kyk, en voorsê oor die ou wat die redakteur so ‘n harde tyd gegee het. Daai middag lees die inleidende paragraaf: “‘n Bekende Bloemfonteinse sakeman het komieklike bewegings gemaak terwyl hy aangeklam met ‘n besoeker aan die stad op ‘n sypaadjie handgemeen geraak het, is vandag in die Bloemfonteinse landdroshof getuig” Of iets in dier voege. Die volgende oggend kry ek die spoor. Die sakeman het direk na die koerant op straat verskyn het, by die beheeraanklaer ingehardloop om te eis dat teen die koerant opgetree word. Maar daar kry hy koue water oor sy kop uitgegooi. Los die koerant uit, die koerant het tegnies niks verkeerd gedoen nie. Dan gaan ek Prokureur-generaal toe, bulder die ontevredene. Sal nie help nie, sê die beheeraanklaer. Maar dan gaan ek Minister toe! Nou nie dat die Beheerhofaanklaer nog koue water oor die arme man wou uitgooi nie, maar noem maar net vir die interessantheid die Minister se dogter het die berig geskryf.

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‘n Boer maak ‘n plan ‘n Boer maak ‘n plan, dis nou maar eenmaal wors. Soos die Dopperkerk langs die Bloemfonteinse dieretuin ook kan getuig. Toe die kerk so ‘n halwe eeu gelede klaar gebou is, ontdek die kerkgangers op die galery dit lol om die predikant te siene te kry,... daar waar hy voor op die preekstoel staan. Argitekte en ingenieurs se hulp is ingeroep, en uiteindelik besluit die kerkraad om die nodige verbouings aan die galery te laat doen. Dit sou omtrent ‘n derde van die totale boukoste van die pasvoltooide kerkgebou self bedra. Dis toe die besluit nou klaar geneem is dat die een omie opstaan. Hy verstaan nie baie van ingenieursdinge nie, sê hy, maar sou dit nie straksies goedkoper wees om die predikant in plaas van die galery te lig nie? Tot vandag toe staan die predikante nog op so ‘n aanmekaargetimmerde kassie. Die hele probleem opgelos. Nou hoe ek nou op die onderwerp gekom het. My oom, Oom Nico was Sondag hier aan huise, en hy vertel my dat Oom Pieter, sy oom, eersdaags negentig word. Hy is op die oomblik sleg siek, daar waar hy op Koppies by sy dogter woon. Oom Pieter was sy lewe lank ‘n platjie, ten spyte van die hartseer wat hy deur ‘n groot deel van sy getroude lewe moes dra. Sy een seun wat met geboorte laat val is, en breinskade opgedoen het. Bennie was tot sy dood toe aan ‘n rolstoel

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gekluister, en as man in die dertig was sy vermoë min of meer beperk tot ‘n stoute versie wat sy pa hom geleer het. Daai een van die skilpad wat in die pad stap. Net so in die goute een van Oom Pieter se onmoontlikhede. Hy is een slag met die trein op reis, toe ‘n Jood hom by Oom Pieter in die kompartement kom tuismaak. Baie geselserig, die Jood, maar alles in Engels. En vir die rooi taal was die oom nie besonders lus nie. Toe die Jood dan vir Oom Pieter vra waarvandaan hy nou kom, vertel die oom hy was in Johannesburg by die dokter. Het ‘n vreeslike siekte onder lede. Cactoblastes, om dit by die naam te noem, en baie aansteeklik. Aansteeklik ja, maar net vir turksvye, maar dit weet die Jood nie en maak toe skielik verskoning om elders te gaan sit. Oom Pieter het tot sy aftrede buite Fauresmith geboer, en dis hier waar die groot planmakery waaroor dié storie handel, plaasgevind het. Fauresmith is uniek deurdat die treinspoor mos in die hoofstraat afloop. In al die jare was daar glo nog nie regtig ‘n ernstige ongeluk nie, maar versigtigheid het maar die wagwoord gebly. En so was ‘n reuse rots wat op die sypaadjie gelê het, nou regtig ‘n steen des aanstoots. Die rots het die sypaadjie volgelê, en so het dit gelol met voetgangers, motoriste en treine wat op die bepaalde plek nou almal dieselfde stuk pad moes deel. Dus is besluit: Die rots moet weg.

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Maar die rots is ver te groot en swaar vir enige van die toerusting waaroor die munisipaliteit beskik het. Dus is besluit om tenders uit te sit vir die verwydering van die rots. En een van die tendervoorwaardes sou wees dat die rots na middernag en voor dagbreek verwyder moes word om te voorkom dat daar groot ontwrigting met die dorp se spitsverkeer kom, en so aan. En toe kom die tenders in. Die tenderbedrae laat die dorpsvaders na hul asem snak. Maar tussenin is daar ‘n heel skaflike tender. Nou nie in die liga van Koos se tender van tienduisend rand om die tonnel onder die Engelse kanaal deur te grawe nie, maar darem heelwat minder as die ander. G’n wonder nie, die dorpsvaders gogga die tender kwaai. Hulle laat kom die tenderaar, maar dié is heel vasbeslote hy sal die ou klippie maklik verwyder. Die tender word aan hom toegestaan, op voorwaarde hy sal slegs betaal word as die tender volledig en tot die letter toe uitgevoer is. Die oom reken dis in die haak, en hy is daar vort. Die volgende oggend staan die dorpenaars verstom. Die reuse rots is weg. Skoonveld, sonder eens ‘n teken dat daar gespook is. Niks pad wat stukkend getrap is nie, net losserige grondjies waar die klip gestaan het. Kompleet asof hy net daar loop staan en verdamp het. Verstom wil die munisipaliteit by die oom weet hoe hy dit reggekry het. Die oom se mond bly egter gesnoer. Dis toe dat iemand agterkom die oom is bang hy word nie betaal nie, as hy vertel hoe hy dit reggekry het. Hy word toe terstond betaal, en weer versoek om sy geheim uit te blaker.

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Nee, seg die oom. Hy het maar na middernag met sy spannetjie op sy bakkie daar aangekom. Toe graaf hulle ‘n lekker groot gat langes die klippie, en rol hom in. Na hulle die ou klippie toegegooi het, het hulle die oorskietgrondjies met die bakkie weggery. Natuurlik kon die stadsvaders hulself toe skop, want die munisipaliteit sou die ou joppie lag-lag self kon gedoen het, as hulle maar net daaraan gedink het. Soort van dat die aarde die ou klippie moes insluk. En van ek die storie gehoor het, het ek darem selwers baie orige rommel en dinge onder die aarde in laat verdwyn. Genoeg om die argeoloë vir die volgende 2 000 jaar ordentlik te laat kopkrap.

Onderonsie met die luiperd In my familie lyk my prognoses om ou bene te kou, nie te waffers nie. Twee van my oupagrootjies het wel so om en by 91 jaar oud geword, my een oupa sestig en die ander 58. En my pa het ons op 51 ontval. Volgens die trajek sou ek ook nie nou hier kon sit en stories uitryg nie, maar ongelukkig vir diegene wat die stories pes, het die trajek nou skynbaar weer ‘n opwaartse kurwe loop vat. Maar toe verneem ek een van my oupagrootjies se pa wat ‘n hele 95 jaar oud geword het. Maar amper is hy jonk-jonk bokveld toe, hoewel hy self nie so gereken het nie. Die oor-oupagrootjie van my het ‘n welige bos baard gehad. Maar die baard het nie heeltemal verdoesel dat hy ‘n riempie om sy nek gedra het nie. Aan die

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riempie het ‘n luiperdnael gehang. En dis oor dié luiperdnael wat die storie handel. As jong man op die plaas skraap hy en sy honde by geleentheid ‘n luiperd in die veld. Hy het nie daarop gereken om ‘n luiperd raak te loop nie, en die roer het by die huis bly lê. Uiteindelik kry hulle die luiperd op ‘n lysie teen die berg vasgekeer. Die luiperd kan nêrens heen nie, en die honde kan ook nie by die luiperd uitkom nie. Die oupa klim toe teen die krans op, kry die luiperd aan die stert beet, en pluk hom tussen die honde in. Maar die luiperd verset hom vreeslik, en die een hond na die ander delf die onderspit. Oupa was vreeslik erg oor sy honde, en besluit om die sakie self te beredder. Hy laat los daar teen die krans en bespring die luiperd. Hy kry toe die luiperd met sy mes doodgesteek. So al asof daar nie detail aan die geveg was nie. Met die storie het oupa sy agterkleinkinders geweldig geïmponeer. “Maar dit was darem baie dapper om so ‘n gevaarlike ding te doen”. Maar oupa was self nie te beïndruk nie. “Dis nog niks” het hy dan vertel. “Ek het my die slag met ‘n ystervark deeglik vasgeloop”.

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Vir my klink dit, soos vir my voorgeslagte ook, half ongelooflik dat iemand ‘n luiperd met ‘n mes kan kafdraf, maar hom dan teen ‘n stekelrige swyn kan vasloop. Soos die vriend van my wie se vriend groot rugby daar by Saldanha se militêre akademie gespeel het. ‘n Vriend van hom kry toe sleg seer op die rugbyveld. Dis toe dat die soldaat besluit rugby is ‘n gans ‘n te gevaarlike spel. Van nou af sou dit op slag net rolbal wees. Maar die eerste dag op die rolbalbaan laat val hy die swaar rolbal op sy voet, en breek ‘n hele lot beentjies. Kry toe baie seerder as wat hy ooit op die rugbyveld gekry het. Nee, vertel Oupa, hy jaag toe die slag die ystervark te voet. Mooi op spoed besluit die ystervark hy steek net daar waar hy toe is, vas, en rig sy penne gelyk agteruit. Oupa se remskoene was nie flink genoeg nie, en hy hardloop in daai penne in. Sy bene lyk toe kompleet soos twee omgedopte ystervarke, seg hy. Nie dat sy nasate genoeg gehad het van groot katte nie. Later-tye het ‘n Delportneef van my Oupa ‘n mak leeu aangehou, en die een het oral met hom saamgery. En glo my, daar op Kroonstad hoef hy sy motor nooit te gesluit het nie, nie eens met sy beursie oop en bloot op die voorste sitplek nie.

Springhaasjag

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Elke streek van die land het sy eie stories. Sommige steke s’n word opgeskryf, ander s’n oorvertel. Die meeste van die Vrystaat se regte, ware, inheemse stories gaan blykbaar ongelukkig verlore. En talle der talle van die stories sal oor springhaasjag handel. Van die wat ek al gehoor het, is daar genoeg vir ‘n dikkerige boek. Maar nêrens word daai stories lewend gehou nie. Die uwe se sprinhaas-ervarings is maar baie saai. Behalwe vir die paar keer hard grond koop deur in erdvarkgate te trap of oor kontoerwalle te val, en ‘n slag of wat in drade vashardloop wat met die heen en weer hardlopery in die donker heel onvanpas versit het, was daar nog min opwinding. Ek kan ook nie instaan vir die waarheid van die storie met die dinamiet nie. Volgens dié storie het ‘n boer se seuns en hul makkers besluit om sommer op een slag ‘n springhaaskolonie uit te roei. Vang toe ‘n springhaas, en maak ‘n dinamietkers aan die arme ding se stert vas. By, wat hulle gereken het, die springhaas se gat is, steek hulle die lont aan die brand, en los die springhaas. Die springhaas is egter totaal deur die weer, en sit om, reguit na sy mishandelaars se bakkie toe. En soos die manne probeer wegjaag, kom die verwarde springhaas met die stert wat vonkies skiet al in die ligte van die bakkie. Gelukkig vir almal kry die springhaas sy onwelkome bagasie afgeskud, en behalwe vir ‘n windpomp daar naby, was daar nie eintlik skade nie.

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Maar Oom Nico het ‘n interessante storie. Een slag kom dr. Jan Stegman, toentertyd bekende Bloemfonteinse tandarts, en ds. Koos van Zyl, latere Kapelaan-generaal, by hom op sy plaas, Merino kuier. Dr. Stegman was beroemd vir die snelheidsrekords wat hy ondermeer Kaapstad toe opgestel het. Maar ten spyte van die duiselingwekkende snelhede waarteen hy gery het, was hy ‘n baie versigtige bestuurder, met ‘n ongelooflike voorgevoel. So vertel een van sy passasiers, het die dokter teen ‘n opdraande skielik begin spoed verminder, en toe hulle oor die knop gaan, loop daar skape in die pad. Die storie het ook geloop dat hy nooit vir spoed gevang is nie. A la die bure se kinders is ‘n ander storie egter vertel. Hy is minstens een keer gevang. En toe was hy glo ‘n skrale 20 kilometer per uur oor die spoedgrens. Die rede synde dat hy toe reeds vreeslik spoed verminder het, nadat ‘n aankomende motoris hom teen die wagtende gevaar gewaarsku het. Maar die slag het dr. Jan en ds. Koos op die plaas kom kuier, en daarvoor die dokter se vuurwa, ‘n MG sportmotor ingespan. En met dié is daar toe die aand springhase gejag. Dr. Jan agter die stuurwiel, oom Nico as navigator op die passasiersitplek, en ds. Koos op die regop petroltenk agter die sitplekke. Die MG het nie agterste sitplekke gehad nie. Hier vanuit sy verhewe posisie het ds. Koos op die arme springhase aangelê. Maar op ‘n kol kan dr. Jan die versoeking nie weerstaan nie, en skraap die voortsnellende springhaas met sy blitsige MG.

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Maar, soos gemeld, had dr. Jan ‘n besondere voorgevoel. Hy stop skielik voor ‘n erdvarkgat. Skielik, heeltemal te skielik vir die dominee. Gelukkig, sê Oom Nico, kry hy die dominee so met die oorvliegslag aan die enkels beet. Die dominee slaan op die motor se neus neer, en spreek glo toe terstond in tale. Terug by die opstal, vertel dr. Jan aan die huismense hy en ds. Koos het ‘n ruk tevore aan die Limpopo gaan jag. Met die einste MG. Oppad terug ry hulle toe deur die Kruger-wildtuin, en kom op ‘n trop leeus af wat besig is om te vreet. Ds. Koos span sy kamera in. Dis toe dat ‘n bobbejaan wat seker nie snuf van die leeus gekry het nie, ds. Koos van agter af benader, en sy vuil pootjie uitsteek om die kamera te bekom. Dis hieroor dat dr. Jan ds. Koos aanpor: “Toe Koos, vertel bietjie die mense wat jy toe gesê het.” Maar ds. Koos wou niks weet nie.

Die haelgeweer Die Oos-Vrystaatse dorpie, Tweeklipsruit, is, of was liewer, vir ‘n paar dinge bekend. Benewens vir die sandsteenstasie, wentel die ander dinge hoofsaaklik om die kerk.

