1

Cry Freedom too

(Revised 2009)
Foreword
Are South Africans really free after 1994? Fifteen years of
democracy has been celebrated with big fanfare and spending
millions of dollars, but the question remains: “Are all South Africans
free?” Are all South African actually and equally free? Does the
constitution, the fifteenth anniversary also now celebrated, really
offer the freedom guaranteed in the Bill of Human Rights?
The writer, Herman Toerien, who has an Honors Degree in Political
Science and is an experienced news reporter, studied
Constitutional Law part time in 1994, thus under the new
constitutional dispensation. He was also a political researcher for
the African Christian Democratic Party, but free lance for the past
year.
Yet, the year after he completed his Constitutional Law
qualification, he himself became a victim of the new dispensation.
The resulting conflict, utilizing the instruments to protect human
rights, such as the Human Rights Commission and the Public
Protector, had not yet been resolved, a decade and a half later.
Yet, Cry Freedom too, rich in symbolism, is not his own story, not
quite. He explores reality as how many others battle to have their
human rights to be upheld. The tales of most characters in this
book are true, drawn from electronic newspaper archives, and
some are based on reality, some he met in person, all carefully
woven into a single story. Not all try to make the constitution work.
Some have given up hope of a life as painted in the constitution.
Rather than criticizing the constitution, he points out that not even
the best constitution in the world can guarantee heaven on earth.
He uses footnotes in order to have the text itself flow easier with the
3

slang and expressions of life out there – the life of the “outsiders,”
yet explaining them to the person who had not been exposed to
that life.
The ten chapters of Cry Freedom too were deliberately selected to
have some bearing on the Ten Commandments. Touching on
Toltec and even earlier philosophy one becomes aware that very
little is new in life.
Take note that this manuscript was not accepted by any South
African publisher – one claiming it not to be credible. When
responding that it contains no fiction, just names, places and
careers changed, the response was that reality is often stranger
than fiction. Although the author has success with writing short,
Afrikaans humor stories (also published in Huisgenoot, but mostly
as “Herrie se Kerrie” in Vrystaat, and stories read on radio” one
should not expect something that should have been accepted by a
publisher, politically correct or not.
Since the original text was published, political correctness more or
less was thrown out of the window, with first black editors stating
that they have been humiliated enough by the artificial “protection”
from criticism black leaders enjoy. The then president, Thabo
Mbeki, became an early victim of this new objectivity, and “white”
newspapers joined into the freedom the dropping of political
correctness brought.
This resulted in new racial polarization, though, as is demonstrated
by the 2009 election results with the ANC, despite the Cope rift, still
almost gathering a two thirds majority. Traditional SA is not yet
ready for a situation where a white woman, opposition leader Helen
Zille, can get away with mocking a black man with several wives.
 4

Cry Freedom too

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

Aggenbach’s bread

An evening in South African suburbia

They eat horses don’t they?

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Preamble of the South African Constitution

We, the people of South Africa

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

One probably never gets used to sleeping on a park bench.

Contrary to popular generalization that those park benches are the
favorite “beds” for hoboes; that definitely is not the case. For
starters, they are very seldom placed at venues that offer some
protection against a cold wind, or rain. Some dirty alley is much
more in the line of what the doctor ordered.

Even be it a Cuban doctor, imported by the South African

government after getting rid of a lot of our own top doctors. Cuban
doctors whose slave like contracts signed between two
governments, were carefully upheld by the South African
government. Even if that means that a doctor is arrested and
deported after his contract expires, and he does not whish to return
to Castro’s communist paradise.

Hoboes are also prime targets in South Africa’s present crime

wave. It makes little sense that a hobo may be murdered for the
pair of worn shoes covering his bare feet, or a dime he might have
picked up still being in his pocket. But so too, the explanation that
crime is to be blamed on the growing unemployment rate, also
makes little sense when taking into account that robbing a person
of his Mercedes, smuggling Crack and ripping old people of their
life savings by pyramid schemes, do also not look like the work of
people struggling to survive unemployment’s hunger.

Unless, off course, they have some immense hunger to still. Or are
on their part being ripped off.
7

A lot of crime, it seems, is the result of a mental state of mind. The

homeless seldom bother to bend their minds, such as is the case
with the academics, why some people go about murdering, robbing,
stealing and raping. Their mind is much more focused on the
practicalities of not being the next crime victim.

But some nights, a bench in the park is better than nothing at all.
Last night Jason and I were sitting on a park bench studying the
stars and every now and again observing a satellite passing over.
These topics mostly do not interest Jason, but some time yesterday
he struck it lucky. He got hold of almost a quarter bottle of spirits.1
Or Blue Train as we call it.

South Africa’s luxurious Blue Train, a top-hotel on wheels, is world

famous. The real Blue Train takes the rich and the fortunate on
trips. The hoboes’ Blue Train takes one on a trip as well. Thus,
Jason was more talkative than usual, and commented on a lot of
things that usually would not interest him at all. Even asking some
questions:

“What the %$# prevents the satellite from dropping on our heads?”
And to my surprise: “Like Skylab?”

1
Spirits is usually not a hobo’s number one choice. It has a terrible
smell on it, and gives away one’s intoxication very easily. It is also
not to good for one’s health. To “purify” it somewhat, hobo’s who
happen to have a piece of white bread, filters it through the bread,
taking out most of the blue color. Often, bread is not around, or
one does not bother.
 8

I like explaining these things, even knowing that the next morning
Jason won’t remember asking these questions, let alone remember
the answers.

After a while the Blue Train ran Jason over. He was fast asleep on
this hard, cold park bench. I took some old newspapers from his
bag, and put some under his bony frame. Then I blanketed him with
some more. I knew that I would have to check that he is covered a
few times during the night. It’s not quite winter yet, but chilly enough
to kill an intoxicated person exposed for too long.

I, then, made myself as comfortable as possible on a park bench

close by. I stared at the stars for some time, before also drifting off
to a world far removed from where life can turn its back on one. I
recalled that once a little boy came sitting next to me, and asked
me why I sleep on a park bench rather than a bed.

“My lad,” I explained. “With me almost seven foot tall, I can find no
bed long enough so that my feet don’t stick out. I absolutely detest
having cold feet.”

The kid’s mother was within hearing distance, and she giggled.
Jason, too, could hear what I was telling the youngster, and was
roaring with laughter.

Table Mountain, world famous asset of South Africa’s Cape Town,

is covered under a cloud sheet when sunrays start filtering through
the early morning darkness. A light breeze from the north stirring
the dry odd oak leaves will soon dispatch of the cloud cover on
9

Table Mountain. But it also spells the coming of winter, and with
winter in the Cape, rainy weather.

The Cape’s rainy weather is rather harsh on the homeless, even

with the festivities of the ten years of democracy still in the air. It
can rain for days no-end. Roaring wind gusts pump dampness into
every possible shelter a homeless person might hope to find. Deep
in the alleys the whirling dampness will follow, drenching the
clothes and blankets issued by the Salvation Army. The next day
the police van will pick up another stiff for yet another paupers’
funeral. Yet, as from no where relatives will pop out, curious as to
whether the old gent or lady might not have left some fortune
behind. The winters are as miserable to the homeless as they had
been since the first Strandlopers2 and even earlier humanoids
wandered these parts millennia ago.

There are the rare occasions that a dead hobo might turn out to be
a millionaire. A large enough amount of money where interest and
capital are not eroded and destroyed by banking costs and taxes -
money somewhere in an investment not touched on for decades
and often forgotten about. But not always forgotten. Some know
pretty well that they are rich, and draw up a will. Those who forsake
them, rarely benefit. Rather the SPCA to have strayed cats and
dogs; which shared life and friendship, been looked after. Or an
orphanage, or soup kitchen or shelter, making life more bearable
for those who have shared life’s less attractive ends.

2
Early indigenous people, residing mostly on the coast when the
first Europeans arrived, mostly living from the sea after apparently
been robbed of their cattle by other tribes.
 10

But mostly, hoboes really die poor, without penny to the name.
Because pennies can accumulate, and accumulated pennies can
buy a bottle of Blue Train.

Yet, very few die poor in the mind. With him, Silver de Lange took a
unique ability to do magic with the accordion to the grave. Others
can tell stories that would enrich the country’s literature endlessly,
yet these masterpieces are buried with the hobo. They can tell
stories that will make a youngster think twice before experimenting
with drugs.

They carry in them a wisdom that can not be learnt from books.

A wealth in the head, not in the pocket.

The wind also stirs at the tips of old newspaper sheets spread over
the length of my park bench. The stirring of the pages serves as
alarm clock.

“Praise the Lord for another beautiful day.” This I do every morning
when waking up, even if I am drenched wet to the bone if it started
raining during the night. This morning I am greeted with squirrels
from the park, dashing up and down century old oak trees with
acorns picked up for the coming winter. A few early pigeons also
start walking up and down the park walkways, impatiently waiting
for the first visitors to start feeding them and the squirrels some
peanuts.

I sit upright, stretching my arms upwards: “Ah!”

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Walking over to another bench, also covered with newspapers, I

apply a battered boot to a somewhat elevated part of the heap,
which, it soon becomes apparent, is Jason’s bottom.

“Wakey, wakey” I urge the sleeping figure under the newspapers.

This one does not move so soon, however.

“Babelaas3” I mutter.

“%$#@ yes Fred,” comes a voice from under the newspapers. “But
what kind of outie4 are you who does not drink?”

“That’s my private business,” I snap, clearly shaken by this remark.

“It seems as though winter is on us,” I continue, changing the

subject deliberately.

Not only hoboes suffer when the Cape winter sets in. Cape Town is
surrounded by thousands of squatter structures, people who have
mostly migrated from far of Transkei in search of a better life.
These squatter areas spring up as from no where, initially hidden
by the dense Port Jackson trees covering the Cape Flats. But flat
are the flats, and once it starts raining, these makokoos (shelters)
offer little shelter from rain and dampness. Apart from dampness
finding its way through the tiniest of openings, floodwater can add
more misery and cause damage to the belongings of those who
have almost nothing.

3
Hang over
4
Hobo
 12

Elsewhere in the country these structures are mostly built from

corrugated iron and wire stolen from farmer’s fences, but the ones
in the Western Cape are mostly built from wooden material. This
adds misery, as virtual entire squatter towns regularly burn down,
the flames consuming most of the meager earthly belongings, and
often an elderly, handicapped or helpless baby as well. This,
tragically does not often happen during the dry, hot summers, but in
winter when poor people use any means of getting some heat into
the structure they call home.

It is amazing to see at what rate a burnt down squatter town can be

resurrected after being torched from the face of the earth. A mere
few days later, the entire community life will proceed within the
newly erected structures, as though it had been there for a long
time.

It is believed that at least some of these fires were set deliberately,

as the squatters are flooded with new blankets, food parcels and
much more after such fires. It is even alleged that it was observed
how squatters puncture or cut the fire hoses preventing the fires
from being stopped too soon. Not all benefit. Chrisjan and Sarie
Coetzee, a white couple I once met, were kicked out of the soup
kitchen line set up by a super market after such a blaze, simply
because they are white. Their black neighbors shared.

Not only do the people living in these structures adapt to conditions.

With them they bring cattle, goats and other live stock. One
informal farmer farms with more than 300 head of cattle, without
owning a square centimeter of land. The cattle simply share the
open spaces with other animals, not being very selective on what is
13

being regarded as edible. Another township farmer taught his

animals to cross a busy highway near Cape Town’s international
airport every day, using a pedestrian bridge, to go grazing in a
nature reserve.

“Do you have plans to go somewhere?” come the voice from under
the newspapers.

Wintertime is no fun time for South African hoboes. Although only

the southern tip of the country gets winter rain, the rest of the
country is bitterly cold at night. Winter night temperatures frequently
drop to way under freezing point. The exception is the Durban area,
and hoboes all over the interior migrate there in wintertime. But
Durban is approximately a thousand miles from Cape Town.
Hoboes don’t easily get lifts anymore – not with all the hijacking
going on in this country.

The funny thing, those who have voted for the government in
masses, and are still celebrating their fifteen years of freedom, are
probably those least free – being exposed to the harshest sharp
side of the Cape winter when it lashes down on the Cape Flats.
Recent figures show that some Black folks have indeed bettered
their living standards, but they are a few, and that the poorer have
indeed become poorer. Only now there are some white folks, even
if not all that many, added to the poorest of the poor.

No wonder some newspapers and academics were getting worried

with former President Thabo Mbeki, a former Communist, making
socialist noises some time ago. Of course, there are many who
have been very opposed to the slightest signs of socialism, as
coming from the ANC’s trade union partner all the time, which now
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suddenly came to a better understanding of socialist practice, since

Mbeki has figured this out. “Hippocrates” Jason would call them,
about the only learned word he ever uses. In a country like ours,
that is not all that strange, however.

But Mbeki is history now – even more than his predecessor, Nelson
Mandela, still fondly called Madiba by the haves and those still
believing the washing machines he promised will one day start
raining down.

I not only use the newspapers to sleep under. I also read them
thoroughly. With my tall frame of more than six and a half foot it
takes quite a lot of newspapers to get me covered. Thus quite a lot
of reading material as well.

This year, I simply feel I need to go to a place that offers better

protection against winter. I recently saw a brochure advertising the
many benefits of the Hermanus area, and that had been bugging
me mind ever since, even though Hermanus also falls under the
winter rain section of the country. Maybe I need a mental break as
well. Maybe the festive celebrations to feast on fictional
improvements are driving my mind out of Cape Town, where
Parliament sets the carnival tone.

But Jason’s reference to me not drinking, did sling my mind back

some years – to my childhood. Childhood is to where the origins of
the life on the streets of many of the homeless can be traced.
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2. Ripped by the tide

I’d been a bright pupil when still at school. At least that was what
everybody told me, including the teachers, and that should account
for something. It was only my father and myself, after my mother
died when I was still very young. My father, the tall blonde
Dutchman working on a fishing trawler, us living in a neat rented
fisherman’s style built house, looking out over the sea.

Our West Coast fishing town might not have been as picturesque
as those fishing villages on the Cape South Coast, with blue
mountains dropping into the sea right next to the village’s flanks,
but the colorful painted houses made up for a lot. Red and blue
roofs, with walls varying from bright white to olive green, make a
terrific impression on a person as well. Fishermen and their wives
would often sit on the rocky beaches, mending fishing nets before
the trawlers once again head out to the deep blue to bring some
more bread to the table.

When the quotas are right, and the fish are plentiful, the people in
the village have not too much to be bothered about. They can make
jokes the entire day, displaying their unique sense of humor. In the
evenings they can hang around the bar, making jokes while the
liquor starts to take toll. Inevitably this will end in a nice brawl, with
policemen rushing in to break up the fun.

Life was not always all that easy, however. My father, when first he
came to this country, fell in love with the most beautiful girl in our
fishing village. She happened to be the daughter of a Cape Colored
family. A very rich family moving in the highest circles, often across
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the color line, something very rare back then. She was actually a
Malaysian5 girl who had a Muslin upbringing. Marriage over the
color line was against the law until a few years ago. With the utmost
difficulty, my mother was re-classified to white to be able to marry
my father.

The application succeeded eventually because my mother could

argue that her parents could often play white without being caught.
To play white was a somewhat snobbish game played by some
coloreds to prove that they can pass for white. This was done by
getting on a whites only buss or train without the conductor kicking
one off. One could also enter a police station on the whites only
side of the division at the complaints’ counter, or the counter in the
post office or bank.

Those whose complexion gave them away to easily, would often

see a neighbor or relative standing in the wrong queue, not to
notice those who recognized him or her. This often led to a whole
lot of unpleasantness. Sometimes a family would silently pass into
the white community, with only relatives in the far off town of origin
being any the wiser.

Once on the “right” side of the color line, these has-been non-
whites would become more white than the whites themselves. A
few years ago one even made a number of tiny statues for a right

5
Although called Malaysians, the Muslim population in the Cape
mostly actually descends from slaves brought from Indonesia and
other East Indian islands. Indonesia, as the old Cape Colony, used
to be Dutch possessions in the 17th century.
17

wing white political party. Not that he had ever been paid for all of
them.

The real trouble during that period in history came when a colored
family would make enough money to bribe their way into the white
community, despite appearance actually allowing this.

I can remember my mom as a woman who looked like a well

tanned white. I have seen many whites who were actually darker
than she was.

This opened the door for getting married legally, but her
community, especially the Muslims, initially rejected my mother.
Muslims generally do not take kindly when one of their kind leaves
the faith. The white community never accepted my dad, let alone
my mother or me. According to my dad, his family in Holland cut
him out of their lives. Yet, my parents and I found, living with the
coloreds was more tolerable than living amongst whites.

Ironically, very few white South Africans can really claim to be

white. In early settlement days white women were rather scarce.
Slave girls from the Far East, or Koi women became wives.
Children with parents from different racial groups were borne ever
since, even when it became officially against the law. Skin color can
be very misleading in establishing one’s race.

One would have thought that race would not matter as much now
that apartheid had been abolished. Yet, nowadays race is much
more important than the last few years before the New South Africa
was officially born in 1994. One must indicate one’s race on census
forms and a lot of other documentation. How else would
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government be able to establish whether one should be on the

short end of affirmative action, if they can not establish from one’s
appearance whether one should be subjected to a complex series
of racial discriminatory measures, called non-racialism?

Soon after my family turned to the colored community for

acceptance we were part of that community, and happy.

When my mother died, I was a three year old blonde boy with blue
eyes. Nothing in the law books prevented us from moving to the
white area. But my dad resisted. The coloreds accepted our family
over time, and stood by us. When I had to start attending school, I
went to the colored school with my friends. This was illegal, and my
dad went to all the trouble of having me classified as a colored.
This, in the end, succeeded on account of my mother’s original
classification.

“Your mother must have had a lot of white blood in her veins, to
have a blonde child with blue eyes,” the registration officer
remarked when scrutinizing me to establish my race. He was
clearly reluctant to have me classified a colored.

“The whites are such a few. The coloreds are multiplying like rock
rabbits. Let alone the blacks,” he complained. “You even have hair
on your arms,” he objected, as I have just passed another test to be
Caucasian … having body hair.

But in the end I cried so much, he gave in.

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We were a content family after that. At least, more or less content.

My father always had a licking of Hollandse Jenewer6. After my
mother’s death, he often drowned his sorrows in the bottle. He lost
his job more than once as a result, but on each occasion got the job
back when pleading, holding me with my deep blue eyes on his
arm. But even when drunk, my father treated me as a prince. So
unlike other families where a drunken father or mother would beat
up the kids and spouse. When I was a bit older, I started feeling
very self-conscious, to see my father drunken, and especially
throwing all self-respect overboard to plead for his job. I realized he
did this for me. I decided never to indulge in drinking. But that was
not the main reason.

Our more or less content living all changed one day. The trawlers
were set to go out to sea, staying away for a week or so. As usual,
I, then aged 15, took my father’s suitcase to the docks, where my
dad and the other crew were noisily doing the final preparations.
Typically, they were pulling the legs of the others, making funny
remarks, and laughing full of joy.

I still remember the ice-cold shivers running down my spine when

greeting my dad, and seeing the deep sorrow in his eyes. Though
being accustomed to see my dad sad, this time there was raw,
shocking sadness in my father’s eyes, which I have never seen
before.

“Bye-bye, Daddy.” My voice was rather thin.

