Vrystaat Confessions

Category: 8_Nostalgia

Looking back with fondness on those things we couldn’t wait to get rid of, or away from, back then . .

  • Bugged by Bugs in a Red Bug in Canada

    Bugged by Bugs in a Red Bug in Canada

    north america map

    Stage Three (in faint yellow on the map) of my Great North American Road Trip started at the lovely Wingert home in the picturrsque village of Cobleskill in upstate New York, where Stage Two had ended.

    A red VW Bug swept up the drive and out poured three lovely Okies and a handsome longhaired Aussie. Sherry Porter-Steele, owner of the Bug and twins Dottie and Dale Moffett. Sherry had been a favourite young high school teacher of the girls in Ardmore Oklahoma a few years prior, and involved in Rotary exchange student selection. Jonathan Kneebone was an Aussie, a dinkum character, say no more. Liked a beer.

    We headed north to the Canadian border. Five laughing, happy peeps in a VW bug. It wasn’t a squeeze at all, we were having so much fun. Kneebone having longer kneebones, I got to squeeze between the gorgeous twins on the spacious back seat more, whattapleasure! At the border the man leaned in, asked “All American?” Yeah, we’re American, chimed Sherry, Dottie and Dale. He stepped back and was about to wave us through when Jonathan and I said “Um, no”.

    “Australian” said Kneebone and the man made to step back again and wave us through when he registered what I had said.

    “Uh, come with me please sir. I need to check your passport,” said the now more serious man. An hour later we were off again – to Montreal. That’s where you see Dottie sitting on the grass.

    On to Ottawa where we bumped into Indira Ghandi on a state visit to Pierre Trudeau. She chose to arrive while we were staring at some government building or other. That’s the only time I’ve seen a head of state in the flesh ever. And two’s enough.

    Somewhere around here I dinged Sherry’s car! “I’ll drive!” I shouted as we headed for the pub. I promptly reversed out the driveway, swung, and BANG! I got out and saw to my great relief – how horrible was this!? – that I’d hit a huge Dodge pickup with a bumper four yards wide and a yard deep; not a scratch on it! We could hop back into the red bug and bug off to the pub. Poor Sherry’s prize red VW wasn’t so lucky. I wrecked her left rear fender and light and I had no money to pay for the damage. DAMN! Sherry was an absolute star about it, bless her! I still owe you, Sherry Porter-Steele!

    Dottie, Dale, Jonathan, me and Sherry in Sherry's Bug: Canada here we come!

    Then Toronto, Waterloo and up around Lake Superior, Sudbury, Sault St Marie, Thunder Bay. What a sight Superior was! Biggest stretch of fresh water imaginable. For a Vrystater, awe-inspiring! We have brown dams where you can see the other side. Even wave at people that side, often.

    Thrifty, we camped en route wherever we could squirrel away for free. Only once were we shoo-ed off and told, ‘I’m Sorry, You Can’t Camp Here.’ This by a Mountie with a big hat, so it was worth it! Yes SIR!

    Canada Mountie, Patrol Car

    Here we used a rock for a mattress. We had just woken up but Kneebone was already being Australian!

    Me, Dottie, Dale & Jonathan Kneebone (can you guess where from?) in Canada
    – Me, Dottie, Dale & Jonathan Kneebone (can you guess where from?) –

    Once we stayed in an old railway station converted to a sort of backpackers, the track ripped up and turned into a beautiful trail through the pines.

    Then, suddenly, we needed to go canoeing. When in Canada, canoe! So we hired two boats in Quetico National Park, Lake of the Woods. All names may not be exact or current – these are 45yr-old memories!

    – internet pics of the stunning lakes in Lake of the Woods area –

    We planned a three-night trip, but after one night we turned back and ran, tails between our legs! We had spent the day trying to dodge dark clouds of midges and no-see-ems, or black flies. When you ran your hand through your hair it came out covered in blood. That night we pitched the tents on an island in a cloud of mozzies. We lined up with our kit, zipped open, dived in and zipped up immediately. So fast that we only had fourteen million mosquitoes in the tent, a fraction of the hordes that were hovering and zeeeee-ing outside!

