If you’re writing an olden days blog you run out of material. Only so much happened from when I was born till I met Aitch, which is the timeline of this blog. My ** Born, Bachelorhood and Beer** blog. So there’s recycling. Here’s a post I wrote in 2016, slightly updated:
…
I used to sing beautifully. The teacher who trained the boys choir in Harrismith Laerskool said so. Well, she might have. She was Mej Cronje, and was half the reason ous would volunteer for the choir. To look at her, gorgeous redhead she was.
I was a sopraan ou and we looked down on the alt ous who, though necessary as backup, weren’t in the same league as us squeakers. One directly behind me used to bellow in my ear: ‘Dek jou hol met bouse off hollie! FaLaLaLa La LaLaLaLa.’
One day this delectable and discerning talent spotter, the red-headed Juffrou Ethel Cronje, chose me to sing a solo in the next konsert. Me, the soloist! Move over, Wessel Zietsman! You too, Mario Lanza.
Fame loomed. It was 1965 and even then, the image of a golden buzzer appeared to me in a vision. This thought crossed my mind: Harrismith’s Got Talent!
Then tragedy struck!
My balls dropped.
They handled it very diplomatically. By ignoring it and cancelling practice. The konsert didn’t materialise. Co-incidence? Surely they didn’t cancel a concert just because one boy suffered testicular descent? And by the time the next konsert came around I hadn’t been banished – just discreetly consigned to the back and asked to turn it down.
* * *
Just in case there are people who think Harrismith se Laerskool se Seunskoor was a Mickey Mouse outfit, lemme tellya: WE TOURED ZULULAND. The Vienna Boys Sausages were probably nervous.
We got into the light blue school bus and drove for hours and hours and reached Empangeni far away, where the school hall was stampvol of people who, starved of culture in deepest Zoolooland, listened in raptures as we warbled Whistle While You Work, High on your Heels is a Lonely Goat Turd, PaRumPaPumPum, Edelweiss, Dominique, Dek jou hol, and some volksliedjies which always raised a little ripple of applause as the gehoor thought “Dankie tog, we know vis one“.
If memory serves (and it does, it does, seldom am I the villain or the scapegoat in my recollections) there was a flood and the road to the coastal village of ReetShits Bye was cut off, sparing them the price of a ticket – though those were probably gratis?
Can’t remember driving back, but we must have.
After that epic and ground-breaking (sod-breaking?) tour, warbling faded in importance and rugby took over.
Mej ; Juffrou – Miss; not yet married to Kiewiet Uys; ladies had to be tagged as ‘available,’ guys not
Harrismith Laerskool – the village school
Harrismith se Laerskool se Seunskoor – very much like the famous Vienna Boys Sausages
sopraan ous – high range warblers; not castrati, but can sound like them
alt ous – the other ous
ous – us men
‘Dek Jou Hol’ – literally, cover your ass; listen to the sopraan-ous, they’re the ones. The highballs are on them.
highballs – slang for alcoholic drink in USA; ‘giraffe walked into a bar, said, ‘The Highballs Are On Me’
seunskoor – boys choir
stampvol – sold out, packed, overflowing; like – viral!
volksliedjies – folk songs; songs of ve Chosen People
gehoor – audience, fans, followers; (yes, it was 1965, but we could hear them clicking ‘like’ and ‘follow’)
dankie tog – fanks heavens, sigh of relief
ReetShits Bye – Richards Bay, then still a small fishing village on the warm Indian Ocean, the bay still a natural estuary, not yet dug out for coal ships to pollute
Pa rum pum pum pum – listen to the sopraan-ous, they’re the ones
Jessie’s second pre-school was ‘Sinner Lizabeth.’ I think it’s Anglican, but I don’t know, cos I wasn’t interested. I was only interested in the fact that Aitch had chosen it, so I knew they’d look after my Jessie. And they did: Rose and two Pennys treated her good the two years she was there.