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Danksy die mooi sonneblomoeste, wat ook so treffend in Vader Claerhout se skilderye uitgebeeld word, kon dié gemeenskappie vir hom ‘n pragtige sandsteenkerk oprig. So mooi, dit sou veel groter dorpe se pogings in die stof laat byt. Dan was daar die orrel. Aai, wat ‘n praginstrument met sy letterlik honderde pype. En nee, dis nie in die dorpie waar die hele kerk toe onder die stof en mossieneste was toe die munsiek-onderwyseres se kêrel, ‘n befaamde musikus uit die stad, die een slag ‘n uitvoering kom hou het nie. En toe ‘n hele klomp orrelpype oopblaas waarvan die jarelange ou orrelis nie eens geweet het nie. Dan was daar die kandelaarlig. Of die honderde kristalle eg was, weet ek nou nie. Ek sê “was” want dit is ongelukkig nie meer daar nie. Maar nou loop ek die storie vooruit. Dan was ds. Johan Haasbroek ook bekend vir sy verskriklike harde stem. Die dorpenaars hoef eintlik nie kerk toe te gegaan het nie, want hulle kon sommer in hul beddens luister hoe die dominee vir die lidmate van die distrik preek. So hard het die dominee gepreek, dat Oom Servaas een slag so met die uitstap uit die kerkdiens vir een van die koshuis-inwonende onderwyseresse fluister: “Nee, allawêreld, die dominee preek darem gans te hart.” Met dié stamp die onderwyseres die ou wewenaar in die ribbes, en hy merk mevrou dominee stap reg agter hulle. “Hy sal sy stem mos seermaak”, maak die oom sy storie verleë klaar.

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Maar die dominee se bulderende stem en die orrel se vermoë was maar vulletjies teen die geraas daai een slag. Dominee erf op ‘n kol ‘n afgeleefde ou haelgeweertjie. Kolf byna deur die rysmiere opgevreet, en die metaaldele lelik geroes. Dominee Haasbroek vra toe vir diaken Fransie Pretorius of hy nie dalk so ‘n bietjie na die ou skietdingetjie wil kyk nie. Die broeder was bekend vir hoe handig hy met sy twee hande was. En toe een Sondagoggend, net toe die dominee en kerkraad uit die konsistorie die kerk wil instap, kom Fransie met die geweer daar aangehardloop. So in die haastigheid sien die dominee hoe mooi die skietding nou lyk, maar tyd vir kyk is daar nie. Hy prop die geweer terstond onder sy manel in, en stap die kerk in. Toe hy eers op die preekstoel is, kan hy die gemeente nie gou genoeg aan ‘n psalm help nie. Gee sommer ‘n hele boel verse van Psalm 119 op, sodat hy genoeg tyd sal hê om behoorlik na die transaksie te kyk. Toe sak hy agter die preekstoel weg, en betrag die blinke affêre. En wat hy sien, beïndruk hom. Die kolf vlam vuurrooi, en die loop is ‘n blinke swart. En so korrel hy daar van agter die preekstoel af, en so ewe trek hy die sneller.

BOEM!!! Die ou mense het mos gesê die duiwel laai ‘n geweer. Met die aftrek van die skoot is die kandelaarlig in sy maai. Met die neersif van die derduisende stukkies kristal of glas, besluit die gemeente dis ‘n gawe tyd om te ontruim. Omtrent almal is gelyk by die deur, en vergroot die konsternasie.

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Die dominee steier verslae regop daar van agter die preekstoel af op, die rokende skietding steeds in die hande. Hy kan nie glo dat hy nou die vreeslikheid oorgekom het nie, en dat die geweer gelaai kon gewees het nie. So uit die veld geslaan maak hy die geweer oop asof om te kyk of dit werklik gelaai kon wees. Dis toe dat Klein Sampie, wat hier agterlangs in die bondel vir die deur skrum, omkyk, en wat hy sien is te veel vir sy gemoed. “Stoot Pa!” gil hy ten hemele, “Die dônner laai alweer!”

Die Wondervis G’n bundel sketse kan volledig wees sonder ‘n hengelstorie nie. Die uwe se visvangstories is van so ‘n aard dat dit nie as kernmateriaal ingespan kan word nie. Nie dat ek nie so ‘n paar keer probeer het nie. En dan nog vreeslike “beginners luck” of teenspoed ook gehad, afhangende van hoe ‘n mens daarna kyk. Dit het so gekom. ‘n Buurseun, ‘n ou visterman, gaan ‘n slag saam met ons vakansie hou. Tot my vreugde gaan sy visstok saam. En by die groot viswaters moes daar nie nog baie water in die see loop voor ons by die see gaan stelling inneem nie. Vriend Willem laat loop met die stok, en die katrol sing te lekker. Tot die sinker omtrent reg oor die voorste brander is. WAP!. ‘n Ouma van ‘n kraaines.

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Willem loop vies met die lyn uit die water uit om die kraaines te ontrafel, en sleep in die proses ‘n ou steentjie saam. Dit het my ‘n ruk geneem om te weet visvang is nie so maklik nie. Later het my seuns my voormalige entoesiasme geërf. Twee keer het ons met stokke en aas gewapen Hermanus se hawe aangedurf, en twee keer het ek niks, behalwe ‘n seekat per keer, uit die dieptes gelig nie. My oudste se grootste vangs tot dusver is ‘n varswaterkrap wat hy in die Liebenbergsrivier op sy oupa se plaas aan die hoek gekry het. Oom Kobus se storie is ietwat anders. Sy lewe lank het hy in die modderdam op sy plaas ander Winburg met sy dobbertjie en kerriepap reggekom. Maar toe wen hy en sy vrou tydens ‘n tyddeelpromosie ‘n week se vakansie by ‘n oord naby Margate. Die eerste oggend langs die viswaters is oom Kobus, met sy stokkie, dobbertjie, kerriepap, driekwartbroek en slaprandghoed gewapen weg see toe om die ou grote te gaan aankeer. So ‘n ent weg kry hy ‘n klomp Engelse wat met sukke menere van visstokke sukke halfkilogram stukke lood die dieptes inslinger. “Môre!” groet die oom. “Watse aas gebruik julle?”. Die klomp souties kyk die skepsel op die strand daar onder hulle so vanuit die hoogte uit. “Kerriepap!” laat hoor een wat so ‘n bietjie Afrikaans ken. Gaaf, Oom Kobus is dus gewapen. Hy maak hom langs ‘n sloepie staan, en wip sy dobbertjie die watertjies in. Omtrent dadelik haak hy die grote!

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So met die spartelende vis onder die arm daag hy by die tante in die tyddeelwoonstel op. “Watse vis is dit?” wil sy vies weet. Sy weet sy sit met die skoon- en gaarmakery opgeskeep. “‘n Bolamakiesie-wonder!” sê Oom Kobus trots. “‘n Wat?!!” Die tante het kleintyd langs die see gewoon, en weet iets van seevisse af. “Ja” sê Oom Kobus. “Daai klomp Engelse daar by die viswaters sê dis ‘n Flipping Miricle!”

Uit die mond van die suigeling... My jongste seun is baie spesiaal. Ons weet nog nie vir seker wat hy makeer nie, maar hy praat nog nie, en hy is in een van Bloemfontein se spesiale skole. Hy het homself wel geleer om, vuil wysvingertjie voor die mond, toonloos te fluit. Maar ons is baie lief vir dié kind van ons. Soms, as hy so in die middel van die nag wakkerword en homself met sy eie musiek begin vermaak, wens ‘n mens amper hy het nie geleer om te fluit nie. Sy ouboet is egter ‘n regte babbelkous. Soms tot groot ergernis van grootmense, wat haas nie ‘n gesprek kan voer sonder dat die kannetjie nie gereeld eiertjies lê nie. Gewoonlik oor iets wat niks met die gesprek te make het nie, of as hy die kat heeltemal aan die stert beet het.

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Maar die Here kon nie ‘n beter ouboet vir ons spesiale kind gegee het nie, en ons is ontsettend dankbaar daaroor. Dis van so tandetellery dat hy so lekker in die slaggat getrap het. Die kannetjie is mal daaroor om by sy oupa-hulle op die plaas te gaan kuier. Daar, volgens homself, help hy kliphard met die boerdery. So het die steekvlieë hom ‘n slag lelik by die lusernland laat deurloop. Een keer kuier familie by Oupa-hulle. Die aand aan tafel, sit mannetjie soos gewoonlik weer die grootmense se tande en tel. Die gesprek handel oor die dertienjarige meisies wat nou so kompetisie vir Bloemfontein se dames van die nag word. Die goggas, verklaar die besoeker, skep vir die polisie vele probleme. “Ja”, laat hoor die kannetjie ongevraag. “‘n Mens noem hulle steekvlieë”. Hy is nog te jonk en onskuldig om te weet hoekom die grootmense so vreeslik gelag het. Ongelukkig sal die kinderlike onskuld nie vir altyd kan hou nie. In sy eie belang.

Volstruismaniere Vanslewe kom daar drie Engelse studente erg verdwaal op die Knersvlakte aan op soek na die” hunting grounds up North”.

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Eintlik was dit drie Amerikaners, wat na hulle ‘n Tarzanfliek gesien het, besluit het hulle wil ook “dark Africa” aandurf. Hul ouers het egter daarop gestaan dat hulle na skool moet gaan studeer, en so het hulle op Ikeys beland. Die Aprilvakansie was toe die eerste geleentheid wat die drie, wat weens hul onkunde die byname Tom, Dick en Harry by hul studentemaats gekry het, gehad het om die jagvelde te gaan opsoek. Met al die drank wat hulle saamgeneem het, het hulle nooit verder as die Knersvlakte anderkant Van Rhynsdorp, gekom nie. En so met koppe wat wil bars van die pyn, en die drank in die Jeep wat vuurwarm gebak het, ry hulle kruis en dwars oor die Knersvlakte. Dit was toentertyd nog voor die vlakte met draadkampe afgekamp is. Die manne trek op al wat ding wat hulle sien, los, tot die ding later verkas. En so met die rondryery, kom hulle later op ‘n trens af. Dis nou een van daardie mense wat so van opstal na opstal trek, en daar in ruil vir kos en ‘n onderdak skoene regmaak en allerlei nutswerksies verrig. Die trens is nie ongeneë met die saamrygeleentheid nie, veral toe hy die voorraad voggies in die Jeep gewaar. Dis al amper skemer, en die manne en hul passasier erg geblaas, toe hulle ‘n volstruis op die horison gewaar. Terstond besluit hulle om vir oulaas op die volstruis te skiet, voor hulle maar die aftog blaas. Dit klink naand soos ‘n klein oorloggie soos Tom, Dick en Harry met hul spoggerige jaggewere op die volstruis losbrand. Net die babelaas-geraas in hul koppe is harder as die skote.

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Meestal gaan die volstruis egter rustig voort met wei en klippies oppik, maar so nou en dan kyk hy stip in die rigting van die geraas, asof om te probeer vasstel wat aangaan. Dan steek hy ook so nou en dan sy kop in ‘n gat as die koeëls te naby verbyfluit of stowwe in sy omgewing opskop. Veral as die opslagkoeël so zieng die vertes in vertrek. Naderhand dui die trens aan hy wil darem ook ‘n skoot hê, allawêreld. Tom, Dick en Harry sien hier kom sports. Hulle druk die verslonste ‘n geweer in die hand, en tel hom op die Jeep se neus. Die trens druk die loop vaagweg in die rigting van die volstruis. Sy bene wieg onder Bacchus se aanslag, en die loop van die geweer maak sulke wye sirkels in die lug. Dan trek hy die skoot af. Hy vlieg behoorlik van die Jeep se neus af, en ploeg deur die Knersvlakte se bossies en gruis. Tom, Dick en Harry wil hulle doodlag. Die trens staan op, skud die ergste stowwe af, en laat hoor toe op sy beste Engels. “Raait, lets go get de volstruis”. Tom, Dick en Harry ruk amper hul nekke af soos hulle omkyk. En sowaar, daar lê die volstruis onderstebo! Dis ‘n gesonde ent se ry voor hulle by die gevalle voël aankom.

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Dick is eerste by, en roep verras uit: “He’s shot the thing through the head!”. Die trens staan egter weer kiertsregop op die Jeep se neus, hand bak voor die oë soos hy die horison vir nog ‘n slagoffer fynkam.

By daai hek Danneman verwens die lui donkies, wat veronderstel is om hom voor donker by daai hek te kry. Dis nie sommer so ‘n oopswaai-plaashek nie. Ook g’n lendelam konsertinahek nie. Nee, dis ‘n behoorlike smoelslanerhek dié. Maar dié woord ken Danneman en sy maters nie. Vir hulle is dit gewoon ‘n bekslanerhek. ‘n Smoelslanerhek is ‘n draadhek waarvan die bokant met ‘n stewige stokhefboom om die hoekpaal styfgedraai word, en die stok se punt in ‘n draadlus vasgewoel word. Die vasmaak is nie die eintlike probleem nie, daarvoor sorg die natuur se wonderlike hefboonwette. Selfs ‘n onhandige kan so ‘n smoelslanerhek sy styf soos ‘n ghitaarsnaar span, so styf dat g’n balhorige bokkapater kan deurkruip nie. Maar die losmaak … dis waar die lollery inkom. ‘n Onhandige stadsjapie kan hom met so ‘n hek liederlik misgis. Hy dink nog hy maak hek oop, dan glip daai stok uit sy hand uit, en begin deur die lug te huil soos hy al swaaiend om die hoekpaal stoom opbou. Teen die tyd dat daai stok die stadsjapie teen sy smoelebak moker, het hy al ‘n vreeslike spoed opgebou. Hy slaat hard, so hard dat daai stadsjapie gewoonlik al skuiwende tussen die bossies langs die plaaspad beland. En so skielik dat hy gewoonlik eers skrik as hy by die opstal suikerwater ingejaag is.