    – flies and bites – internet pics – we were too busy to take pictures! –

    Ama-azing! Canada sure has bugs! But what beautiful country:

    Lake Woods 3
    Lake of the Woods. There’s our island, maybe

    As we’d cut our canoe trip short, we decided to carry on into Manitoba, but Canada is vast and we realised we might bite off more than time would allow us to chew; so we soon cut back and headed south for the US border at International Falls, into Minnesota, across the Mississippi River where it’s still quite small and headed south for Iowa, where I had to leave the gang.

    They dropped me off and buzzed off into the sunset, three lovely ladies and an Aussie, companions with who I had just spent one of the most unforgettable times of my life. That REALLY was special. So uncomplicated and relaxed and unstructured (unless Sherry was planning as we went – she was, come to think of it! I bet you she was!), and free and friendly. Wonderful kind, genuine people.

    map Road Trip USA Home to Apache 1973
    – the FOUR legs of my road trip – Summer of ’73 –

    My host family from Apache OK, Don & Jackie Lehnertz were up there visiting family and would be driving me back to Apache via Iowa, Missouri and Kansas on Stage Four. I’m afraid I slept a lot on this leg of the trip!

    ~o0o~

  • Road Trip Out West

    Road Trip Out West

    Jim n Katie Patterson, wonderful host family in Apache, took lovely girlfriend Dottie Moffett and me on a special trip out west in the summer of ’73, driving across the Texas panhandle to New Mexico. Dottie and I went part of the way with the Manars in their beautiful new car towing the newest of the Jeeps.

    – crossing the Texas panhandle to New Mexico, the Manar’s Lincoln Continental –

    Jim’s Mom Merrell Patterson had a lovely cottage outside Red River in the Sangre de Christo mountains. It could sleep a whole bunch of people if they were good friends! Some of the families did stay elsewhere nearby though, so we weren’t crowded. It was great fun.

    Granma Merrill's Cottage outside Red River
    – Granma Merrill’s Cottage outside Red River –

    Here we stayed with the gang – the wonderful group of Apache friends the Pattersons hung out with: Manars, Hrbaceks, Mindemanns and Paynes.

    Jim & Mary-Kate
    That’s what Seagrams will do for candles! Glen’s worried!
    Peggy, Glen, Jim. Pug, Walter, Katie. Jim blows Seagrams breath
    – Jim had a birthday – his breath didn’t dowse the candles, it flared them up! –

    The Jeeps were perfect for the mountain trails

    Hebcoolers on the tailgates – Beer & Bloody Mary
    Old Red leads the pack in the Sangre de Cristo mountains

    After a terrific stay there, we headed off to Vegas in the Patterson’s Ford LTD via Colorado and Utah

    Colorado1973 (4).JPG
    – the LTD, with Dottie Moffett, Katie and Jim Patterson –

    In Colorado we rode a historic steam train from Durango north to Silverton.

    Then via Utah, where we visited Bryce Canyon and Zion NP.

    Bryce Canyon small

    In Vegas we stayed at The Stardust on The Strip. I learnt to gamble, I learnt to win. I battled to lose. Dottie was a good luck charm! I kept winning small amounts so kept on and on gambling, determined to lose. Finally as dawn approached we were down by a considerable fortune – $10 – and could go to bed.

    We saw Joan Rivers being delightfully rude and Petula Clark warbling away (also Joan warbled a song and Petula told a joke!). I learnt a Vegas rule when I saw Jim slip the doorman a cri$p note to get us a good table!

    StardustSign1973
    – internet pic of 1973 Vegas strip scene –

    After Vegas we stopped off at The Grand Canyon: We stared down at this awesome sight from the lookout on the south rim. We only had a few hours there, so we’re just look-see tourists. Suddenly I couldn’t stand it! I had to get down there. I told Dottie I was going and she said me too!