But today I found out about Sinner Mary. This was news to me. I gasped.
Gasp!
Right through school Mary, now universally know as Mary Methodist after playing the organ in the Harrismith Methylated Spirits church for something like a hundred years, was churchless!
Her Mom Annie, my gran, was blissfully unimpressed and uninvolved and probably played golf on Sundays. I’m guessing she would use as an excuse, if pushed by the pious, that Harrismith didn’t have a Presbyterian church (it had folded).** I’m not going to say that proves God is Methodist, but you can see right here how the thought did flit across my mind. That would be if She existed, of course.
So Mary the scholar was churchless! I love it! She tells me her teacher Mr Moll – who taught singing, woodwork and religion – never gave her very good marks probly cos he knew she didn’t go to church! She’s joking of course, and her bad marks were probably 80%, but anyway, Tommy Moll was very involved in the Methodists.
So when Mary got married they had to ‘make a plan’ and the wedding made the newspapers. The headline blared: ‘Four denominations at one wedding’ or something. Not ‘and a funeral.’ (Sheila had the actual cutting so I now know my recollection was exaggerated).
The bride ‘was Presbyterian’ they said (but we now know she was actually – gasp -a ‘none’); the groom was Dutch Reformed (‘another faith’ they said, but he too was in reality a ‘none’); the Methodist minister was on leave, so the Apostolic Faith Mission man tied the knot.
Later, when Mary returned to Harrismith, having lived in Pietermaritzburg for a while, where she became Mom to Barbara, she decided to get church. She chose the Methodists as a lot of her friends were Methodists. She maybe forgets she told Sheila the Methodist boys were nicer than the Anglican boys, so she tells me something about not liking the Anglicans’ ‘high church’ aspect. So this twenty five year old mother leaves her baby Barbara with Annie and Dad at Granny Bland’s home in Stuart street, where they have the room with the big brass double bed, and goes off to confirmation classes with a group of schoolkids. She aces the class, gets confirmed in the Lord, sanctified, and starts her epic Methodistian journey, which continues today, sixty seven years later, her only sin on the way being an occasional single ginger brandy with ginger ale while everyone else was drinking bucket loads. When she plays the piano of a Sunday in the frail care dining room in Maritzburg these days, those are Methodist hymns she’s thumping out joyfully.
I sort of feel like I have an excuse for being churchless now if I need one. ‘I’m just taking my twenty five years off now, Ma,’ I’ll tell Mary when she asks.
(BTW: In the pic, Mary is the bridesmaid, back left. The bride is her dear friend and cousin Sylvia Bain who married John Taylor, another ‘none’ I’ll bet).
~~oo0oo~~
– Jess in Livingstone uniform with her Mad Hatter Tea Party hat – 2008 –
After ‘Sinner Lizabeth’ pre-school, Jess went to a remedial primary school whose school song, which they sang with gusto, went:
Live in Sin, Live in Sin, Progress Voorspoed, Live in Sin
Eat cake, Eat soap, Eat porridge too.
Believe in yourself Live in Sin
Can’t say we didn’t give our JessWess a good grounding.
~~oo0oo~~
“Have faith, have hope, have courage too. Livingstone Remedial.” Tom loved telling me the “Live in Sin” real words, Dad!’
~~oo0oo~~
I see anyone can apply to become an Apostolic Faith Mission Marriage Officer! Just download the application form online here. Maybe this is an out if we can find errors in that 1951 dominee-ring application!?
~~oo0oo~~
** Harrismith’s historian Leon Strachan tells a lovely story – I’ll find it – of how Hans Lötter met a Harrismith couple on the train ride from Durban to Harrismith. He was going there to settle, having bought a bookstore sight-unseen. He asked them ‘What church does Harrismith NOT have?’ They racked their brains, then said ‘There’s no Presbyterian Church.’
‘Ah, then I’ll be Presbyterian,’ Hans announced firmly.