My father squeezed my shoulder, and started walking to the boat,

for the first time saying nothing. I could see my father could not

6
Dutch gin.
 20

utter a word because of the lump in his throat. My father was a well-
known figure on the docks, tall, blonde, always walking very upright
even when under the influence. Always walking with fire in his
entire motion and posterior, unless the gin had the upper hand.
That day his shoulders were hanging, and he dragged his feet. He
had more gin inside his body than usual, I realized.

Almost turning to return home, I caught from the side of my eye my

father disappearing over the side of the quay.

I yelled and started running to the place where I saw my father

disappearing over the side, yelling as though insane. My father, like
most crew of fishing trawlers, could not swim.

A few crewmembers tried to stop me, but I burst through their best
efforts, and dived into the ice-cold darkness of the harbor waters.

To my horror, I felt nothing. I dove as deep as my lungs could take

me, piercing through the darkness to see my dad. But nothing!

I went up for breath. One glance to the expressions on the faces of

the people on the quay told me that my father had not miraculously
surfaced either.

I grasped for air, and again dove into the icy cold depth.

Up I went for air, going down repeatedly. By know I was joined by

some holidaymakers who saw the ruckus at the water edge, and
sensed the opportunity for some action in the form of heroism.
21

When I came up once more from the depth, an arm reaching from
the quay pulled me onto dry land.

“Let me go, let me go!” I yelled. “I saw him!”

Indeed, just before I had to resurface, I saw my father, staring into

the pitch darkness with wide-open eyes. I grabbed hold of my dad’s
arm, and started pulling him up. But his leg was stuck, probably
held down by strong see weeds. I had to let go of my father’s
desperately clinging hand to get some air, and that was when I was
pulled from the sea.

“Come now, come now” said the reassuring voice of the man who
pulled me, by then a dog-tired shivering boy, from the sea. “There
are professional life savers here now. They will find him for sure.”

But despite me carefully indicating where I found my dad, there was

no trace. I must unwittingly have just succeeded in pulling my father
loose from the grip of the deadly seaweed. The outgoing current,
which was to take the fishing trawler out of the harbor, must have
swept the body and life, as I knew it, out to sea.

I was taken home, and put to bed. I sobbed myself to sleep. When I
woke up I was delirious. I caught pneumonia from his ordeal in the
cold water.

After a week the fever left, and I started taking in what was going
on around me. I realized the fishing company had put another
family in the house. A severe shortage of housing was experienced,
and a vacant house was a vacant house.
 22

I also realized that the doctor was paid from my father’s savings.
I heard the new family speaking at night.

“What is to become of the boy?”

“He has no relatives.”

“That’s not true!” I wanted to shout. I have relatives. My mother’s

people. But they have left town long ago, and I have no idea where
to find them. Or, if I find them, whether they would want to have
anything to do with me. My father also had relatives, but they too
are unknown and very, very far away.

“Without money nobody will take care of him”.

“Yes, and a white boy won’t find work, even if he is allowed to

work…” By then affirmative action did not officially exist, but
preference was often given to non-whites when a job required
unskilled labor. Even though I was bright at school, at fifteen I did
not have enough schooling to be considered for skilled work.

When I was strong enough to walk around a bit, I realized I could

not face the sea.

“What a pity. Now we won’t be able to find work for him here” I
heard the father of the new family saying that night.

That same night I slipped through the window with most of my

earthly belongings tied in a blanket. I headed for the nearby Cape
Town, where I knew I could be near the sea, without ever really
having to see the sea.
23

That same night, on my way over the sandy Cape flats, I was
mugged and robbed of most of my belongings. This is where I
decided to use every opportunity I have to become as strong as a
horse, and to be able to use my fists in self defense.

In Cape Town I soon proved to be a crafty hawker, making a

relatively good living, but in the nights joining the bums when, for
my own safety, I slept on a park bench in the vicinity. But as I often
had money with me, the same people to whom I turned to for safety
often robbed me. I soon learnt to know whom to trust, and whom
not to trust. This is how the much older Jason and I became
friends.

I soon became known as Cape Town’s hobo with a difference. Not

only did I sleep under newspapers, I also read them. Also every
magazine which I could lay my hands on. My apparent sharp
intellect enabled me to master many of the wide-ranging topics I
read about.

At first my transformation from being mainly a homeless hawker to

being a sober hobo was intended to be somewhat of a learning
experience. My reading sparked an ambition to write. And what
better topic than to write on the life and experiences of the city’s
homeless? The stories they tell, their hardships and simple joys?
 24

3. Changing seasons

I started writing, carefully saving my work in a plastic bag I carried

with me.

Eventually, one day, I felt that I had written something worth wile. I
went to the nearest magazine to show some one what I had written.

This was a bitter experience. First I had a humiliating experience at

security. Then, when reaching the office staff, was coldly told that I
had to present his material in computer typing, one and a half line
spacing. I turned on my heel – my dreams over months shattered
carelessly in a brief moment. I chuck my writings in the nearest
dustbin, and hit the streets. The transformation was now complete,
I realized, after my way out of life on the streets had been trampled
on like that.

I sat on my favorite park bench, eyes closed, trying to come to grips

with the latest set back in my young life. I became aware that some
one was standing in front of me, and I opened my eyes.

It was one of the most beautiful ladies I had ever laid my eyes on. I
was painstakingly aware of my untamed bearded face. My worn
clothes. My battered boots without socks. Yet, she seemed to look
right past my appearance, Right into my mind and soul. This made
me uncomfortable, imagining that she could read my thoughts and
especially of what I was thinking on seeing her. Long blonde hair
being stirred in the light breeze, blue eyes – and she was smiling at
me! A deep sincere type of smile, not as with most people, simply
laughing at me.
25

“Hi” she said. I noticed that she was standing there with the papers
I had chuck in the dustbin shortly before.

“I saw what happened at the magazine,” she said. “I work there. I

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

I still looked at her as though in a trance. She invited herself to take

a seat beside me.

“If you don’t mind I’d like to type them for you. As I work at the
magazine I can easily submit them.” She was already talking in the
plural, as though I was going to write many more stories.

And so started a strange friendship. Soon I was not only known as

Cape Town intellectual hobo, but as the hobo writer as well.

When I completed a text, I would take it to Sally Morkel’s flat. In her

kitchen, we would sit over a mug of coffee each, with Sally reading
and making comments. I will take note of recommendations, and
use this knowledge in my next story. More and more of my stories
were accepted, and the bank account I had to open for the
payments, became sizable.

She even let me use her computer. This was quite an experience,
as this was my first real contact with one. I realized then that it
would become harder and harder for a less privileged to break into
the open world where everything evolved around computers and
other forms of new technology. Even by using a computer for the
most basic thing, such as typing, one needs to have a major
 26

knowledge. A person growing up with a computer would probably

never realize what amount of skills and knowledge he has.

Over time, and with Sally’s assistance, I managed to get along on

the computer quite well.

One day chatting with Sally, she said: “You know, you are not just a
writer, you actually write things of literature value.” I looked at her in
amazement.

“You don’t just write what you see. You write what your characters
think and feel; you give them souls. You have the ability to see
inside a person’s soul, and dot that down. That first day I saw you,
and you looked at me, I could see that I could hide nothing from
you.”

“I…that was precisely the thought I had, actually still have, when I
first saw you looking at me. That you can see one’s soul through
his own eyes.” We laughed, realizing that we were soul mates.

In the warm summer evenings we would walk Cape Town’s

beaches, Sally forever looking for rare undamaged seashells.
Myself, I rather watched out for surprise waves, having noticed that
Sally becomes so pre-occupied in looking out for the shells that she
is often surprised by a wave. I my self, have not yet completely
shrug my resentment of the sea, and kept some distance.

These beaches are not all that safe any more. Drug gangs and a lot
of riff-raff from society have moved in, often using dilapidated
apartment buildings, the owners keep for tax write-offs. These
buildings also offer some ideal accommodation for illegal
27

immigrants, mostly Nigerians, Congolese and Mozambicans. Some

people reckon up to eight million illegal immigrants now live in the
country, stealing jobs of South Africans – if they themselves can
find jobs. Often they can’t, and these apartment buildings become
filthy, serving as bases for prostitutes and drug trafficking.
Muggings and murders, especially at night, are common in the
areas.

I one day by accident came to know why Sally reached out to me.
We were walking on an isolated beach, when she suddenly
indicated she wanted to take a dip.

“But you do not have your swimming gear with you!” I objected.

“That’s right, that’s why you are going to sit behind that rock and
keep cavy!” 7

I was not surprised at all that Sally would go skinny-dipping. She

could be very impulsive, getting a kick out of doing something
daring. She would often tease me and call me a square. Keeping
watch is a good idea, not only not to be surprised by unwanted
eyes, but also not to be surprised by a bunch of no-goods who
might have raping or even murder on their minds.

Once behind the rock, I realized what impractical plan this was. If
someone did come, what am I going to do? Just start shouting,
hoping that Sally would hear me above the noise of the waves? Not
likely. So I sat, hoping she would try to surprise me where I sat
before someone pitched.

7
Keep watch, so as not to be surprised.
 28

But that was not to be the case. Three bearded blokes on

scramblers came roaring down the beach trial, directly in our
direction. Sally had to be warned, and fast!

I could think of no other plan than to first peep over to see where
she was, and then decide on the best strategy on how to draw her
attention with least embarrassment to her. But she was very close
by, however, her back turned in my direction. But before I sank
back on my heels to start shouting to warn her of the approaching
motorbikes, I saw something that startled me badly. Even now, I
can not speak about this.

I sank back against the rock, deciding that I will chase the bikers
away, come what may. My heart had grown even more tender
towards Sally in a few seconds. I will protect her with my life, if
need be.

I knew I had to find out what the story was, but how? So I started
asking her about her past, and found at first severe reluctance to
talk about that. Yet, later she started confiding, and a horror story
started unfolding. Drinking parents, broken home, and in the end a
children’s home.

“You know, I believe that most children’s homes do excellent work,”

she said. “In any case, conditions are much better than in most
homes where the kids were taken from – and believe me, I can tell
horror stories!”

I listened in silence. “It takes but one sick dood to destroy all the
good of a children’s home. Especially if that person is head of the
institution, and even worst, if he is a reverend.”
29

“That same guy who molested and beat us – boys and girls - that
sick bastard writes gospel literature and is in high standing with his
church.” I have never seen Sally so enraged.

The thoughts of remembrance lay sharply on her face. She was in

shock - even after so many years. I poured her a sherry from her
own flask. She took a sip, then stood up and clung to my chest
while sobbing her heart out on my shoulder.

“The dirty bastard! Why don’t you lay charges against him?”

Sally shook her head. “Who do you think they will believe?
Orphanage children, most of whom could not manage to pick up
pieces of their lives after that treatment, or the esteemed
dominee?8

I remembered a recent newspaper heading: “I thought it was the

end of the world.” The words of a young girl testifying in a case
after she was kidnapped and raped twice by a man who was
standing trial on more than a hundred counts of rape. But it was not
so much the rapes that left its impressions on the minds of the girl.

“I thought I will get some support and understanding from my

mother,” she testified. Yet, her mother, believing the girl was to be
blamed for the assaults, told her: “I wish you will rot in jail.”

As though more than a hundred girls would lay complaints against

the same man, if they “were looking for being raped.”

8
Reverend in a major Afrikaans church grouping
 30

The Child Protection Unit recently said that seven cases were
reported in three years in our area where children in crèches were
molested by men linked to the management. Some of the girls were
as young as three years. In fact, many cases are reported where
adults in supervisory positions, such as teachers, clergymen and
pre-school caretakers molested kids.

It is even sadder that only about 9 percent of cases ending up in

court, lead to convictions. Only about half the cases reported to the
police, end up in court. It is any-one’s guess what percentage of
child rapes are actually reported to the police, precisely because of
the standing of the sick sex pest in society, very often known to the
victim.

No wonder the Western Cape Minister of Poverty Upliftment,

Marius Fransman, recently suggested that a public name-and-
shame list should be published, naming the sex offenders in public,
especially the pedophiles. The national Minister of Safety and
Security even referred to the old day practice where the elders
ostracized the offenders in public.

But as usual, the human rights of the offender weighs much heavier
than that of the victim. Do children not have human rights too, apart
from children’s rights mentioned in the constitution?9

9
Children’s rights in the constitutions bill of human rights are
described as follows: Every child has the right –
(a) to a name and nationality from birth;
(b) to family care or parental care, or to appropriate alternative
care when removed from the family environment;
(c) to basic nutrition, shelter, basic health care and social services;
31

For some time after this, Sally kept some distance between the two
of us. From my side I tried to remain as supportive as I could.
Eventually things turned more or less back to normal.

Whenever a story was published, Sally would look me up, mostly

finding me in the park, and hand me a copy of the magazine in
which it was published.

Then came the new South Africa, and soon I found another topic to
write on. The new under dog. These are whites who have lost their
employment to make room for affirmative action appointments.
When loosing their work, they not only often loose a life style and
possessions carefully put together in almost a lifetime. They often
also find their wives and family turning their backs on this
embarrassment. Worst of all, they loose their dignity, and often they
end up on the park benches.

“My magazine can’t publish this” Sally told me. As she remained
silent, mingling her thoughts, I asked: “Why?”

“This is called ‘political correctness.’ The new dispensation is not

yet ready to be criticized for that they have fought against. After

(d) to be protected from maltreatment, neglect, abuse or

degradation;
(e) to be protected from exploitative labor practices.
A child’s best interests are of paramount importance in every
matter concerning the child. In this section “child” means a person
under the age of 18.
 32

apartheid the entire world is not ready to accept that one misgiving
is replaced by another.”

“Tell that to the victims!” I momentarily lost my temper, recalling

Fanie’s stiff body being taken away to the morgue the day before.
Fanie, only recently still being a well respected civil servant. His
former life was too comfortable to survive hardships out in the park.
I believed then, that fellow whites who still had fortunes smiling on
them, also preferred not to be reminded of those less fortunate. So
that their own comforts do not turn sour on them. Some are
entrepreneurs, and some opportunists. Some have soon learnt to
form companies, including some of the black workers as directors.
These directors are often the domestic servants or cleaning ladies.
This has the advantage of producing political correct letterheads,
and lucrative government contracts. I had my doubts that some of
these directors even knew that they were directors, or could read
well enough to make out that their names appeared on the
letterheads.

Some whites soon understood the secret language of tshôtshô.10

If ever I saw a heartbroken man, it was Jan.

Jan the farmer.

Jan first came to the park some two years ago, his eyes deep in his
forehead.

10
Bribery money, often disguised as “handling fees” to have the
tender considered.
33

He kept to one side, mingled with no one. Every day a neat young
man would come to the park, and sit with Jan, and leaving a parcel
with the bearded man when he leaves.

The young man had tears in his eyes when he leaves.

"My son," Jan one day said, but did not elaborate then.

It took me quite some time to make friends with Jan. Slowly a

picture unfolded, not all that uncommon of the park dwellers, but
yet unique.

"I was a big farmer at Bothaville in the Free State," he said one day.
"Big farms, big cars, fancy wife, intelligent kids. I could refer to 'my
attorney', 'my auditor', 'my bank manager' and everything. I was an
'ouderling'11 as well.

At some stage I had some tough luck with investments, meant to

cover possible losses through drought or other forms of tough luck.
The drought came then, and I ended up in a cash flow situation. I
sold out, and bought a dairy farm in the Eastern Free State.

On this farm I found some families whom I had no work for. They
had to live, though, so my stock and fodder started disappearing
then. The police were not much of help though, and I started legal
procedures to get those people removed from my land. They
reacted by sabotaging me. Whenever I sat my foot from the farm, I
would return finding a cow with a spike through the belly. Soon I
was wiped out.”

11
Elder in the church.
 34

Yes, I thought then, the constitution guarantees one’s right to

property – as long as you are not a white farmer. Government owns
quite a lot of farms – if one living on such a farm is fired or leaves
on his own account, he is of the land. But if the farm belongs to a
white farmer, he has to go to expensive legal processes to have
that home available for the next family to move in.

“Once wiped out,” Jan continued, “I saw my wife leaving me, and
my kids not knowing this man," pointing a finger to his heart.

Raw sobs came from deep inside this man.

"Only this boy in Cape Town has any time left for me. He brings me
food and whatever I need. That's why I moved to this park."

He looked at his shoes then, which had been expensive field shoes
once. By then, they were mere rags. Now, they had to make way
for a pair of battered tekkies.12

"Why don't you move in with your son?" I asked.

He looked at his shoes long.

"I am like Jonah," he said in the end.

It took me several more conversations before I could even start to

understand.

"My people,” referring to fellow Afrikaners, “…are so content with

the new South Africa. When they themselves find work, or are in a

12
Running shoes.
35

profession where they can generate their own work, or understand

how to survive with the tshôtshô13, they have little sympathy for
those of us who can not find work amidst of affirmative action and
job scarcity. What are chances of me finding work at my age?"

He continued after a while. "We are an embarrassment to those

who have made it. Or an unpleasant reminder to those that all is
not all that well for some in this country. If they end up short
because of affirmative action, they simply take their nice
qualifications we enabled them to get, and find work abroad."

When they drive with their expensive four by fours, or visit their
expensive holiday houses, they do not whish to be reminded that
their are some of their own people, even own flesh and blood, who
are not so fortunate, who are in dire straits.

“Even at church. When the church sermon is on, everything must

seem fine. Those who have lost it, are not welcome - not so much
in the church building, but in the eyesight and mind of those who
reap the benefits. Those who have not, cause uneasiness in the
heart.

They can not afford to even mention this to government. That is

regarded as disloyal, and those who want a new contract with
government, or a new tender. Disloyal people can not get
contracts."

13
Some more on this topic: Bribe money, very common in Africa.
In some cultures it is not actually regarded as being wrong – if you
are in a position to benefit from bribery, it is expected of you to do
so.
 36

I expected Jan would say something like his son's wife does not
want him around, or that the kid's mom would not come to visit if
Jan were around.

But much harsher is the self-laid exile from friends and family,
because one does not have the courage to face them under these
circumstances.

Jan is very good with his hands. He can fix about anything. Kids
often bring their bicycles for Jan to fix. More often than not, Jan
would have a parked car that would not start when the owner
returned running smoothly long before the mechanics could arrive.

We, who observed Jan fixing a car, often thought he used magic
words. For, when the place where he had to adjust or fix was a bit
tight for his big hands, he would start using some words, which
would soon do the trick. We recognized most of the words,
however, such as ^%$$, ^&% and %^$, and they were definitely not
magic words.

Jan also seemed to be the only person able to keep Sally’s

skedonk14 in working condition. He wanted no payment for the work
he did on her car, but insisted that Sally teaches me to drive.

“One day this lad is going to be on the other side of society,” he

said, indicating some real line dividing to different types of people.

14
Refers to an old car, usually large, but with plenty of character,
associated with the owner.
37

"Good mechanics are so scarce nowadays" I once told Jan. "We

can try to ask the reverend to try and get you fixed with a garage."

"I have no papers," Jan said, turning on his heals.

One could understand more of another aspect of Jan's problems,

then. When Jan started farming, a farmer was a farmer. Now,
through all kinds of legislation, a farmer needs to be a tax expert for
value added tax and the regional services councils, he needs to be
an HR expert to manage the wide range of labor relations acts, and
he needs to be an administrative clerk to handle all the piles of
paper work.