    We started running down the Bright Angel trail. It’s about 10km to the river. I’ll give us an hour, I thought. The run was easy on a well-maintained track with the only real obstacle being the ‘mule trains’. Only once we had to step off the trail and let a bunch of mules pass. We made sure we were on the upside!

    Bright Angel trailhead
    Bright Angel Trail seen from the South Rim. Grand Canyon NP, Arizona.

    At first it was all open desert trail, but at Indian Gardens I was surprised by the amount of greenery in the canyon. From the rim it looks like all desert, but in the protected gorges there’s green shrubbery and even some tall trees.

    Indian Gardens Grand Canyon.jpg

    In well under an hour we got to just above the river. I stared in awesome wonder at the swiftly-moving green water. I had never seen such a large volume of water flowing clear like that. Our South African rivers mostly run muddy brown, and I wasn’t expecting clear water. Right then I thought I MUST get onto this river! I’d started kayaking a couple of years before, but if I’d been asked I’d probably have said on a raft, little knowing that in eleven years time I would kayak past that very spot, under that same bridge in 1984 on a flood-level river!

    bridge grand canyon.jpg
    – in 1973 on foot the water looked like this –
    GrandCanyon'84 Greeff (27)
    – our kayak trip in 1984 – these are our supporting rafts –

    The hike back out was steep, but hey, we were 18yrs old! Cross-country running had been my favourite obsession the year before, and Dottie was Oklahoma’s No.2 tennis player, so no (or an acceptable amount of) sweat!

    Then we headed home, by and large following the new I40 – which replaced the famous old historic Route 66 in places. Flagstaff Arizona, Albuquerque New Mexico, Amarillo Texas, and back to Oklahoma. To Apache and then on to take Dottie home to Ardmore. What a wonderful trip with amazing people!

    I learned later:

    • The name Colorado was for its muddy colour and its clarity is in fact an undesirable artifact because of the Glen Canyon Dam and Lake Powell upstream;
    • The 10km climb down Bright Angel is about 1000m vertically, and every metre down you’re going back in geological time! Fascinating. When we paddled through we had a paddler who is a geology prof with us, who regaled us with tales of how old each section was.
    • They tell you Do Not try to hike from the rim to the river and back in one day! Why, we thought?
    • Jim has hiked the rim to rim hike through the canyon a number of times since – an annual pilgrimage – the last time he did it he was 70!

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    ***most pics off the ‘net – I’ll add my own as I find them!***

  • Road Trip North with Larry – USA

    Road Trip North with Larry – USA

    My four-stage 1973 Road Trip North started in Apache Oklahoma. In Stage One Katie Patterson drove us down in her Ford LTD to stay with her folks, Mama and Papa Hays, in Shreveport, Louisiana. There we ‘visited’ as Oklahomans say; We were spoiled – I was a third, older, honorary grandchild! We played golf – I recall smacking the ball into one inch ‘rough’ under big old trees draped in lichen, or old man’s beard; And we ate superbly.

    Papa Hays gave me a beautiful old book:

    – Ginny, Katie, Mama Hays, Papa Hays, Jimmy, Larry, Mary-Kate – in Shreveport Louisiana –

    Larry and his sister Ginny joined us, having driven down from Cobleskill NY and we got ready for Stage Two of my Great North American Road Trip: Heading north-east in a light greenish-grey Volkswagen Bug, 116 SHE.

    – Larry, his ‘red’ VW and the U-Haul –

    Larry and Ginny had packed their camping kit on the back seat; One more passenger meant we now needed a U-Haul carrier on the roof.

    I remember surprisingly little about this trip north-east! We left the Red River and crossed the Arkansas River near Little Rock; I remember camping:

    Larry VW Bug Camping
    – Larry, Boy Scout! –

    I remember crossing the mighty Mississippi River in or near St Louis, where the Missouri joins it;

    The only thing I remember clearly is hoping my ID would be checked at the door when we went for my very first legal beer at a TGIF bar in Missouri. I had drank beer as a schoolboy in the Vrystaat, led astray by good friends, then as a seventeen yr-old in Oklahoma, in a 21 state, I had drank beer in Louisiana and Arkansas, but I turned 18 in the interim, and now at last I was eighteen in an 18 state! Legal at last!