This was the problem: Most of the guys and gals I would do river trips with had a serious deficiency: a lack of some specific paddling strokes one should use on a river trip. They all had the boring stroke where you reach forward, grab a big helping of the river, and pull it back to level with your hip. Over and over. Most of them, however seldom executed my favourite stroke: Place the paddle on your lap, fold your arms, gaze around in awesome wonder, and allow the boat to gently rotate in the current. The Swanie 360° River Revolution, or Swannee River for short.
They were racing snakes. They’d say ‘Let’s Go,’ and then they would actually do that! Isn’t that weird? Then they’d look back, wait till I eventually caught up and ask, ‘What’s Wrong Swanie?’ I was, of course much too polite to reply, ‘Nothing. What’s The Hurry?’ I’m polite that way. What I meant was, ‘I don’t want this day to end.’
And so we would gently bumble downriver. Every few hundred metres they’d wait, or one of them would paddle upstream (more weirdness) back to me and ask ‘What’s Wrong Swanie?’
Strange. Although I must admit, you wouldn’t want me in charge of timing or logistics on a trip!
When the current was swift enough my speed could match theirs. It was the flat water that was tricky. In their defence, they were actually going slowly and enjoying the scenery in awesome wonder too. It’s just that their slowly and mine was out of sync!
~~oo0oo~~
Watch Luca Sestak (then 14yrs-old) show us how to do the Swannee River:
Mary Bland and Sylvia Bain, cousins, decided there was NO WAY they were going to miss the dance in the Harrismith Town Hall. This is quite possibly Mary’s single biggest act of defiance or wilful disobedience in her whole life. See, they were meant to be in Durban then, to start their midwifery course at Addington Childrens Hospital.
But to the dance in the dorp they went. Mary with Pieter, who she later married; and Sylvia with John, who she later married.
The next day they left (by train?) and in Durban they got their new quarters and their new uniform, which they loved: ‘It had a long fishtail headdress down the back almost to our waists. It looked beautiful.’
Also, their new matron was Mary Hawkins and they knew her sisters in Harrismith and in fact, Mary’s Mom Annie had dated her brother ‘Hawks’ Hawkins for quite a long while.
– Addington Childrens Hospital – Maybe by 1949 it looked more like on the right? –
When they were summonsed to Matron Hawkins’ office they waltzed in merrily feeling glam and looking forward to a warm Harrismith welcome; only to be met with a frosty blast and a good dressing-down from Bloody Bill, as Mary Hawkins was known by those who knew her! Or sometimes Bloody Mary. She had been the Matron of all SA nurses in the war, and this was shortly after the war, and she was in no mood for nonsense. They were LATE starting their course and she’d not cut them any slack just cos they were from her home town!
– Mary left and Sylvia, new in Durban – ca.1949 – day off – Mary Bland and Sylvia Bain before they became wilfully disobedient – Hey! At least they did get their certificates in the end! – they thought the training was not as good as at Boksburg-Benoni hospital –
Somewhere there’s a newspaper photo of Mary and Sylvia with a New Year crop of fresh Durban babies. Must find it.
– Ah, here it is – Sheila had it –
~~oo0oo~~
The feature pic shows Mary and Pieter also in 1949, also outside the Town Hall, but another occasion.
~~oo0oo~~
pics from skyscrapercity.com; and kznpr.co.za – thank you. kznpr is Hugh Bland’s site; Here’s the cover of Hugh’s book on the Addington Childrens Hospital:
Hugh Bland and Mary Bland are related if you go way back to Josiah Benjamin Adam Bland and John Francis Adam Bland, so they have both played a part in the Addington Childrens Hospital. Hugh didn’t deliver any babies, though, so his role was way less important than my Ma’s.
Who knows more about this lovely story? Let me know!
~~oo0oo~~
Andrews Motel on van Reenens Pass was a well-known landmark to anyone who drove the busy N3 between Jo’burg and Durban. The unusual triangular, or pyramid- or ‘wigwam’ -shaped chalets were visible as you drove by. Later called The Pyramids Motel, I see Leon Strachan called it Klein Giza!