The irony, government does many of these things under pressure

from trade unions, which actually believe they improve conditions of
the, as it is called, previously disadvantaged. The way in which
minimum wages had been introduced lead to thousands of black
people loosing their work. Even before these Acts had been
introduced, a well known leftist professor found that the poorest 40
percent of the black population had a 21 percent decline in income
since the ANC came into power in 1994. If this makes one
“previously disadvantaged,” one shudders to imagine what the
conditions would have been, had they been “presently
disadvantaged,” such as Jan. Yes, about ten percent of the black
population improved their position, but they were more or less the
elite even then. To me it looks like the development of a typical
Mandarin society. To say this, is very, very political incorrect.

Sally and I had some heated discussions on some of my writings

being political incorrect:
 38

“I understand how you feel,” Sally said. “I really do. Do not throw
the stories away. Keep on trying. One day you will hit a nerve, and
the gate will open. In the mean time, do not stop writing on your
present topics.”

One day, I realized that a story had been published when paging
through a second hand magazine, but Sally did not pitch.

I went to her flat, finding that other people had moved in. I then
went to the magazine. There I learnt from the same rude person at
security that Sally had gone to visit friends in Gauteng. She was,
however, killed instantly in a car accident on her way back. She
was already buried - as though I never existed in her life.

I was devastated; I cramped together at night with pain on my

heart. Tears often running down my cheeks, with Jason and the
rest trying clumsily to console me. My sole link to the world of the
living was severed. I realized that I had fallen hopelessly in love.

When you are a homeless person, death is one’s next door

neighbor. Unlike people might believe, the homeless are probably
the most sensitive people, which in the first place caused many of
them to end up on the streets.

I had no intention of writing, or even reading ever again. I looked up

Jason, and joined him in his daily activities of scanning through
dustbins and picking up litter that could be recycled. I realized that I
did not detest the sea any more. The land also took some one from
me I dearly cared for.
39

4. Let the children come to Me

“Hello Uncle Fred, hello Uncle Jason.”15 I heard the tiny footsteps
coming up from behind.

“How’s my favorite girl today?” I ask gleefully as I turn around.

Samantha is coming in our direction, hop-scotching all the way. It

seems as though she is always smiling. Yet, when asking where
she lived, she would say: “In a toilet.”

This is only partially true, as more often Samantha and her parents
sleep in the open, often sharing the park. Samantha’s parents,
Johnny and Fatimah, are unemployed. Yet, they would turn the
world upside down for little Samantha, the girl with the gray-blue
eyes, and dark reddish hair. Maybe not quite the world, but at least
all rubbish dumps they can reach on foot, dragging a retired pram
with them that serves as their mule to carry whatever they found
that might be sold.

“Fine,” says Samantha, who has by now reached Jason and

myself. “We had lots of fun at school.”

The ANC’s Freedom Charter states that school education will be

free and compulsory, but nothing came of that. Samantha’s school,
a shabby old house some philanthropists run is also not free. Her

15
Afrikaans kids, whether white or colored, often call grown ups
“oom” “tannie”, meaning “uncle” and “aunt”, whether related or
not.
 40

parents work themselves half to death to keep Samantha at school.

They may not have a home, but at least she has caring parents.

Samantha’s schooling was not much fun earlier. The other kids
would tease her and call her a Bergie. That, despite, being cleaner
than most, with all her stationery in place. Her parents comforted
her that at least her school fees were paid in full, something many
kids can’t say.

The change in attitude, I believe, has a lot to do with a visit I

brought to the school. I stuck around till I identified the big
troublemaker, walked into the schoolyard, and picked him up by the
scuff, marching of to the principal’s office. There I explained the
problem at the top of my voice. I told the principal that I would come
and check from time to time, and if ever I catch one again…

But Samantha is by no means the only homeless kid.

Nowadays you will also find kids standing in the middle of the
street, begging for money. They hold crude little placards, mostly
saying: "Please help. No Dad, no Mom."

If only that were true.

Almost all of them have parents, if one can call monsters like that
parents.

As one former street kid told a UN World Summit examining the

plight of children all over the world:
41

“When you live on the street, you have no mother and no father.
There is no one to kiss you good night, or to tuck you up in bed at
night. In fact, there will probably be no bed nor blankets, all sold to
buy booze.”

The kid, Sipho Mathebula, told the summit: “I used to be one of

those snotty-nosed, glue sniffing kids. We are part of the outsiders
of society. Many of us leave home without a birth certificate. Folks
don’t bother to find out why we live on the streets, or about the
turmoil of dysfunctional homes, domestic abuse and the neglect
suffered by us.

We are not to be feared, or treated with suspicion. All we want is

love and a ticket to a brighter future.”

Without a birth certificate, buying a ticket to a brighter future is

almost impossible.

Before ending up with the outsiders of society, life often has a

similar pattern for those kids.

Children sent out irrespective of cold or rain, or the blistering sun, to

risk their young lives in the traffic to beg for money to satisfy the
parents drinking needs. If they come home empty handed, or with
too little money to the parent's liking, the poor kid will be beaten half
to death.

A street kid once told me something about daily life: “When we ask
motorists for something, they would often swear at us. That hurts
more than the beatings when we return home empty handed.”
 42

Yet, there are those wise cracks who’d say in public that a person
who gives street kids or beggars something, worsen the problem.
Statistics do indicate that neighborhoods where softhearted people
live, attract the homeless.

But have these folks seen how a kid looks like when being beaten
for returning home empty-handed? Or, if he no longer has a place
he calls home, what he is going to eat? They actually need love
more than anything else, and swearing at them when chasing them
away empty-handed does mot help much.

So often, they will not go home any more to escape the beatings.
Children of less than ten years of age will wander the roads till late
at night, and then find some kind of shelter to sleep. They meet the
seasoned street kids, and soon adapt to their ways. Whatever
money can be begged from a motorist, will end up in the pocket of
a hardware shop owner, who sells them glue. To sniff this, sends
one on a trip.

They soon learn where to buy the more potent stuff. Glue for fixing
shoes is the most popular. But some dealers with rotten brains sell
“specials” to these kids. They know pretty well that a kid, who has
probably never worn shoes in his life, is lying through his teeth that
he wants to mend shoes. So, not the yellow glue, but the red glue
will be sold. The red glue is more or less useless for mending
shoes, but has up to twenty times as much drug elements in that
sends the poor kids on their trips.

This trip takes you far away from the reality of merciless parents,
harsh living and hunger. Even better, you often die mercifully
young, before enduring this for to long.
43

You soon learn to know when a street kid had passed from simply
lying passed out on a pavement somewhere, to the stage where he
is never going to wake up again. That’s when the green flies start
walking on the body. Then one can go and tell the nearest cop that
the government’s morgue has some fresh work coming in.

They also do not keep on sniffing the stuff, but start to “smoke” it.
This means that they pour some in a plastic bottle; they then hold
the opening to their mouths, and squeeze the bottle while they
inhale. This works much faster than sniffing. It is especially effective
when they could lay their hands on some dagga as well. South
Africa’s dagga is potent, not that sissy stuff smoked in Europe to
which they refer as marijuana. As though being more sophisticated
or less ghwar-like16 than smoking pot.

Usually these kids are quite sober when they pester motorist in a
busy traffic crossing. One is amazed at the agility they have at
moving between cars, and not being run over. This is dangerous
work. Yet, sometimes one would find a kid who starts collecting for
his next trip, whilst not yet completely sober from the previous.
They do not last very long, though. If they survive being run over,
one would think they would appreciate being in hospital with warm
sheets, food and caring people. But there is nothing to sniff, so of
they go and back to the streets whenever they are able to move.

Some do not survive the traffic though, almost as though being

subjected to some natural selection process. Same as with the
indigenous cattle ranges. So docile, for when their ancestors came

16
Rock bottom for being common.
 44

to the southern tip of the continent, the wild ones did not come to
the kraals at night, and became lion prey.

Only the other day a few street kids surprised me. It was the still
period just after the early morning traffic rush, and they were
squatting, playing fahfee17 on the pavement. When I came close,
one looked up:

“Dissam ‘n lekka storie wat djy oor ons gespinnet.”18 The others
nodded in agreement, al looking very pleased. I was not only
surprised that they have read something, but I have not written for
quite some time, and that story was thus not new either.

“Thanks. But where did you get to read the story?”

“The guy there at the BP garage, Uncle Francois. He put it up in his

window for us to read.”

This explains more or less everything. Francois, the garage owner

is a good Christian, always looking at ways to help the street kids.
The kids are very fond of him as well. Recently three street kids got
hold of a burglar breaking into Francois’ garage.

One of the kids, the seventeen year old Edward Campher, told
reporters afterwards that he had been living on the streets for 11
years, and had never taken something from anyone. “But that thug

17
A form of knots and crosses, played on the pavement, involving
some form of gambling, but usually with pretty worthless or
symbolic objects.
18
“That’s a really nice story you have about us written.”
45

said he was going to come and sort us out when he comes out of
jail.”

Not all street kids stay on the right side of the law. Some time ago
German tourists complained that street kids had followed them for
two hours, before being robbed. I personally wonder whether
foreign tourists would know the difference between street kids and
young Bergies.

In fact, most people fail to draw a distinction between the different

categories of outsiders of society. When municipal by-laws are
made to drive in imaginary walls between the outsiders and those
on the inside, those who do not whish to know that we exist, they
tend to blanket us all with one name. So we, the hoboes, have
been called beggars and Bergies, and, imagine that, even tsotsi’s.

If the bylaw, for instance, stipulates that no Bergie may urinate in

public, a hobo caught in the act would dearly protest for being
mistaken for a Bergie. Or, as Jason once protested when caught in
the act, said: “I’m not urinating, I am only pissing! This is also not in
public; I am standing around the corner.” After that, Jason knew the
meaning of the word, urinating. He also went about informing all the
other hoboes, the condition on which the cops released him without
charging him.

Word soon spread that Jason was “contracted,” as he put it, by the
cops to inform the hoboes about this urinating thing.

“Now where must one now urinate?” Jackson asked when cornered
by Jason.
 46

“In a public toilet,” Jason replied.

“But aren’t public toilets in public?” Jackson inquired, very pleased

that his preparations for Jason’s visit played of so neatly.

Jason was momentarily taken aback, with the rest roaring with
laughter. He soon regained his composure: “Well, that’s what the
cops say.”

But using public toilets are easier said than done. With all the riffraff
on the streets nowadays, messing up toilets, folks tend to lock even
the public toilets, with a note that the keys could be picked up at
this or that place. Hoboes do not usually qualify to pick up the keys.

It is also not fair to blanket all street kids with this name. Samantha,
for example, would not qualify for being called a street kid. She
stays with her parents, who, according to the criteria of government
are not unemployed, and had her parents not been on a waiting list
for a home for more than a decade, she would not have been
homeless either.

Well-meaning officials from time to time round these street kids up,
and take them to children's homes or shelters for the homeless. In
theory, they can even go to school.

But this means discipline, often harsh discipline. It also means no

more glue sniffing. It reminds these kids too much of a hell called
home. Some of these shelters indeed are so dilapidated and rotten
dirty that they do in fact resemble home. So most abscond almost
immediately, the rest a day or two later. Then you will find them
47

wandering the streets once again, with a few rags that ought to
share as clothes.

Volunteer organisations seem to have a bit more luck than the

officials do.

Monday nights, for example, are hot meal nights for the street kids,
and even some hoboes who succeed in slipping through. Then the
two bakkies19 of Voices of the Rainbow Nation would park on the
Grand parade across the city hall, bringing with them hot meals …
and love. Street kids will swarm the bakkies within seconds, to get
probably the only warm meal of the week. The volunteers try to
make a different pot of food every week. Sometimes even
chocolate would be dished out.

As one kid told me: “It makes us feel good that some one cares
about us.”

Ayesha Lottering stayed with a volunteer family for a week. She

told a reporter on the scene: “Not only do we like the volunteers, we
love them. When I stayed with one the volunteers I felt like living in
my own home – only better. They don’t treat me any other way than
they treat any other people.”

The kids also receive medical attention. Every week one or two of
the kids will have stab wounds. Life on the street is rather harsh.

Only one involved with something like this can know what pleasure
one derives of holding out a helping hand to a kid: “We’ve got a
passion for what we are doing,” one of the volunteers told me.

19
Pick up trucks
 48

Recently the street kids had the privilege of having fun on the
beach with sports legends such as the American, Edwin Moses,
and Daly Thompson of Britain. Even the very popular former
Springbok captain, Morné du Plessis took part in the proceedings
arranged by the Laureus Sports for Good Foundation. Yet, tragic
that the kids meet roll models, and then return to the streets. If only
these projects could have been a bit more sustainable.

Bums, especially lady bums, offer a soft target for street kids with a
criminal inclination. Getting hold of something of value, almost
never escapes the eyes of an ever watchful street kid. Once he
sees a hobo scurrying of with some loot of value, he will round up
some mates. They run in flock, straight at the victim, running him or
her to the ground. But before the bum would hit dirt, he or she will
be minus whatever asset that could be snatched.

Any other person could be robbed this way, but is usually averted,
as other people have the nasty habit of go complaining to the
police.

Sometimes Martin and I would catch a few of these young rascals,

and spank them a bit after the property had been returned. But we
don't like that at all. Spanking these kids hurts us much more than
the kids. We rather try to talk to them. After all, we are good
examples of what can happen to one if one does not take
responsibilities towards society serious enough.

But alas, if a kid is hooked on glue sniffing, chances are very slim
that one can chat them into changing their ways.
49

In fact, according to the constitution children (as long as they have

been born) are of the most protected people in the country. Apart
from the human rights they are entitled to, they are also entitled to a
wide range of children's rights.

But when winter comes in the interior, with night temperatures

frequently dropping beneath zero, the freedom to go any place in
the country means very little to these kids. The hobos usually
migrate to Durban’s subtropical weather in winter. But the kids, clad
in their thin rags, stay put. After all, they are only kids, and kids tend
to stay near home, irrespective of what is called home.

Some unbearable cold winter night they might break into a church,
standing vacant for most of the week. The same church where
congregation members would pitch on Sundays, clad in warm
clothes, but complaining about the severe cold despite heaters
being switched on. The same churches in which the street kids
would only be too glad to find shelter for the cold night, without the
warm clothes, and without the heaters being switched on.

Sometimes, of course, the kids breaking into a church would do

quite a lot of damage. Kids are often not all that experienced in
using matches. Sometimes the damage is caused by accident, but
sometimes vandalism does occur. A way of asking: “Is this the way
you treat God’s less fortunate created kids?”

But many parents and other grown ups apparently can't read, when
it comes to the rights of children. Some unmarried mothers do not
even want to apply for government allowances for their kids on
account of the stigma. I would imagine that a kid crying of hunger,
and clothed in rags, would be an even worse stigma.
 50

Aids bring more misery to kids, and in various forms. Many shelters
are crowded with kids suffering from aids. Government does not
seem to be all that eager to provide drugs to aids infected mothers,
so as to prevent transmission to the child. But with more treatment
of this kind, the number of aids orphans would probably also
increase at an accelerated pace.

Some bliksem20 or another, apparently a witch doctor, created even

more aids related horror for kids. This son of a bitch said having
sex with a virgin would cure aids. Unfortunately, chances are best
that a baby girl would be a virgin. So quite a number of babies have
been raped.

But in the evenings, when we walk the streets, we see another

species of aids victims. Rich kids, mostly infected by drug needles.
When eventually they die, and it is known that the untimely demise
was caused by aids, the grieving parents would blame a blood
transfusion for some operation of which no record exists. As
mysterious as the abortion the girls never had.

And make no mistake, those parents do experience severe grief,

fed by guilt.

"Quality time - spending quality time," Jason once said, when I

shared some of my concerns. "But spending quality time with your
kid can end up in disaster."

I did not ask then what he meant, because Jason was whining like
a kid then. Only much later did I come to know the story.

20
Skunk in a figurative sense, literally meaning “lightning.”
51

Ironically, not many of the bums are aids sufferers. The rather
harsh life style has something to do with bums contracting the
disease soon departing to the government morgue. But the lack of
privacy and experiences of broken relationships also has
something to do with the fact that most live more or less a celibate
life. A hobo also very seldom has enough money to spend on
designer drugs, or even the dirty rubbish sold to the poor.

Only once did I see a bum using a needle, and that was not for
injecting drugs. Old Morrisson was very addicted to his Blue Train,
so when once he had the fortunes of having both an injection and
spirits, he proceeded injecting the blue poison directly in his veins.
Doing this, he thought, he would not have to taste the Blue Train's
horrible taste, and he would be run over much faster.

That was more or less the last thought old Morrisson ever had. I
was standing not more than a hundred meters away when I saw
what the old man was doing. Before I could reach him, he was flat
on his back. He barely had time to squeeze the Blue Train’s
conductor coach through the needle, before he was kicked from his
feet. Some agonizing kicks later, he was a gonner.

As worthless as old Morrisson's life might have been, his death was
very expensive for a pharmaceutical company. We split to the
police where the company had been illegally dumping medical
waste, including used needles. The Bergies were very angry with
us for quite some time, because they sold these needles to junkies
in town.
 52

“And how are my uncles today?” Samantha asks, quite unawares of

the distant loops my mind had taken in a few seconds.

“Why, we are on our way to say goodbye to the others, Samantha.

We are leaving for the winter.”

For the first time I could remember, I saw disappointment on

Samantha’s face. “I whish we could also go to a place not so wet in
winter. But where am I going to find another school?”

“Before we leave, I will bring you a brand new mackintosh and a

jersey,” I promise.

Her face lightens up. “Thanks a lot, Uncle Fred. I haven’t had a real
present for quite some time – but lots of love.”

How true. Last Christmas a church rounded up some street kids,

including Samantha, and took them for a boat ride out in the bay.
No money for presents, though, but Samantha and her parents
beamed for a month.

“And how was school today?” I ask. I know Samantha likes school,
and this question will cheer her up. She learns hard – one can often
see her on a park bench, swinging her short legs as she works
through her lessons. She soon finds out which bum can help her
with what subject. These tutors often don’t last very long. Once
there was a doctor, struck from the roll, but excellent with biology.
We never realized what agony it must have been for him, helping
Samantha. We only learnt after we found him hanging from a worn
bandage, tied to an oak tree that a little girl died while he was
53

operating on her. He could never come to grips with himself after

that. Fortunately, Samantha knows nothing of this.

“Whoah, we had lots of fun, Uncle Fred. We read some, and made
some sums. We also played during break.”

“”But my girl is really getting clever. What are you going to do when
you have grown up, being all that clever?”

Her face lightens up even more. She digs in her schoolbag I once
bought for her, and brings out a picture, carefully covered with
cellophane.

“I want to buy my parents a white house such as this!” It is a copied

drawing of a well-known water paint painting of Waenhuiskraal.
Neat, bright white houses, but simple in their extreme beauty. This,
I realize, reflects Samantha’s true nature. She also clearly has a lot
of art talent, the way she copied that painting.

If ever, I decide, I am in a position, I am going to buy such a white

house for Samantha and her parents.

I have been paying Samantha’s school fees on the sly since I

started earning money. Samantha’s parents, knowing nothing about
this, insisted on working for the tuition of their child. I persuaded the
school to let them have it their way. This gives then self-esteem, so
important to even a hobo. Samantha’s dad has thirteen thumbs, so
he was no-good at doing odd jobs around the school. But he is
master of figures, and could do excellent bookkeeping. That was
his initial undoing as well. He was sent to jail for embezzlement at
his last employer. He was unable to find work since.
 54

The fact that he did the books of the school, required some fancy
footwork to prevent him from getting any the wiser as to the fact
that some-one else is paying Samantha’s school fees.