    I held my SA passport ready . . I now know (maybe not, it was more likely June or July by now) it was a Sunday; Richard Nixon was the President; We were listening to Killing Me Softly With His Song, and Tie A Yellow Ribbon Round The Old Oak Tree; and NOW, at last, I would be checked and blessed for the first time . .

    But the man at the door just waved me through. ** sigh! ** why have I always looked much older than I am? Nowadays people think I’m a hundred in the shade. Next they’ll be wanting to cancel my liquor licence, take away my drivers licence and mop my dribbling . . .

    Oh, well, at least some other world-firsts happened that week: The first cellphone call; The World Trade Center twin towers opened; the first international rugby sevens tournament took place; the last American soldier ignominiously left Vietnam; and Pablo Picasso died.

    I also remember getting to Larry’s hometown Cobleskill, a beautiful little town in upstate New York, and meeting his parents. I’d heard about Cobleskill since 1969 when Larry breezed into Harrismith and we spent a fun year making memories and amok; early experiments mixing beer and petrol – which he called gas. Well, we had a gas! Fun times!

    The Wingert's place in Cobleskill NY

    That’s a really vague and sketchy recollection of a magic route! Larry doesn’t remember much more. In fact he confidently remembered the VW Bug as being red! ‘Tis not only my memory glands that are dodgy, I’m relieved to tell.

    He’s going to ask his sister Virginia. She’ll know more. I know we went here, cos my trusty Olympus trip 35 camera recorded it, but where is it?

    – someone will know where this is – Missouri River? Mississippi River? –

    ~~oo0oo~~

    A few days later, another VW Bug arrived, full of gorgeous Oklahomans; and one less-than-glamorous Aussie (where are you, Jonathan Kneebone?) . . . and this Bug was red.

    – l to r – gorgeous Oklahomans Dottie Moffett, Sherry Porter-Steele and Dale Moffett –

    We were headed for Canada!

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Our correspondence in 2017 went:

    Subject: Lost in the USA
    Hey Larry – Help a lost Vrystater who can’t remember where he has been!
    I know we left Shreveport in your lil greyish-greenish VW Bug and headed up to Little Rock (I guess on highways 49 and then 30) but after that I’ve hit a blank.
    And I know you took us to some interesting places. Do you remember the route you took? I’d love to hear it. Sort of a trip down Forgettery Lane. Cheers – Koos

    Larry:

    Forgettery Lane? You’re talking to someone who’s pretty much strolling down Alzheimer’s Avenue! (at least where 40+-year-old memories are concerned). BTW, if we traveled in a VW Beetle, it must have been red.

    Fortunately for us both, Ginny tends to be much better in the recall department than I am. I believe we started the trip as a way for me to check out some law schools (which I was sort of seriously considering at the time, but — fortunately — never pursued). She was good enough to volunteer to come along as a companion/navigator, though I’m afraid I was a bit tough on her in that latter capacity, especially when I got freaked out driving in Washington, D.C., where the traffic was a bit intense for a kid from the country and the city center is famously laid out like the spokes of a wheel, as opposed to the more traditional grid pattern. Not what I’d call intuitive.

    Thankfully we’re still on speaking terms, which I fear I put in jeopardy there for a while, so I’ll ask her (by means of CC-ing her on this e-mail) for any details she may recall. Unless I traumatized her so badly that she’s repressed the entire experience! Or perhaps it had the opposite effect and seared it into her memory — let’s hope for that. We were just together (in Roanoke) over the Easter holiday; wish I could have asked her about it directly.

    That’s a very long way of saying no, I don’t really remember our route — sorry. I’m still hopeful Ginny may be able to save my bacon.