Old Mr Andrews had retired to Harrismith and was now dying. He asked his GP, Mike v Niekerk to please scatter his ashes on top of Platberg.
When the time came, Mike took Mr Andrews’ nephew to the airstrip on 42nd Hill. Clutching the little box he got into Mike’s plane; they took off, circled, climbed and headed for the western end of nearby Platberg, that iconic mountain that most people who live in Harrismith claim as their own. When the time was right, he signaled to the nephew to open the window and empty out the ashes as requested by the old man.
The nephew did; he opened the box; opened the window; and flicked out the ashes. Which blew straight back into his face and all over the interior of the plane!
Mike turned and landed back at the strip. Says he spent the rest of the day spitting out Andrews Ashes!
Some of the ashes surely must have landed on top of Platberg though? As requested. Maybe.
~~oo0oo~~
Here’s a great painting of the western end of Platberg – the end nearest the aerodrome – by Alan Kennedy, artist who grew up spending holidays with his uncle and aunt Leo and Heather Hilkovitz at magic Little Switzerland Hotel.
We should have been more Biblical. Us Swanie kids should have listened in Sunday School and been a lot more faithfully Biblical. Maybe even evangelical?
Doesn’t the Bible say quite clearly and unambiguously, ‘Obey Your Father!’? or ‘Obey Thy Father’? And patriarch Pieter Gerhardus Swanepoel said quite clearly and unambiguously, ‘Shoot Me When I Turn Sixty!’
We shoulda been obedient children.
~~oo0oo~~
Luckily for him (now aged 100 – 2022) the Bible might also say ‘Obey Your Mother.’ Does it? Lemme check.
Yep. Ephesians 6 v1 – Children, obey your parents in the Lord: for this is right.
~~oo0oo~~
That command – disobeying it – coulda had serious consequences! Our disobedience (or mine, as a son) could have led to this:
If a man have a stubborn and rebellious son, . . . that, when they have chastened him, will not hearken unto them: Then shall his father and his mother (Ah, Mom woulda saved me) lay hold on him, and bring him out unto the elders of his city, and unto the gate of his place . . . And all the men of his city shall stone him with stones, that he die . . . (Blimey! But ‘God Loves Ya!’ Eish!) – Deuteronomy Chapter 21 v18
‘We think it’s him, but we haven’t been able to catch him. He must distribute the leaflets in the absolute dead of night, probly just pre-dawn. They’re scurrilous. Well, we’ll see if they end when you move in.’
Owners in the shareblock building were gossiping about the mystery vendetta that had been waged for a long time in the block. Someone pecked away on an old typewriter, telling tales (and truths?) about other residents and criticising what the managing committee did and didn’t do for the building. They suspected their mystery person was the owner I had just bought from, and they were looking forward to his leaving to stay far away in the little dorp of Richmond out in the sticks.
My first own home! A spacious, high-ceilinged one (‘and a half’) bedroom flat in a good-looking ‘Art Deco’ building in Marriot Road one block up from Cowey Road.
– the stairs to my door – which cascaded as Vomit Waterfall one night, rumour had it – or Chunder Cataract – or Ralph’s Rapid –
On the day I moved in I was ambushed by a gang of Kingfisher Canoe Club mates who had spread the word ‘Party at Swanie’s New Place Tonight!’ The electricity wasn’t yet connected, but no problem to these hooligans: They dangled an extension cord out the window and politely asked the elderly Scots couple below me to please plug it in. Bless ’em they did, and hats off to them they withstood the temptation to switch off as the noise lasted long into the night! There was some excess (did I mention they were canoeists!?) and tales – exaggerated surely? – were told of vomit streaming down the steps.
