There were two reasons we ‘borrowed’ Gerrie’s 1961 black Saab 93 4-cylinder 2-stroke late one night: (1). If you don’t give a car a run the battery can go flat, and (2). We had Larry the American Rotary Exchange student from New York with us, who might have heard that the Free State can be a very boring place with “nothing to do.” Especially at night. And also (3). A moving car is a safe place for schoolboys to drink beer in. These are facts.
Quietly wheeling it down the driveway we held our breath until we’d pushed it far enough, then quickly started it and we were OFF! Freedom! Beer! Speed! Steph was multi-tasking, driving and handing out the ‘longtom’ cans of Black Label beer his family’s obliging gardener had bought for us from Randolph Stiller’s Central Hotel offsales. My folks lost the sale because of their silly and pedantic “over-18’s” policy.
Tuffy always finished his before we hit third gear . . .
A quick routine stop to tap the fuel pump with the half brick kept under the bonnet for just that purpose, and we headed for new terrain.
We had already done the town athletic track and the school netball fields on other occasions, leaving our trademark donuts and figure-of-eights in the gravel.* This time our destination was Alfred vd Zeyde’s National Botanic Gardens on top of Queen’s Hill, stopping only once more to tap the fuel pump with the half-brick kept under the bonnet for just that purpose.
In the dark we met Kolhaas Lindstrom in his car. He was legit: He’d already left school and was a licenced driver. “Dice?” he challenged, and the game was on! Whizzing through the veld Rring-ding-ding-ding-RRriiing! It’s a two-stroke, remember?
Don’t believe the Minister of Transport, speed doesn’t kill you. Speed exhilarates. It’s the sudden stops that kill you. And the sudden stop and loud bang came as a surprise to us. Dead silence reigned until in an awed American upstate New York accent Larry exclaimed from the back seat, “We’ve had a head-on collision with a hill!” .
That broke the ice. The hill, meantime, had probably broken the suspension.
But no. A committee undercarriage inspection revealed all four wheels suspended in mid-air. Trying to gun it out left the front wheels whizzing around uselessly. Well, that is why there were five of us, so we man-handled it over the ditch and away we went, cleverer than before.
Forty five years later I flew in to inspect the scene of the mystery. Which was still unsolved and now a very cold case. The mystery was this: How could it be that such great and experienced drivers crashed? I mean some of us had been driving for . . well, months! And in not too many years’ time, we’d be licenced drivers.
I flew in via google earth. And there it was: A fault!! It was Queen’s Hill’s fault, not ours!
A great big fault – or ditch? – runs North-South across the whole hill. THAT was what caught us by surprise in the long grass.
I have little doubt that if one were to measure its width you’ll find it just a bit greater than the wheelbase of a 1961 Saab93!
~~~oo0oo~~~
* Next time you’re wondering who made those ‘crop circles’? Think a) Homo sapiens; b) Homo sapiens subspecies pranksterii; c) Alcohol; These are facts.
When I paddled the Berg river marathon in 1983, that crazy 200km (‘241km Pete!’ Giel van Deventer reminds me. He’s the Berg historian) f-freezing f-flatwater f-foolishness, the oldest oke in the race was Ole man Myers (ancient: Sixty if he was a day).
Ian lost his boat one night when the waters rose – he’d left it too close to the bank on finishing that day’s leg as he scurried off to swallow the sponsors sherry. Most canoe races you drink beer as you finish, but it’s too blerrie cold for beer in the freezing Cape winter. Sherry!
The next day he had to find his canoe downstream and take it back to the start – and so he arrived at that leg’s finish VERY late – even after me.
We were eating supper – a whole chicken each washed down with copious slugs of KWV sherry – when word spread round the camp: ‘Ian is here! Come! Let’s gather on the bank to welcome him.’
He paddled up in the dark singing: “Roamin’ in the gloamin’ by the bonny banks of Clyde . .“
What style!
– a salute! to Ian Myers –
I loved – and learned from – his calm, unfussed approach. Carry on; and carry on singing; moenie panic nie.
~~oo0oo~~
moenie panic nie – don’t panic; as Douglas Adams also reminded us in Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
Trudi won Miss Personality at Maritzburg Varsity. We could have told them that she’d win beforehand if they’d asked. Her prize: A trip to Rio de Janeiro! Steph arranged a farewell party at Shady Pines in Stuart Street in the mighty metropolis of Harrismith, Vrystaat on the night of her departure; after which opskop we would deliver her safe and pickled to the Harrismith stasie.
You didn’t know trips to Rio de Janeiro start at Harrismith Railway Station?! Ha! It goes to show . . . bone up on your geography.