    ~~oo0oo~~

  • Red River New Mexico 1973

    Red River New Mexico 1973

  • The Good Old Days – That’s Now

    The Good Old Days – That’s Now

    Nothing is more responsible for the good old days

    than a bad memory – Franklin Pierce Adams (1881-1960), American columnist & wit

    ~o0o~

    Steven Pinker has data and figures for important things in this world we live in and how these things have changed over the years.

    And some people hate him for it! They know the world is worse than it was in the ‘good old days’, but he shows data that shows how things – a lot of things – most things – have actually improved for the world’s humans.

    Wars still go on, including the worst war in a generation in Syria, but by and large the trend in war has been downward. A fraction of the number of people are killed in wars today, compared to the 1960s, ’70s, and ’80s.

    In fact, five-sixths of the earth’s surface is free of war. That’s an example of a kind of trend that you can’t really pick up from the news because when a country doesn’t have a war, it’s not news.

    Child mortality is down.

    Maternal mortality is down.

    Illiteracy is down. Ninety percent of the world’s population under the age of 25 can read and write.

    We’re even getting smarter: IQ scores have been rising by three points a decade for almost a century. (The Flynn Effect refers to the observed rise in IQ scores over time).

    We waste less of our waking hours on housework.

    We work fewer hours.

    We have wider access to culture.

    Many, many more people who would have lost contact with their families can now phone home.

    Its much easier for people working far from home to send money home.

    All these developments won’t make the news, but give you a bit more confidence in the way the world is heading, says Pinker, to boos from people who seem to dislike – and distrust – good news.

    Part of the problem is when pessimists speak they speak in serious, sober tones and people tend to nod gravely. Optimists tend to be more upbeat and human nature looks on that with misgiving – as though the optimist is being (heaven forbid!) frivolous! Years of listening to dominees and politicians have made us think pessimism is serious – and thus true.

    If we could go back to the good old days of our youths we would hear our elders seriously complaining about how bad things are!

    ~o0o~

    See this TED talk: Steven Pinker: Is the world getting better or worse?

  • Cycling the Free State Vlaktes

    Cycling the Free State Vlaktes

    Sheila asked:
    Hi Koos. What make were our bikes? Something with an R. Ruttludge? Rudling?

    I answered, ‘Rudge’. The same Rudge ridden by the English King.
    ‘Strue!

    Sheila’s and Barbara’s were red, mine was blue. Given to us by Mom and Dad around 1960 to 1965, I’d guess. We were certainly in the Kleinspan School and Barbara would have started there in 1958 or 1959, Sheila in 1961 or 1962 and me in-between those dates. They made the level, less-than-one-mile trip to school and back a breeze. We’d park them under cover at school in special bike afdaks with a slot in the concrete floor for the front wheel to go in and metal hoops to hold them upright.

    Ours were WAY more basic than the one above though. That one was probly the Koning Jors model, not the colonial one for the great unwashed. We had only a backpedal brake, no gears, no cables, no light, no pomp. Nor any ceremony. They did have that little L-shaped attachment in front of the handle-bar where we could attach a battery-powered square silver torchlight. But seldom did.

    The company Rudge-Whitworth Ltd. of Coventry, England was one of the prominent pushbike makers of the classic British era … Eventually bought by Raleigh in 1943, the Rudge name takes a rightfully prominent spot in England’s cycling history.
    Dan Rudge built the first Rudge high bicycles in 1870. But we weren’t ready for them then. In 1894 Rudge merged with the Whitworth Cycle Co. to form Rudge-Whitworth. They made an excellent reputation for themselves over the next twenty years for producing a full range of beautifully made machines with many clever and unique features.

    Rudges were ridden by King George V and family. See? There it is! Royal bums sat on seats just like ours! In 1947 those royal bums repeated the trick in Harrismith to bring their bums full cycle, in a manner of speaking. ‘Strue! Check it out here: https://vrystaatconfessions.com/2014/01/22/hijack-orange-express/

    The Rudge name was finally killed sometime in the early 1960s in Britain, but may well have been used in export markets later. To the colonies, where bums sat, but the sun never did.