Once I settled in and my fellow occupants realised I was obviously the innocent party in the opening night cacophony (ahem!), I was told more about the strange old geezer I’d bought from. And I was told of a mysterious campaign of leaflets surreptitiously distributed, pointing out people’s faults and complaining of things not done, etc. in harsh language. They suspected it was him, but were never able to prove it. Soon I was able to solve the mystery: A secret compartment in the lounge cupboard revealed copies of his printed leaflets – the vendetta stash!
~~oo0oo~~
I bought ca.1984 for R45 000. Sold ca.1992 for R90 000. I saw it offered for sale recently (2021) for R967 000. That’s where I found these pics. The indoor one is a big change from how it was – they opened up the small kitchen so now the lounge and kitchen are all one big room. It looks great.
If you’re writing an olden days blog you run out of material. Only so much happened from when I was born till I met Aitch, which is the timeline of this blog – my Born, Bachelorhood and Beer blog. So there’s recycling. Here’s a post I wrote in 2014, twice updated and embellished:
~~oo0oo~~
In high school we had an older mate who was in the Free State koor. He was famous in Harrismith for that. You could say he enjoyed Harrismith-wide fame. His nickname was Spreeu but we called him Sparrow. Everyone knew Sparrow – Chris Bester – and everyone knew Sparrow was one of ‘Die Kanaries – Die Vrystaatse Jeugkoor.’ Fame! Travel! Bright lights! Girls threw their broekies at the Kanaries! OK, maybe not.
One day a buzz went round school that Septimus – apparently he was the seventh child – Smuts, Free State Inspector of Music was there – here! in Harrismith, city of song and laughter – to do auditions for new members for this famous koor.
We were there! Me and Gabba. Neither known for having the faintest interest in warbling before (my membership of the laerskool koor a distant memory – I was over the trauma). Nor any other form of culture come to think of it, other than the fine art of rugby. Gabba was a famous – beroemde, kranige – rugby player, having been chosen for Oos Vrystaat Craven Week in Std 8, Std 9, Std 9 & Std 10. Strong as an ox, great sense of humour, good heart.
People were amazed: “What are YOU ous doing here?” they asked as we waited in the queue. We just smiled. We’d already missed biology and PT.
Septimus was a dapper little rockspider full of confidence. He gave Gabba exactly three seconds and sent him packing. Gave me ten times longer and said ‘Nice enough, but no range.’ So back to class we went, crestfallen look on our dials, mournfully telling our mates and the teacher that we COULD NOT understand how we’d been rejected and there must have been some kind of mistake. Tender-rigging, maybe? Maybe our voices were taken out of context?
– Gabba in choirboy mode – Seppie at the piano –
The maths teacher Ou Oosie raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes, but they were a bit hidden behind his thick black plastic bril. But we stuck to our story: It had been a longtime deep desire of ours to sing for our province and the rejection cut us deep. And maybe the keuringsproses was rigged.
It became my & Gabba’s standing joke over the decades that followed. Every time we met we’d have a lekker laugh. Then he’d update me on our hoerskool athletics records: his for shotput and mine for the 100m sprint. Mine was eventually beaten about twenty years later. Gabba said ‘hier’t n nuwe oukie gekom wat soos die wind gehol het.’ His shotput record probably still stands, as far as I know. It was a mighty heave. I choon you, verily, on that day in 1972, he stooted that gewig moertoe.
We may have scored E’s and F’s on most of these, but on 7.2.1.8 Intelligence and Dedication we surely got an A? Also, if we’d known that Septimus the choirmaster had ‘n besondere liefde vir die gedrae polifonie van Palestrina se koorkompetisies,’ we’d have practiced that shit.