At the station we bid her farewell in moviestar style, Trudi hanging out the window, fans crowded on the platform, much hubbub (just like in any good romantic movie). Here we are, hubbubbing:
party goers saying bye – Bibi de Vos pic
Here’s Trudi with her hatbox:
credit: alamy free use
All the mense are on the platform looking up to Trudi. Looks like Glutz and Steph in the pic. Except some ringleaders are missing. Where could John and Nick be? Ah, the-ere they are, off the very far end of the platform on the tracks talking to the train driver. I recognise Nick’s leg of white plaster of paris in the gloom. I scurry over and get there just in time to hear: “Nooit, meneer, this are not a melktrein, this are ve Orange Express! No stops before Beflehem.”
He reminds me of the rumour that you can’t find three wise men in the Vrystaat. But he does turn out to be wise after some rooinek private school farmer persuasion, as he partially relents: “OK, ve bess I can do for yous is I’ll slow down when I pass Rivierdraaistasie.”
Right!
We hop on, and soon the train pulls off. John the agile gymnast has a case of beer under his one arm and a wicked grin under his one moustache. We make our way to Trudi’s cabin. “What on earth are you guys doing here?” We repeat a very hasty goodbye because already the train is FLYING! I myself am now rather nervous and if it wasn’t for the medicinal value of beer I might have said something sensible. We each take position at a door and watch as the poles whizz past us in a blur. Bliksem, when’s he gonna slow down?
Past the crossing to Swiss Valley where Nick (whose leg is in plaster so he is chosen to drive the getaway car, having proved his mettle and driving skills by breaking his leg when he pranged his car – just like in any good gangster movie) was going to meet us. The railway crossing whizzes past clickety-clack plus, and it feels like we’re accelerating! If we can’t jump, Beflehem will get its three wise men tonight.
– the lantern held aloft –
Suddenly a decrease in speed and, peering forward, some lights in the dark. Get ready to jump. Arse over kettle each one of us hits the ground and tumbles. I almost stayed on my feet but then had to duck for the big sign RIVIERDRAAISTASIE one word. But one man didn’t fall: He who held the case of beers on stocky legs kept it together! Likely helped by that brush moustache acting as a windbreak and steadying the ship. We ran back up the track into the dark as a man came stumbling out of the stasie kantoor, lantern held aloft (just like in any good Orient Express movie), yelling that famous Afrikaans query, ‘Vuddafokgaanhieraan!?’
When we gathered, a sober head prevailed. Probly Nick’s, limping driver of the getaway car. “Boys, we can’t go! We can’t ‘drop’ the train driver. The stasiemeester will have to put in a report and our man the driver will get into trouble. We have to go and talk to the stasiemeester.“
So a delegation is sent back to the stasie, one limping, one carrying a carrypack as a peace offering. The rest of sit in the veld in the pitch dark awaiting their return, supping thoughtfully on John’s case of ales. And we await and await.
Eventually – just when we think maybe they’ve gone to jail – they return, much merrier and cleverer than when they left, Nick’s limp replaced by a hop-n-skip. Apparently as they started to say Naand Meneer, ons is jammer . . the oke said: “That’s the BEST thing that’s happened to me in all my years at Rivierdraai Stasie!” and insisted they sit and join him for a dop, pulling a bottle of brandewyn from the top drawer of his desk (just like in any good cowboy movie).
~~oo0oo~~
A sequel:
Is nothing a secret in a small dorp? I get home before sunrise, and later that same morning my Mom peeps her head into my bedroom in my garden cottage, The Country Mansion: “Were you on that train?” asks Mary Methodist in her woe-unto-us voice, “I’m so glad you’re home safely,” what a special Mom. At about nineteen years old, though, I couldn’t understand why she was fussing. It did sort-of dawn on me decades later, just like in any good psychodrama movie, when I had a nineteen year old who inherited all the wrong genes from me.
– my Country Mansion on the left –
~~~oo0oo~~~
stasie – Harrismith: famous station; opened just in time for the Boer War, still going; Rivierdraai: Made famous by Koning Jors en famille in 1947, then by us ca. 1970. So a famous tiny siding station; now derelict, not our fault.
stasie kantoor – station master’s office furnished with govt issue desk and chair; desk has a top drawer
nooit meneer – sorry, china; beg pardon, sir; no way, José
china – my frie-end!
melktrein – slow moving train; frequent stops; never called ‘express’
stasiemeester – station master; CEO
Vuddafokgaanhieraan? – what’s up, gentlemen? May I help you?
naand meneer, jammer – evening sir; we apol . .
dop – stiff tots from that brandy bottle in the top drawer
brandewyn – brandy; or whatever was on special at Platberg drankwinkel
drankwinkel – drinking shop; bottle store; liquor store
~~o0o~~
A Prequel
Riverdraai had received belangrike and almost-as-exciting visitors along its railway line once before!