    Later on, in high school, I got a bigger black ‘dikwiel’ bike – a ‘balloon tyre bike’ – tougher, more adventurous! Somewhat like these:

    I asked Pierre: Can you remember what we called our dikwiel bikes? Each one had a nickname. His immediate reply:
    Bolts, Schlump and Arrii. I had only remembered Arrii, named after a desert camel joke.

    Pierre continued:
    Like yesterday.
    Also recall the (world’s) first mountain bike race now known as MBR’s down Queens Hill and Tuffy crashing into and whipping out the barbed wire fence.

    Regards – Pierre

    ~~oo0oo~~

  • Up Sani Pass in Redfoot

    Up Sani Pass in Redfoot

    scan0033

    Three modern 4X4 bakkies and a 1979 Series II Landrover LWB with a Ford V6 3litre engine shoved in, hand-painted flat white with bright red wheels – ventured up Sani Pass one day. The three very capable bakkies sailed up with ease, boring ease, while Redfoot had to pause for a breather at about the handy stream crossings to have its radiator topped up and let its heart rate subside.

    The three more capable - but less photogenic - bakkies
    – The three more capable – but less photogenic – bakkies, and a truck that didn’t make it –

    But at photo op time where did everyone pose? On old Redfoot the Landie! Hey, we’re rugged! We battled up this pass!

    Redfoot Sani crop
    – and then on which vehicle did everyone pose for their “We Conquered the Mountain” picture? –

    See, driving a pickup you look like you’re going to work; but driving a Land Rover, you look like you’re going on an expedition! From which you might not return! Or return covered in grease!

    Kingfisher Canoe Club mates all, they naturally battled to behave themselves.

    sani_1
    – beautiful and special rockjumpers jumped on the rocks –

    Slightly disconcerting on the way down Sani: As Redfoot was catching its breath and airing its brakes halfway down, two nuns breezed past us, chatting gaily, in a 2X4 bakkie. They waved at us. Bitches.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Aitch found Redfoot. One of her PMB doctors was ‘doing up’ an old Landie, putting a new engine in and it ‘would be like new’ he said. He was a fibbing car salesman but my Need-A-4X4-O-Meter was up and he could have sold me a – Wait! He DID sell me a Landrover! Never thought I’d fall for one of those.

    ‘Only one previous owner’ he said and that was true: Besides him, only one previous owner – The KwaZulu bantustan homeland Police Force. I only found that out too late but anyway he’d have re-assured me that they treated it with kid gloves and as if it was their own, sticking to the speed limit, never over-loading it and at all times, staying on the tar.

    I bought it for R12000 in partnership with my three business partners, 25% each. I assured them they would thank me. I don’t think Lello and Stoute ever used it. Yoell did once. And Prem Singh used it once to take a wedding party to Ladysmith. Soutar used it a few times, but he doesn’t count as he also owned an old white Landrover.

    I spent a further R13000 on two more Ford engines and sold it with relief for R5000 hot cash. The Sani trip was the only worthwhile exercise it ever undertook. Come to think of it, I don’t think my Redfooted partners ever did thank me! I don’t know why. I mean, I may have sold it to them as an investment opportunity, surely not!? Anyway, they couldn’t deny it was a real conversation stopper. You had to say what you wanted before you left, cos on the journey there was no way you could even hear yourself speak, never mind what your victims passengers were saying. There was this slight hole in the aluminium between your knees and the engine compartment and also a slight hole in the aluminium between your heels and the road, so lots of noise rushed in where angels feared to tread.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    You’d think I’d have leanrned about Landies on this trip to Botswana. But nope, that trip was part of the reason I wanted one. I had to burn my own personal fingers.