~~oo0oo~~
spreeu – starling, but mistranslated and verengels as ‘sparrow’
verengels – anglicised; corrupted
Die Kanaries – ve canaries
Vrystaatse Jeugkoor – Free State Youth Choir; it must be confessed we would mock it as the Yech Choir
broekies – panties; maybe bloomers
beroemde, kranige – famous, outstanding
Oos Vrystaat – Eastern Free State; our neck of the woods
bril – spectacles; eyeglasses
hier’t n nuwe oukie gekom wat soos die wind gehol het – a new guy arrived in the dorp who ran like the wind
keuringsproses – like ‘Harrismith’s Got Talent’ – y’know, judges; impartial??
stoot a gewig – shotput
moertoe – a long way
‘n besondere liefde vir die gedrae polifonie van Palestrina se koorkompetisies – fuck knows
~~oo0oo~~
Here’s Sep and one of his choirs with which he gained moderate regional fame. Of course he dipped out on international acclaim by not signing up me and Gabba as a duet.
~~oo0oo~~
For those sad mense who doubt Gabba’s dramatic talents and aspirations, I give you evidence:
Some 50 years on, R.I.P Gabba! You’ve moved on to that Great Shotput Circle in the Sky. Choirs up there will welcome you, I’m sure.
Sheila sent me a surprise postcard. So I have re-posted this 2015 blogpost about a Magical 1969 Tour, and attached the postcard at the end. Enjoy the Olden Daze!
~~oo0oo~~
The Kestell bus was like a half-loaf, but still the metropolis of Kestell – which we regarded as a sparsely-populated Afrikaans suburb of Harrismith – couldn’t roust enough boys to fill it, so they decided to invite some Harrismithians along to add wit, charm and Engels to the proceedings. Or anyway bulk.
So one fine winters day Johan Steyl announced in the assembly hall that Kestell was inviting fine, talented, well-behaved Harrismith boys to join their ‘seunstoer’ to South West Africa. It would be for fifteen days in the July holidays, and the cost would be twenty five South African 1969 Ronts.
Leon ‘Fluffy’ Crawley, Harry ‘Pikkie’ Loots, Pierre du Plessis, Tuffy Joubert and I said YES! and then our parents said yes and forked over the cash, so we were off! Now Sheila’s postcard reminds me that Jan van Wyk – who would be chosen head boy in matric the next year – also went along.
– an actual pic by Fluffy, care of mother Polly’s Kodak! –
It was boys-only, a seunstoer, but Mnr Braam Venter of Kestell took his young daughter along. She was about Std 4, we were Std 7 to 9. She was very popular and soon became like the tour mascot, second only to Wagter the tour dog – who was actually a found holey corobrick with a dog collar through one of its three holes and string for a leash.
The short bus had a longitudinal seating arrangement. The rows ran the length of the bus so you sat facing each other, sideways to your direction of travel.
We all bundled in and set off. After a few hours we had the first roadside stop. Mnr Venter lined us all up outside the bus and said ‘Right, introduce yourselves,’ as the Kestell ous didn’t know us – and we didn’t know them. Down the row came the names, van Tonder, van Wyk, van Niekerk, van Staden, van Aswegen, vanne Merwe, van Dit, van WhatWhat, Aasvoel, Kleine Asenvogel, Marble Hol. Fluffy standing next to me murmured ‘Steve McQueen,’ but when his turn came he let out with a clear ‘Leon Crawley,’ so I said ‘Steve McQueen’ out loud. Without a blink the naming continued before I could say ‘Uh, just kidding,’ so I became ‘Ou Steve‘ for the duration.
– Augrabies Falls – by Leon Fluffy Crawley –
Our first stop was Kimberley, where we camped in the caravan park and had some fun; then on to the Augrabies Falls on the Gariep (Orange) River, stopping at the roaring dunes near Hotazel in the Kalahari en-route. On from there to the borderpost at Onseepkans.
~~oo0oo~~
When we entered South West Africa we headed straight for a pub. The first pub we found. Us fourteen to sixteen year-olds. That’s cos we knew something.