Fatimah, on her part, would from time to time prepare the finest
Malaysian cooking at the school. The school supplies the
ingredients, and Fatimah starts preparing. The school kids would
then have a meal they seldom encounter at home.

What a shame that gifted people such as these are not offered a
second opportunity in life.
55

5. Hobo excursions (to Homo erectus)

Today, with all the thoughts that had gone through my mind, I am
determined to take a brake from all this.

“I’m thinking of going up coast – Hermanus”, I react to Jason’s

question as to where I plan to go for the winter.

“But how are we going to get there?” I am relieved that Jason has
invited himself.

“I have some money in the bank from my writings.”

Hoboes usually do not have too many preparations to do before

leaving. There are no electricity bills that need to be paid, no-one to
arrange with that your mail are correctly forwarded, and very
seldom relatives to go and say good bye to.

Before trying the bank, Jason and I clamber up Signal Hill to say
goodbye to Cape Town. Table Mountain dwarfs Signal Hill and
Devil’s Peak; the flat topped landmark that has made Cape Town
famous. But getting to the top of Signal Hill for a bird eye’s view is
so much easier, and a lot safer. Many people have lost their lives
trying to scale the Table’s sheer cliffs. Tourists prefer the cableway,
but that is out of bound to hoboes.

Sitting near the old cannons that used to blast away signaling
midday; we overlook Table Bay’s magnificent view. The harbor is
not quite as busy as it was when the Egyptians closed the Suez
Canal. Almost in the middle of the bay is Robben Island, also well
 56

known all over the world where many political prisoners were held,
including former president Nelson Mandela.

In our silent way we say goodbye to this breath taking experience.

But, we know, in a few weeks, if not in a few days, the cold, wet
fronts will start lashing the Cape, making life for the less privileged
unbearable. Only the Bergies (traditional, mostly colored hoboes
living in shelters against Table Mountain) seem to have become
accustomed to surviving the peninsula’s extremes. Then we beat a
foot track down the hill to be swallowed up by the city’s bustling life.

We greeted from Signal Hill, rather than from Table Mountain, on

behalf of Jason. “No self respecting hobo will care to be mistakenly
taken for a Bergie,” he explained. I realized that the height of Table
Mountain had a lot to do with this sudden self-respect. Yet, the
Bergies are known for quite a lot of criminal behavior. Pick
pocketing in the crowded streets, burglarizing houses near the
mountains, all in a day’s “work.”

But getting hold of the money at the bank proves to be not all that
easy. Some one from the magazine eventually comes to my
rescue, properly identifying me at the bank.

I buy Jason and myself a suit each, and bus tickets to Hermanus.
The suits are complemented with the necessary – shirts, ties,
shoes and socks. Socks for me, that is. Jason refused them. “I will
freak having them ^%$# socks on these rough *&^% feet,” he
objects. He has pulled one of the worn shoes from a foot, and
indeed, one can not imagine a sock being pulled over that. But one
would rather expect the objection coming from the sock’s side.
57

Yet, with the new suit on, the trousers hanging over the shining new
shoes, no one will be the wiser as to the state of hidden affairs.
What does stick out from under the suit, however, is a completely
different matter. The hands and head are weather beaten. Not even
the best face beautician in the country stands any chance of hiding
the tracks left by years of nature’s less kind battering. The Blue
Train’s effects do not help much either in keeping either the face or
body in tip-top shape.

I also buy Samantha her mackintosh and two jerseys, as well a few
things I believe she might need in winter.

Dressed in our fancy clothes for the bus ride, Jason and I seek out
the Ashton couple. Sam Ashton is an old gent, who on his
wanderings met Sue, and married her. Sue, a bulky lady, had in
many ways been a mother to me. The two of them are in many
ways the royal couple of the hobo kingdom of our park and
immediate surroundings. They have wisdom; they assist with the
authorities when for some reason a specific hobo is sought, always
hoping that some relative has pitched to make life easier for one of
their "subjects."

Sue is in tears when hearing the news that we are going to depart.

"Fred, you have been one of us. Yet you have not been either. You
are going to make it one day, you have fiber. Maybe a young
woman will give you the kick-start you need. You do not belong with
us, but we enjoyed and appreciated your company."

Young lady? The Lord has taken every young woman I had respect
far away. Sally. I swallow tears.
 58

Sue squeezed me tightly. I wipe the tears from her weather

battered face. Her gray hair still boasts a ting of red of an age gone
by. She must have been a terrifically pretty girl when young.

"Drugs," she explained once how she ended up being a hobo.

"When getting out of jail my folks wanted to know nothing of me. I

was simply rejected. It is very difficult to get employment once you
had been in jail, and you do not have a family support structure to
help you finding some solid footing."

Both Sue and Sam, one could hear, had a fine upbringing.

But back in the present, Sue hugs me: "What strong young man
you are. I've seen with what ease you managed to beat up the
Bergies when they attacked us. Use your strength wisely. The
Good Lord be with you."

I can easily understand why this couple has been far more effective
in bringing bums to the Lord than any well meaning evangelist
taking on the task.

These evangelists would be well meaning. Until a few years ago,

they called themselves evangelists when working with white bums,
and missionaries when working with non-white bums.

I had my bit of fun with them. Waking up on the park bench, and
finding a person introducing him or herself to me as an evangelist, I
would kindly explain to them that they are mistaken. I am actually a
59

colored. But I could refer them to a very kind white bum, indicating
Jason who would be sleeping on another park bench not far of.

This usually had those evangelists very confused, for I looked much
more a white than Jason did with his curly, black hair. Him not often
washing his face, also attributes to his darker complexion.

Once realizing that I was the one, who was forever referring
evangelists to him, he returned the compliment by referring the very
confused missionaries to me.

Now, officially registration according to race has been abolished.

The previous government, even now being referred to as the
apartheid government, had in fact abolished it. The new
government, it seems, is far more race aware than the previous.
Black empowerment, affirmative action, they call it.

Ironically, every representative from a group somewhere in the

world struggling to get some kind of autonomy, would refer to the
country denying that, as practicing apartheid. So as to drum up
support, for apartheid had been sufficiently villianized. Even
declared by the UN as a crime against humanity. Ironically,
because those governments now criticized, rather practice
precisely the opposite to apartheid. Apartheid urged groups to have
their independence, allegedly even bribing leaders to take their
people on the independence road. But not to be recognized by the
world. Without apartheid, those formerly independent groups have
lost their autonomy.

Had the Israeli government implemented apartheid, the

Palestinians would have had independence long ago.
 60

But, life rarely makes logic sense. That’s why its life, not heaven.

In fact, to us in the park living in a country with a constitution that is

often described as one of the best in the world, has little meaning.
It too, seems to have little bearing on the government as well. One
constitutional institution after the other finds that government is the
biggest transgressor of the constitution. If government wipes its
arse on the constitution, what hope does one have that the general
public will go to any trouble in not transgressing some act of
parliament, or municipal bylaw? What murderer would bother to
uphold the law preventing one to go about murdering others, if
government sets an example of civil disobedience?

Or what arse hole would keep to the speed limit, rather than go
crashing into Sally’s car when he was severely intoxicated?

What value do the Bill of Human rights in the constitution have for
us in the park? Such well intended stipulations on the right to
property, the right to privacy, the right to economic wealth, shelter
and what not? The constitutional court made a ruling that
government can be forced, by court order, to uphold the
constitution. For that one needs money – lots of money.

For the homeless the constitution means as little as what it means

to the unborn babies. That same court decided that the right to life
does not apply to them. Thousands are murdered legally every
year. Yet, murderers can not be hanged because they have a right
to living. Their victims, whether they had been borne or not,
apparently not.
61

The constitution also says one may not discriminate against

another on the ground of race, gender, disability or so. Yet, laws
are made to instruct firms to discriminate against whites, who,
according to the population registration act, no longer exist.

The preferential treatment the disabled are to receive according to

the constitution, also has little impact. One can for instance, not
appoint a blind person as driver of a mini bus taxi. Though,
pondering on the thought, one might not always be any the wiser,
the way some of these drivers handle their mobile coffins.21

All this about race does not have much effect on me. When a
colored under the previous government, one often was at the
receiving end of some rather harsh racial discrimination. Under the
new dispensation, one needs to be much blacker than I am to hope
to benefit.

Being part of the bum community, however, one's color does not
matter that much, especially nowadays. The Salvation Army seems
to really be color blind when helping.

We bums are not all that irresponsible when on religious affairs

either. Medical science has long found that being a drunk is as
much an illness as is cancer. So too are the raw nerves of those
ending up on street when not being able to control the nerves. The
only way out of life on the street was, it seems to really be
converted.

21
A disgruntled black passenger of a mini bus taxi once said, after a
horrific ride: “Hiace is the abbreviation for High Impact African
Culling Equipment.”
 62

Yes, from time to time one would read of Cape Town’s municipality
that would implement this or that holistic approach to solve the
growing problem of people living on the streets. Government
recently made a law that shifts the responsibility to municipalities,
which generally do not have the funds or other means. Much talk is
then given of how this holistic plan is going to involve social
workers, industrialists to create jobs, and so on.

But when it comes to the push, it all boils down to by-laws making
things difficult to stay on the streets. Like the one of not urinating in
public. Cape Town is a tourist attraction, and one would like to keep
the unsightly homeless out of sight. Recently a beggar was fined
R10022 for begging. If he can not pay the fine, he will go to jail, and
probably be sodomized. To pay the fine, he needs to beg, and
that’s what caused him to end up in trouble in the first place.

At some stages, such as recently with the Ashtons, some one in

our community would take the lead, in getting most of the bums to
an evening church service. This usually follows an invitation of a
well meaning congregation, wishing to reach out.

Not everybody in this church service would have expected a bunch

of hoboes to pitch. We usually pack the back-benches in church,
causing a constant looking around by curious churchgoers. Very
few things give a hobo such a pleasure as meeting such a
backward glance with the holiest smile he or she can manage.
Winking an eye usually does the trick. No more backward glances
from that quarter.

22
Approximately $12,00
63

Going to church is probably the most nostalgic thing I could do.

This would remind me of my young childhood days, going to church
with my father. Those people in the missionary church can sing like
no other people can, without an organ or piano. Poverty does
prevent these luxuries, but the poor congregations learn to do
without.

As hoboes do not always come to church as often as they should,

the hymns and songs tend to change without us keeping up.
Usually this does not matter much, as we would rather stand
listening to the joyous songs of the congregations. That’s also why
we prefer going to the rather charismatic churches on account of
the joyous singing. But Tobie is not content with listening.
Apparently he had been some baritone in operas. He has a loud
voice, which must have been quite something before the Blue Train
cut deep tracks in the vocals.

Tobie would join in the singing at the top of the voice. He would
also sing the melody he knows, irrespective of the version the
organist would use. More than once, because the congregation
preferred the old melody, Tobie would hijack the singing. The
frustrated organist would then stop playing, with Tobie herding the
congregation to the final ending of the song.

Every now and then, one would find an organist that has a lot of
nerve, proceeding right to the end with the new melody, causing
pandemonium. Those nearest to the organ’s pipes, would stick with
the determined organist, and the rest following Tobie.

Collecting the money was some other treat. After hesitating a

moment the first time, the deacon handed the collection basket in at
 64

one end. Martin was the one to first receive the basket. For a
moment he seemed to be taken unawares. He pretended to be
very surprised to see that there is money in the basket, and then
very pleased. He even got up, and made a very polite little bow to
the deacon. Then sitting down, quite content with the basket on his
lap, leaving the deacon quite dumbfounded. But only for a brief
moment, before Martin passed the basket on. I do not think the
basket managed to get very many contributions in our quarters. In
fact, I think it came out the other side with much less in than it
entered with.

At some stage during one of these sermons, the reverend

welcomed his friends in the back of the church. I later learnt that
that almost caused him to get his marching papers.

Sometimes the gathering after the church service would be a

further motivation to go to church. With nice sandwiches, soup and
tea being dished out. The bums always return the friendship by
looking very pleased and thankful. Most of us are also quite able to
speak very gently, and lots on how thankful we are, and how the
kind Lord was sure to reward them. A lot of us can quote quite a lot
from the Bible as well. Things like that seem to get stuck in the
mind when spirits seem to wash most recollections of better days
away.

The reaching out program would loose some of the heartiness

however, when the cleaning lady keeps on reporting to the
reverend the following Mondays that the spirits used for cleaning
windows, had gone as well. Well, one can not take kids to a candy
shop and tell them they need to eat vegetables.
65

“If hoboes were angels, they’d be flying al over the place on not
died from sleeping in the chill,” remarked Jason dryly on hearing
that our park’s bum community had been banned from that church.
For once Jason uttered a complete sentence without &^%$
swearing. As though, maybe so indicating that the bums are not all
that bad either.

Sam is a gentleman if ever I saw one. I will always remember him

as the polite man who would spend a lot of time-consuming
minutes in painstakingly directing people into Cape Town's tight
parking spots. When the thankful motorist wants to give him some
money for his trouble, old Sam would have long disappeared.

Yet, he has become so well known that he is often placed some

money in the hand by a passer by who recognizes him. Soon the
Blue Train will be on its way, but even heavily intoxicated, Sam will
never be but extremely polite.

Going to church and funerals are not the only excursions hobos
undertake. A wise man once said one can never be free when
ignorant. Sometimes I have my doubts – knowledge causes one to
realize what one is missing in life. But never the less, hoboes
generally also want to know what is going on. Walking into town
just at sunset is thus a hobby of many park dwellers. At night the
display areas of shops look very nice, with the bright lights shining
on items very neatly displayed.

But shop windows where TV’s are playing, are most popular.
Especially at news time. One would always find a few bums loudly
commenting, between them trying to make out what was going on
in the news, for they could obviously not hear sound. They could
 66

see the bombs raining on Baghdad, see the horror of fleeing

people.

Radios are also popular with bums. Never bought, though. A

dustbin might contain a radio now longer in use. Mostly it needs
some fixing before being able to do its one night stand. For a one
night stands it would be. The next day the radio will inevitably find
its way to a pawnshop, and the money to a bottle store. Even
foreign tourists would now and then give a helpful bum a radio. A
radio bought in South Africa for very cheap, thanks to the exchange
rate, and thus not worth while getting through customs when
returning to the far of country.

Another excursion undertaken from time to time is to court. Every

now and then a bum would end up in court. Sometimes it would be
because a long forgotten former wife traced down a park dweller,
and turn on the screws for sustenance in arrears. The others would
pitch in court for moral support. Nowadays legislation for husbands
who have absconded are becoming rather tight, and more often
than not such a hobo would spend some time in jail before
returning to the park.

Only recently we went to court as well. That was in support of Leon,

the lonely bum. A number of us witnessed from within the park what
happened, that caused Leon to end up in trouble.

Leon had been standing on the pavement outside the park, near a
street corner, as he often does, minding his own business. Then we
saw a Bergie come running along from the blind side of the corner,
running his hands through the contents of a handbag he had
snatched. Two policemen were giving chase on foot.
67

Running around the corner, the Bergie handed the slow-to-grasp

Leon the handbag. Realizing the trouble Leon was to face, we
started shouting to him to throw us the handbag over the devil’s
fork fence. But Leon was not quick enough to react, and was still
standing with the handbag in his hands when the cops came
around the corner. There was no trace of the Bergie by then.

We tried to argue with the cops through the fence, then.

“We heard you yelling to this man to pass the handbag over the
fence,” the one policeman said. Yes, we did, but that was precisely
to prevent the misunderstanding that now prevailed. And off they
marched with Leon.

When Leon made his brief appearance in court we were all there. It
so happened that a Cape skollie was to be sentenced for knifing a
member of a competing gang just prior to Leon’s appearance. We
have encountered that gang on several less fortunate
circumstances in the past. The court ordinances were rather
surprised to see the gang dispersing when we approached. In the
end we sat on the one side of the partition put up in the olden days
between white and non-white in the public gallery. The skollies
were sitting on the other side, and we made a point of teasing them
for sitting in the former non-white section.

The magistrate sentencing the gang member had a short fuse that
day. “Too many lives are lost through gangsterism, and it is high
time that and example should be made,” he said. We cheered at
this remark, but the magistrate threatened to chuck us out. We sat
very quite then, for we actually came to support Leon.
 68

“I take into consideration that the incident did not claim the life of
your victim – also that there was a lot of provocation. I sentence
you to five years in prison. Next case.”

Shock spread over the face of the gang leader – he expected a

month behind bars at the most. It took his gang members a few
seconds to regain presence of mind as well.

“Appeal, man appeal!” one shouted.

Unfortunately for the gangster, “appeal” sounds a lot like calling the
magistrate a penis in Afrikaans. Turning to his mates in the public
gallery, the leader said:

“’n P^&l se moer, man, hy is ‘n f*&^n d**s!”23

The magistrate, understanding Afrikaans quite well, did not like that
in the least, also sentencing the poor bloke for disrespect towards
court.

When Leon was brought before court from down in the cells, we
almost did not recognize him. He was neatly shaved, and wore a
smart suit. He could easily be mistaken for a lawyer, the way he
looked. A young man came in as well, and introduced him as
Leon’s attorney.

23
Roughly translated, meaning: “He’s no penis, he’s a f&^*ng…!”
and then referring to that part of a female’s anatomy which a man
does not have.
69

“How do you plead?” the magistrate asked Leon.

“Not guilty, your Honor. And these are my witnesses!” he continued

unasked for, waving at us sitting behind him.

“Not now dad!” the young man whispered from the front.

Leon got bail, that day, and he went to stay with his son. The case
itself was a mess. Leon’s son called us all who saw the Bergie
shoving the handbag in Leon’s hands. When it was my turn, the
irritated magistrate asked me why, if we new what really happened,
did not tell this to the police.

“Your Honor, we did tell that to them on the scene. We also went to
the police station on several occasions to tell, but we were only
mocked. In fact, we could even tell the police who the Bergie was
who flipped the handbag to Leon …the accused.”

When acquitting Leon, the magistrate was furious with the police.
He had a lot to say about courts crammed with cases not properly
investigated.

Leon came to the park the next day to say goodbye.

 70

6. The exodus

When saying goodbye at the bus, Sue hardly gives Jason a second
glance. But on us leaving, she does turn to Jason.

"Never dare keeping this man back. Fred is going places, and if you
dare be a stumbling block, you will feel my fist!" she threatens.

"You will soon be back with us!"

Sam greets me like a gentleman. "If ever you need any help, my
lad, you know where to find me." He struggles with a lump in his
throat. "We are so proud of you - if only my own children could have
given my as much joy."

This time it is I whom struggles to keep my tears back. "The two of

you - you have been as parents to me. Good parents." If only Sally
could have had parents like them.

I also have a special relationship with Sam. He used to be my

boxing instructor. But far more than a boxing instructor. With his
training he taught me self-control, self-discipline.

Sam was an excellent boxer in his younger days. Provincial

amateur middleweight champion, before he was lured into a
lucrative professional career.

Before turning pro Sam had been a clerk on the railways, and quite
content.
71

But turning pro changed all that. By the time he became South
African champion, he had to accustom himself to being a celebrity,
and being the property of his fans. He had to attend endless parties
and other functions. With those came the drinks. Lots of drinks.

"You know the rest of the story," Sam said when eventually he
confided in me.