  • Seeking to Dodge Salvation

    Seeking to Dodge Salvation

    Stephen Charles Reed sent a terrible picture of a recovering drunk back in the old days. Around 1980. He found this poor soul asleep on the covered veranda of his top floor flat in 10th Avenue off Clarence Road in Windermere, Durban and cruelly photographed him, him unknowing. Sleeping with his specs on so as not to have blurry dreams.

    Koos Steve flat ca1980
    – me – innocent –

    Later he accompanied the poor soul to the cafe on the corner for something to slake our Sunday morning cotton mouth thirst. En route we came across the Salvation Army on the pavement, gearing up their instruments, blowing the spit out, getting ready to go and blast a bracing dose of Christian ‘look sharp’ into some poor sinners’ ears. And we were convinced they’d marked us as just exactly the right type of sinners they needed.

    Neatly – if severely – dressed in their fierce outfits, sensible shoes and soldier-looking hoeds they glared at us, fiddling threateningly with their instruments.

    I could feel their accusing stares boring through the back of my head as I minced delicately past them, taking a wide – but not too wide – berth by stepping down into the gutter – where I belonged? – trying not to upset them in any way. Had they sounded the horn and hit the drum we might have capitulated and joined immediately. Thankfully a baleful stare was all we got and we made it past them. We eyed them out from a distance from the cafe door and returned to Stefaans’ flat once they’d parum-pum’d off a goodly distance down the road. Anyway, I’d already been saved a few years before, so there was no need for them to target me. Dunno about Stefaans – he looked like he needed a bit of salvaging.

    They were like this menacing-looking mob, except there were more tannies with sensible shoes, like in the top pic:

    salvation army

    hoeds – headgear; salute-worthy hats

    tannies – aunties

    parum pum – guilt-inducing tympanic torture

    Ah! This is better! THIS is what they looked like – Beryl Cook captured them perfectly:

    – see how fierce they are –

    and check out their instruments of tympanic torture ..

    ~~oo0oo~~

  • Tugela Gorgeous Boats n Boobs

    Tugela Gorgeous Boats n Boobs

    Bumbling down from Ngubevu through the legendary Tugela Gorge. Here’s Bernie Garcin (Bernie and the Jets), Doug Retief (Doug the Thief), Dave Walker (Lang Dawid) and me, preparing to spend the night at Fig Tree Sandbank campsite, one of the planet’s most beautiful spots.

    Kayak Tripping Tugela (2)

    Four plastic Perception kayaks – Dancer, Mirage and Quest. We tripped in 1984 and 1985. In those early days old-timers would still mock plastic boats, saying ‘tupperware keeps turkeys fresh,’ but we knew the joy of not having to nurse the boats, nor having to schlep fibreglass patch kits along, and just smiled! You can do more in plastic!

    Kayak Tripping Tugela (5)
    The bog roll got damp!
    – the bog roll got damp and needed drying –

    At the time Greg Bennett was sponsoring and competing in a motorised rubber duck race down the Tugela. Sacrilege! In ’84 he had Jerome Truran as crew, in ’85 Rip Kirby was his sidekick and pilot. Greg knew how to pick his rapid-readers while he ‘put foot’ in the back of the boat. We used Greg’s bakkie to get to Ngubevu. Then someone must have fetched us at Jamieson’s Bridge at the end.

    On one of the trips bare-breasted maidens flashed us! We saw a Landrover parked on a hill on the left bank, then saw some swimmers in the river. As they spotted us they ducked down, but then as we passed two of the girls popped up their lily-white tits to huge approval. They were like this except the water was brown and there were no cozzies and the parts hidden by this cozzie were lily-white – except for the central little bump, which was beautifully darker, and perky. Not that we stared.

    tugela boobs
    tugela-boobs

    The current swept us past them, but the mammaries lingered on.

    Four-man Hole was soon after that and I crowded into a Bernie-occupied eddy straight after the drop and punched the nose of my Quest into his ribs. Being Bernie he didn’t wince, but I knew it had hurt.