We went to the Fish River Canyon. Like all canyons, it is billed as the biggest, longest, deepest, whatever, in the (insert your province, your country, or ‘world’ here). We stood on the rim and gazed down. Then Harry Loots and I couldn’t stand it; so – against orders – we zipped down the pathway, slipping and sliding down as fast as we could on the loose surface. Before we got to the bottom we decided we’d get into big kak if we took too long, so we reluctantly stopped and returned to the top, a lot more slowly.
– Steve Reed’s pic from 1993 when he did the full hike –
We camped next to the Vingerklip, or Mukorob, or Finger of God, near Karasburg, a sandstone rock formation in the Namib desert, while it still stood. It fell down nineteen years later on 8 December 1988, so that was obviously not our fault, nê. About 30m high from the vlaktes at the base, the little neck it balanced on was only about 3m by 1,5m, making it rather precarious.
– vingerklip as we left it – promise ! –
Later we camped near Windhoek where Dad had arranged that I got fetched by some of his relatives I had never met, to overnight at their home. Third or fourth cousins, I suppose. In the car on the way to their home they had lots of questions, but before I had finished my second sentence the younger son blurted out “Jis! Jy kan hoor jy’s ’n rooinek!” (Boy, You can hear you’re English-speaking!) and my bubble burst. All of my short life I had laboured under the mistaken and vain impression that I was completely fluent in Afrikaans. Hey! No-one had told me otherwise.
~~oo0oo~~
– a Welwitschia plant in the Namib desert – pic by photographer Crawley (Fluffy) with Polly’s Kodak camera –
On to the Brandberg, where a long walk would take you to some rock paintings. I chose not to make the walk. Pikkie did, and remembered: ‘the terrain was barren, hot as hell, and rock strewn. The rocks had a rich red-brown colour, and I thought it was amazing that the local indigenous people had painted a white lady, which according to legend was the Queen of Sheba, who they would probably never have seen! Some people wanted to pour water on the paintings but I think Braam stopped them and of course today I realise that he was a hundred per cent right in not letting us do it. If we all poured water on it it would have been washed away by now!’
– new Okakuejo gate –
We got to Etosha National Park after dark so the Okakuejo gate was closed. We didn’t pitch our tents that night to save time, simply bedding down outside ready to drive in first thing the next morning. On spotting us the next morning the game ranger said ‘Net hier het ‘n leeu eergistraand ‘n bok neergetrek.‘
– Namutoni camp, as we saw it! Fluffy’s pic again –
On our way back, we passed Lake Otjikoto, the ‘bottomless lake’:
– cichlid fish, Tilapia guinasana –– that’s us at the ‘bottomless’ lake – Fluffy the photographer – with his Ma Polly’s Kodak –
The Hoba meteorite next. Weighing about 60 tons, made of iron and nickel, it is still the largest single intact iron meteorite known, and also the most massive naturally-occurring piece of ferronickel known on Earth’s surface. Don’t worry, it’s estimated to have fallen 80 000 years ago.
– this pic from July 1967 –– 1969 – Fluffy’s authentic Kodak pic of the meteorite –
On the way out of SWA we reached the South East corner of the country, heading for the border with the Kalahari Gemsbok Park, when we spotted something tangled up in the roadside fences. Turned out to be a few springbok, some dead, some still alive but badly injured. As we spotted them one of the farm boys yelled out, ‘Ek debs die balsak!‘ He cut off the scrotum, pulled it over the base of a glass cooldrink bottle. What? we asked. Once it dried he would break the glass and he’d have an ashtray, he explained. Oh.
The alive ones were dispatched and all were taken to the nearby farmer who gave us one for our trouble. It seems some hunters are indiscriminate and less than accurate and the buck panic before the onslaught and run into the fences.
– looking at them I would never have guessed they had potential ashtrays a-hanging ! –
That night we made a huge bonfire on the dry bed of the Nossob river or one of its tributaries and braai’d the springbok meat. It was freezing in July so we placed our sleeping bags around the fire and moved closer to the bed of coals all night long. Every time we woke we inched closer.
A wonderful star-filled night sky above us.