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Dis nie soseer die nukke van ‘n smoelslaner wat Danneman bekommerd het nie. Daarvoor is hy al te gesout, en kry hy die ding maklik baasgeraak. Selfs al het hy ‘n dop of wat in, soos nou. Danneman se moeilikheid is dat die storie loop dat vandat James en Hendrik in ‘n dronknesmesgeveg betrokke was, dinge by daai hek nie meer so lekker is nie. Veral nie na donker nie. James het die dag met die bakleiery tweede beste daarvan afgekom, en sy verrinneweerde lyk het tot na donker daar by die hek bly lê voor die poelieste met alles klaar was, en ou James voete eerste vertrek het. Van daai dag af sorg almal dat hulle voor donker by daai hek deur is. Hoe dit dan nou bekend is dat dinge nou na donker daar lol, dit weet niemand vir seker nie. Dalk het die oumense se storie dat ‘n pionierboer doerie jare ‘n slaaf, wat die boervrou wou molesteer, daar by daai hek doodgegésel het, iets daarmee te make dat dinge by die hek nie te pluis gevoel het nie. Vir Danneman was dit nou ‘n lollery. Want hy wat Danneman is, is ‘n man wat ‘n dop ‘n ding of twee kan wys. Gewoonlik hou sy dop van naweek tot naweek, maar af en toe val iets voor sodat die dop halfpad deur die week opraak. Almal op die plaas weet wanneer dit gebeur. Want op so ‘n dag staan Danneman se donkiekar van middagete af reeds ingespan. Sy donkies, Violet en Portret, moet dan maar so saam-saam die dag wei en gaan water drink, en die donkiekarretjie oral saamsleep. Want na werk is daar nie tyd vir inspan nie. Roodt se Drankwinkel is ver, en maak sesuur toe. Vandat die donkies ingespan staan, wil Danneman ook die son met klippe begin gooi om te sak, Sodat hy sy ry kan kry. Maar na tjaila moet daai son hokaai met die sakkery. G’n mens kan dit met Danneman uithou as hy tydens so ‘n middelweeklikse besoek op ‘n afstand sien hoe Piet Roodt die drankwinkel toesluit, en in sy tjorrie klim en wegry nie. Teen die naweek is Danneman al gaar van die

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onttrekkingsimptome, en Liesbet vol knoppe en kolle. Die kinder speel ook maar wyk van sy werkershuise af. Vandag het Danneman dit egter gemaak na Roodt se Drankwinkel toe. Nou is dit net ‘n geval van die hek, daai hek, haal voor dit donker is. En vanaand is Violet en Portret maar steeksserig. Hulle het naderhand heeltemal ander name, maar daai name kan nie hier gebruik word nie. Nie eens sonder sensors nie. En hoe nader hulle aan die hek kom, hoe meer proes en protesteer hulle. Dis pure donkie-ore-antennas soos hulle die onheil probeer uitluister. En hoe meer onrustig die donkies raak, hoe meer benut Danneman van sy kosbare voorraad om daai senuwees hok te slaan. Dis ook g’n wonder die donkies is onrustig nie. Weggekruip tussen bossies en groot klippe sit Karel, boerseun van die plaas, net anderkant die hek. Hy wag vir Danneman. Vanaand is die aand wat hy Danneman tot in lengte van dae van sy doplus genees. Sy pa kan dit nie meer hou met Danneman se gesuipery nie. Karel het ‘n spierwit laken oor sy kop getrek, en nou sit hy so gehurk en wag. Nie lank nie, toe sien hy Danneman in die sterk skemerte aangesuiker kom. Dis ‘n skone petalje. Teen die tyd staan Danneman soos ‘n strydwavegter regop op sy donkiekar, en laat waai met die sweep. Gelukkig vir Violet en Portret is Danneman teen dié tyd al so gekletter dat hy met die regopstanery nie behoorlik kan korrel nie. Maar met sy stem en woordeskat skort daar niks, en hy verduidelik breedsprakerig wat hy met die *&^% lui donkies gaan maak as hulle vanaand eers uitgespan is. Nie dat hulle saans na so ‘n trippie ooit uitgespan is nie. Die donkiekarretjie is nog aan die beweeg toe is Danneman op die grond, rol ‘n slag deur die stowwe, toe is hy by daai hek. Vernuftig koes hy vir die swaaiende hout, swets heerlik oor die ding wel sy baard gekielie gekry het, en sleep die

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donkies deur die hek. Hy oorweeg dit om die hek so oop te los, maar onthou dan wat alles al met manne gebeur het wat daai hek oopgelos het. Nee, so bang is hy wat Danneman is nog nie. Dis toe hy omdraai na hy die smoelslaner stewig vasgewoel het dat sy hele verwysingsraamwerk verander. Of, soos hy later vir almal wat wou, en dié wat nie wou luister nie, en almal wat die storie al tot vervelens toe moes aanhoor, vertel het dat hy hom heeltemal in ‘n ander bloedgroep ingeskrik het. ‘n Bloedgroep sonder ‘n druppel alkohol, in elk geval. Maar dis toe hy omdraai, dat hy sien oorle James het hom suutjies, soos dit nou maar spoke se gewente is, tussen hom wat Danneman is en die donkiekar gaan maak staan. Of eintlik, hy sweef daar so ‘n entjie bo die grond rond. Van pure skrik wil Danneman nog vir oorle James groet, maar toe hy so ‘n geluidjie uitkry, smaak dit hom James neem dit as ‘n vriendelikheid op, en sweef so ‘n ietsie nader. Plan B, so in die haastigheid gesmee, beteken om uit volle bors “Prys die Heer” aan te hef. Toe Danneman so luidkeels lostrek, is dit ook al of oorle James so ‘n effense ontsagte oor hom kry, en begin so effe terug te beweeg. Danneman merk dis in die rigting van die bosse langs die pad, en hou met die singery vol. Maar toe Danneman uit woorde uit raak, vererg James hom en sweef weer nader. ‘n Benoude Danneman begin toe maar weer voor. “Dit werk!” besef hy. Hy sal nou maar soos taks weer voor begin as die woorde opraak. Later smaak dit hom die spook is genoeg uit die pad uit sodat hy ‘n kans kan vat om verby te kom. Nie donkiekar toe nie. Die donkies het lankal verkas – met sy kosbare dop. Nee, hy meen om nou die aarde te voet te skeer na sy huis toe.

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Maar toe hy dink hy kan verbykom, toe verrêrre daai spook hom behoorlik, en storm nader. Dit wil skoon vir Danneman voel James het vir hom wat Danneman is iets gebrul soos: “Sing jou *&^!” Maar daarvan is Danneman nie sy seker nie, want spoke vloek mos nie, of hoe? Maar hy kon duidelik die spook hoor sê: “Jy wil mos suip”. Snaaks dat ‘n man se stem ook so na sy afsterwe ook weer jonk word, merk Danneman op. Die keer kos dit ook ‘n vreeslike keel opsit voor die spook hom omgepraat laat kry om te beginne retireer. Danneman is al skoon hees gesing teen die tyd dat oorle James daar tussen die bosse in is. As iemand daai aand Danneman se tyd kon neem oor die myl of so na sy huis toe, sou dit nogal iets vir die koerante opgelewer het. Rekords word egter mos nie erken as ‘n man stimulante in die vorm van vuurwater in het nie. Die volgende oggend is Karel saam met sy pa se werkers agter op die bakkie toe hulle lande toe ry. Danneman is ook daar, en hy moes al sy asem teruggekry het, want hy babbel een boeg oor die ander oor sy, soos hy dit noem, traumatiese ondervinding by daai hek. Die ander luister grootoog, en nie een betwyfel ‘n jota of titel van wat Danneman kwytraak nie. Want hier het klaarblyklik ‘n wonderwerk gebeur. Danneman is glad nie gesuip vanoggend nie, soos wat hy andersins maar altoos was as die donkies die vorige dag ingespan was nie. Nee, Danneman is sober. Hy vloek nie eens nie. Hy praat amper soos die sendeling, so mooi en geleerd. “Nou wat het djy gasing?” wil een van sy kollegas weet. “Prys die Heer!” vertel Danneman soos ‘n man wat weet wat om onder hierdie beproewende omstandighede te moet sing.

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“Moes djy nie einklik: ‘O rus my siel’ gasinget nie?” wil ‘n ander weet. “Ek wietie” sê Danneman eerlik. “Maar dit het darem gehelp.” Karel se mond trek nie eens nie. Toe hy gisteraand daar tussen die bosse wegsak en Danneman so die rieme neerlê, toe is dit al asof daar sulke ysvingers oor sy rug speel. Boonop hoor hy toe nog iemand kreun ook. Toe hy omkyk sien hy ‘n man met sy arms bo sy kop vasgemaak aan ‘n boom hang. Selfs in die sterk skemer kon Karel duidelik sien hoe die bloed uit die géselmerke oor die kreunende man se naakte bolyf stroom.

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.

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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 sea water to the ready mixed dough. 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.

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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. “Just as I thought! Brains messed all over the place!” So, again he lay, seeking peace with the Lord. Eventually Aggenbach realised 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 sea water 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 farm house. 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 which must be the gaping wound. She used her cleanest bandages, since, as she explained, brains are very easily infected.

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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.

‘n Maanreis ver Fort Luna se liggies glinster helder vanuit die lang pikswart skadu van Berg Napels. Die helder liggies wink gerusstellend nader, en sit weer oemf in Kobus se moeë bene, al haal hy reeds baie swaar asem. Langs Kobus strompel nog ‘n gedaante in ‘n ruimtepak - Lise, die enigste ander mens wat die meteorietramp by hul maanhotel oorleef het. Hulle teug desperaat aan die lug van hul laaste suurtofkannetjies - lug wat al ‘n geruime tyd nie meer vars is nie. Kobus ondersteun Lise al lankal onder die elmboog. Sy is so swak dat sy selfs onder die effense swaartekrag van die maan nie meer sonder hulp regop kan bly nie. Kobus se hart bloei vir Lise, wie se droomvakansie op hierdie wyse moes eindig. Haar verloofde was reeds onderweg na die maan om hom by Lise aan te sluit, toe die meteoriet die hotel getref het. “Hoe ver nog?” hoor Kobus Lise se stem flou oor die ruimtepak se luidspreker kom. Dis ‘n plat, gelyk vlakte waardeur hulle voortstrompel. Uit ondervinding toe hy aan die Trans-Namib padaflos deelgeneem het, weet Kobus dat sulke gelyktes afstand baie bedrieglik maak. Dit kan basies enigiets van twee tot twaalf kilometer wees. As dit net naastenby twaalf is, weet Kobus is hulle dood. Hulle sal dit nooit maak nie. “Seker nie meer te ver nie” probeer hy dus Lise moed inpraat. Hoe vinnig het dinge nie gebeur nie? Skaars 48 uur gelede was Kobus heerlik in droomland in sy kajuit in Hotel Star II waar hy as kelner werk, toe hy wreed deur ‘n reuse skudding wakker geskud is. Om vir ‘n ses maande-periode in die hotel te

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kom werk was al manier vir hom om ooit sy voete op die maan te kon sit. Die gaste kom slegs uit die geledere van die wêreld se rykstes - dus net hulle wat die astronomiese tariewe kan bekostig om na die maan te reis en daar vakansie te hou. Skaars drie maande na sy aankoms op die maan het Kobus ‘n kort radioboodskap van Karen, sy verloofde gekry. Dit het saaklik gelees: “Verlowing verbreek. Trou met Willem”. Ja, Willem Slabber, seun van die skatryk Slabber-sakeryk. Willem was altyd Karen se ouers se droomkeuse vir ‘n skoonseun. Nou kry hulle hul sin. Die nuus het Kobus verpletter en totaal afgestomp. Sy ses maande ondervinding op die maan het vir hom in ‘n nagmerrie ontaard. Hy wou terug aarde toe om sake te gaan probeer uitstryk, maar was magteloos. Hy kon eenvoudig nie die kontrak se afkoopkostes en die kaartjie terug aarde toe bekostig nie. Na die skuddings om die oorblyfsels van die hotel bedaar het, loer Kobus by sy kompartement se patryspoort uit. Waar die reuse Super Dome was, gaap nou ‘n yslike krater! Die bekende popgroep, Walking Thin, het daar opgetree, en al wat leef en beef was by die vertoning. Hy is dus waarskynlik al oorlewende! Met die slag het al die lugsluise wat nog kom werk, oombliklik afgeseël. Die hotel is juis so ontwerp dat die verskillende dele soos speke van ‘n wawiel weg van die Super Dome loop. As iets verkeerd gaan, seël die lugsluise, en verseker dat nie almal getref word nie. Die konsert het egter al dié voorsorg netjies verongeluk. ‘n Groot moegheid na ‘n paar lang skofte, en die feit dat hy nie juis van Walking Thin se musiek hou nie, het sy lewe gered. Kobus diep ‘n ruimtepak uit sy kas op, en wip deur die dubbeldeur na buite om teen sy beterwete na oorlewendes te gaan soek. Dit is bykans net die segment waarin sy kajuit is, wat ongeskonde daarvan afgekom het, sien Kobus. Hy sweefloop nietemin tussen die wrakstukke rond. Skielik trek ‘n effense beweging sy aandag. Dit is ‘n handjie wat deur ‘n patryspoort wuif, met ‘n baie verskrikte gesiggie agter die hand. Kobus haas hom in die rigting van die segment, wat ook wonder bo wonder taamlik ongeskonde

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daarvan afgekom het. Dit lê net effens skuins gedraai teenoor die oorspronklike rigting. Hy druk in aller yl die buitekantse beheerknoppies, en ‘n ruk later is hy deur die dubbeldeur in die gang van die segment. “Wat het gebeur?” is die eerste woorde van die pragtige blonde meisie. Kobus verduidelik, en stel haar gerus: “‘n Verkenningstuig van Fort Luna sal binnekort hier wees. Daar hang ‘n satelliet reg bokant ons wat alles hier monitor. Ons moet net die tuig se aandag trek, dan is ons binnekort heeltemal veilig.” Terwyl hulle op die Verkenningstuig wag, het die twee mekaar leer ken. Lise wag op haar verloofde, Eric, wat reeds na die maan onderweg was. Hulle sou binnekort in die Super Dome trou. Min genooide gaste van die aarde af, natuurlik, want die reiskaartjies is eenvoudig te duur. Maar daarvoor sou hulle vergoed met ‘n behoorlike huweliksonthaal wanneer hulle van hul wittebrood terugkeer. Die verkenningstuig was reeds feitlik bo die hotel se rommel voor Kobus en Lise agterkom dat dit daar was. Hy het baie gouer gekom as wat verwag is, en omdat daar geen klank op die maan is nie, het hulle hom ook nie gehoor nie. Kobus skroef inderhaas die ruimtepak se helm weer aan, en beweeg so vinnig hy kan deur die dubbeldeure. Hy is egter net betyds om te sien hoe die verkenningstuig in die rigting van Fort Luna terugkeer. Rasend van woede keer hy na Lise terug. “Sulke halwe werk in ‘n noodsituasie het ek nog nooit gesien nie!” bulder hy. “Wat doen ons nou?” wil Lise weet. Kobus het ‘n ruk gedink, en alles waaraan hy kon dink teen mekaar opgeweeg. “Ek is bevrees ons het geen ander keuse nie as om na Fort Luna te probeer stap. As ons hier bly, is ons binne 24 uur dood.” So het dit gebeur dat Kobus en Lise die maanlandskap aangedurf het, onderweg na Fort Luna. Kobus het so veel suurstofsilinders van ruimtepakke as wat hy kon kry, bymekaar gemaak en in ‘n tipe rugsak gesit. Die ruimtepakke waarmee hulle die

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lang stap aangedurf het, se watervoorraad is so vol gemaak as wat dit kon. Hulle sou vir die duur van die stap egter sonder kos moes klaarkom. Gelukkig het Liangsspits, van die oeroue kraterwand, die rigting van Fort Luna aangedui. Met al hul probleme was verdwaal op die maan iets waarsonder hulle beslis kon klaarkom. Dit is seker so 15 kilometer na die kraterwand. Die wand self is taamlik skuins en seker ‘n 500 meter hoog. Die grootste probleem was egter nie die hoogte nie, maar die feit dat die maandag amper oor is. Die kranse het al plek-plek begin skadu maak, en hierdie skadu’s is gitswart. Die kraterwand is sonder veel moeite bereik, en die skuinste word aangedurf. Selfs met verminderde swaartekrag was dit ‘n inspanning om die steilte met die stram ruimtepakke aan te durf. Die kloutertog moes ook kruis en dwars geskied sodat in die ligkolle gebly kon word, wat nie noodwendig altyd die beste vastrapplek kon bied nie. Dit is toe Kobus weer ‘n slag vir Lise aan die hand teen ‘n loodregte stuk optrek, en haar gesig naby syne kom, dat hy iets in hom voel. Hy gee haar hand ‘n drukkie, en hy voel hoe sy die drukkie beantwoord. Hierna was woorde tussen hulle min, elkeen besig om in hul gedagtes hul nuwe gewaarwording te ondersoek. Intussen het die suurstofsilinders al minder en minder geword. Bo teen die kraterwand het hulle Fort Luna die eerste keer gesien, waar dit helder in die son geblink het. Kort daarna het Berg Napels se gitswart skadu egter die basis verslind. Helder liggies het begin skyn, en soos Pharos se vuurtoring van ouds vir hulle die pad aangedui. Nou hyg hulle aan die laaste tekens van suurstof in hul ruimtepakke. Hulle is nou in ‘n delikate stryd gewikkel van om die basis so gou as moontlik te bereik, maar terselfdertyd om nie onnodige suurstof te verbrand nie. Skielik besef Kobus Fort Luna is nou baie naby. Hy kan figure anderkant die patryspoorte sien beweeg! “Kyk, daar is mense!” roep hy oor die ruimtepak se radio na Lise. Sy kyk op, en opgewonde begin sy wuif.