I did not know his story, yet I could imagine. Once in the slipstream
downward, the version of those ending up as citizens of the streets
and park, do not vary much. Yet, he was keen on training me.
Somehow I got the impression that this gave him some purpose in
life. Teaching me boxing and life skills.

I had to do endless push-ups and other exercises, in the process

building muscles to top up my length of about six foot seven.

While greeting now, Sam smiles and boasts a fine set of teeth, but
for one missing in his lower jaw. As a person having been in the
international arena, that is not strange. But Sam did not loose that
tooth in the professional boxing ring.

One day during practice, Sam was urging me to hit harder and
harder.

"It is no use practicing, but keeping your blows back during

practice. Then, when you are in real danger, you are not
accustomed to hitting hard, and hitting where you were aiming at,"
he urged me.
 72

Since I could remember, I never tried to hit Sam, yet, he would urge
me to try my level best at connecting him. He prided himself in
being as agile as ever in ducking away from blows.

That day I aimed my blow to an area next to his face, bargaining on

him moving even further away when seeing the fist coming. But I
had it all wrong. Sam saw the blow coming, yes. And he ducked in
time as well. But in the wrong direction.

When the blow landed, I could hear the sickening sound of the
lower jaw breaking. The blow knocked Sam over backwards, and
landing on the gravel with his bottom plowing a furrow before he
tipped over, out cold.

I often went to see him in hospital. His upper and lower jaws were
tightly attached with some unseemingly wiring. Being an unpaid
patient, the government hospital did not want to waste much
professional expertise in getting Sam’s jaws attached with neat
wiring.

"Fortunately you knocked out a tooth as well," remarked his wife,

while I was liquid feeding him through a straw. The straw entered
his mouth through the hole left by the missing tooth.

Sam is one of the very rare species of hoboes who had a perfect
set of teeth. Teeth, or rather the lack of teeth, are also why the
homeless regard it as cruel when asking for money to buy a loaf of
bread, to be handed a loaf of brown bread in stead. Firstly, because
the money was seldom really intended to use for buying food. Folks
would be rather reluctant if you ask for money to buy booze.
Secondly, a loaf of white bread has a much better exchange rate
73

than a loaf of brown bread when converted into Blue Train. But the
main problem arises with eating brown bread, especially whole
wheat bread.

Does a person have any idea what pain is caused when something
hard ends up between the raw gums of a hobo? Covered with
sores caused by the Blue Train? Even if there are some worn teeth
on those gums, it is no better.

But I could not just feed Sam when visiting. Sam demanded, by
scribbling me a note the first time, that he wants me to do fifty push
ups on the ward floor every time I came to visit. He was not mad at
me at all. Rather very proud that a student of his being able to
make such sound contact, and with such devastating effect.

Sam was not the only person who taught me to be able to defend
myself, and on occasion or two the fellow bums.

Martin, the pavement artist, used to have a black belt in karate. The
black belt was about all Martin had. His karate suit long ago finding
its way to being exchanged for some liquor.

But the black belt he kept with him. He wore that when meditating.
Meditating to practice, what he called, placing mind over body.

One would usually, whether permitting, find Martin on the pavement

near parliament where he created the finest pictures with bright
chalk on the rough cement surface.

He drew Table Mountain covered in a cloud sheet, he drew the sea.

He drew the faces of amazed tourists.
 74

He could not sell those pictures. Yet, many tourists took photos and
paid handsomely. This, however, kept Martin out of work, for
money meant liquor, and liquor meant that he was out cold.

It seemed that Martin was more inclined to meditate when he had

had something to drink. When meditating, he used to say, you go
into a trance. This, most bums understood well, because they too
go into a trance when drinking too much.

“You idiots,” Martin would say, “With a meditating trance you

remain sitting up straight. When drunk, one tips over unconscious!”

“Precisely.” But no one really dared telling Martin in his face that he
too mostly tipped over when “mediating” with too much Blue Train
rushing through his veins.

That was when Reggie, a former bum turned photographer, saw

the opportunity of earning good dollars himself. Because
nowadays, one gets more or less ten Rand to the American dollar.
A number of years ago, at the Rand's peak during the apartheid
years, one could exchange a Rand for almost two American dollars.

Reggie would forever be taking Polaroid photo's of tourists with

Martin's art. With the dollars he received, he would pay Martin,
mostly in natura, in kind, as they say. The "payment" would consist
of things such as food, clothes, blankets, medicine, and chalk off
course.

I once asked Martin why he does not use other, more conventional
material.
75

"Because I want to make a living," he said. I urged him to explain.

"You see, my style is quite out of fashion, when I use canvass," he

said. "Too realistic," the art collectors and critics say. "They want
artists to express what they feel, not what they see. But what you
see down there on the pavement, is what I feel. Reality, be it
beautiful reality, but stamped on by people, and worn away by time
and nature."

I could then understand precisely what Martin meant. I could not

imagine him as feeling any other way than realistic. Bright colored
pictures when the sun was shining, gloomy when the dark clouds
indicated coming misery to the outside folks. But I also realized that
that was not entirely true. Like most bums, deep inside Martin too
carried with him a sore he could not handle. I often spoke to him,
trying to dig into his soul. One day my thoughts were confirmed.

“Come, I want to show you something. I believe you will be able to

understand.”

It was still dark, and Martin woke me where I lay on my park bench.

Getting up, I looked in the direction where Jason was snoring like a
steam train. Like the Blue Train in the olden days.

“Leave him alone!” Martin snapped. That’s why I came to fetch you
early.”

Martin led me out of the park, and up a steep road towards the
mountain. We walked through some rough bushes, and then came
 76

to the entrance of a huge storm water pipe. He entered, and then lit
a candle he dug somewhere from his shreds. Graffiti artists have
been very busy within this pipe. Some art pieces were clearly the
work of Bergies, others of Satanists.

We walked into the pipe even deeper, the masterpieces on the

walls becoming fewer and fewer. Eventually he came to a stand
still, and then bringing the candlelight closer to the side, said:

“That is what I feel. In fact, I can not rid my mind from these
thoughts.”

It took my eyes some time to adjust to the darkness of the picture.

When adjusting my eyes met those of a beautiful smiling woman,
her eyes filled with intense sadness however. I made more out in
the picture, which soon appeared to be an entire story. I saw a little
coffin, with an angel flying above. I saw people looking on in pity. At
an open grave a man sits as he collapsed under intense emotion. I
clearly recognized Martin. Some distance away, under trees, stood
a few youngsters, showing the Satanist finger sign while laughing.

“Take a good look, and never try to draw my story out of me again,”
Martin said, turning on his heels and walking away. He left me with
the burning candle. It took me the best part of two hours to fully
comprehend the picture. A masterpiece of art, if ever I saw one.
Even the angel was brought into the picture with such taste, that it
reflects no kitsch at all.

I knew then that I have found the cover page picture for a book I
had been working on in my mind for some time. How true – a good
picture says more than a thousand words. Not even a million words
77

could say what I had been seeing here deep under the surface of
the earth.

I ran to Reggie’s place as fast as my legs would carry me. I briefly

told him what Martin had showed me.

“The bliksem”24 he said. “To keep his best piece from me!”

But Reggie had quite a bit more to say when once inside the pipe,
and seeing the picture.

“Whoah” he said. “This must be worth a fortune if we can get it over

on canvass somehow!”

“Forget about that, I will pay you handsomely, once the book is
published. Just take a photo of that, and keep it with you until I
contact you.”

When referring to Martin one needs to use the past tense.

One evening, with a cold, wet spell on its way, Martin wanted to
demonstrate his ability of mind over body. He lay down on a park

24
Thunder bolt. Many South African are of Swedish and Norwegian
decent. Even after the Nordic nations became Christians at a very
late stage, did many go on to worship Thor, the god of thunder, on
the sideline. Thor played an important role in the life of the usually
illiterate farming community, as it was Thor’s duty to drive of the
“Ice giants” (Winter). The habit of saying “Bliksem” and “Donder”
(thunder) seems to have stuck long after the missionaries got rid of
the Thor worship.
 78

bench, with only thin clothes on. During that night, several of us
tried to convince him to get out of the rain and cold.

But he refused, scolding at us through teeth chattering as a

machine gun.

The next day the government morgue people carried him away, not
needing a stretcher, as he was as stiff as could be.

Martin's passing away was a disaster to the hobo community. Not

only did he earn plenty of bread, which he shared with the rest, but
also he came in very handy when the hoboes were under attack
from the Bergies or even the Cape skollies.

These Cape skollies are far more dangerous than the Bergies.
They are armed to the teeth with all kinds of weapons, the craft of
making them mostly learnt while in jail. Sharpened combs and
bicycle spikes, daggers and the occasional hand gun.

The spikes are a real nightmare. The "art" is to move up to an

unsuspecting bum or member of another gang from behind, and
then running the sharp end in between two vertebras of the spine.

This causes the victim to be paralyzed from the spot where the
spike entered downwards, until usually the bum or skollie dies an
agonizing month or two later. For the skollies make sure that the
spike is to cause severe inflammation, by for example dipping it in
urine.

Martin's karate had the better of many a Bergie or skollie. He taught

me everything he knew about karate.
79

Often the skollies do not come fighting. But then they have a
detrimental effect of the moral fiber of the hobo community, selling
pot and things like that. To pay for the pot, a hobo usually needs to
steal, and this can cause one to end up in trouble.

But even if he does manage to buy the pot that is not bound to be
the end of his woes. Pot usually does not agree well with Blue
Train, or any other liquor for that matter. It causes fighting, even
without liquor. A person under the influence of dagga would
become very pig headed, and getting involved with another person
also under the influence, is a nasty business indeed. With the
Bergies also come the art of sniffing glue. That, combined with pot
and spirits, really takes one on a trip.

But pot on its own - it has an even worse effect as well. Pot gives
the smoker incredible make-belief stamina. He does not feel the
sensation of chilliness creeping into his bones at night, either. With
the result, the next morning off goes another stiff.

It’s even worse now with all these Nigerians and Congolese all
around, bringing real heavy dope along.

A number of us went to Martin’s funeral. We stood at some

distance, for when a pauper’s funeral is done, the authorities do not
like to see people around who might have been able to pay for the
last respects. Yet, that day Sam did go forward, placing Martin’s
black belt on the hardboard coffin.

But Martin was by no means the only bum with a talent for art. Take
Jason for example.
 80

He might have many shortcomings, but playing the banjo, is not

one of them.

"There is no art in playing the guitar," he said. "The real art is

playing the banjo properly."

Looking after that banjo, was also not one of Jason’s shortcomings
either. He looks after that banjo far better than he looks after
himself. When not playing, he will put the banjo in a large plastic
bag. This he carries with him everywhere. When feeling like it, he
would sit on the low wall on the pavement, playing his heart out.
Some folks would put money on the pavement near him. He uses
no hat or any other item to collect money in.

"I have my &^%$ pride, man. I am no blooming beggar."

That’s true. The bums usually are no beggars. Cape Town has
quite a number of beggars, though. Some of those are people who
drive to Cape Town with their own cars from as far as Paarl, a town
regarded by many as being snobbish, some thirty miles away,
every day. Not all come with their own cars, however, some come
by train. Some indeed, earn good money sitting on the pavements
of Cape Town's CBD, looking miserably. Especially those who have
some limb missing, could earn quite a bundle on top of the disability
allowance they receive every month. So, it seems, the disabled do
benefit sometimes, although it is unlikely that this can be attributed
to the constitution. Nowadays, officially begging is against the law.
Begging tends to remind the haves that there are have-nots.
81

We all then sang: “Oh Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder…”

at Martins funeral.

Jason was playing his banjo, as I have never heard him play
before. Tobie put in a baritone performance as in his performance
days in opera.

"I am not the only musician in my family," Jason once said. "My wife
plays the trombone in the Salvation Army's band. My son ..." He
stopped right there, I could never drag any more out of him. When
urging him to talk, he would only get tears in his eyes and walk
away. Some time later I am sure to find him, playing a sad tune on
his worn banjo.

I often offered buying him a brand new banjo, but he wanted

nothing of it.

"I have sentimental value on this one," he would say. "If ever you
knew the whole story, you'd understand."

But I never learnt to know the whole story.

The best of the Bergies are Tjommie, Ghabba, Moegoe and Tsotsi.
Tjommie and Ghabba both mean something like "friend", Moegoe
has the meaning of something to the nature of "no good" and Tsotsi
is what a member of a gang of black youngsters is normally called.

With these four Bergies we have little trouble.

The tsotsi's are another species of unwanted rubbish drifting into

hobo territory from time to time.
 82

Each of the riffraff groups has a distinguished language, as do the

hoboes as well. The Tsotsi "language" is the least known in these
parts. The "dialect" also differs depending on where the group's
forefathers came from. Most in the Western Cape have come from
the Eastern Cape, formerly Transkei - Xhosa territory.

The tsotsi's usually keep to the black townships, yet sometimes

they move out, terrorizing other folks. Once to often, however, have
they dared terrorizing Sam's hoboes; or rather, they intended to.

But they were terribly mistaken. Martin, Sam, a black hobo

originating from the Free State and I, teamed up and had them
scurrying. They understood especially well that they were
unwelcome when cornered in a far corner of the park. So clearly did
we explain to them that we did not want them around, using our
fists and so on that they decided to leave immediately.

Not that it is all that easy to leave any place surrounded by devils
fork fencing. But a hefty hobo boot on the butt does seem to help
folks to get some height, and not minding too much about the razor
sharp "forks" on top of the fencing.

I do believe that some of them were not able to father any

offspring’s after that incident, though.

But this Free State hobo's talking to them in his version of Tsotsi
language was most fascinating, while encouraging them to get over
that fence:

&*^% moegoes. *(&^ futsack! Ke skreie &^% ya mo &^%$ grype!"

83

Initially I only understood the *&^$ sections. These are more or less
universal. But when repeating the other words more slowly, I
grasped some more. Especially the word "grype" interested me. It
was obviously derived from the Afrikaans word, "gryp," meaning
grab. It refers to the police. The tsotsi’s' encounters with the police
are indeed seldom that of a peace loving individual asking the
police officer on the corner the way to the nearest church.

Not that the Bergies have a less impressive vocabulary when

getting wrong ended with the fuzz. I recall once when a Bergie was
chuck in the back of a police van near our park. He was already
swearing while traveling through the air, on his way to the back of
the van.

The crash landing had him elevating his voice, swearing non-stop.
So was the bang he had when the police officer pulled away with
the van. And also, when a few yards further, the officer mistakenly
though he saw a dog running in front of the van. He applied the
brakes to a rather hasty dead still.

Realising his mistake, he pulled away rather hastily to make up for

some imaginary lost time. Again the Bergie went down banging. I
could hear that Bergie swearing two blocks away, especially clearly
each time the van stopped abruptly, and pulling away again. I can
not recall that Bergie repeating one single swear word, though.

I could imagine that the Bergie must have been smoked stiff with
pot, to be able to bear that much hammering without losing any
steam.
 84

It seems to me that the constitution had as little value to the rights

of the Bergies as it had for the hoboes. The tsotsi’s, however,
seemed to benefit to some degree from the constitution, as they
would hardly ever end up in court without legal representation from
the Legal Aid Board. The Legal Aid Board is supposedly non-racial
– as long as you get a black lawyer. When there are no black
advocates, this offers no problem – the Board simply flies one in
from distant Gauteng, and books him into the best hotel.

The Bergies have the advantage of being able to plant dagga in

hidden spots against the mountain slopes. Mostly for own usage,
but they often sell as well. That means that they more often have
money, and are therefore more inclined to littering than hobo's, who
have learnt lately that one can make a pocket of money by selling a
lot of litter to recycling places. Especially those aluminum tins.
These can buy some spirits.

Plastic bags also seem to have no long life expectancy where

hoboes are around. Especially Mother Theresa. She is seemingly
forever knitting. She spins the colorful plastic bags into thin threads,
and using them to knit with. She knits anything, that way. Hats,
purses ...you name it. Those a friend sells at the flea market to the
tourists.

Nobody knows what Mother Theresa’s real name is. She is named
this for she not only knits from plastic bags, but also uses wool
whenever she can afford. The jerseys and blankets she knits are
given to fellow bums, who would do her some favor in return. She
never asks for these favors, yet never refuses them either. Be they
handing her a bag full of neat plastic bags, or coming to her aid
when we were under attack.
85

"Now you are on your own," Sam says to me. "But you have been a
good student, and you will fend for yourself well."

A surprising number of hoboes from our park came to the bus

terminus to wave us goodbye. Jan also came, bringing his son
along. The lad, I heard, is an auditor making good money. In the
eyes of both I saw something else than sorrow for the first time.
Could it be hope?

“We have been selected to represent them at the international

Hobo Conference held in Hermanus,” I told a few fellow passengers
who were clearly puzzled as to who so many hoboes have pitched
to see the bus off. “You see, I can write, and Jason here can read.
We supplement each other. I do believe we will be doing just fine at
the conference.”

On departure we not only leave behind the hoboes, the Bergies, the
street kids, the beggars and tsotsi’s, but also the weirdest city
species I know. People whom I call zombies. Those people who,
when returning from work, switch of from their fellow humans.
When in the lifts, being elevated to their apartments high up in
glass structures look at the roof, rather than risking catching the
eyes of a fellow human being, even be it the next door neighbor.
They slip into their apartments, totally insulated from the world till
the next day. They live out to the world through the images on their
TV’s.

Lonesome, oh so lonesome.
 86

“I wave to my friends, and blow a kiss to Samantha, who is waving

her hand of.

Oh God, I am going to miss that child.

87

7. Sheltered at Genesis

We arrive at the Hermanus station, one of only two railway stations

in the country with no rail or train. We imagine that could easily be
mistaken for businessmen on a business excursion.

It is Easter – a long weekend lay ahead of us. I soon learnt that

Hermanus becomes a bustling town over weekends, and especially
long weekends, with people form Cape Town and other
surrounding towns flock into town like herds of sheep. They flock in
to get some rest for their souls, but, so it seems, many leave God at
home. Bringing God along can dampen too much of the fun lined
up. Back at work, being faced with the daily difficulties of work and
life, then God is OK. Every year more than two hundred people die
on South African roads, many of them intoxicated pedestrians. A
bloody Easter, year after year. People never learn.

But on our arrival I decide that this excursion will be some Easter
experience for me, irrespective of what it takes.

The bus ride took us past the Cape Flats, where we could see the
sprawling squatter towns. Townships where good people live, soon
building churches from meager means. Where black folks sing on
Sundays without any musical instruments, but more beautiful for
sure than any congregation in Europe or America with the best of
church organs in aid.

Black people can sing. Yet very few really make it in the
international musical arena. Most of those making it, do so in the
jazz world, which has little in common with ancient tradition.
 88

Good people, but also bad people, such as the tsotsi’s. A lot of
tsotsi’s, it seems, are sorted out when going to the donkerskool25.

The bus took us through Somerset-West, up Sir Lowry’s pass

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

All these towns nestle between the mountain range and the sea.
On the other side of the lake, Bettie’s Bay, Hangklip and Kleinmond

25
Initiation schools, when boys become men. Whenever a parent
can afford it, he sends his son to a traditional initiation school in
the Transkei or Ciskei. Sometimes the boy, regarding him as
westernized, has to be abducted to go to the initiation school. For
this purpose the father can rely on a sort of initiation school
“police” force. More and more parents can no longer afford the
expenditure of sending the children away, and have to rely on
people pretending that they are properly qualified in the ancient
traditions. More and more sons die every year as a result of the
mess made by these imitators. Most die of the complications of the
circumcision that makes out an important part, but others die on
account of the hardships through which they are put at such
schools.
89

squeezes open breathing space on the narrow coastal plain.