~~oo0oo~~
edit: Updated since Fluffy found his 1969 pictures of SWA. Taken with Ma Polly’s Kodak camera. So now our story has real pics, not just internet pics. – Harry says: Even reading it a second time brings back great memories! Fluffy asks: Can you guys remember the freshly baked brown bread we bought from a plaas winkel… Twee Rivieren… On our way back… Pretty expensive if I remember well – 17 cents . .
That was an unforgettable fifteen days! We’re so lucky to have enjoyed such an adventure. We still talk about it. For many years after – fifty-plus years – I kept the oxwagon axle hub I had found in the veld and written everyone’s name on.
*put pic of hub here*
Pikkie tried to get us to go again in 2019 – fifty years later! Inertia, work, family and all the usual shit put paid to that great idea. No longer could we just say, “Ag pleez Daddy!” and go without a backward glance, as we did in 1969! Adulthood sucks.
~~oo0oo~~
seunstoer – boys tour;
Wagter – Rover in England; Fido in America;
nê – y’understand? capiche?
“Jis! Jy kan hoor jy’s ’n rooinek!” – Your Afrikaans Are Atrocious; or Boy, You can hear you’re English-speaking!
Ek debs die balsak! – ‘Dibs on the ballbag!’ or ‘I lay claim to the antelope scrotum’;
Net hier het ‘n leeu eergistraand ‘n bok neergetrek – Right here where you’re camping a lion killed an antelope the night before last; ‘Be Nervous’ was the message;
– another view of Otjikoto ‘bottomless’ Lake – about 100m deep vertically, but then leading off horizontally into caves beyond that – Fluffy pic– a hillock covered with rocks – who are walking on boulders – near Augrabies Falls – authentic Fluffy pic
~~oo0oo~~
The 2021 surprise from Sheila: A postcard I wrote on 7 July 1969 while on tour:
Can’t say I remember ‘Sorris Sorris.’ I see it’s just north of the Brandberg, so maybe we camped there?
Larry wrote to me – old-fashioned ink and paper, lick the stamp, seal the envelope and drop it into a postbox – on 4 Nov 1970, his 19th birthday.
He was getting brochures for Dad for a van – Ford, Chev and Dodge. ‘I’m glad your father is really getting interested in the scheme of getting a van. If he is serious about importing me too (to come with the van), I could be ready to leave in June. It seems a bit too good to be true, so I am not counting on it at all.’
Well, it didn’t happen. But the van did.
– 1973 Ford Econoline van –
The old man needed a delivery van for the bottle store. Twelve years of Joseph faithfully delivering booze to the needy on his bicycle clearly wasn’t hacking it anymore.
– Joseph’s bicycle stands idle –
People needed their dop on the double; their brannewyn and beer briefly; their cane kona manje; their Paarl Perle pronto; This called for a V8! A five litre V8 – 302 cubic inches of inefficiency was ordered from across the Atlantic. Two pedals, one to GO one to STOP; it was automatic . . hydromatic . . greased lightning!
It was a delivery van, so no windows were needed. These were only cut in the week it arrived. Then it needed to be fitted out to take crates of beer: Two beds, a fridge and a stove were fitted above the new green carpets.
A test run was called for: I drove it to Joburg, loaded it up with fellow students and headed for Hillbrow. At the lights on the uphill section of Quartz or Twist street some unsuspecting sucker pulled up alongside.
I gave him a withering look and revved the V8, which didn’t really growl, the ole man refusing to tweak the exhaust like it could have been tweaked. It sounded OK, but not “like God clearing his throat.”
I stomped down hard on the brake with my left foot and pressed full down on the accelerator with my right. A fraction before the light turned green I let go the brake and the bus squealed and roared and bucked as we gunned off up the hill. Dunno if the other bloke even noticed but we were hosing ourselves – we had fun.
The van cost the ole man R1500 and then shipping it across the Atlantic another R1500.
Vrystaat Confessions 