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Iemand moes hulle ook sien naderkom het, want by byna elke patryspoort is daar nou mense wat terug wuif. “Kyk, daar waai Eric!” roep Lise skielik opgewonde uit. Maar hul kragte is gedaan. Lise swik heeltemal, en Kobus tuimel saam met haar. Maar dis nie net die moegheid en suurstoftekort wat Kobus se bene saam met sy moed laat swik het nie. Voor die swart newels hom oorval sien Kobus hoe ‘n dubbeldeur van Fort Luna oopmaak, en ‘n stroom maanponies, met hul helder kopligte, in hul rigting begin stroom. Wanneer Kobus bykom, lê hy op ‘n bed onder ‘n flou lig. Die seer van Lise se uitroep toe sy Eric deur ‘n patryspoort herken het, keer dadelik terug. Maar dan besef hy dat iemand sy hand saggies vashou. Hy gee die hand ‘n ligte drukkie, wat dadelik beantwoord word. Hy draai sy kop in die rigting van die hand se eienaar - ‘n moeilike taak omdat sy nek van die suurstoftekort en die lang tyd binne die ruimtepak se helm bitter styf is. Diep blou oë blink onder ‘n kapsel gitswart hare uit. Karen! “Ek laat jou nooit weer onder my oë uit nie” fluister sy. Die newels oorweldig Kobus weer, maar dié keer slaap hy rustig, en droom van twee dolgelukkige mense wat verlief oor die maanlandskap sweefstap.

Die ego ‘n Meisie is mos maar baie selfbewus as sy haar kêrel vir die eerste keer plaas toe neem. Dis een ding om daar doer ver in die stad, weg van pa en ma te loop vry, maar hier by die huis op die plaas, is dit ‘n taks anders.

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Selfbewus is sy. Want hoe sal die plaaspad wees? Sal die huis darem nie te onaardig wees nie? Sal haar pa weer na die middagete, hoed steeds op die kop, op sy leunstoel aan die slaap raak en lustig beginne snork? Boonop het San-Marie g’n benul hoe haar pa die stasjapie-kêrel, Sarel, sal aanvaar nie. Dus is sy benewens selfbewus, nog senuagtig ook. Die hek voor die opstal is toegemaak, en San-Marie gaan maak oop. Sarel bestuur, en het hom heel vernuftig agter die stuurwiel op die plaaspad van sy taak gekwyt. So ver, so goed, dink sy. Dis toe sy die hek oopgewoel het, dat sy iemand doer ver tussen die halfwaskoring in ‘n baie eienaardige posisie sien hurk. Die man lyk heel ongemaklik, en sy vermoed dadelik onraad. “Is daar ‘n probleem?! Kan ons dalk help?!” roep sy. Haar stem dra windaf tot by die hurkende man. Hy antwoord, en sy stem raak weg teen die wind in. Sy stap ‘n ent nader, en roep weer: “Is daar ‘n probleem?! Kan ons help!” Die keer kom ‘n deel van die antwoord tot by San-Marie. “Miesies ek …” en dan is die res van die sin weg en verwaaid in die wind. Nog nader: “Is daar fout?! Kan ons help?!” Weer kom die stem windop: “Miesies, ek k&c!” Vreeslik druipstert gaan klim San-Marie by Sarel in die motor. Dis nou ‘n wyse om vir die kêrel te toon sy is hier tuis en kan die kitaar slaan! Die arme skaapskeerder het ondertussen ‘n nagmerrie van ‘n ander wêreld. Voor hy hier in die koringland gehinder is, het hy soos enige ander beskaafde mens daardie regop geboutjie probeer gebruik wat spesiaal daarvoor gebou is.

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Dié geboutjie is egter ook die ideale teiken vir die plaas se jongklomp se kleilatgooiery. Weet iemand miskien hoe klink dit as jy ingedagte op daai troon sit en die stukke klei tref die geboutjie met volle vors? Dinge het vir hom nog meer verkeerd geloop nadat hy een van die teikengooiers ingehardloop, en met sy eie kleilat uitgelooi het. Hulle het toe by die buurplaas gaan versterkings haal. In die vorm van die boer se seun, André. Dié het ‘n talent vir slingervelgooi. Die trots van sy versameling slingervelle, is een wat hy van ‘n spantou gemaak het. Hiermee kan hy klippe amper so groot soos halwe bakstene ‘n hele ent ver slinger, en so te sê op ‘n tiekie neersit. Die skaapskeerder was na die loesing wat hy uitgedeel het, nog so aan’t peins, toe een van daai reuse klippe die kleinhuisie met volle mag tref. Opslag is daar ook ‘n gaatjie in die yslike duik wat die klip gemaak het, en daardeur kom hy sien hoe die kleingoed al doer trek soos hulle laat vat. Dit was dus ter wille van rus en vrede dat die skaapskeerder daar in die koring gaan peins het. Maar voor hy daar gepla is, het hy nog ‘n plek of twee probeer. Die jongklomp het hom onderkant die damwal uitgesnuffel, en boonop het die dam nog lekker klei opgelewer, en is hy weer met die kleilatte bestook. By die opstal wou Sarel na ‘n dag of twee weet waar die plaas aan die naam Egokrans kom. Kom, ek gaan wys jou”, sê San-Marie se pa, bly oor die geleentheid om iets vir die mannetjie uit die stad te gaan wys. Eers klim hulle teen die berg agter die huis uit, tot hulle in die holkranse kom. San-Marie kom saam. Hiervandaan is dit al met die holkranse langs, tot hulle so ‘n kilometer verder by ‘n kloof kom. Intussen het die twee jonges selfbewus begin handjies hou – dis gevaarlik hier teen die skuinstes. Al in ‘n beespaadjie

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langs af in die kloof af, tot die kloof dieper in die aarde insak as die hoogte wat die opstal is. Sarel merk dat hulle nou in ‘n tipe amfiteater is, en steeds gaan hulle dieper af. Uiteindelik beweeg hulle waterpas met ‘n lysie langs, al verder van die loodregte krans wat klaarblyklik die egokrans moet wees. Uiteindelik gaan die oom staan, en wag vir Sarel en San-Marie om by hom aan te sluit. Die tweetjies gaan staan, handjie-handjie, te bly oor die verskoning om openlik te kon begin handjies hou, agter San-Marie se pa. “Hallo!” skree die oom in die rigting van die krans. “Hallo-lo-lo-lo” kom die ego’s terug. “Wat maak jy?” skree die oom weer in die rigting van die krans. En voor die ego terugkom, kom ‘n ander stem iewers onder uit die klofie: “Oubaas, ek k&c!” Magtag, is daar dan nêrens op die plaas waar ‘n man rustig kan k&c nie?!

Dimensionele kanteling Sy kop wil bars van die pyn en die koors laat hom alles uit fokus sien. Sy mond en keel is so droog soos die snikhete Namib om hom. Fred stuur die Landrover oor nog een van die skynbare eindelose sandduine.

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‘n Paar dae gelede het die Landrover onklaar geraak, en voor hy om hulp kon bel, het die satelietfoon uit sy hand geglip en fyn en flenters op ‘n klip stukkend geval. Terwyl hy nog gespook het om die Landrover weer aan die loop te kry, het hy koorsig begin raak. ‘n Dag of wat later kon hy die voertuig weer aan die loop kry. Omdat sy water reeds skraps was, het hy besluit om so gou as moontlik naby die kus te kom. Dalk haal hy die Kuiseb-loop, en kan hy daar water kry. Maar lank voor hy naby aan die Kuiseb kon kom, was dit al duidelik dat hy dit nie gaan maak nie. Die Landrover se neus kruip oor die duin se kruin. “Die koors moet my parte speel!” dink hy. “Of dit is ‘n mirage”. Voor hom, in die straat tussen die duine, sien hy ‘n groen lushof. Bome, gras…en ‘n hut! Met nuwe moed sukkel hy met die Landrover die duin af, en ry tot waar die Landrover by die naaste boom, ‘n perskeboom, tot stilstand kom. Fred steier, dronk van die koors, uit die Landrover, en wil net begin aanstryk na die hut, toe twee figure stil tussen die bome verskyn. ‘n Ou man, en ‘n mooi jong vrou, registreer dit in sy brein. Dan knap sy knieë onder hom, en sak hy neer terwyl die swart newels sy verstand oorweldig. Wanneer hy wakker word, is dit reeds sterk skemer in die hut waar hy op die bed lê. Sy dors is weg, besef hy. Maar die koors laat dit steeds voel of sy bed heen en weer wieg. Daar is niemand in die stewig geboude kliphut nie. Net ‘n kru boekrakkie vol ou boeke, ‘n tafeltjie met ‘n waskom en -beker, en nog ‘n kru bed en stoel. Langs die waskom staan ‘n outydse lantern. Nog ‘n lantern wieg liggies in die trekkie wat deur die hut vloei.

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Hy raak in ‘n diep beswyming weg. As hy wakker word, is die jong vrou byderhand met ‘n sterk, warm sop. Hy sluk dit proe-proe. Die geur van kruie slaan aangenaam in sy neusholtes. Hy raak weer weg, en as hy bykom, word hy sorgsaam koel water uit ‘n outydse blikbeker gevoer. Hy merk die ou man in die een hoek by ‘n kerslig skryf. Dit gaan sukkel-sukkel, want om die een of ander rede gebruik die man ‘n skryfveer. Dan oorval die donker newels hom weer. As Fred weer wakker word, voel hy baie beter. Hy maak sy oë oop, en sien dat die ou man steeds skryf, sy gesig dié keer na die muur gekeer. Die jong vrou is besig om by die waskom te was, en hy kry skaam dat hy loer. Sonder dat een opgemerk het dat hy wakker was, maak hy sy oë weer toe en slaap na ‘n rukkie weer. Wanneer hy die volgende oggend wakker word, skyn die son reeds, en die voëltjies kwetter lustig in die groen bome buite. Hy voel verkwik en drink gulsig koel water uit die lampetbeker. Hy kyk om hom, en sien dat die hut maar karig gemeubileer is met items wat lyk of dit van skeepswrakke kom. Die kru boekrakkie huisves ‘n paar boeke wat sy belangstelling prikkel. Hy merk dat dit alles ou boeke, in ‘n baie ou Engels is. Dit sluit ‘n hele paar skeepsreisjoernale in. Hy stryk uit na die groen boord buite. Die bome staan welig van goeie water, en ‘n groentetuin bied ook ooglopend heelwat vir die honger maag. Verbaas sien hy dat sy gasheer en –vrou nêrens te vinde is nie. By die Landrover merk hy dat sy watersakke en –kanne alles absoluut vol gemaak is. Heelwat groente en vrugte is ook in die Landrover gepak. Hy lei af

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dat sy gasheer en –vrou iewers heen moes gaan, en daarom alles vroeg reeds vir hom ingepak het. ‘n Paar dae later haal hy Luderitz, en in die hotel sterk hy behoorlik aan. Die sateliet -telefoon is ook intussen behoorlik herstel. Die pragtige jong vrou daar doer in die woestyn bly egter die heel tyd in sy gedagtes vassteek. So maak hy homself wys dat hy heelwat prospekteerwerk het wat hy in daardie omgewing kan doen. Die water kan ook vir enige moontlike myn-opset daar van groot waarde wees. Fred druk die Landrover se neus in die rigting van die oase. Die voertuig brul deur die duine, en hy raak al hoe haastiger om die jong vrou weer te sien. Hy slaap amper niks – ry tot laat, en is weer donker op koers. Plek-plek kry hy nog sy spore toe hy Luderitz toe gery het, op ander plekke het die wind reeds sand oor die spore gewaai. Uiteindelik is Fred net agter die laaste duin voor hy die oase gaan bereik. Sy hart bons in sy keel as hy die duin uitkruie, en hy besef hy is so verlief soos ‘n jong skoolseun. Opeens breek die Landrover oor die duin, en kan hy die duinestraat onder hom sien. Hy skrik hom yskoud. In plaas van ‘n groen lushof, word hy deur ‘n dor, sandoortrekte duinestraat begroet. Eers meen hy hy het dalk sy rigting effe kwytgeraak, maar sy onderbewussyn vertel hom hy aanskou die aaklige waarheid.

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Die hut is omtrent al wat oorgebly het van die oase, en dié is erg verrinneweer en ook half onder die sand begrawe. “Wat het van die jong vrou en die ou man geword?” wonder hy half paniekerig. In ‘n stofwolk hou hy voor die hut stil. Die deur is toegewoel, maar hy kry dit sonder veel inspanning oopgedruk. Binne word hy ook deur ‘n vrag sand begroet. Dele van die dak is weggevreet deur verwering, terwyl die son ook helder deur gate in die muur bak. As hy nie van beter geweet het nie, sou hy geglo het dat hier baie lanklaas mense in dié hut kon gebly het. Onder die sand sien hy die hoek van ‘n boek uitsteek. Seker een van die ou man se waardevolle ou skeepsjoernale, meen die teleurgestelde Fred. Hy buk, en tel dit op. Die verbrokkelde hoek skeur egter uit, en die los bladsye fladder na die sand. Veel versigter maak hy die ou boek bymekaar. Hy begin daarin blaai, en sien dat dit die ou man se dagboek was – die een waarin hy met soveel sorg met die veerpen in geskryf het. Dan val sy oog op ‘n datum-inskrywing, en hy word yskoud – 2 Oktober 1633! Fred strompel van skrik na buite, die dagboek steeds in sy hand vasgeklem.

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In die skadu van die hut gaan hurk hy, en begin aandagtig lees. Hy lees van ‘n man en sy dogter onderweg na die Ooste. Van ‘n vreeslike storm, en hoe hulle as enigste oorlewendes, omdat hulle goed kon swem, die skipbreuk oorleef het. Op die strand het hulle alles van die verwoeste skip wat uitgespoel het, bymekaar gemaak. 'n Klompie kos het hulle gehad, maar water het hulle nie gehad nie. Hulle merk toe dat roofvoëls na die binneland kort-kort op dieselfde plek gaan sit. Vol hoop op ‘n wonderwerk, het die man en sy dogter die woestyn aangedurf op koers na die plek waar die voëls gaan sit. Uiteindelik kom hulle op die groen oase af, met sterk water wat uit die aarde bars, ‘n entjie helder vloei, en dan weer onder die sand en klippe verdwyn. Heerlike, vars, en soet water. Die man en sy dogter het lank kopgekrap – bly hulle hier het hulle water, en omdat wild hier kom water drink, sal hulle altyd iets te ete kan kry. Maar dan is hulle te ver van die kus om die aandag van verbygaande skepe te trek. Uiteindelik besluit hulle op ‘n goue middeweg. Hulle sal by die fontein woon, en een van hulle sal gereeld na die kus gaan en by ‘n hoop dryfhout wat op ‘n hoë rots gepak is, waak sodat die dryfhout aan die brand gesteek kan word as ‘n seil op die horison sou verskyn. Met elke terugtog na die fontein is iets saamgedra. Aanvanklik net artikels wat van hul eie skeepswrak afkomstig was, maar later ook ander items wat uitgespoel het. So het hulle ‘n hut begin bou – aanvanklik met materiaal van die skeepswrak, maar algaande met klippe uit die omgewing van die fontein.