Bettie’s Bay is well known for the marine reserve, now also plagued
by poachers.

Then came Hermanus, and eventually the picturesque white station

building, built the same as many other rural town train station, yet
this one has no railway or train.

Soon after our arrival we find ourselves against the sheer cliffs
dropping into the sea far down below, looking for a suitable
overhanging rock under which we can sleep. These cliffs are some
of the most famous in the world, sheer cliffs dropping a hundred
foot or so into Walker Bay, but for a tiny beach hosting the old
harbor. Calling that a harbor is indeed a misnomer, if ever there
had been one. It consists of little more than a cement ramp running
out of the sea, suitable for bringing rowing boats on shore. Some of
these lie basking in the sun in their bright colors.

These steep cliffs, with the sprawling town of Hermanus on top,

also offer some of the best vantage-points for whale watching.
Hermanus is world famous for the whales coming into Walker Bay
late in winter, to have their calves. The authorities are fore-ever
having their hands full with reckless adventurers taking their tiny
boats to very near these whales. A flip of the mighty tail could see
such a jolly boat crashed to blisters. Yet, the fate of these law
breakers are of less concern to whale enthusiast traveling from all
over the world to come and see them, than the fate of the whales
being disturbed by these crazy fools on the water.

We soon leave civilization behind us, battling our way through

shrubs, following a dim rock rabbit path.
 90

Suddenly the path disappears in the bushes. Surprised, I stick my

head into the bushes where the path had disappeared. And am
even more surprised. I am looking into the mouth of a cave – the
entrance just large enough for a grown man to crawl through. A
fresh breeze comes blowing out of the cave mouth, indicating that
another entrance must exist.

To Jason’s surprise he sees my legs disappearing into the bushes.

He follows, and soon finds me standing upright in a huge stalactite
riddled cave. Bright sunshine is visible some distance ahead.

“Wow! What have we here?” exclaims Jason. “Just look at all these
Bushman paintings!”

“It seems to me”, I say, “that we had rediscovered a cave that had
last been used by ancient man.” The paintings against the wall do
not look very much as any Bushman paintings I have seen in
magazines before. I rather expect them to be much older.

“You mean those ape people?” asks Jason.

“More or less” I reply. “Some recent archeological findings seem to

indicate that the Southern tip of Africa was the cradle of mankind. In
fact, had been twice. Once, the development from ape to early
human, and then man-ape to modern man”.

“Whatever” says Jason. This type of talk from the youngster is far
too academic to his liking.
91

Rather, he investigates practically what good the cave holds for us.
If stone-age people could live here, we probably can as well.

“I never thought ever becoming a *&^% Bergie,” Jason remarks

dryly after convincing himself that we more or less struck the
jackpot as far as accommodation is concerned.

We collect some of the brush against the cliffs for bedding, and
then place some dry grass on top of that. Lying down, I realize that
far many years I have not slept in such comfort; that is, bedding as
soft as this, and a roof as water tight as this.

The cave proves to be as ideal as could be. It slopes down inside to

where the sea comes flushing in through a subterranean tunnel,
ending in a clear deep pool. Bright sunlight comes basking through
a hole in the roof high ahead. The collapsed roof partially filled one
corner of the pool, offering ideal habitat for lobster and prawn, far
from the greedy hands of smugglers, striping the South African
coast of a valuable asset.

We buy fishing gear in town, and soon discover that the pool offers
shelter to large numbers of fish.

We started living like kings after that discovery. We have the best
the ocean can offer – lobster, calamari and fish, other sea
delicacies as well, and we sell fish to tourists to buy fruit and
vegetables.

Nowadays one actually needs to buy a fishing license for angling.

But if we rediscovered this cave only after a couple of tens of
thousands of years, chances are that the authorities will only
 92

discover us having been inside in a couple of another tens of

thousands of years.

I, in the mean time, have started with archeological excavations,

carefully documenting each find, as well as the place and depth
found. One day, I dream, I will write a book, and surprise the world.

By now I am convinced that the paintings against the wall are not of
Bushman, or San as they are called now that they are basically
extinct, origin. I read somewhere that these ancient paintings were
actually the way the ancient dwellers “wrote.” Since we arrived I
have tried to “read” the paintings, and in the process started to
learn to “know” some of the characters who inhabited the cave.

It seems as though the water level must have risen and dropped
over time. I heard that prehistorical tools have been discovered on
the floors of Table and False Bays. At such stages the
subterranean waterway must have been an entrance to the cave.
At some other stages Table Mountain was an island, and then most
of this cave must have been submerged. This I could establish from
the different levels at which one would find paintings obviously
painted by people of different levels of civilization. The rising sea
level had obviously washed away the paintings of lower levels.

One day in the not too distant future, this cave will again be filled by
water. This time on account of humans, destroying the world they
are living on. Global heating. These ancient people might have
been barbarian, probably eating some enemy from time to time. But
they did not have the capacity of destroying an entire planet. With
this global heating the poles have started melting, and at some
93

places the water level has started rising. Most of the world’s major
cities will first become Venice’s, and then be submerged.

The paintings from one stratum are even more fascinating than
those of the others. The people on the paintings were all rather
hunched, with flatfish foreheads. Their hair was dark. But not all.
Amongst them was a tallish woman with fair hair. She could have
been the girl next door. Yet, almost always somewhat to the side,
always seeming to serve. At first I pondered the thought that these
painting might have been painted within the past 400 years or so,
but this did not figure. In the end I came to the conclusion the girl
must have been taken a slave from a nomadic Cro-Magnon tribe.
This tribe must have wandered far from any area so far thought that
they occurred. Maybe during an ice age in the Northern
Hemisphere.

These people painted against the wall started pre-occupying my

thoughts. At night I start to dream that these people are alive
around us. Trying to communicate with me. The fair hared girl
always at some distance. In my dreams she started looking a lot
like Sally.

Gradually I discover that the cave must have been isolated from the
outside world for thousands of years. The rock rabbit and bat guano
was not as thick as one would have imagined. All life, so it seems
had come to an end in this cave thousands of years ago, and only
quite recently have started to develop again, but this time without
humans.

Lying in my “bed” I give this some thought. Then, the ancient

people start walking about, and I realize that I must have dropped
 94

of to sleep again. Then the ancient people leave the cave, with only
the girl with the fair hair remaining. She always seems to have a
better grasp of what I wanted to know from her.

“What is your name?” I ask. She looks at me, puzzled. I point to

myself, saying: “Fred, my name is Fred.” Then pointing to her, I
asked: “Name?”

“Sal” she whispers. Somehow I am not surprised, as though I had

been expecting this. The other cave people refer to her as “Nyesh,”
but I gathered that that was probably a word meaning something
like slave or dog.

Sal indicates that I must follow her. I crawl from under the blanket,
and I follow her to the entrance. Outside, she turns, and points to a
huge rock hanging over the entrance. Then she demonstrates with
her hands how this rock at some stage tipped over, and blocked the
entrance. She indicates that quite a number of people were inside.
Making gasping sounds, she indicates that the people started
running out of air, dropping down.

This time, I indicate her to follow me, and we again enter the cave.
Pointing to the hole in the roof, so as to inquire how the people
could have suffocated, she shook her head. That hole did not exist
then.

After that dream, I often dream of people trapped inside the cave.
How the poor devils stoked the fire, not realizing that they were in
so doing running out of oxygen faster. Sal is not with the trapped
people.
95

Some try to escape through the submerged tunnel. Some seem to

make it, not returning. Others are back after a while, gasping for air,
others wash up after a while, their lifeless bodies floating in the
pool. I wake up with terrified faces all around me disappearing in
the process.

I immediately haste to the outside of the cave. I can clearly see

against the cliff where an overhanging boulder once broke free.
Then, studying the surroundings, I find a furrow drawn by a heavy
boulder not very long ago. I follow this furrow, and to my
amazement find the boulder where it dropped in the sea, and now
lay half submerged. How long ago could this rock have slipped
away from covering the entrance? Twenty years ago? Maybe even
more recently?

I sit in the fresh breeze to sober up somewhat. Have I become so

pre-occupied with my research that I have started living as part
there-of?

The bats must have been occupying the cave again since the roof
collapsed. This must have been longer ago, as some of the sea life
in the pool would not have flourished in total darkness.

Night after night, I dream of Sal, whom by now was Sally to me. We
learn to communicate more and more. Her fortunes at the hands of
the ape people also remind me a lot of Sally’s experience in the
orphanage.

Sal has a beautiful glaze-like pebble hanging from a piece of

leather around her neck. It shines red, yellow and blue. The ape
people often try to get hold of this pebble. One night, with the ape
 96

people all fast asleep, Sal draws my attention, and then buries the
pebble and lace near the side of the cave in the soft cave floor.

I again fall asleep, only to be woken by an earth tremor. I am just in

time to see Sal dashing for the cave exit, a few ape people chasing
after her. Sal slips through the exit, but before the others could
reach it, the heavy boulder drops and blocks the exit.

I know I am only dreaming, but things are so vivid. Again I

experience the agony of the ape people trying to get out, while
suffocating.

When waking, I go to the precise spot Sal had buried her shining
stone. Believing myself to be a fool I start digging. The soft guano
in which Sal has dug, is now nearly petrified. But after some time, I
get hold of something even harder. A few moments later I hold the
green, yellow and red pebble. To my further amazement I find it to
be hand carved.

After this I did not dream of Sal or the ape people any more. At
least not in such a realistic way. It seems as though Sal had left me
a present when departing. This stone, I realized, must mean
something special – such as that it must give some clues as to
where Sal and her people originally came from.
97

8. To the White House

One beautiful day, with the sun shining brightly, we decide to go

and do some sight seeing. Winter had passed at last, and with it the
many rainy days. The town folks complain that it was a very dry
winter, leaving the town’s main water dam perilously empty. We,
who mainly live outside, did not really notice that it had been such a
dry winter.

We get a lift with a truck driver, who takes as to Waenhuiskrans. I

could not resist seeing with my own eyes the houses that so
fascinates Samantha that she works so hard at school to buy her
parents one. This tiny seaside village near Africa’s southern most
tip is well known for its picturesque white houses with tiny windows.
An Afrikaans poet once wrote, roughly translated, “Between the
white house and the white house…”

The dogs in town, and even a cat, do however not take it all that
kindly that a pair of bums come sight seeing in their quite town, and
make quite a ruckus. Jason has quite a lot to say to the bewildered
animals as well, such as ^&&%$ and *&^%!.

“This might not be the real White House, Jason, but I doubt whether
we would have been more welcome at the real one.”

“Darn hypocrites” Jason replies. He’d seen the curious eyes of

people peeping from behind their curtains. They surely do not want
an influx of hoboes in their town.
 98

“You perlemoen26 thieves! You hipocrats!” shouts Jason at the top

of his voice, causing a stir at some curtains.

“You both walk so tall, you must be Homo erectus!” replies a voice
from somewhere.

This remark really unleashes Jason’s unique vocabulary, which

enables him to swear for half an hour on end, without ever
repeating a single word. Jason’s knowledge of science and Latin let
him down somewhat, causing him to misunderstand the meaning of
“Homo erectus.” He confuses the “Homo” part with the general
word referring to gays, and the “erectus” part with the resulting
sexual behavior.

“You can call us moffies27 as you like, but we are not. And we need
not eat stolen perlemoen to have erections – with women!”

Our lift back to Hermanus drops us of near a school, where kids are
practicing to kick a rugby ball to the posts. Jason and I stand at the
fence, watching them.

“Hey you, do you want to take a shot at the posts?” a kid with
freckles asks. His mates standing behind him, apparently under the
impression that we are now going to beat a retreat.

26
Mother-of-pearl. Over the past few year thieves stripping the
coast have become a major headache. The thieves believe that
they have a right to this asset, whilst government hands out
quota’s, and the licenses often benefit people from elsewhere.
27
Slang word for gays.
99

I, however, hop over the fence, holding out my hands for the boy to
pass me the ball.

“I have never been good with direction, but I could make the ball go
quite some way.”

With the ball in hand, I walk to a spot some thirty meters from the
posts. After carefully placing the ball, I step back, take a deep
breath, and then run in.

My boot hits the ball with a loud thud, launching the ball more or
less in the direction of the posts. I miss by quite some distance, but
that does not prevent the ball from traveling even further – over the
fence, over the road, over the vacant yard on the other side of the
road, and then disappearing over the side towards the beach. One
of the kids gives chase, returning with a wet ball.

“Hell, he kicked it right into the tidal pool!”

“Did you play for the Springboks?” one wants to know.

“No, but Jason has,” I smile. I know this is not true, but to my
surprise Jason takes the ball, and drop kicks it through the posts
from 35 meters out.

“Yes!” one of the kids yelled. “You must have played flyhalf! Was it
with Danie Craven’s side?”

I feel a bit sorry for Jason. He might look old on account of his
weather-battered skin, and he is no spring chicken either. But
 100

Danie Craven must have been retired from playing when Jason
was born.

“No, I played for Northerns with Piet Uys” Jason continues to my

surprise. “I only made it to the Springbok trials.”

“Yeach!” says one of the kids. “You played for the enemy!”

“And you, did you at least play for Province?” another asks, pointing
to me.

“For Western Province League28,” I lie. It will be far too much effort
to explain to the boy that I have sabotaged any aspirations I might
have had, when running away from home when I was still a boy.

This is irony, I think. One person can launch his life far removed
from present misery, such as by winning the lotto. Yet, he misses
the point totally, just ending up in another mess. Another can hit the
target all right, but still end up to close to his present circumstances
to really be a new person.

I like these kids. They are tanned from outside life, they enjoy life.

Some evenings Jason and I wander into town to enjoy the night life
atmosphere. We like to sit on a bench on the high cliffs with a
slight breeze coming in from over the sea, starring out over Walker
Bay. Behind us diners make a roaring trade, and often a roaring
noise, especially over weekends and holidays.

28
The side for coloreds in the old apartheid years
101

People laugh and have fun. But seeing this for a while, one also
starts seeing the tragedy. Girls whom would probably not have
seen a dozen summers in their short lives, working the streets to
pick up some-one. They are clearly hooked on drugs, and need
money for more. They are usually from very decent houses, with
parents quite content that their kids are out having fun.

In fact, I recently read in a police newsletter that the police are quite
frustrated with some parents. Like picking up a girl well after
midnight walking the streets alone, poep drunk.29 Taking her home,
the parents were very mad with the police for spoiling the kid’s fun.

This had me wondering. Are these parents any better than those of
the street kids?

The next day we kick ball with the kids, and then walk back to our
cave. On the beach we notice some smoke coming from behind a
huge rock. Almost simultaneously the sweet aroma of dagga smoke
reaches us.

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

We carefully approach the rock, Jason from one side, and I from
the other. Then we charge. Before even noticing anything further, I
pull the dagga cigarette from the person’s mouth, and chuck it in
the sea. Only then do I realize that the offender is but a boy of
approximately thirteen. I also notice that he is dripping wet, and
shivering, while placing perlemoen in some plastic bags.

29
Common slang for as drunk as a lord
30
Common slang for a dagga cigarette.
 102

“Nei man, wat maak djulle nou?”31 the lad protests.

“And what have we here?” I ask, but already feeling sorry that we
ever got involved.

“Is djulle die under cover kopse?”32 the boy wanted to know really
frightened.

“Us, cops. Now ways,” protests Jason.

“Why are you poaching perlemoen?” I ask not quite knowing what
else to ask.

“What else must I do?” the boy asks. “Become a Bergie or a street
kid?”

When hearing “Bergie,” Jason spits on the ground. To him a Bergie

is the lowest and most disgraceful life form imaginable. It took me
some time to learn why he hated the Bergies so much. Jason once
tamed a baby squirrel, he called Jack. Jack would often sleep on a
park bench with him.

“Those were my early hobo days. I believe I would have gone back
to normal life then, but I could not leave Jack. We were
inseparable. Yet, he also always seemed to have some lady
friends, and babies to look after. I could thus not tag him along if I
left, either.”

31
Local dialect, meaning: “No man, what are you doing?”
32
“Are you under cover cops?”
103

I know that Jason was trying to find some understanding for him
never returning to normal life. What is true, however, is that Jason
was extremely fond of that squirrel, and the squirrel of Jason.

One day Jason was mugged by a number of Bergies. This often

happened to Jason. That day, however, the squirrel started
attacking the Bergies, biting wherever he could grab hold. Then
those *&^% Bergies started kicking Jack, killing it.

“What is your name, son?” I ask.

“What do you want to know my name for?”

“Because I like you, boy,” I insist.

“Robin, Uncle. Robin Cloete.”

“Now Robin, are not scared of going to jail?”

“Neptune33 has never succeeded in getting hold of me,” the boy

boasts.

“I have no choice,” he explains again. “With all the corruption going

on, we will starve to death.”

The irony, the small timers usually sell their illegal harvest to the
people who have the quotas for next to nothing, and take all the

33
A special, multi-disciplinary operation set up to combat perlemoen
poaching in the area.
 104

risk. With the meager earnings, the small time poachers can not
afford wet suits. A colored boy walking around with a wet suit would
also almost certainly draw the attention of Neptune’s people or their
informants. The water at Hermanus is very chilly indeed.

My heart bleeds for this shivering boy, who risks big trouble for
meager earnings, so as to survive. In a country with almost half the
potential work force unemployed or in informal jobs they do not
regard as careers, one’s options are limited. This is in stark contrast
to the poaching big timers, living in extreme luxury.

“That is still no excuse for smoking dagga!” I scolded.

“Dzissem man, wie’ djulle dannie hoe koud is daai waterrie? ‘n Man
se tottertjie is amper skoen weg vannie koue. Da’ ka’ mannie nie
eens vuur maakie, want dan kry Netptune se manne djou.”34

Indeed, Neptune has stepped up operations, even introduced a

special court. Residents, and especially holiday visitors who do not
realize that they should take the intimidation of the poacher gangs
seriously, frequently clash with poachers. Shots are often fired.
Recently poachers in a fancy speedboat openly poached in the
marine reserve at Betty’s Bay. A resident, accompanied by a nature
conservationist, took their own boat in to confront the poachers,
after phoning the police. The police arrived just in time to save the

34
“Gee man! Don’t you know how cold that water is? Its so cold
one’s male organ almost shrinks away. And on top of that, one can
not dare to light up a fire, for that can draw the attention of
Neptune’s people.”
105

bacon of the two law-abiding citizens, their boat being smashed by

that of the poachers.

Some of the rascals arrested, were out on bail for the same
offence, others had a number of encounters with police. Most had
previous convictions for poaching.

At Onrust a holidaymaker took pot shots at poachers, poaching in

open daylight close to the shores, right in front of houses. A month
earlier, a poacher took his wife along to stay on the lookout in the
rubber dinghy while he did the diving. Suddenly the wife saw the
boat of Neptune coming, and shouted at her husband, who started
to swim away. She started throwing the perlemoen over board, but
realizing she was not going to get rid of the evidence in time,
started taking her clothes of. She was quite naked by the time the
Neptune boat came near, and started yelling at the top of her voice.
This drew the attention of the inhabitants of the houses on the
nearby shore. The Neptune people, realizing what embarrassing
spectacle it would be to arrest this naked, screaming lady with so
many people looking on, turned the boat around and sped off.