The South African Railways – actually SA taxpayers – provided a fairly new Royal Train for Mr and Mrs King of Britain when they visited Southern Africa in 1947, so that they could get to Rivierdraaistasie and then ride horses to Platberg, our mountain above Harrismith. The spoorweg ous painted the coaches white, and the Garratt locomotives a deep royal blue for the trip to Rivierdraai. We actually provided three trains for the donners. The Royal Party travelled in the White Train, recycled from the 1925 Prince of Wales and 1934 Prince George Royal Tours, thank goodness, to save a bit of ponde. A Pilot Train ran 30 minutes in front of the White Train and carried lesser officials, tame gushing press people and servants. And bringing up the rear, a Ghost Train followed the White Train carrying spare parts for the trains, maintenance gear for the trains, and maybe inappropriate boyfriends for princesses? No horses, though.
Our dorpie Harrismith down the track had to provide horses for the royal bums (get the double entendre there?). I only know from the ole man that Margaret got Piet Steyn’s grey; I’m sure they all got good mounts from the good people of the dorp. They rode to the akkerbos and back and I’m sure they had fun and I’m sure the Rivierdraaistasie stasiemeester gave them a nice welcome.
But I bet he didn’t haul out his secret brandewyn stash for them!
~~o0o~~
An Update
Darn! The desk with the brandy bottle in the top drawer has gone . .
– Ah, the sign didn’t have ‘stasie’ – just RIVIERDRAAI one word –
~~oo0oo~~
belangrike – important; Rivierdraaistasie was used by the 1947 royal visit when King Jors brought the tannie and two dogters to visit HS and Platberg
1971: Rugby in Bloemfontein, first test Springboks vs le Frogs, the French. We drove over in Tabs’ car to watch.
Apparently: . . . “this test is remembered for a famous tackle by Bourgarel on a charging Frik du Preez. Frik was charging down the touchline, all cylinders firing, on his way to what look like a certain try. Bourgarel, however, had other plans. The little French wing came from the side, fly-tackling Frik; dumping him unceremoniously over the touchline to the disgust of the crowd, who even came-up with a chant for the Bourgarel as a consequence. ‘Boe-ga-rel, gaan na die hel!’
One of the teams must have won, but I remember that test for something different: After the game, Tabs, Des, Raz, Stervis and I are driving back to Harrismith when the beer ran out and a kroeg – no way you would call it a pub – in the dusty metropolis of Senekal beckoned.
Tabs remembers us playing darts and drinking maybe quite a lot. By the time the barman threw us out Des had bonded deeply with one of Senekal’s left-behinds, and when we suggested we leave for home rather than go home with Deliverance for a braai, Des told us in no uncertain terms that WE could go, but HE was not leaving his lifelong mate – of three hours – in the lurch. There would be no abandonment, said Des with his nose in the air and his eyes closed – you know how he gets.
ONE fing we must NOT do, we were told, also in no uncertain terms, by Des’ Brokeback Mountain mate when we got to the small house on the wrong side of Senekal, is wake his wife. Lemme tell you carefully, you must not, no marrer whut you do, wake my wahf, you hear?
Wooden floors, five drunk ous stumbling around, I started to think this goon doesn’t actually have a wife. Conan meanwhile, is scratching around in the rusty barbarian chest deep freeze. He hauls out what looks like a roundish, rock-hard lump of blood in a plastic checkers packet, and suddenly I get a clear image: He DOES have a wife and she IS in the house! In that deep freeze! In fact, he’s offering us a piece of her for a braai! I’m tallying you, we’re part of his alibi!
Des, I urge, we should go, this is going to take forever, I’m tallying you. But it’s like Des told us: WE can go, but HE’s not leaving his lifelong mate; his china; his Senekal Soulmate.
It’s midnight in midwinter in Senekal, Vrystaat. It’s not warm. Eventually a fire gets going – sort of – and the icy red lumpy piece of deceased wife sits on it, refusing to melt. Its like big ice vs small fire and ice is winning. An alternative hazy recollection is the oven was turned on and the lump placed in there. Exact facts are in dispute among us hostages decades later. Maybe Stockholm Syndrome?
Meantime, Jack Nicholson has found some dop and we have to drink, and luckily this puts him to sleep and mellows the Glutz, who loves Jeffrey Dahmer less sleeping than awake; so we’re able to persuade him to make a bolt for it, hitting the Senekal dirt roads till we find the tar to Harrismith.