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Van perske- en appelpitte is boompies gekweek, terwyl groentesaad wat vir die nuwe kolonies in die Ooste bestem was, handig van pas gekom het. Die wakery op die hoë rots by die see het geen seil opgelewer nie. Algaande het die man en sy dogter al hoe minder hul oase verlaat. Hulle het genoeg gehad om van te leef, in so ‘n mate dat hulle later nie meer nodig gehad het om van die wild by die water te jag nie. Trouens, hulle het van die wild begin mak maak. Op ‘n dag was daar ‘n sterk aardbewing. Die ou man het bekommerd gemerk dat die water uit die fontein al swakker loop, en toe opdroog. Vervaard het hulle al hul komme en bekers vol water gemaak – ‘n mens kan nie weet hoe lank dit sal neem voor die water weer begin loop nie. Maar die water het nie weer begin loop nie. Die man en sy dogter het verskeie putte gegrawe met die hoop om weer water te kry, maar alles het kurkdroog gebly. Die groente het begin verdor, en die bome het begin verwelk. Die water in die hol goed het al hoe minder geword. Die dors was iets vreesliks. Die joernaal vertel hoe die woestyndiere van die dors begin vrek het. Fred kan later nie meer verder lees van die ontberings nie. Hy vou die verbrokkelde boek in ‘n plastiese houer toe, en bêre dit in sy koelsak. Hy skakel die Landrover aan, en ry teen die duin uit. Hy het ‘n knop in sy keël, as hy die bokant van die duin haal. Hy hou stil, en kyk in die rigting van die see. In sy verbeelding kan hy die ou man en sy dogter, strompelend van die dors en uitputting, die hoë rots by die see sien bereik. Op die horison verskyn ‘n seil, en die rook begin uit die stapel dryfhout trek. Die skippie verander koers, en kom op die rookpluim afgeseil.

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Maar dit alles sien hy in sy verbeelding.

Die Wikings Jan, die groot Sweed, sak behaaglik in sy slaapsak terug. Die lug is vol naggeluide, soos wat ‘n mens hier in die Kalahari kan verwag. Langs hom slaap sy vrou, Linda reeds ‘n ruk, terwyl hul dogter, Anne, ‘n entjie verder heerlik in droomland verkeer. Barney, hul Suid-Afrikaanse gids, sit nog eenkant op ‘n stomp en peins. “Dis mos die lewe die!” dink hy. Hy is hier in die vrye natuur waar hy op sy gelukkigste is, en ‘n ryk buitelander betaal daarvoor! Hoewel die Sweedse gesin nie sy eerste kliënte is nie, is hulle vir hom besonders. Hulle kom elke jaar hierheen. Anders as die meeste buitelanders, is hulle glad nie skietbelustig nie. Jan is ‘n argeoloog, en hulle skiet net vir die pot. Nie dat Barney kon begryp waarom ‘n Europese argeoloog so jaar na jaar na die Kalahari sou kom nie. Maar Jan het vas geglo dat daar, iewers in die oerdae van Wiking-glorie, ‘n groepie hulle hier kom vestig het. Hy het uit ‘n bestudering van ou verhale, wat oorspronlik in Ysland opgeteken is, tot dié gevolgtrekking gekom. ‘n Ander “bewys” is dat die oorblyfsels van ‘n skip taamlik diep in die binneland van die Namibwoestyn gevind is. Anders as ander skeepswrakke wat ver van die see af gevind is, kan hierdie wrak se ligging nie aan die verskuiwing van die kus toegeskryf word nie. Die argeoloë kon nog met geen beter teorie vorendag kom, dat dit die oorblyfsels van ‘n Fenisiese skip is, wat deur die Boesmans die binneland ingedra is nie.

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Jan snork van verontwaardiging oor dié teorie. Volgens hom is die kanse ewe goed dat dit ‘n Wikingskip kon wees. Dis wel baie ver van die Kalahari waar hy navorsing doen, maar Jan meen hy het genoeg getuienis gesien van oerbedding van ‘n vlakte wat soms in vloed moes wees. Oor hoekom die Wikings hulle nou spesifiek in die Kalahari sou vestig, maak Barney hom nie moeg nie. Later gaan kruip Barney ook in, nadat hy die vuur vir oulaas gestook het. Barney word wakker van Jan wat vreeslik in Sweeds vloek. Nie dat Barney veel Sweeds verstaan nie, maar die groot Sweed is so kwaad dat ‘n mens nie juis ‘n kenner van enige Nordiese taal hoef te wees om te verstaan dat hy bitter kwaad is nie, en ook nie veel omgee watter woorde hy gebruik om sy woede te kenne te gee nie. Toe Barney sy oë oopmaak, glo hy hy moet droom. Kort, bebaarde mans is besig om met Jan te stoei. Die groot Sweed meet die afstand, en een van die stewige mannetjies ploeg deur die Kalahariesand. Dan is hulle op Jan, en pak hom so beet, dat hy amper nie kan roer nie. Sy mond makeer egter nog niks, en hy vloek verwoed. Barney wil na sy geweer gryp, maar die koddige mannetjies is op hom. Hy kry ook ‘n hou of twee in, maar besef dat dié mannetjies uitsonderlik sterk is. Eers toe Barney, stewig in ‘n ru tou vasgewoel, regop gepluk word, sien hy dat die twee vroue ook vasgemaak staan. Klaarblyklik is hulle eerste oorrompel, en proppe in hul monde gedruk. Dié proppe word nou sonder seremonie uit hul monde gepluk. Een van die kort mannetjies, klaarblyklik die leier, blaf iets in ‘n vreemde taal. Hulle lyk almal verbasend baie of hulle uit Hager die Verskriklike se strokie gestap het.

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Jan verklaar in Engels: “Dis ou Noors en beteken ons moet aanstryk”. Die vreemde geselskap beweeg bykans woordeloos agter een van die kort mannetjies aan. Die wêreld lyk in die maanlig nogal vreemd. Kilometer na kilometer word deur die duine en Kalaharie-plantegroei gestap. Skielik maak die plantegroei voor die geselskap oop. Voor hulle lê ‘n binnelandse meer, wat in die maanlig oneindig groot lyk. Maar tussen hulle en die water doem ‘n vreemde dorpie op – stewige klipmure met spits dakke en smal straattjies. Aan die kaai by die groot meer wieg drie houtskepe met groot dierkoppe op die boeg, liggies in ‘n ligte briesie wat van die meer se kant af trek. Hulle stap die dorpie in. Die strate is met plaveiklippe uitgelê, en oral teen die geboue en langs die strate brand fakkels. ‘n Menigte mense drom langs die straatjies saam en roep opgewonde as die geselskap verbystap. Die kort bebaarde mans roep opgewonde na vroue en nog kort bebaarde mans, en kinders langs die strate. Jan is opgewonde. “Dit is die Wikingkolonie waarna ek so lank gesoek het! Ek kan net nie glo dat dit na al die duisende jare nog bestaan, en nooit ontdek is nie”. Ook Barney is dronkgeslaan. Hy is baie seker hy was al verskeie kere in dié omgewing, en sou so ‘n dorp nooit kon miskyk nie. Om nie eens van die groot binnelandse meer te praat nie. Steeds stap hulle, en kom al hoe meer onder die indruk van die grootte van die dorp. Uiteindelik is hulle by ‘n tipe binneplein van die dorp, met ‘n groot rots in die middel.

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Die vier gevangenis word met hul gesigte skuins na bo, teen die rotse vasgeketting. Jan en Barney trek verwoed aan die kettings, maar dit gee niks mee nie. Skielik maak die menigte voor hulle oop, en ‘n jong, bebaarde man met heelwat beter klere as die algemene vel-kleredrag van die gepeupel, kom na vore. Waarskynlik die leier van die groep. Hy lig sy regterhand in ‘n Wikingsaluut, en die skare is onmiddellik stil. Dan praat hy, net so onvertstaanbaar as die ander. Tot Barney se verrassing praat Jan terug. As hy klaar is, leuen Jan met sy kop na Barney oor, en fluister: “Hy wil weet waarom ons sy voorouers hier agtergelaat het, en ek het geantwoord dat ek juis dit wil kom probeer vasstel”. Die ondervraging duur ‘n hele ruk. Dit is duidelik dat die groot indoena, of wat hy ookal is, nie baie hou van die antwoorde wat hy van Jan kry nie. ‘n Paar keer skud hy sy kop heftig. Uiteindelik word die vier gevangenis elk ‘n soek drankie ingejaag. Gou voel Barney hoe die newels hom oorval, en raak hy in ‘n diep sluimering weg. Wanneer Barney wakker word, lê hy langs die groot rots in die bloedige son en sweet. Vervaard kom hy regop, en sien die ander ook in die son lê. Gou sleep hy hulle in die bietjie skadu wat die rots bied, in. Geleidelik begin sy verstand onthou van die vreemde Wikingdorpie, maar daarvan is daar nou geen teken nie. Hy weet wat om te verwag, maar kyk nogtans om om te sien of die binnelandse meer net in sy verbeelding bestaan het. Slegs ‘n leë vlakte, met ‘n paar duine hier en daar, begroet hom.

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“Kon ek dit alles gedroom het?” wonder hy. Maar wat maak hulle dan hier? Jan is die eerste van sy gesin wat wakker word. Vir ‘n oomblik lyk hy vervaard, maar dan word sy oë helder. “Wat ‘n droom!” sê hy. Maar dan kyk hy weer om hom rond, en besef hy is nie in die kampeerplek nie. In ‘n oogwink is hy op sy voete, gee die omgewing een kyk, en sê: “Die Wikingkolonie wat ek gesoek het, was hier!” Barney, meer verward as tevore, sê: “Jan, ek het ook gedroom ons is deur ‘n groep Vikings ontvoer, en dat hier ‘n dorp, en daar ‘n meer was.” “Dieselfde as ek” sê Jan. Maar as ‘n mens mooi kyk, kan ‘n mens sien hier het eens ‘n straat geloop. En daar is geboue-ruines”. Barney kyk na die rots waaraan hulle vasgeketting was, en kry ‘n rilling in sy ruggraat op. Die gaatjies waar kettings eens vas in was, is steeds duidelik sigbaar, hoewel baie verweer. Die twee vroue het ondertussen ook bygekom. Hulle het dieselfde droom gehad, maar Anne is vreemd stil. Hulle stap al geselsend na hul kampplek terug. Jan bestudeer sy kaarte, en wys vir die ander ‘n kaart wat ‘n oermeer in die middel van die Kalahari aandui – eintlik ‘n reuse binnelandse see. “Hier was ‘n binnelandse see waarin die Zambezi vroeër uitgemond het,” verduidelik hy. “Later het die Zambezi egter ‘n ander roete see toe gekry, en is die Victoria-waterval gevorm. Die Okavango is vandag al wat oor is van dié

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oersee. Maar ek was onder die indruk dié oersee het miljoene jare gelede tot niet gegaan”. Toe dit koeler word, gaan hulle met die Landrover verder ondersoek instel. Hoewel die klipstapeltjies soms in besonder simetriese patrone lê wat op ou strate kon aandui, is dit moeilik om dié stapeltjies as ruïnes, of selfs die oorblyfsels van ruïnes te identifiseer. Buitendien is die klip ysterklip, wat in sy oer-gesmelte toestand naby die oppervlak so stol, dat dit soos opmekaargestapelde mure kan lyk. Jan bly opgewonde, maar is later tog teleurgesteld dat hy skynbaar niks konkreets genoeg kan vind wat ‘n ander argeoloog sal oortuig nie. Latere lugfoto’s is ook nie volkome oortuigend nie. Sy Sweedse gaste is terug na Swede, en Barney het al amper die vreemde droom begin vergeet, toe Jan op ‘n dag bel. Barney kan dadelik aan Jan se stem hoor dat iets verkeerds is. “Anne verwag, en die baba is verwek terwyl ons in die woestyn was” sê Jan. Barney snap dadelik die implikasie, maar tensy hy in sy slaap geloop het, is hy onaandadig. “Anne vertel dat sy tydens die droom deur die Vikinghoof na sy huis geneem is en …” Jan se stem steek in sy keel vas. “Jan”, sê Barney. “Anne is ‘n baie oulike en mooi meisie. Ek sal graag met haar trou, as sy natuurlik met my wil trou. Maar ek is nie die pa van die baba nie”.

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‘n Maand later is Barney en Anne in Swede getroud. Hulle bly tot na die bevalling by Jan en Linda. Voor hulle na Suid-Afrika terugkeer, laat doen Jan ‘n weefseltoets om die vaderskap van die pragtige, blonde babameisie te bepaal. Barney is nie die pa nie.

Assuransie Met die misdaad en so aan wat die land teister het mens dit nie aldag maklik nie. Al is ons nou baie bewus van die misdaad, was misdaad al lankal met ons, en het veral sommige mense al lankal noustrop getrek weens die misdaad wat hul sake-ondernemings erg laat ly het. Toe Oom Hennie dié storie vir my vertel het, het ek presies geweet waarvan hy praat. Vroeër het Oom Doep saam met my gewerk. ‘n Man wat op sy oudag vir ‘n appel en ‘n ei as klerk vir die staat moes gaan werk, nadat diewe sy sakebelange letterlik weggedra het. Oom Doep het naamlik ‘n plaaswinkel gehad. Nie lank nie, word die een venster uitgeslaan, en die inhoud weggedra. Oom Doep het met raap en skraap weer begin, en dié keer was daar stewige diefwering voor die vensters wat een van die omgewing se boerseuns vir hom aanmekaar gesweis het. Maar die diewe laat hulle nie so maklik koudsit nie. Die volgende stamp hulle eenvoudig die deur uit, en dra weer alles weg. Weer moet Oom Doep voor begin. Dié keer met ‘n stewige staaldeur aan die winkel. Maar ook dié hou net lank genoeg vir Oom Doep om weer behoorlik voorraad bymekaar toe maak. Toe gaan die diewe sommer deur die muur.

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So was dit ook met die Gebroeders Steyn. Hul dorpie op die Vrystaatse oosgrens kan seker eintlik net met ‘n bietjie verbeelding ‘n dorp genoem word. Net een straatblok, met ‘n kerk, poskantoor, die stasie, so drie spoorwegbusdiens, en die Steyns se winkel. Die Gebroeders Steyn was eintlik die voorloper van later landboukoöperasies se winkels. Hier kon die boere omtrent alles koop. Van komberse tot saad, van ploeë tot stange, melkemmers, stewels, oorpakke, grawe en gereedskap. Jaap Steyn die oudste broer, was ‘n netjiese werker. Altyd gesorg dat die boeke agtermekaar is, die voorraad deeglik bygehou word, en dat daar geld in die bank was. Jan Steyn, aan die ander kant, was meer die mens-mens. Hy het weer die vermoë gehad om doodseker te maak die koper wat sy voete in die winkel sit, koop heelwat meer as wat hy eintlik van plan was om aan te skaf. Ja, hy kon enigeen ‘n gat in die kop praat. Maar nou, dis nie net die boere wat dit wat in die winkel was, nuttig kon gebruik nie. Ook die mense anderkant die grens, het baie van die dinge nodig gehad. En vir koop was hulle nie baie lus nie. Dus is daar kort-kort ingebreek. Die Gebroeders Steyn het ook eers probeer om die winkel diefproef te kry. Maar die diewe was altyd een stappie voor. Is alles grondlangs so stewig, dat ‘n dief nie kan deurkom nie, dan kom hulle deur die dak in, en neem sommer die sinkplate op die koop, of liewer diefstal, saam. Einde te laaste kan dit nie ander nie. Hulle moes ‘n nagwag aanskaf. ‘n Betroubare een, wat die knopkierie goed genoeg kon inlê om voornemende kwaaddoeners te verwilder.