Jason and leave the boy with his poachings, our minds trapped in
frustration. Is there no way out?

In the mean time, billions of rands of government money for poverty

alleviation are not taken up. It simply lays there – no proper delivery
system.
 106

9. Fruits of the sweat

Christmas is nearing. One can see that because the municipality is

putting up bright, colorful lights all over town. At night one would
feel some festive joy inside one’s chest, although the
holidaymakers and the real festive season have not arrived yet.

Some folks have arrived, thought. They are the kids who have just
completed writing Matric, the final schools exam. Nowadays, it is
rather an art to fail Matric. So these kids have little worries when
coming to Hermanus to celebrate, even though the results are
expected only much later.

Jason and I soon learnt that this flocking of these brats was an
annual tradition. One not looked forward to by the permanent
residents. We soon learnt why. Not only do they spend most of
their time boozing and making love on the beaches, but they are
extremely rood to the town’s people. Especially old ladies, because
they know that these old folks won’t be able to give chase after
rood remarks, and give them the spankings they so much deserve.

Jason and I are also targeted. From some distance, because these
kids might have big mouths, but they are no heroes. I think Jason
actually likes this, because this gives him ample opportunity to
shout all kinds of words back to the kids, in the process being very
educational. He teaches them quite a vocabulary of swearing words
they have definitely not come across before. This superior
knowledge makes Jason very proud. In the park, he had teachers
from all over the country.
107

It is also not often that a bum could be so content at swearing at a

bunch of young hooligans, knowing very well that he is quite safe.
Only once did the kids approach to come and teach Jason some
lesson, but when I rose to my full length and gave some strides in
their direction, they wisely decided to do the rest of the tormentation
from some safe distance.

I wonder at what prehistoric stage in our cave these kids would best
fit in. Probably somewhere between homo africanus and homo
erectus. They do tend to walk more or less upright, if not to boozed
to stand on their feet. They would most definitely not pass the test
for being Cro-Magnon people.

The next year some of them would be freshmen at university, being

cut to size. This is despite these “welcoming” practices being
banned, as it transgresses one’s human rights of not being
humiliated. But as with most human rights, very little of this survives
reality.

Others have the opportunity to first go abroad for a year or so, at

the expense of a rich daddy. There, I read, many of these kids
would continue pulling their country’s image through their arses.

One day, in Hermanus town, walking past a quite little thatch-roofed

church, I notice the garden being covered with weeds. While still
looking at the garden, the reverend comes walking around the
corner. It is almost Christmas time, and everybody seems to
becoming more aware of the meaning of the season. This is
probably what drew me to the church in the first place, this morning.
 108

Take yesterday for example. Jason and I were sitting on a bench

overlooking the bay, with three self-appointed parking attendants
hanging around idly. It was still too early for shoppers to start
squeezing into parking areas.

“It’s still with you,” I said, making conversation.

“Yes, it’s almost Christmas. We should have had more customers

by now,” one replied.

“The motorists probably head another way because you are too
ugly,” Jason teased them.

“We might be ugly, but we earn our money through hard work,”
Jason was silenced.

“Yeah, as the Good Book says: ‘In the sweat of one’s sufferings
you will earn your bread,’” another replied. The quote from the
Bible, irrespective of how wrangled it might be, triggered the three
of them to rehearse the Ten Commandments. Between them they
came to about 24 commandments. These include: “You may not
want your neighbor’s treasures, you may not smoke dagga, you
may not desire one’s neighbor’s beautiful wife, you may not call
another ugly.” The last apparently designed to make Jason feel
bad.

As the saying goes: “The pot can not call the kettle black,” or in
Jason and the parking attendants’ case, Jason can by now stretch
of imagination call the others ugly.

My mind is plucked by reality when the man speaks.

109

“May I help you?” inquires the old gentleman.

“May I please clean the garden?” I ask.

“We can’t really pay,” says the reverend.

“That’s fine with me,” I respond. “As far as I can remember, I

haven’t done anything much for a church in my life. It is high time.”

The next day one would find me working, cleaning up the garden. I
soon discover that the church congregation had moved to a new,
modern church complex some distance away, and that this old
church was basically only kept as an office for the reverend. The
“not pay” part is more a matter of not being budgeted for, than the
non-availability of funds.

The reverend, rev. Smith, and I soon discover that we share a lot of
interests. The reverend is amazed at the knowledge of this
apparent homeless bum. He is even more impressed when he
discovers that I am the writer whose stories he did not miss for
anything in the world.

That day I started writing again. I write about my Cape Town

experiences with hoboes. I write up the stories I can recall from
bums now long dead. Masterpieces told, often when the orator was
half on a Blue Train trip. These stories I hand to the reverend, who
has them typed and sent to the publishers. Soon money is coming
in again, and the typist paid. Some money goes to the church
 110

“You know,” says the reverend. “Our scribe is retiring. Would you
consider taking up the position. The pay isn’t much, but we can ad
accommodation in the room behind this building to this. You will
also have lots of time to write.”

That day my entire life changed. Returning to the cave and telling
Jason, Jason just stares at the floor. My heart turns ice cold when
Jason walks directly at the pool. In my mind’s eye, I again see my
father disappearing into the sea.

Jason turns around, however, his eyes sad in the dim light.

“Would you mind buying me a bus ticket to Cape Town? I’m

missing my friends”.

I nod. I know, once Jason had left, I will probably never see him
again.

The next morning I walk into the little church.

“I’m taking the job.”

Looking up from behind his desk, the reverend seems pleased. He

comes walking to me, followed by a very beautiful girl.

“I have some news for you,” continues the reverend. “This girl is
looking for you, I think.”

“My name is Rozanne Behrsma,” she says in Dutch, holding out her
hand.
111

Behrsma?! That’s my surname. Could she be a relative of my

father’s?

She has a striking resemblance to Sally. But Rozanne is well over

six foot tall, but not clumsy looking at all. Rather looking like those
tall beauty queens of a few years ago, when tall girls winning Miss
South Africa competitions was in high fashion.

“I think you are a distant cousin” she continues. “When I read one
of your books while visiting this country, I remembered my
grandfather said his second cousin had a son who left for South
Africa, but that all contact was lost.”

I realize that the reverend must have warned her that I am a

homeless wanderer … or rather used to be one until an hour or so
ago. I was standing with my mouth full of teeth, feeling very
awkward, and not knowing what to say. Yet, she continues as
though talking to me was the most natural thing.

“If we are related, at least you will be one of the very few people I
would not have to bend over to kiss,” she continues smiling, as
though kissing a bum is the most natural thing on earth.

“Glad to meet you, distant cousin.” She takes my outstretched hand

between both of her soft hands, and I feel shivers running down my
spine. She looks at me, her eyes deep blue pools.

“The way I was made to remember, my father’s…”

I cut my words short. What is the sense of now blaming any one for
the past? This lady certainly has nothing to do with it.
 112

“I am very impressed with your work. It seems to me that I must

have known you for ages. And here I find you in perhaps the most
beautiful place on earth!”

“I am going to make us some tea,” the reverend says, moving of to

the kitchen.

“Now tell me something of yourself and your family. I know very

little of my dad’s family.”

Soon I know that my dad came from a very wealthy Friesian family.
According to Rozanne he was some kind of rebel, who took to the
seas, never to return. But when coming to South Africa for
holidays, Rozanne did not have finding relatives in mind. She was
surprised to find a story written by somebody with her scarce
surname, and started investigating. The publishers referred her to
the reverend at Hermanus. She phoned a few days ago, but the
reverend kept the visit as surprise.

“You are definitely staying over with us tonight,” says the reverend
when returning with the coffee.

“I’m definitely not going to leave before I have learnt to know this
remarkable relative of mine better, either. But I have booked
accommodation in the hotel,” says Rozanne.

But the reverend wants nothing of her staying at the hotel. A

telephone call later, the booking is cancelled, and I can bring her
luggage into the house. This I do with my feet floating. Is it possible
to be in love just like that? Or does she remind me of my mother?
113

Or even my dad? Or maybe Sally. All I know for sure, I feel like a
schoolboy who has really fallen in love for the first time.

We chat till lunch, finding to be complete soul mates. She is the

first person, after Reggie, I have told of plans of writing a book, with
Martin’s drawing on the cover page.

After lunch, the reverend drives us to Onrust River beach, while he

has an errand to run in the nearby Hawston.

Rozanne and I walk through the Onrust River, flowing quite strongly
from the lagoon, now fed by late winter rain. This gives me an
excuse to pick her up, and carry her to the beach on the other side.

“The pollution in this lagoon is often very high. The ecoli count often
reaches about 500. That’s very dangerous.”

Apart from the usual problems facing many South African estuaries
– alien vegetation sucking up scarce water, rising populations
drinking the water, and agricultural flow offs enriching water
stimulating algae growing, some arse hole built a sewerage line
right in the river bed. The water seldom flows strong enough to
wash the silt out to sea, resulting in most estuaries suffocating to
death.

We walk the beach, holding hands. I can feel the years of 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
 114

go, and she seems quite content. After a while we realize that the
reverend might be on his way back to pick us up, and we turn back.

High up on an elevated stretch, we are so occupied in our

discussions, that we are completely surprised. They are on us
before we could react. Tsotsi’s! Six of them, four coming for me,
and two grabbing Rozanne, immediately beginning to rip at her
clothes. Her yells shock me into action.

The first knife-wielding thug runs straight into my right hook,

sending him down like a falling log. The second one, coming at me
from slightly to the left, thrusts the knife at me, but I manage to
chop his forearm away with mine. The knife rips open my shirt, but
draws no blood.

“&*^% moegoes. (&^ futsack! Ke skreie &^% ya mo &^%$ grype!" I

shout. One of the lessons learnt from Martin was that it was to
one’s advantage of getting your attackers mad. They tend to loose
concentration, and are thus more open for being (&^% up, as
Martin used to say.

“Tsotsi, moegoes ^&%$!” I yell.

I haven’t been around rough life for nothing. I know the other two
are coming in from behind, and I drop low down on my knees,
rolling over. This catches them completely by surprise, and I
manage to get a boot to the chin of the one nearest.

I am on my feet in a flash, as the two remaining thugs come in,

knives wielding. Again my fist outreaches the stretched out knife of
the nearest, and this time I do not chop away the knife of the
115

second. I grab hold of his wrist, and falling backwards, I put a boot
in his belly, kicking hard.

This sends the thug flying over my head, pulling the recovering two
who were just getting up, down. Together they drop down a straight
height of some twenty feet into the chilly sea below.

The fourth thug has had enough. Coming to my feet, he was

scrambling for the thick bush to get away.

But my eyes want to find Rozanne, who is no longer shouting. I

relax, seeing that she was doing just fine. In fact, she is giving the
attackers a sound lesson in karate, both trying in vain to get away.

But my anger does not abide. I pick up a nice sized rock, and sling
it at the fleeing thug. It smashes into the back of his head with a
sickening, cracking sound. He drops like being shot in the heart.

Barely making two paces, I am with Rozanne. I am outside myself

with rage. For the first time in many years, things were working out
for me. I was dreaming dreams of settling, getting wed with a
person I have fallen hopelessly in love with.

And here come these thugs, scaring the living daylights out of yet
another foreign tourist! How many times have I not read of tourist
surviving attacks, saying they are never, ever to set foot in South
Africa again? To loose Rozanne before even being sure I have won
her heart, makes me crazy.

I grab hold of the first thug I can lay my hands on, picking him high
above my head, and making for the cliff. I plan to have him meeting
 116

the same destiny as his three companions, who are now

desperately trying to swim to safety as they are being tossed to and
fro in the raging surf down below.

But Rozanne yells: "No, no don't kill him!" brings me to my senses. I

turn around and throw the man deep into a sprawling Port Jackson.
The other man was limping away as fast as his injured knees would
carry him. He obviously ended up with telling karate kicks onto both
knees, and pain was making his getaway a real agony.

Then Rozanne is in my arms, sobbing. I squeeze her tightly, also

sobbing:

"Please, please do not leave me on account of what happened

today. Please, I can not loose you!"

Rozanne stops sobbing, and looking up into my bearded face: "Are

you asking me to stay with you? Maybe asking me to get married?"

As reply I squeezed even harder. "At least give me a chance," I

plead.

She smiles, and as reply kisses me hard on the mouth.

"I'll hang around for a while, seeing whether you ever come round
in asking me to get married," she laughs, starting to run in the
direction of the Onrust River mouth, but not letting go of my hand.

The same evening, Rozanne, the reverend, Jason and I sit on deck
chairs, looking at the magnificent stars while a cod is roasting on
the charcoal. I have an unusual chilliness on my face, despite it
117

now being high summer. Earlier today I wanted to know from

Rozanne whether she'd prefer me shaving of my beard.

“A well built lad reaching for seven foot, having a baby face?” she
said jokingly. “I want no man with me looking like a sissy! But we
can have it trimmed a bit if you like.”

So that’s how ended up with my beard neatly trimmed. Rozanne

also got hold of my hair, and now I boast a hairstyle high in fashion.

The way Rozanne worked with my beard and hair is far removed
from what I had become used to in Cape Town. Mandy used to do
the hair of all the bums in our park. She was a hairdresser once,
she claims. Whether she was, or not, does not matter much - if you
are a bum.

The price for having Mandy tending to one’s hair was a new pair of
scissors. For hygienic reasons, she would explain. We all
suspected rather that the price was fixed by the fact that one could
have a pair of scissors, basically brand new, more or less
exchanged for a bottle of Blue Train. The current exchange rate of
the scissors to the Blue Train was more or less equal, we would
tease her.

We had quite an ordeal with the police, earlier today, when

reporting the incident on the rocks. I almost had myself arrested for
suspicion of attempted murder. Not even the presence of the
reverend had the police officers on duty moved that I did not use
excessive force.
 118

"Even if were accompanied by Pres. Mbeki himself, you would still

have been in deep s&^%!" one of the policemen said.

Rozanne threatening to phone the Dutch consular in Cape Town,

however, did the trick

"One can not but get the impression that this new constitution tends
to favor the criminal more than the peace, God loving citizen," the
reverend complained when leaving the police station.

The attackers had the audacity to come and lay charges for being
attacked. They beat us to the police station.

I had no answer. If ever the police in Cape Town got wind of even
the slightest possibility of the Cape bums going to be attacked by
the skollies or Bergies, they made the split very fast. Later, some
would come round and make some notes before the wounded, and
now and then even a corpse or two, are taken away.

From their perspective, one could probably understand that. Some

criminals attacking worthless creatures such as hoboes. They have
never experienced life from that angle, have never been exposed to
the vastness of humanity and richness of soul existing.

Jason sits on the railing of the veranda, playing his banjo. He has
mastered the ability to play individual notes, not making use of
simply pressing. He plays the one cheerful tune after the other,
tunes he knows by listening to them. For he has never learnt to
read music.
119

While waiting for the meal, fit for a king, Jason plays on again. This
time the tunes are rather dreamingly, some actually being sad. I
realize that he is saying good bye.

The reverend and I have pleaded in vain he stays on. "I appreciate
you worrying about me, but I have seen in the past. I simply can't
handle work stress."

I have come to know that it serves no purpose to argue with some

one on this topic. The evangelists have sometimes, with the aid of
social workers, gone to quite some length in getting a bum
rehabilitated. But as soon as he gets a whiff of working, work stress
pulls him down under immediately. Some people have
claustrophobia, others are scared of heights, others simply can not
cope with the pressures any-how related to handling
responsibilities.

The country has indeed lost some of its most brilliant writers and
reporters this way. People who have just started making a mark in
the wold of literature or fine journalism, when they were swallowed
by this dark monster. Some were fortunate, and ended up in
newspapers’ sub offices, where they change the average writing of
others into masterpieces. As long as they themselves are not
exposed.

Those, who can so truly say to the less fortunate who have this
black monster pulling then right down to the existence of being
hoboes: "There, but for the grace of the Lord, go I."

Jason surprises me, however: "I also miss my wife. I haven’t seen
her for quite some time ... I really do miss her."
 120

Before I could make up my mind on whether to try and exploit the

moment to come behind the story, he continues:

"The two of you being so happy, having found soul mates, reminds
me of what I am missing. The wife and I are sole mates,
irrespective...”

He stops abrupt. Looking at the sea, now covered in darkness.

"Sometimes some wounds do heal," he continues.

He is still gently playing on his banjo, but now one could not be
mistaken. He is playing a very sad tune...a favorite of many moons
ago: "I na wanna play house, because when mommy and daddy
played house..."

"She was such a beautiful little girl. She went to work with me,
because my wife was a professional person - a theater nurse.
Being with me she could play. All the folks at my work loved her.
Enjoyed having her around...

One day, when concentrating on my work for a moment to long,

Mandy slipped out of the panel beating yard, and ended up in front
of a speeding taxi..."

He stops playing. His voice is trembling. "I stood in the street with
her broken little body in my hands. I was torn apart. To tell my
wife..."
121

I feel a chill running up my spine, and then thinking of the little coffin
in Martin’s picture, with the little angel flying above. So Jason at
some stage told Martin his own story. Nobody will probably know
Martin’s story, especially now that Martin’s gone to where one day
we will all go. I really need to write that book. That picture can do so
much heeling.

Jason starts playing again. "In time my wife forgave me, but I could
not forgive myself. Not only for what I had done to my little girl. At
least she is an angel in heaven...one of the most beautiful ones
mind you, but also what I did to my wife. She is with the Salvation
Army now, you know." He does not recall once mentioning to me
that she plays in the Salvation Army band. But is also strikes me
that Martin had in fact not revealed some of his soul to me. Jason,
at some point, must have told Martin his story, and Martin made the
drawing in a safe, dry place. So Martin has died with his own
secrets quite intact, unless he too lost a child. I remember the child
on the picture is a boy.

"I am going to see her. Maybe... If at least she can get back on her
feet, I will have the courage to try..."

At this point, the reverend gets up. "Jason, come into my study with
me."

The two of them goes into the house, leaving Rozanne and me with
the fish nearing being fully roasted. We are silent.

Later, when the reverend and Jason return, I notice that Jason is a
changed man. For sure, the reverend has found something
applicable in Bible of forgiving, and doing the Lord's will. Later, I
 122

learnt that he also referred Jason to the part stating that the Lord
has known one before you had even been born. That the Lord had
by then, already decided on what would happen to you.

We all know now that trying to keep Jason in Hermanus would be a

crime.

"Maybe I will bring my wife visiting ...in fact, I will definitely bring her
visiting. To also make sure that she sees things the Lord's way..."

We say grace before eating the cod. The reverend prays, saying
thank you for the many beautiful things that had come together
today. Us surviving the attack at Sand Bay, and then knowing for
sure that we are in love; Jason finding his way with the Lord again
with hope to patch up things with his wife again…

“Amen.”

“Amen,” comes the confirmation from Jason and me.

We then learnt that the night is far from over.

“Are you both Christians?” Rozanne asks, referring to Jason and

myself.

“Oh yes,” I reply. “Are you not?”

“I, I don’t know. In Holland we are basically post Christian now.

Though I do believe that Christianity is a good religion.”
123

“Madame, if only you know what miracle you have witnessed today,
you will not doubt in the least that there is a living, loving God,”
Jason says with the most convincing voice.

“I can not argue that …I want to be sure that I too am a child of the
Lord…”

Taking Rozanne in my arms, hugging her tightly… “Rozanne, you

are now at the best place in the world to find that assurance.”