Stervis has a hazy recollection of a lump of red meat being put into an oven, not on a braai; and of the Wildman pulling out a gun, Clint Oosthuizen-style, and taking potshots at us as the getaway car spins madly down the driveway, slewing sideways and throwing up stones which put Rambo off his aim. Luckily the resulting dust plume obscures us from view and saves our lives. I like Stervis’ version.
Tabs has a slightly different recollection which the years have not made any less exciting: His version is also wilder than mine: He remembers this Clyde making threats against anyone wanting to pomp his Bonnie, who he thought we may have seen – maybe she was present? Having to protect his wahf’s honour made our Clyde mutter he was going to fetch his gun. We took the break and ran for the car. Out of the corner of his eye Tabs, now the driver of the getaway car, noticed one of us was quite a way behind in this desperate race. Des had refused to leave but seeing the departing car had changed what passes for his mind. As the car peeled out, wheels spinning, Des leapt the fence Olympic hurdler-style. His short cut got him to the moving car, the door was flung open and he dived inside, saving him from a feit wors van deaf.
Bliksem!
To this day I can experience that weird, out-of-body sensation of “WTF are we DOING here? Am I in a bad movie or having a bad dream?!” It’s the stuff of nagmerries, I choon you!
Memories are dodgy things. Tabs pointed out in 2021 that it could not have been 1971 as we were both still in school. It was 1975 – I have fixed it here, but I’ve left this post as is so you can read about Bourgarel le brave Frog!
Boe-ga-rel, gaan na die hel! – go to hell
a feit wors van deaf – a fate worse than death, also with raw meat
I went looking for Dottie, wondering where she was and what she was doing. And found an obituary on the internet!
Dottie Moffett Butler died unexpectedly at her home in San Diego, California on Wednesday 5 July 2006. Dottie was born 8 July 1955 in Daytona Beach Florida. At the age of seven her family moved to Chickasha Oklahoma and then, several years later, moved to Ardmore Oklahoma. Dottie graduated from Ardmore High School where she was active in several student organizations, including the women’s tennis team.
During her junior year she was a Rotary Exchange student to South Africa.
She earned her bachelor’s degree from the University of Cape Town, South Africa, and then her master’s degree in psychology from East Central University in Ada Oklahoma. As a psychologist, Dottie was a compassionate and caring counselor whose gift for helping others through difficult times will long be remembered. Dottie is survived by her husband, Dr. Harrison Butler, in San Diego; her mother, Dorothy Moffett McCall, in Durham North Carolina; her sister, Dale Moffett, in Cary North Carolina; two brothers, David Moffett and his wife Mary, Minneapolis Minnesota, and Denny Moffett and his wife Mary, Tulsa Oklahoma, as well as several nieces and nephews. She was preceded in death by her father Dr. J. Denny Moffett Jr.
Condolences to the family may be sent in care of Dorothy McCall (her mother), Durham, NC (note: since deceased – in 2014, aged 88).
Her family suggests contributions in Dottie’s memory be made to The Wilson House, East Dorest Vermont. A remembrance service for Dottie was held July 15, in San Diego. A second service will be held on Saturday, 4 September 2006 on Mt. Desert Island in Maine, where Dottie and others in her family have enjoyed the serenity and peacefulness of Long Pond.
Information provided by Haigh-Black Funeral Home and Cremation Service.
~~~oo0oo~~~
Devastated. Too soon! Dottie was a special lady. I knew her only for a couple years, in Oklahoma and in Cape Town, but she was unforgettable – her big heart, her hearty laugh, and much else – just a special person . . . . . darn!
Here’s Dottie with Jim Patterson of Apache OK in the Sangre de Christo mountains of New Mexico in 1973.
UPDATE July 2020: I have just discovered a bunch of old letters in boxes in the garage; some of them from Dottie! Lovely surprise. I had visited her in Cape Town and she was all confused. Something about a boyfriend. Good thing she didn’t ask for advice – I was pathetic at relationships! She was taking him home to meet her twin sister Dale and her Mom and I think there was some nervous tension.
~~~oo0oo~~~
– Dottie’s Dad Dr Denny Moffett gave me this lovely book in Ardmore, OK –
Mary and Manie Wessels Rietvlei joined the folks Mary and Pieter Swanepoel for Xmas 1979 at 37 Piet Uys street. Barbara and Jeff, Koos and Sheila and Annie were there, too. As was poor Selina! Hopefully she got time off for being on duty on Xmas day!
Looks like colour film hadn’t been fully invented yet . .
Barbara – and Selina behind her, working on Xmas day!
Vrystaat Confessions 