    Overnight at the crowded duck race camp the sponsors Lion Lager thought we were competitors, so their beautiful beer hostesses liberally plied us with ale. OK, lager. It was exactly like I imagine heaven is going to be: You walked up to the beer can-shaped trailer, said to the gorgeous lady ‘One Case Please’ and she plonked a tray of 24 cans on the counter, opened every tab pfft pfft pfft pfft – all 24 – and off you went. Stagger back to where you were pontificating.

    When they ran out of beer, I rummaged cleverly in the boats and found wine papsaks we used for flotation and squeezed out the dregs. Karen the gorgeous, voluptuous newspaper reporter – remember the days when they wrote stuff on paper? – was covering the event for The Natal Mercury or The Natal Witness or some-such. Went under the byline Karen Bliksem if I remember correctly. She held out her mug and as I dispensed I gave her the patter: “A good wine. Not a great wine, but a good wine, with a delicate bouquet.” She shook her mug impatiently and said endearingly, “I know fuckall about flowers, I’m in it for the alcohol,” and I fell deeply in love. Again. My kinda dreamboat lady in shape and attitude. She was like . . .

    tugela boobs_2

    Dave too, was smitten as one of the comely lager hostesses joined him in his laager and treated him to sincere sleeping bag hospitality above and beyond the call of duty, ending the session with a farewell flash of delightful décolletage as she kissed him goodbye in the morning. She was like . . .

    tugela barmaid

    or like . . .

    tugela barmaid boobs

    As we drifted downstream Lang Dawid led the singing. We sang:

    The landlord had a daughter fair – parlez vous 
    The landlord had a daughter fair – parlez vous 
    The landlord had a daughter fair 
    Lily-white tits and golden hair 
    Inky Pinky parlez vous

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    We sang to the resident goats: 
    I ain’t afraid of no goats 
    That was Doug the Thief's chirp.

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    We sang - to the tune of He Aint Heavy . . . : 
    Hy’s nie swaar nie . . . 
    hy’s my swa-a-a-er 
    Walker again.

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    Ah! Those were carefree daze!

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    Hy’s nie swaar nie, hy’s my swaer – He aint heavy, he’s my brother-in-law, haw-haw-haw-haw

  • A Crayfishing Oenophile CA LLB

    A Crayfishing Oenophile CA LLB

    John Newby was an LLB  attorney and a CA accountant, wine connoisseur, boyfriend of the lovely Heather – and a crayfisherman. A very capable and interesting fella. That’s him in the pic above, ‘cept I gave him more hair on top. He would shove his scrawny frame into a wetsuit and disappear under the waves among the rocks at low tide, then emerge with crayfish. Which he would then very generously cook and share with his fellow inmates at 72 Hunt Road, our communal house on the Berea in Durban.

    I always knew when a crayfish treat was coming cos he’d walk into my room, mumble an apology, roll back the carpet and shove his scrawny frame into a hole. He’d disappear under the floor of my baronial-style bedroom and emerge covered in cobwebs clutching a dusty wine bottle or two talking French and flowery oenological words which I took with a pinch of salt. Some people are just like that and you tolerate them, nodding gravely, while quaffing their wine. You don’t contradict if they’re buying.

    But lo! As with everything he did, Newby wasn’t bullshitting. We suddenly found out he had won the Natal Wine-Tasters Guild sniffing and spitting finals and was off to represent us at the nationals in Cape Town! I mean I always thought of myself as an oenophile, but that was in a volume and enthusiasm sense, not so much as a nexpert judge. I always swallow.

    Hunt Rd
    – our Hunt Rd neighbours – our house looked much the same –

    So now we were rooting for Nubile! We always knew he was a connoisseur, we now said. We had helped him train, we said. My memory is that he won that tasting too, and Hunt Road thus had an SA champion under our roof; WE were expert wine tasters.

    ..

    If I were you, I would take this 38yr-old self-serving memory with another sizable pinch of salt. And a large swallow of chablis.

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    Nubile upped and offed to Aussie, which we didn’t like, but worse: he took Heather with him!