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En so het ou Jim deel van die Gebroeders Steyn se lewe geword. Jim het sy kant gebring, en die diefstalle is hokgeslaan. So goed dat die Gebroeders Steyn begin wonder het of die vreeslike assuransiepremies werklik nodig was. Maar, gedagtig daaraan dat die winkel ook kragparaffien, terpentyn en allerlei vloeibare brandbare stowwe verkoop het, en mense tog so roekeloos kon wees soos hulle met hul rookgoedjies maak, het hulle wyslik besluit om die assuransie te behou. Op ‘n dag was dit Jan se beurt om die kinders vir die naweek by die kosskool in Bethlehem te gaan haal. Omdat die assuransie amper verstryk, gee Jaap vir hom die papiere saam om ‘n draai by die agent te gaan maak. Em so is Jan met die papiere weg Bethlehem toe. Lank voordat hy in die dorp kom, het Jan al vergeet wat hy so vroeg in die dorp moes gaan maak. Die kinders kan eers heelwat later gekry word. Die mensmens wat hy is, gaan hy toe maar hotel toe, waar hy van sy vriende om ‘n heerlike koel toonbank raakloop. Toe vergeet hy nog meer van die assuransie. En so het die assuransie heeltemal vergete gebly. ‘n Maand of wat later, draai iemand die paraffien-kraantjie van die drom nie mooi toe nie. Die klein stroompie begin die aand na sluitingstyd te loop, en kort voor lank begin dit in die paadjie na die deur toe afsypel. Die paadjie was immers darem half uitgetrap. Later die aand, met Jim baie pligsgetrou op sy pos, merk hy ‘n nattigheid onder die staaldeur uitkom. Hy druk sy vinger op die klammigheid, en ruik dan aan die

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nat vinger. Maar hy is verkoue. In die donkerte kan hy ook nie mooi sien nie, en hy trek ‘n vuurhoutjie om beter te kan sien. Eintlik was dit ‘n fout. Die paraffien aan sy vinger vat vlam, en vervaard gooi hy die vuurhoutjie neer. Ongelukkig op die klammigheid onder die deur. Binne ‘n oomblik is die vlamtonge onderdeur die staaldeur, en af met die paadjie af na die drom. Jim besluit dis nou ‘n gawe tyd om te makeer. Vinnig te makeer, en hy lê die rieme neer. Want die volgende oombliklik vat die hele spul daar binne vlam, en met die kunsmis wat vuur kry, is dit ‘n groot ontploffing. Die staaldeur word behoorlik gelanseer. Gelukkig vir Jim is sy een been effe korter as die ander, en het hy nie mooi reguit gehol nie. Die deur mis hom rakelings. ‘n Uur of so later staan Jaap en Jan Steyn op ‘n koppie en staar verwese na die smeulende as wat eens die trotse Gebroeders Steyn was. “Gelukkig het ons die assuransie laat hernu” sê Jaap na ‘n ruk. Jan skrik hom yskoud. Daai vorms en papiere moet nog in sy bakkie se paneelkissie lê! Jaap sien hoe Jan skrik. “Die blikskater”, dink hy. “Gelukkig ken ek hom en het ek die Vrydagaand in sy paneelkassie gaan kyk”.

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Daai Maandagoggend na Jan se kroegkuiery het Jaap die assuransieagent gaan spreek toe hy die kinders terug skool toe geneem het. “Wonder wanneer sal ek Jan reghelp. Maar eers moet hy ‘n les geleer word” dink Jaap.

Ons hou sensus ‘n Bekende boek heet, Tinker, Taylor, Soldier, Spy. As daar nog so ‘n paar goed, soos joernalis en leerlingbegrafinisondernemer bygesit is, kon die boek dalk oor die uwe gehandel het. In die jaar 2001 is weer sensus gehou. Dit was vyf jaar nadat ‘n vorige sensus as ‘n taamlike katastrofe beskryf is. Toe poste, waaronder ‘n ‘n pos vir provinsiale publisiteitskoördineerder geadverteer is, was die uwe weer werkloos, danksy die eienaars van die koerant waarvan ek redakteur was, verdwyn het. Tot my verbasing word ek aangestel – ‘n jaarkontrak. Later, as die stowwe gaan lê het, en die sukses al dan nie van die sensus beter evalueer kan word, sal seker meer oor hierdie sensus geskryf word. Tog het verskeie insidente plaasgevind wat bykans snaaks sou wees, as dit nie so ernstig was nie. Sommer gou-gou was dit duidelik dat die nuwe Suid-Afrika maar lugtig vir die boere is. Die boere, op hul beurt, word so deur plaasmoorde geteister, dat hulle ook erg lugtig is vir vreemdes wat op die plase kom. Voor die hoofsensus plaasgevind het, is ‘n loodssensus in een distrik van elk van die nege provinsies gehou. Die idee was om 'n oefenlopie te doen, en so veel as moontlik probleme uit te stryk.

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Reeds met die loodssensus is probleme ervaar wat op later kopkrappe sou dui. So is ‘n sensusopnemer op ‘n plaas met ‘n slang verwilder. By Knysna, die Wes-Kaap se loodsdistrik, het die sensusopnemers egter met ‘n ander

probleem

te

make

gekry.

Hotelle

was

nie

baie

begerig

om

sensusopnemers toe te laat nie – die mevrou saam met die meneer in die hotelkamer is noodwendig die meneer se eie mevrou nie. Met die hoofsensus was dit duidelik dat baie sensusopnemers ‘n heel verwronge idee het van wat die term “werk” behels. Vir hulle was dit die ontvang van betaling vir iets wat hulle gekyk het hoe min hulle kon doen. Ongelukkig was heelwat van die toesighouers, en van die toesighouers se toesighouers (veldwerkoördineerders) klaarblyklik dieselfde mening toegedaan. Toe van die opnemers kom vertel dat twee straatblokke in een van Bloemfontein se voorste woongebiede saamspan om die sensus te boikot omdat die vorms glo anthrax-besmet sou wees, word die opnemers “geglo”. Die opnemer of opnemers wat dié storie vorendag gekom het, verdien tien uit tien vir oorspronklikheid. Die VSA was naamlik in daardie stadium, kort na die lugbombardement op Afganistan begin het, in ‘n amperse staat van paniek omdat ‘n klompie mense aan anthrax-besmetting dood is. Toe dit later blyk dat die storie oor ons vorms anthrax-besmet sou wees, ‘n versinsel

van

die

opnemer

se

verbeelding

was,

was

dieselfde

veldwerkkoördineerder gou by om grootoog te vertel dat sy nou vind die mense word met slange verwilder. Dit is glo in dieselfde woongebied mode om saam met ‘n bordjie vir “Pasop vir die slang” ‘n nagemaakte slang oor die hek te drapeer.

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‘n Toesighouer kom kla bitter dat hy nie daarin kan slaag om veral een opnemer so ver te kry om sy werk te doen nie. Dié betrokke opnemer meen hy is “klaar”. Toe die toesighouer kontroleer, blyk dit onder meer dat ‘n huis wat leeg staan, as “weiering” aangedui is. Die spoke was nooit veronderstel om getel te word nie.

Herrie die tolk se siening van die aankoms van Jan van Riebeeck, soos vertel in die idioom van Pyp de Villiers ‘n Mens moet eerstens aan die taalpuriste verskoning vra dat Herrie die tolk se Afrikaans destyds, 350 jaar gelede, nog nie so lekker op standaard was nie. So vertel hy: “Ons was nog so ewe besig om oestertjies en mosseltjies daar op die Kaapse strand op te tel, toe ons skielik ‘n klompie seile oor die horison sien aankom. Ons was nogal verbaas, omdat ons nie vooraf-notice gekry het van Jan van Riebeeck se aankoms nie. Ons staan natuurlik toe maar so nuuskierig nader om te kyk wat aangaan. Ons het gehoop dis skippe van die Ooste af, solat ons weer bietjie knoffeltjies vir ons oesterpotjies kon kry. Ons sien toe dis Jan van Riebeeck wat daar aankom met sy drie skuide, die Reiger, die Tyger en die Titanic. Jan hang eintlik so vooroor oor die boeg om vir die SKAre daar op die strand saamgetrek, te waai. Hy hang nog so oor, toe skree die kêppie: ‘Ankers!’ Die skippe briek so skielik dat Jan voor by die boeg afdinges, en amper geskiedenis maak deur ‘n dag vroeër as wat die geskiedenisboeke sê, ‘n beach landing te doen.

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Maria skree: ‘Swem Jannie, swem man swem!’ Maar Jannie wil nie swem nie en hy klim dadelik terug op daai skip. Die volgende dag kom hulle toe aan wal, en kan ons lekka beginne chat. Hulle beginne dadelik te bou aan sukke mansions daar op Seepunt se beach. Hulle bou ook so ‘n multi-purpose gebou wat hulle die fort roep. Maar eintlik is dit nie baie van ‘n fort nie. Toe hy klaar is, bly ‘n klompie van die manne en hul vroue daar. Saterdae hou hulle ‘n opskop daar, en Sondae kerk. Hulle nooi my ook ‘n hele paar keer om daar te gaan eet. Dis by daai fênsie lunches, dan vertel Jan hoe rof hy is met die trips wat hy so wan en dan na die binneland onderneem. Van hoe kwaai dit in die bosse gaan. Dan sê Maria, met sterre in haar oghe: “Jan, Jan, bielie van die bosveld!” Maar toe my mense die veewagter vermoor, en die vee steel, toe wil hulle my nie meer nooi om in die fort te eet nie. Maar daai fort bly toe nie ‘n fort nie. Eers bou hulle toe ‘n kasteel, en toe ‘n casino, maar toe is Jan van Riebeeck al weg Ooste toe. Maar Jan moes eers daar bly. Elke jaar skryf hy ‘n brief vir die Here 17 en sê hulle moet hom asseblief in ‘n hoër pos na die Ooste stuur. Die Verre Ooste, nie die Midde-Ooste nie, want dis te gevaarlik. Maar elke jaar sê die Number one van die Here17, stuur vir daai Jantjie van die Onnerkaap ‘n e-mail en sê hy moet wag. Maar die e-mails daai tyd het nog met die seilskippe gekom, en hy moes toe uiteindelik tien jaar lank wag.

Die Angliatjie

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Jacob móés altyd Winburg se vinnigste mens op wiele wees. En dít kon hy lank regkry deur sy Anglia se enjin te modifiseer. Maar om vinnig te ry kon ook ‘n tol eis. Op ‘n dag het Jacob die Angliatjie gerol. Die motortjie het min oorgekom, maar Jacob nie. Sy rug het gebreek en hy sou nooit weer kon loop nie. Dit het egter nie Jacob se spoed gebreek nie. Hy het ‘n paar veranderings aan sy Anglia aangebring nadat dié se dak min of meer reg getimmer is, soos om handkontroles aan die stuurwiel aan te bring. Steeds was hy die vinnigste – dis nou op Winburg. Toe koop oom Servaas se seun, Freek, ‘n Ford Capri Perana – ‘n agtsilinder monster. Maar Jacob het intussen van turbo’s verneem, en sy eie turbo op sy Anglia geprakseer. Druk verkry deur ‘n pyp van die uitlaatpyp na die blok te prakseer. Kort hierna is Freek met ‘n vaart by Jacob verby, oppad terug plaas toe. En Jacob skrááp hom, ten aanskoue van amper die hele hoërskool wat pas uitgekom het. Die twee brullende stofwolke verdwyn oor die naaste bult. Net anderkant die bult kom skielik ‘n groot bol rook, gevolg deur ‘n harde slag. Die kinders begin in die rigting van die bult hardloop. Maar voor hulle daar kom, kom ‘n gehawende Jacob met die stuurwiel in sy hande oor die bult gestap. Omtrent al wat van die Angliatjie ongeskonde daarvan afgekom het. Naby die kinders sak hy ineen, blaas sy laaste asem uit, met die stuurwiel steeds in sy hande geklem.

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Toe eers tref dit die kinders: Maar Jacob kon mos nie loop nie!

Herrie se resep Vra nou vir ‘n nuusskrywer en storieverteller (nogal ‘n bobaasstorieverteller volgens die baas van e-boeke) en ‘n mens moet dalk meer ‘n storie as ‘n resep te wagte wees. Die uwe was al flink oujongkêrel voor die kanselknoop deurgehaak is. ‘n Oujongkêrel leer noodwendig kortpaaie, veral as hy liewer vir sport as kosmaak is. Om nie eens van die skottelgoedwas te praat nie. Die toppunt is om ‘n goeie maaltyd te kan maak en verorber, en net drie stukke skottelgoed te hê – ‘n glasbak, ‘n skerp mes en ‘n eetlepel. (‘n Lepel was makliker as ‘n vurk). Danksy die mikrogolfoond-tegnologie ook g’n niks vuil stoofplate of –oond nie. My eie ouma aan moederskant was ‘n vreeslike stiptelike en presiese mens. ‘n Resep sonder ‘n naam sou by haar ondenkbaar wees. My oudste het dié eienskap ge-erf, met die gevolg dat hy nie tevrede was as hy pa vra wat pa maak, en pa sê “kos” nie. Daai kos moet ‘n naam hê. Om die naam-storie te omseil deur vir hom te sê wat alles in die gereg is, werk ook nie, want hy loop al doer voor pa halfpad is. Hy soek bloot ‘n naam, en dit kan maar enigiets wees. En die kos moet eetbaar, maar verkieslik lekker wees. Dus ‘n naam. Wat van Poeroekwaaise Poemabredie sonder Poema? Kortom, sommer Poeroekwaaise Dinges. Om die aard van die makery te verduidelik, moet ek eers van my vrou, Joan, se ouma aan moederskant vertel. Ouma Joey het van jongs af met haar sluk en spysverteringstelsel gesukkel. Al vaste kos wat sy kon eet, was fyn pro-Nutro wat sy saam met verdunde suur kon afkry.

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Maar lekker kos kon sy lekker kos maak, al kon sy dit nooit self proe nie. Ek is nou nog hartseer oor die tuisgemaakte roomys wat ek op ons huweliksonthaal kwyt is. Die bakkie, wat spesiaal vir die hooftafel gemaak is, is net voor my neergesit toe van die gaste ontydig begin vertrek. Iemand het toe besluit die roomys kan nie skade gelei word nie, en dit opgeëet. So ‘n blikskater. Maar wat ek eintlik wil sê, is as iemand vir Ouma Joey gevra het hoeveel van wat is in van haar smullekker disse, was die antwoord: “Soveel as gyt wilt”. Hierdie is ook my eerste poging om een van my disse te resepteer, of dit nou gebakte

eier,

pizza,

piesang-

of

rosyntjiebrood,

sjokoladekoek

of

die

Poeroekwaaise dinges is. Alles in die mikrogolfoond gaargemaak. Van die sjokoladekoek gepraat. Net dit. Dit moet ongelukkig dadelik geëet word. Die volgende dag deug dit net om as baksteen gebruik te word. Moontlik het die mieliemeel wat: “soveel as gyt wilt” bygevoeg is, iets daarmee te make. Die resep dan vir ‘n porsie vir een, van die Poeroekwaaise dinges volgens die beginsel van “soveel as gyt wilt”: Neem minstens twee uie. As jy lief is vir uie, meer. Gooi ‘n bietjie sonneblom- of olyfolie, maar verkieslik nie motorolie of kasterolie nie, onder in ‘n glasbak. Sny die uie in ringe in die glasbak. Was die oë, snuit die neus en was die hande, en roer die uie deur die olie onderin die glasbak.

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Kerf ook ‘n paar repies groen rissie (green pepper) in, en roer saam. Masochiste kan regte rissies of pepers inkerf. Sit dit in die mikrogolfoond en laat so sewe minute op hoog bak. Minstens lank genoeg dat ‘n groot deel van die buurt die reuk van gebraaide uie kan kry, en jaloers word. Haal eers die bak uit die oond. Plaas drie of vier aartappels in die mikrogolfoond, verkieslik met skil en al want dan is daar minder skottelgoed. Bak hulle tot hulle baie amper gaar is. As u nie van skille hou nie, trek die skille onder koue water af. Sny dit (die aartappels, nie die skille nie) in enige vorm, en plaas bo-op die gebakte uie. Neem maalvleis of stukkies pastors, en plaas bo-op die aartappel. As daar ‘n tamatie of twee in die yskas is wat reeds begin verlep het, kerf dit in. Anders eet die tamatie vars. Braai verder in die mikrogolfoond. Terwyl dit braai, neem ‘n blikkie Windhoek Lager, en neem ‘n slukkie. As u aan Maltakoors lei, en u beleef ‘n sikliese piek, neem net ‘n baie klein slukkie. Te veel Windhoek Lager op die leë maag bederf die smaak van die kos. Intussen is die teorie dat die wors of maalvleis se vet op die aartappel drup, en dit effe vetbraai. As die vleis gaar is, haal uit mikrogolfoond. As maalvleis gebruik is, gooi sout, soveel as gyt wilt, by. Ook ‘n bietjie pietersielie, al is daar g’n niks vis in nie. Gemengde speserye, aeromat (nie aerosol nie) en blatjang kan ook probeer word.

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As daar dan onverwags gaste opdaag, kyk watse oorskietkos in die yskas is. As dit gaste is van wie u hou, gooi al die lekker oorskietkos in die bak.Dit kan die oorskiet van die vorige Poeroekwaaise dinges wees, gemengde groente, oorskiet braaivleis, selfs hoender, slap tjips, geelmielies (sonder stronke), broccoli – trouens amper enigiets. Meng, en laat weer in mikrogolfoond bak. As dit gaste is van wie u nie hou nie, skep skelmpies van die Poeroekwaaise dinges uit en steek in die yskas weg. Soveel as wat u sal kan baasraak. Gooi dan ou slaaiblare, oorskiet pampoen wat begin muf het, ou baber-steaks (of nog beter karp wat onsuksesvol gebraai is met grate en al, en komkommer in. Gaan haal die aartappelskille op die komposhoop, en gooi ook by. Roer, en laat louwarm in die mikrogolfoond word. As u regtig niks van die gaste hou nie, oor weeg die oorskiet-sampioene. Die verkeerde soort. (Daar bestaan nie iets soos oorskiet sampioene van die regte soort nie, ‘n mens eet dit altyd alles op). Kry terstond ‘n migraine, maak verskoning en gaan lê op die bed tot die gaste verkas het. Dit behoort gou te gebeur, en die naaste Wimpy kan u kommissie betaal. Gaan haal die kos uit die yskas, en warm op. En, HA, u het gedink ek het van die Windhoek Lager vergeet. Haal hom ook uit die yskas, gaan sit voor die TV, en luister na Stephan Cloete se rugbykommentaar oor Radio Rosestad terwyl u met die lepel uit die bak eet. Verwens die gaste dat u nou meer as net die bak, die skerp mes en die lepel as skottelgoed het.

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Fiber in his teeth – a hobo’s tale One probably never gets used to sleeping on a park bench. Contrary to popular generalization that those park benches are the favorite “beds” for hobo’s; that's 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 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. Hobos’ are also a prime target 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 ‘n dime he might have picked up still being in his pocket. But so too, the explanation that the growing unemployment is to be blamed on crime, 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. But some nights, a bench in the park is better than nothing. 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. Or Blue Train as we call it.

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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 hobo’s 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?” 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 tipped over, 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 know that I would have to check that he is covered a few times during the night. Its not quite winter yet, but chilly enough to kill an intoxicated person exposed for to long. I, then myself, 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 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 feet 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. **************

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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 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. It can rain for days no-end. Wind gusts blow 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. There are the rare occasions that a dead hobo might turn out to be a millionaire. Money somewhere in an investment not touched for decades and often forgotten about. But not always. 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; who shared life and friendship, to be looked after. Or an orphanage, or soup kitchen or shelter, making life more bearable for those who have shared life’s less attractive ends. Yet, very few die poor. With him, Silver de Lange took a unique ability to do magic with the accordion. 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 thinking 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.

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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 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!” Walking over to another bench, also covered with newspapers, I apply a battered boot to ‘n 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. “Babelaas (hang over)” I mutter. “%$#@ yes Fred”, comes a voice from under the newspapers. “But what kind of outie (hobo) 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.

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Not only the hobo’s suffer when the Cape winter sets in. Cape Town is surrounded by thousands of squatter structures, people who have mostly moved in 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. Where these structures elsewhere in the country are mostly built from corrugated iron and wire stolen from farmer’s fences, 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. “Do you have plans to go somewhere?” comes 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, but that 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. 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 covered. Thus quite a lot of reading material as well. I’ve been a bright pupil when still at school. It was only my father and myself, after my mother died when I was still very young. My father, the tall blonde

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Dutchman working on a fishing trawler, them living in a neat rented fisherman’s style built house, looking out over the sea. Life was not 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. Marriage over the color line was against the law until a few years ago. With the utmost difficulty, my mother was reclassified to white. This opened the door for getting married legally, but her community initially rejected my mother. The white community never excepted my dad, let alone my mother or me. 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. Soon, we were part of that community, and happy. When my mother died, I was ‘n 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 colored 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.

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But in the end I cried so much, he gave in. We were a content family after that. This 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 his spine when greeting my dad, and seeing the deep sorrow in my dad’s eye’s. 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 utter a word because of the lump in his throat. My father was a well-known figure on the docks, tall, blonde, always walking very upright. Always walking with fire in his entire motion and posterior. That day his shoulders were hanging, and he dragged his feet. Almost turning to return home, I caught from the side of his 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.

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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. 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 my father’s 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.”

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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 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 the experienced, and a vacant house was a vacant house. 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…” When I was strong enough to walk around a bit, I realized I could not face the sea.

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“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 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. 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, 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 I, and the much older Jason, 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, the hardships and joys? I started writing, carefully saving my work in a plastic bag I carried with me.

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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 that way. 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. “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 took the liberty of taking your manuscript and looking at what you wrote. I like what I saw.”

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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. I work at the magazine and will 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. One day sitting like this, chatting, Sally 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, you give them souls. You have the ability to see inside a person’s soul, and write 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

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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 keeping some distance. When a story was published, Sally will look me up, mostly finding me in the park, and hand me a copy of the magazine in which it was published. 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 relatives in Gauteng. She was, however, killed instantly in a car accident on her way back. I was devastated. My sole link to the world of the living was severed. I returned to the park, with 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. ********* That was until this morning. “I’m thinking of going up coast – Hermanus”, I react to Jason’s question. “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.”

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Before trying the bank, Jason and I clamber up Signal Hill to say good buy 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 hobo’s. 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 Channel. Almost in the middle of the bay is Robben Island, also well known all over the world where many political prisoners were held, including former president Nelson Mandela. In our silent way we say good buy 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 hobo’s living in shelters against Table Mountain) seem to have become accustomed to surviving the peninsula’s extremes. Then we beat a foot track down he hill to be swallowed up by the city’s bustling life. We greeted from Signal Hill, rather than from Cape Town, on behalf of Jason. “No self respecting hobo will care to be mistakenly be 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 proves to be not that easy. Some one from the magazine eventually comes to my rescue, properly identifying me at the bank.

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I buy Jason and myself a suit each, and bus tickets to Hermanus. The suits are complimented 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. 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 beutitician 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 tiptop shape. 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, 'n 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 kickstart you need. You do not belong with us, but we enjoyed and appreciated your company."

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Young lady? The Lord has taken every young woman I had respect for away. Sally. I swallow tears. 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 have 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 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.

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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 realising 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 villenized. 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, the Palestinians would have had independence long ago. But, life rarely makes logic sense. That’s why its life, not heaven. 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

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racial discrimination. Under the new dispensation, one needs to be quite more black 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. 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. 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 a lot on how thankful we are, and how the kind Lord was sure to reward them. A lot of them 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.

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“If hobo’s 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, being 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. Sue is hardly giving 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."

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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. But turning pro changed all that. By the time he became South African champion, he had to accustom himself to being a celebrity, and 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 'n 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.

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"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. 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. But I could not just feed him 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.

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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. 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.”

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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. "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. "To 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. 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 bench, with only thin clothes on.

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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 hobo's 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 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 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.

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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, which 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 pot 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 there off 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 these Nigerians 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 hard board coffin. But Martin was by no means the only bum with a talent for art. Take Jason for example. He might have many shortcomings, but playing the banjo, is not one of them.

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"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 every where. 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 in 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. 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. "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.

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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. Each of the riffraff groups have a distinguished language, as do the hobo's 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 Westerns 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, I, Sam and a black hobo originating from the Free State, teamed up and had them scurrying. They understood especially well that they were unwelcome when cornered in a far corner of the park. So

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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!" 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.

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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. 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 therefor 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 then either. Be they handing her a bag full of neat plastic bags, or coming to her aid when we were under attack.

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"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 good bye. “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.” *************** 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. 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. Good people, but also bad people, such as the tsotsi’s. The bus took us through Somerset-West, up Sir Lowry’s pass overlooking Vals Bay. Over the mountains 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, over a large lake, past Hawston, a colored town, Onrust River

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known for many famous South African artists and writers, most of whom have died in recent years. 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. But we soon after our arrival find ourselves against the sheer cliffs over the sea, looking for a suitable over hanging 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 ‘n cement ramp running out of the sea, suitable for bring 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 vantagepoints 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 travelling 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 shrugs, following a dim rock rabbit path. 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 – just large enough for a grown man to crawl

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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. “It seems to me”, I say, “that we had rediscovered a cave that had last been used by ancient man”. “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 to academic to his liking. Rather, he investigates practically what good the cave holds for us. If stone-age people could live here, we probably can as well. “In 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.

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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 so soft 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 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. One beautiful day, in the middle of winter, but with the sun shining brightly, we decide to go and do some sight seeing. We get a lift with a truck driver, who takes as to Waenhuiskrans. This tiny seaside village near Africa’s southern most tip is well known for its picturesque white houses with tiny windows. An Afrikaans

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poet once wrote, roughly translated, “Between the white house and the white house…” The dogs, and even a cat, does 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 *&^%!.

**** One day, in Hermanus town, I walk 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. “May I help you?” inquired 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

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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 “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. When I returned to the cave and told Jason, Jason just stared at the floor. My heart turned ice cold when Jason walked directly at the pool. In my mind’s eye, I again saw 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, he will never see him again.

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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. 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 my second cousin” she continues. “When I read one of your books while visiting this country, I remembered my grandfather said his brother 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. Because 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.

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“Glad to meet you, 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. “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 knew 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.

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“I’m definitely not going to leave before I have learnt to know this remarkable cousin 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? 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. 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. We walk the beach, holding hands. I can feel the years of hang-ups 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 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 rights hook, sending him down like a falling log. The second one, coming at me from slightly to the left, thrusts

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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 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 to the rocks below. Turning over, I am just in time to see a massive wave crushing their battered bodies to the side of the rock. 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 fine. In fact, she is giving the attackers a sound lesson in karate, both trying in vain to get away.

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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 the same destiny as his three companions, whose lifeless bodies are now being tossed to and fro in the raging surf down below. But Rozanne's 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?"

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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 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. When 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.

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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 murder. Not even the presence of the reverend had the police officers on duty moved that I did not use excessive force. "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. I had no answer. If ever the police 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 others, tunes he knows by listening to them. For he has never learnt to read music.

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While waiting for the meal, fit for a king, Jason plays on again. This time the tunes are rather dreamingly, some actually being sad. I realize that he is saying good bye. The reverend and I have pleaded in vain he stays on. "I appreciate you worrying about me, but I have seen in the past. I simply can't handle work stress." 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, other 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." Before I could make up my mind on whether to try and exploit the moment to come behind the story, he continues:

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"The two of you being so happy, having found soul mates, reminds me of what I am missing. The wife and I are sole mates, irrespective...” He 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, end ended up in front of a speeding taxi..." He stopped 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..." He 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. "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."

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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 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 see 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 me. “Oh yes,” I reply. “Are you not?” “I, I don’t know. In Holland we are basically atheistic now. Though I do believe that Christianity is a good religion.”

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“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. ****** The next day Jason left by bus. Jason’s expression on his face tells it all: Fred will never see him again. Fred then took all his documentation on his archeological excavations to the very surprised curator of the local museum, giving instructions as how to find the cave. He then walks to the old church building, to start a new life. He wonders how many of his years had gone wasted. None, he realized. Money can not buy the knowledge of life he accumulated. All he has experienced made

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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.

Pizzas not for take-away 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?

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“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 are 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 country side, hearty and with no nonsense. Others, however, walk in as though you are something inferior. 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.

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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,” 1 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 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. 1

“That Master Doctor gave me the shot right through my jacket’s sleeve.”

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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 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

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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 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.

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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 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 2 and ends up in die ander tyd3 there is nothing wrong

2 3

Has sex without being married Becomes pregnant

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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. 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 pre-Columbian 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 once. The Mitchell family visiting Mexico, and going to see the Aztec pyramids.

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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.4 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. 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-la-Italy. 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 4

More or less meaning a new fashion – something recently invented.

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(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 compliment 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. 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.

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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 my father, myself and my irritating little brother in the lounge, waiting for the women folk to finish the pizzas. Both my father and myself 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.

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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. 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

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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. “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.

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Susan is ‘n beautiful lady, and very well built. Most men would be tempted applying a gentle flat hand fondly on their wife’s behind as she bends over the zinc like that. But this is something I won’t even dream of with Susan. Faint scars tell a tale of cane spankings for merely sharing a dormitory at the orphanage where some one had committed minor offence. Tiny scars, but huge scars in the mind of a child, now a grown woman. 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.

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“And I’ll have a Tropicana – extra large as well,” says his partner, mocking friendly. 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 5. 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.

5

GP is the car registration letters for the Gauteng province, where both Johannesburg and Pretora are situated.

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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 ‘n 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. Clang! “Uff!” No stuttering this time as he sags to the floor.

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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. “&*^%$@!” 6 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 Pizzas not for take-away 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

6

Not actually translatable

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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? “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.

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South Africa is probably the only country in the world where the ruling majority are 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 country side, hearty and with no nonsense. Others, however, walk in as though you are something inferior. 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,” 7 he complained. 7

“That Master Doctor gave me the shot right through my jacket’s sleeve.”

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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 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.

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Yet, those Afrikaners who have somehow managed to slip past the guillotine, are often the dogs that bite their fellow dogs the most 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 to go home for a change. But more often than not, it is impossible to trace this Mr. Smith, or Mr. Johnson, or whatever.

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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 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.

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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 8 and ends up in die ander tyd9 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. 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

8 9

Has sex without being married Becomes pregnant

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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 pre-Columbian 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 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

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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.10 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. 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-la-Italy. 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 compliment 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,

10

More or less meaning a new fashion – something recently invented.

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and it could be blamed on the new government. Then apartheid is quickly dug up, and hanged again. 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.

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The Sunday afternoon Joseph showed up just after church. He brought Mary a nice bouquet of flowers as well. Then he sat with my father, myself and my irritating little brother in the lounge, waiting for the women folk to finish the pizzas. Both my father and myself 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. 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.

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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. “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.

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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. Susan is ‘n beautiful lady, and very well built. Most men would be tempted applying a gentle flat hand fondly on their wife’s behind as she bends over the zinc like that. But this is something I won’t even dream of with Susan. Faint scars tell a tale of cane spankings for merely sharing a dormitory at the orphanage where some one had committed minor offence. Tiny scars, but huge scars in the mind of a child, now a grown woman. 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.

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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. 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

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have a long way to go to Gauteng …GP

11

. 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. 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 ‘n 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.

11

GP is the car registration letters for the Gauteng province, where both Johannesburg and Pretora are situated.

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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. 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. “&*^%$@!” 12 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. 12

Not actually translatable

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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.”

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

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over night, and grew to a city of approximately a quarter of a million people in a few months’ time. “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.

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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. 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,

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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 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

13

13

Fourie, was no easy man when

Flame, often where a person has red hair, but only when the person has a fiery temper as well.

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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 14 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 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

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Very eager to work

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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. 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!”

15

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.

15

That’s a very bad / evil white man

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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. 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.

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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 non-comprehensive 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. 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 16 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

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Huge fire

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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 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.

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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. 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 Peter17. 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.

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Old Afrikaans for Lion

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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 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.

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One can be open on this matter now, as Peter has passed away some years ago. By then Peter was no longer a parliamentarian. He survived into the new South Africa, but not his political career. This time round, he came out of politics with some pension as well. But before this happened, major shifts were to take place. The house of which Peter was a member, fell in turmoil when an act, the Act on Political Interference, was scrapped. This meant that parties could legally have members of more than one race. The ruling Nationalist party soon started rounding up the members of the House of Peter’s. Peter also joined the Nationalist Party. He, for once, did not follow my advice, which was to hang on, giving enough indications, but not actually crossing the floor before a major deal was struck. Peter had had enough. Soon after Peter came back to home for good, his wife, Hildebrand, died. This was especially tragic, as she lived in a colored rural area, called Thaba Patchoa, some 70 miles from Bloemfontein. Peter was the chairperson of the local council, but because of his own employment, he basically only came home over weekends. When he went to Cape Town as parliamentarian, he came home even on fewer occasions. 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.

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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.” 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.

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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.

Special kids, super sons Darkness has set in, and the traffic on Johannesburg's western bypass has come to a virtual stand still. A car accident caused this pile up. Our hearts ache with pain for the youngster fast asleep on the back seat. We are on our way home in Bloemfontein after visiting several specialists in Pretoria, to try and find out what is wrong with our youngest. The specialists at the university and a private practice have been kind, have impressed us. In any normal situation we would have been relieved. But nothing about this situation is normal. The boy's sleep for example. Earlier today he was given some potion to drink to drop him of to a deep sleep to have his hearing tested. One dosage did not do the trick, and he was given a second. It took some time before he went under, crying his heart out. He could not understand, being just older than a mere baby, why his brother was left behind in Bloemfontein, and he was given this strange treatment in this strange place. All day he had seen new faces.

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There was no way by which he could understand what is going on. Why was he given this strange treatment in this strange, faraway place? But even, when fast asleep, he still pulled the equipment from his ears. "See, typical of autism," the lady said. "These kids are often very sensitive to a certain body part." But eventually, he was in a deep enough sleep to have the tests done. By then we were probably ready to accept a diagnosis of autism. Or, as a professor in Bloemfontein later suggested, the Aspergers variation. At least, then we would have a name for what is wrong, and could direct our efforts at treating it as best we could. Yet, it would not be all that easy. Some things do not match. Eventually he went to a special school, where real angels do the teaching, the Martie du Plessis School in Bloemfontein. The occupational and speech therapists are angels as well. This year, with the child reaching grade one at the age of nine, another angel was added to the team - the remedial teacher. By now he had been at the school for some years, taking approximately a year to adapt to a new class, before making significant headway in the next. Now, at age nine, he still has very limited speech. A diagnosis has come, in the mean time after for the first time brain scans and an EEG were done; a diagnosis which for now, has stuck. Cognitive aphasia. This basically boils down to him having inherited a condition where the section of the brain handling speech, or communication, develops slowly. But not all agreed. But to get to the present was not all that easy. Chromosome tests had been done to see whether he did not belong to a rare group, called the fragile X-group. But

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his chromosomes are normal. Finding a problem with the genes is like finding a needle in a haystack. Doctors need clues, but where does one start when nothing matches? At the age of four, he was in a bad mood once when visiting one of the therapists. He crawled under a bench, where he was left alone for a while to cool of. When the therapist went down on her knees she was surprised. The boy had taken play blocks with numbers on, and arranged them in a straight line from one to ten. His mother tested him that same afternoon on a calculator, and found to her surprise that he could tick in numbers in the right sequence from one to 59. These splint abilities gave no indication that the earlier tentative diagnosis of autism might be of the mark. His absolute loving nature did, however. If once he started loving some one, he is very fond of that person. This circle of people, whom he loves, grows wider gradually. Yet, he is not a group person. He prefers cross-country running to soccer, the other choice they have at sports participation. His fondness is also not limited to people. Animals seem to be very fond of him as well. The dog of relatives goes absolutely crazy when he hears our car or bakkie coming. If the boy were not with us, this dog would be clearly shaken and unhappy. But when, eventually the diagnosis of cognitive aphasia came, it brought very little relief. It is impossible to tell when, and if, the brain would ever click in place. The later in life this happens, the less are chances of catching up. Therefore we appreciate the care of the angels, painstakingly teaching him every bit of knowledge that would decrease the disadvantage, or at least place some brake on the pace at which the backlog develops. At this stage he more or less keeps up with learning to read and write with his classmates.

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But his special features are what amazes. Once he's seen something, he makes a precise copy using waste paper and staplers. This all started when elder brother participated in a school concert where they wore clothes made from newspaper sheets. This was done at school under the careful supervision of the arts teacher. When on the way to the concert, elder brother put on his paper clothes, little brother also wanted his. In no time what so-ever he made himself a set of paper clothes, not as fancy as those of brother, but they were made. Since, this art has improved to an amazing level. The helmets of Asterix and Obelix, William Tell and many others were copied to a remarkable precision. Yet, despite progress, it is new and uncertain terrain. To give one an indication. Enter autism or Aspergers in an internet search engine, and one will be absolutely flooded with information and websites, especially from the USA. Now enter cognitive aphasia, and see what happens. Nothing. Not even from the USA. One does get some response on aphasia on its own, but this refers to lack of speech as a result of brain damage due to accidents or strokes. This has no application, however. Over the years we have noticed some differences form “normal” children. When being hurt bad in the normal young boy way, such as dropping something on his foot, he would go and lie on his bed. Soon he would be fast asleep, almost as though in a coma. A clear indication that too much adrenaline had been released in his body. Eating brown chocolate or nick nacks also left him unruly about twelve hours after he dad eaten it. We had metabolic tests done. The results were not all that conclusive. Words such as unique and unknown appeared on the report, yet the conclusion was that nothing unusual was present. It seems however, that he had outgrown this problem. But when younger, it was quite another matter. It was not uncommon, after such a treat, to have to drag him from a cupboard to take him to school.

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This is where I would like to bring his elder brother into the picture. Elder brother is normal, but nothing around him is normal. Dad being at the short end of a long civil service career in 1994, and mom having a home business to give maximum attention to young brother. He could not always get what other kids his age usually take for granted, both because of finances, but also because initially little brother’s problems curtailed normal social interaction. It could not be easy for him when in a busy shop, Dad has to put a screaming little brother over the shoulder and walk out. Little brother can not understand that dad does simply not have the money to buy the sweets he sees. Or that dad can not, for little brother’s sake, buy the chocolate or nick nacks. Elder brother is tall for his age, sticking out, with an unruly brother drawing even more attention. Elder brother, only going to high school next year, had his feet already grown longer than those of his dad’s, and now wears a number eleven, fitting tightly as a result. Yet little brother could not have hoped for a better elder brother. Even now, at a sensitive age, elder brother is not shy to appear in public with his younger brother. Yes, as any pair of brothers, they also fight, and the elder one had been put in many difficult or awkward positions. Having a little brother at his age is difficult under the best of conditions, but having a little brother such as his, must be ten times more difficult. Yet, he has never resented. He did, from time to time, say he wished little brother could understand. That would have probably made life much easier for him. This has improved a lot. At the age of nine, apart from limited speech, the things one can notice most clearly that something is not normal, is him often walking on his toes, and refusing to have his shirt, jersey or jacket’s sleeves covering his fore-arm. This even goes for the icy cold Bloemfontein winters.

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His prayers, in the evening with his family, are also rather unusual. He makes up most of the words, but one can make out that he prays for his dog, the cat and his genie. The latter he picked up from an Aladdin video. He makes the one impressive magical lamp from waste paper or other waste material, and has even made some ingenious genies going into those “lamps” he calls a kettle. As one of the psychologists at the school puts it: the kid is definitely not autistic, but his condition has some autistic characteristics. But a former colleague, some time ago, had his mind set quite clearly, after the present diagnosis was made by a neurologists, that the child is indeed autistic and should be sent to a school in Pretoria catering for autism. We, as parents, were shaken for not expecting this any longer. Not because we believe our child to be better than an autistic child, but because that would mean placing a child, by then six or seven years old in a hostel far away, without being able to explain to this absolutely loving child why. The neurologist eventually making the present diagnosis read to us from a thick medical handbook, where it is stated that this condition is often confused with autism. Fortunately the angels fought their knuckles through for our child. For us it was difficult, not only because we knew that the far off school was not the correct one, but also because we knew very well that Martie du Plessis isn’t either. The angels are, in fact, finding their way with this rarity the same as we as parents do. Yet, other parents had much more of a fright. In our position we heard from many parents that they had once been told by specialists to put their child in an institution and forget about them. One of these children is now married and has two children. Another was near completion of high school, never even attending a special school, and has a boy friend.

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But we can only wonder and shudder – how many potentially bright kids ended up in the wrong institutions because of a wrong diagnosis? But meting all the angels we had, we believe that those children are probably also in the care of these earth bound angels, wherever they are. There is no way we would want to swop our children for others. The Lord has given them to us, and we love them dearly. The Lord knew that they would be the ideal children for us.

Die Ingelse se treine Van die uwe se grootste vreugdes was om by geleentheid die redakteur van ‘n koerant te kon gewees het. Dit het die geleentheid gebied om te kon skryf sonder die gevaar om gesensor te word. Ongelukkig het dit ‘n mens nie ook immuun teen prosedering en ‘n blou oog af en toe gemaak nie, en vir sekere dinge was ‘n skuilnaam aangewese. ‘n Nom de plume het ‘n geleerde tannie my eendag reggehelp toe ek dit ge-non de plume het. Seg sy, dit moet eintlik “naam van die pen” wees, en ek het dit min of meer tot “niks van die pen” verfongfaai. Maar as ‘n mens kon sien watter moeilikheid ‘n skrywery ‘n man kan besorg, het ‘n mens dikwels maar gewens dit was ‘n geval van “niks met die pen uitgerig”. Maar die skuilnaam, onaspeurlik. Herrie. Die rubriek, Herrie se hekelhoekie. Tot vandag weet niemand dat Herrie, en die redakteur, Herman Toerien, eintik dieselfde mens was nie. Met die kortstondige bestaan van die koerant was dit ook die eeufeesherdenking van die Anglo-Boere-oorlog, en Herrie besluit hy moet ook sy kant met die pen bring.

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Met die oorlog het ‘n jong seun, Andries, van die huis af weggeloop om ook te loop Kakies skiet. Minder vervelig as by die huis om die plaas te probeer oppas. Buitedien was Andries een van daai tipiese mense wat twee linkerhande met ‘n totaal van tien duime gehad het. Heeltemal te onhandig vir die plaas. Maar skiet kon Andries skiet. Die Kommandant moes hom gou oortuig dis swak smaak om ‘n veer in sy hoed te loop druk vir elke Kakie wat hy die ewigheid ingehelp het. “En die wat ek deur die kop geskiet het, Kommandant?” wou hy nog hoopvol weet, maar toe moes hy lelik vir die plathand koes en kon hy duidelik die boodskap kry dat dit ook nie sal deug nie. Maar so tussen die skietery deur, veral toe die onkonvensionele deel van die oorlog aanbreek, het Andries sy werklike talente ten toon begin stel. Want alles aan Andries was onkonvensioneel. Gou-gou het die Boere geleer jy loop val nie ‘n Engelse trein aan as jy nie eers vir Andries geraadpleeg het nie. Want ‘n trein was maar vir die boere ‘n aanlopklike ding. Benewens kos, komberse en perde was daar dikwels ander luukshede soos ‘n bottel jenewer op ‘n trein. Trouens, die Boere sou seker baie moeiliker oorlog gemaak het as hulle nie deur die Ingelse treine van voorraad voorsien is nie. Nou nie dat die Ingelse besonder vrywillig van die voorraad afgesien het nie. Trouens, hulle was so erg tee op dié afvattery dat hulle allerlei planne moes bedink om die Boere uit hul voorrade te hou. Die spoor self was lank en moeilik om te beveilig, maar die treine was darem ‘n ander saak. Swaar gewapende Kakies het dus konstant saamgery, en die treine is behoorlik gepantser. Maar hoe slimmer planne die Ingelse geraak het, hoe groter was Andries se uitdaging om daai planne te klop.

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Andries het byvoorbeeld besef ‘n trein, hoe swaar bewapen ookal, was maar taamlik kwesbaar teen ‘n opdraende, veral deur ‘n klofie. Daar was baie wegkruipplek vir die Boere, en die trein kon allerlei dinge oorkom. Aanvanklik het die Boere ghries so teen die opdraende op die spoor gesmeer. Sodra die lokomotief die ghries vang, begin die wiele wild te tol, maar die trein kom tot stilstand. Teen die tyd dat die majienis en stoker tot verhaal kom, is die trein al halfpad leegedra. Of ghries net skaars geraak het, en of die Ingelse die Boere aspris begin rantsoneer het, is moeilik om uit die geskiedenisbronne vas te stel. Maar Andries was klaar gereed met ‘n plan. Dit werk nou wel nie so lekker nie, maar nat beesmis kon ook gebruik word. Nou ja, so naby was die Boere soms aan die spoorlyn weggekruip as die trein verbykom, dat hulle die masjienis vir die stoker kon hoor sê as hulle agterkom daar is beesmis op die spoor. “We are going to scate today”. Met die Boere se Ingels wat dit was, is die ge-“scatery” half verkeerd verstaan, en was die aanname dit het na die materiaal wat op die spoor gesmeer is, verwys het. Vandaar die Afrikaanse spreekwoord van “sk%t, sk&t die bult yt!” Flyt, flyt, my stories is yt.

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