Can a beautiful evening ever become more beautiful than this? It

could, we found out that night, with Rozanne making absolute
peace with the Lord. We sang: “Oh Lord my God, when I in
awesome wonder, consider the works…”

With Jason playing his banjo much more beautiful than was the
case at Martin’s funeral. Or so it seems.

When saying good night, Rozanne whispers in my ear:

“By the way, you are a very wealthy man.”

“I know, I have a treasure in friends…”

“That too,” she insists. “But you have a huge inheritance waiting to
be claimed. It had been taken care of by a family trust – taken well
care of.”

“Will I be able to buy Samantha a white house?’ I asked hopefully. I

have earlier told Rozanne about my dream of buying such a house
 124

for Samantha and her parents. “You can buy them many white
houses,” she replies.
125

10. Revelation

The next day Jason leaves by bus. Jason’s expression on his face
tells it all: He is going to try his level best. With him, he takes a
Christmas gift from Fred and Rozanne for Samantha. It is a
portable radio in a watertight suitcase.

“But please tell her that her big Christmas present is still on its
way,” Rozanne says, and the bus pulls away.

Fred then takes all his documentation on his archeological

excavations to the very surprised curator of the local museum,
giving instructions as how to find the cave.

The next moment the kids from school, with their rugby ball, are
swarming all around him. “Come and show us again how far you
can boot the ball!” they urge.

He jogs with them to the school grounds. He again walks to his

sixty meter mark, places the ball, and kicks the heck out of it. This
time the ball goes straight for the posts, only to swing away in the
side breeze from the side at the last moment. He realizes that life
can be well on course, but things can still turn out less than ideal.

This time, for safety reasons, the kids had Fred kicking away from
the sea. The ball clears the road and disappears through the
window of a top floor apartment. Unfortunately, the window was
closed to keep out the breeze. Instinctively Fred dives for cover
with the kids. A moment later the head of a very mad man appears
through the hole in the window, swearing viciously at whatever
rascal was responsible.
 126

Realizing that the kids would be minus their rugby ball, Fred
marches off to the apartment building, requesting the kids to come
along. “That gent there won’t give the ball to a bum, and he won’t
hit you with me around, Fred stated.

He knocks on the door, with the door being flung open a moment
later. The man comes out screaming, but stops abruptly when
realizing he was viciously addressing the belly of a very big man.
He immediately calms down quite a bit.

“Why do you kick the ball in the street, with an entire rugby field just
across the street? You can cause a lot of damage that way.”

“That’s precisely where we had been kicking the ball” Fred states to
the surprise of the man.

“Yes, Uncle, he kicked the ball right from his own half of the field!”
one of the boys ads.

“That’s impossible, no one can kick like that!”

“He did!” the boy insists, with the others nodding their heads in
support.

“That I have to see!” the man says,” collecting the ball on the way
out.

On the field he stands in disbelief, looking at the distance the ball

traveled: “This I ant to see!” he says, still with a lot of doubt on his
face.
127

“But what if I hit another window?” Fred asks.

“Don’t worry, I will gladly pay for any damage you cause at the
apartment building, kicking from here.”

On the house, Fred thinks. That’s an idea. But then he will have to
kick even harder than a few minutes ago. Fortunately the wind is
now blowing right from behind. Striking the ball, Fred knows that
he’s never struck a ball with such force.

The ball climbs high, and then starts flying with the aid of the wind.
Fred is so focussed on where the ball is going to land, that he does
not even notice it flying high through the upright posts. Then the
ball hits the asbestos roof of the building, shooting up straight,
before dropping back on the roof, and then rolling over the side to
land in the garden in front of the apartment building.

“Well, if I haven’t seen this with my own eyes, I would never have
believed this!” the man says. “By the way, my name is Jack!”

Fred stretches out his hand, to introduce himself. Somehow he

knows that he has made his first friend in Hermanus.

He then walks to the old church building, to start a new life.

He realizes that despite his own change, the constitution is not

changed. He prays desperately that now that his own fortunes had
changed, he will not forget or forsake those who are still crying for
freedom – freedom from racial discrimination, freedom from
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intoxication and hunger, and freedom from the slavery chains of

one’s own sorrows.

By now the Christmas season is really on. Fred and Rozanne often
go walking the streets, living the experience of joy and fun. The
multi-colored lights flash, making a most beautiful whole. What pity
that this country’s people of different color, which should be the
most valuable asset, could not do the same. Rather, these
differences are to often the reason for conflict and sorrow.

But these thoughts are far removed at Christmas time. Walking

hand in hand through the streets one must simply be moved by the
joy, added by Boney M’s Christmas carols that so to speak pour
into the streets through the open windows and doors of Hermanus’
many diners.

Former president Nelson Mandela had the often outspoken ideal of

a rainbow nation. Many, beautiful colors, forming one even more
beautiful rainbow. But alas, with some colors being more important
than others, the unity remains out. Social scientists have even
somewhere excavated a mummy called the North-South division,
and tried to blow life in it. Trying to resurrect something that was
buried with the bottom layers in the cave Fred and Jason used as a
shelter. Nowadays reference is made to the two nations' theory, but
people who refer to this, can obviously not count further than two,
or have not been exposed to the many strata of life Fred had
encountered.
129

He wonders how many of his years had gone wasted. None, he

realizes. Money can not buy the knowledge of life he accumulated.
All he has experienced made him the man he is, the man that
knows God, and the man that Rozanne had fallen in love with. And
that makes his heart ringing and singing with joy. 35

Government is failing the poor, says HRC

35
Epitaph. Fred bought a panel beating shop in Cape Town, and
appointed Jason as foreman. He also bought two white houses
adjacent to each other, one for Samantha and her parents, and one
for Jason and his wife. The houses are not quite like those on
Samantha’s picture, yet Samantha was over joyed. A year later,
tragedy came in the form of an accident at the rubbish dump,
when a tip lorry dumped its contents on Samantha’s parents. Soon,
Jason and his wife’s life became whole again, when they became
the foster parents of Samantha. Samantha would, however, always
fondle the memories of her own, very loving and caring parents.
 130

By Rapule Tabane, Makhudu Sefara and Sapa

The poor have been betrayed. The state - which vowed to fight for a better life for
those who had been disadvantaged - has fallen horribly short in its vows to deliver
health, welfare, land and opportunities.

This indictment was delivered on Tuesday by the South African Human Rights
Commission, a body appointed by parliament to monitor human and social rights.

The SAHRC said the government's failure to the poor was not because of lack of
funds. It added that the government's promises to deliver had been undermined by
gross under spending, maladministration and general incompetence.

Court rulings are progressive but departments and officials lapse in

implementation. The commission also urged the government to carry out the
Constitutional Court's ruling on the treatment of mothers living with HIV and Aids
and their newborn babies.

It said a plan for universal access to anti-retroviral drugs by those with HIV and
Aids should be the government's top priority, and the health department's budget
should reflect this.

"The urgency of reducing new infections and treating people living with HIV/Aids
requires not only political will but additional funding to tackle the pandemic. The
court ruling needs to be implemented immediately," according to the report
released by SAHRC chairperson Jody Kollapen in Johannesburg.

The report, based on information provided by state departments, exposes the

government for failing to deliver on key social issues such as health, housing and
welfare (see box).

The report assessed the national, provincial and local governments for the years
2000 to 2001 and 2001 to 2002. Overall the commission found policies and court
rulings to be progressive, but many departments and officials lapsed in
implementation.

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

131

unfair Kollapen said the commission was shocked by the gap between those who
qualified for government social grants, such as child support grants and pensions,
and those who were actually receiving the grants.

The Eastern Cape came up for criticisms, including that the province was planning
to cut its health budget by two percent "despite the fact that it is one of the poorer
provinces with huge problems in service delivery as well as administration and
corruption".

On the right to land, the report found that one of the biggest obstacles to land
reform was the under-spending of land-reform funds.

"For instance, of the R327-million targeted for the 2001/2002 financial year, only
R162-million was spent."

The report concluded that about 80 percent of the land was still owned by white
commercial farmers. The state and the previously disadvantaged groups,
particularly Africans, share only 20 percent and between 13 million and 14 million
rural inhabitants are affected by lack of access to land. Poor implementation,
corruption and lack of capacity continue to affect the land reform process, the
report added.

The report was compiled on the basis of departmental responses to various

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

Kollapen said that even if the government could argue that there had been some
improvements from the time the report was compiled, these would not significantly
change the message of lack of delivery.

He referred to a recent experience while visiting the Eastern Cape where people
were drinking water from the streams without even purifying it by boiling it.

"The report on farming conditions, which we intend releasing soon, will also point
to this lack of delivery," Kollapen said.

Joel Netshitenzhe, head of the Government Communications and Information

System, said: "One is not quite certain that they (the commission) had all
 132

necessary information to make such authoritative statements and conclusions." He

added that 84,3 percent of South African households were, by 2000, accessing
clean tap water.

Netshitenzhe explained that massive efforts had been made to try to improve the
administration of the child support grants.

He said the government acknowledged that there were problems in the detail, but
to simply characterize the entire process of administering grants as "chaotic" was
unfair.

The administration was continuously being improved, Netshitenzhe said, adding

that there had also been a massive intake of people who qualified for the grants.

This article was originally published on page 1 of The Star on 23 April 2003
133

Aggenbach’s bread

The following is a real Afrikaans story. Although also called

Herman, I am no Herman Charles Bosman who could write
Afrikaans in English. But here goes for trying.

Ever wondered why the West Bank of the Jordan is called the West
Bank, but the stretch of Cape coastal land lying to the east of the
Atlantic Ocean is called the West Coast?

This apparent paradox does not make out part of the story, except
for giving some geographic indication of where this true story had
its origin.

Oubaas Aggenbach was well known is this West Coast land, lying
to the east of the Atlantic. Everybody knew him - the people form
Bushmanland, everybody from Calvinia, Niewoudtville,
Loeriesfontein, Springbok, all the way up to Steinkopf and
Nababeep and the entire Namaqualand. In fact, he was as well
known in the entire Noordweste as is Eugene Terre’Blanche in the
now-days North West Province.

Aggenbach’s “achievements” often ran through the North West like

a typical dust storm, the story spreading form mouth to ear.

The story which contributed most to Aggenbach’s fame, started

when he went hunting with a shot gun. His intention was to shoot
some sea bird for the pot. His wife made him some dough in order
for him to bake himself some bread, called stokbrood, over a drift
wood fire, just adding some seawater to the ready mixed dough.
 134

The wife placed the dough in a tin can with a tight lid, which he
strapped to his back.

The loaded shot gun was also slung over his shoulder, and of he
went.

Soon the early morning sun started backing hot between

Aggenbach’s shoulder blades, off course also heating the dough.
The dough soon started rising, but having no where to go,
considerable pressure was soon built up in the can.

After a while the dough had enough, being cramped up like this,
shooting of the lid like a rocket, first hitting the unfortunate
Aggenbach behind the back of his head, then slinging his hat some
distance away. Some dough followed the lid, smearing the back of
Aggenbach’s head.

“I’m a dead sea duck!”

Aggenbach, thinking it was the shotgun that hit him, fell down in
order not to die on his feet, which he heard was very unhealthy.

And so he lay, flat on his face in the sand of the West Coast to the
east of the Atlantic, waiting to die. Realising after some time that he
was not dead yet, he started wondering whether maybe, just
maybe, he had not been hit quite as fatally as he first thought.

Having no means, such as mirrors, to inspect the gaping wound at

the back of his head, he carefully shifted his free hand to the
wound. Feeling some dampness he brought his hand, covered in
dough, in front of his eyes.
135

“Just as I thought! Brains messed all over the place!”

So, again he lay, seeking peace with the Lord.

Eventually Aggenbach realized dying was not all that easy. Or

maybe, Aggenbach thought who was by now very religious, he was
the object of a miracle taking place. The idea of going for a walk on
the Atlantic crossed his mind, but he shrugged the idea away, since
he was not quite sure that his faith was strong enough yet. And
getting cold seawater mixed with his brains might not be such a
good idea.

Heavily wounded, he struggled to his feet, and started walking

straight into the semi-desert, away from the Atlantic Ocean to the
west, straight to the nearest farmhouse.

Missus Sielie Wiid was shocked to see Aggenbach in this terrible

state, staggering from the desert to her house more dead than
alive.

“Magtag Aggenbach, what happened to you?” she cried out when

the poor fellow was within hearing range, which was still quite some
distance away.

Aggenbach eventually had the opportunity to tell his story, but in a

very week voice.

Missuss Wiid wasted no time in bandaging up Aggenbach’s head,

forcing as much brains back through the mess that must be the
gaping wound. She used her cleanest bandages, since, as she
 136

explained, brains are very easily infected. In the mean time she got
very upset with the dog for insisting to lick up some of Aggenbach’s
brains which dripped on the floor.

How Aggenbach was transported to the nearest hospital, where

eventually the true nature of the deadly wound was established, is
the topic of another story.
137

An evening in South African suburbia

The aroma of onions being fried is almost always a certain way of

working up an appetite for a passer by – and working it up fast.

Because that is what the fast food business is all about. Especially
if one’s pizza den is situated in a suburban shopping center. Folks
usually only come to the center on their way home from work, and
pop in at the supermarket in the center. The supermarket, after all,
is the anchor lessor. The people rush past the pizza place, also
past the hairdresser, the hardware shop and the dry cleaners
depot. The bottle store and the drug store are busy, however. The
strange changing weather cause many people to have the flue. It is
not sure why so many people run into the bottle store, however.

Very few of these people would give the pizza place even a second
glance. They are in a hurry.

But the aroma of onions frying does the trick. Soon the first
customers pop in, start looking at the take away menu’s as though
they had planned all along to pop in for a pizza. Soon the aroma of
other ingredients will start filling the air – the bacon, green peppers,
the pepperoni.

“Hi there, what can I do for you?” That’s me making conversation. A

stupid question, as the person has come into a pizza place.

“I’d like a pizza.” What a brilliant answer. Who would have guessed
that one was to get the answer right?
 138

“What do you have on special?” We are now getting down to the

point.

By now I have rehearsed the specials’ details by heart. I must

sound very enthusiastic when promoting our products, and that can
not be done by stumbling over one’s words. To break even in this
business one must sell every possible pizza one can – to make
some profit one needs to sell even more.

Life in the pizza business is tough. But Afrikaners now have very
little else they can do – that is, becoming entrepreneurs. If we do
not have a professional qualification, or a rich father or uncle, one
pretty much have had it. No wonder thousands of Afrikaners have
emigrated, though, ironically, many of them professional people.

South Africa is probably the only country in the world where the
ruling majority is also the beneficiaries of the affirmative action
policy. One can not but wonder how long the Afrikaners are going
to be punished for the apartheid sins of their fathers, whether they
ever voted for the then ruling party, or not. Or have even been
borne by the time the previous government has abolished
apartheid. The racism we know now, has been brought back by the
present government. It s called empowerment.

But a pizza den is hardly the place to be involved with the fine
technical details of politics. It upsets one, and takes the appetite
away, and that is very bad for business at a pizza den.

Our clients represent the wide spectrum of suburban life. People

who grew up on the countryside, hearty and with no nonsense.
Others, however, walk in as though you are something inferior.
139

They do not bother to greet. Simply place the order as though you
are some dead rat the cat has brought into the house. Yet, I doubt
that many of them have any reason to have this attitude, but for
perhaps the fortunes of a boot somewhere kicking you into a
position.

Afrikaners are fore-ever joking about a practice that’s blown over to

a large extent. Those women who marry medical doctors, and then
call themselves “Mrs. Doctor Valerie Brink,” or whatever their name
happens to be.

A relative once told that a Free State town bordering on Lesotho

had a districts doctor, who was a real dubious character. These
doctors are funded by government, and it is a general perception,
whether deserved or not, that many of them ended up as such as
they were no good making it in a private practice. They once sent
their black garden assistant to this doctor, when not feeling well.
The assistant returned after a while, holding his upper arm: “Daai
36
baas dokter het my sommer deur die baadjie se mou ingespuit,”
he complained.

There was, indeed, not much refined about this doctor. He kept
some kind of drug store in the boot of his car. He took his black
assistant along when visiting his outpost clinics in the district, more
often than not a mere gathering place under a tree. People swear
to have seen him stopping, and getting out of the car with his shot
in the hand. Without even asking he would start away down the
waiting queue of mothers with crying babies in their arms, dishing

36
“That Master Doctor gave me the shot right through my jacket’s
sleeve.”
 140

out shots. By the time the first one to have been given a shot
realizes that he’s been “bitten” and starts crying out even louder,
four others would have had it as well. The assistant would trot
along after the doctor dishing out pills by the hands full.
Government pays so why bother? That was the old South Africa
when these types of medical services had sufficient funding.
Nowadays, it seems, funding about covers the dishing out of
inferior condoms. Neatly stapled to a note stating that this is part of
government’s campaign against Aids, and hiding the: “Made in
India” bit. The Chinese stuff seems to be too small for South African
males. They don’t seem to work very well when the front is cut of to
have them fitting, even if they are neatly pulled over the broomstick,
as demonstrated by the nurse at the clinic.

At some advanced age the wife of this doctor died, and he married
the clinic sister; a real old maid.

She immediately became Mrs. Doctor Naas Benade. But then, only
a month or so later the doctor too passed away. Not ready to be
stripped of her achieved fame, she became Mrs. the late Doctor
Naas Benade. Now try to fit all that on to your checkbook.

Many of us now penalized by being on the short end of affirmative

action, have not even been born by the time apartheid was
abolished.
Yet somehow, this is justified – your parents having been privileged
and that somehow passed on to you.

Yet, those Afrikaners who have somehow managed to slip past the
guillotine, are often the dogs that bite their fellow dogs the most
141

painful gashes, because wounds of that nature leave permanent

marks.

My wife, Susan, grew up in an orphanage, and had no parents. I

am still looking for answers as to how she benefited from apartheid.
Especially if one knows what she had confided in to me.

But those things are so horrible. No person can imagine it, and she
is desperately trying to remove that horror from her mind. No one
will ever learn from my mouth what I know. What I know, makes me
love her even more. I want to protect her from the wide world and
all hostilities out there.

But for now, we are in no position. We have to make things work for
keeping our young marriage afloat. We can not yet afford any, yes,
affirmative, aid in the den. At the moment it is only the two of us,
working until late in the nights. Thankfully people do not want
pizzas early in the morning. But once we are in our pizza den, there
is no way out before late. Very late. Because you will regularly be
on the verge of packing your things for the night, when some
couple who have enjoyed the night, decide they are hungry, and
phone to order a pizza.

Making those past midnight pizzas is one thing, but when nobody
comes to pick them up…

If by some fortune, you have the correct contact details of the

person who ordered the pizza which was not picked up, you can
always take revenge by phoning him at closing time the next day to
ask whether he is still coming to fetch the pizza, as you really want
 142

to go home for a change. But more often than not, it is impossible

to trace this Mr. Smith, or Mr. Johnson, or whatever.

Many of our clients become our friends. In clinical terms that’s

called goodwill. They will never try to be difficult, phone to place
orders, come and pick them up at reasonable time. They will also, if
things are not hectic, sit down awhile, and drink a cooldrink.

Kobus, for example, always orders an extra large Vegetarian for

himself, a medium Hawaiian for his wife, and a large Regina for his
three children. One must haste to ad that those kids are still very
young, and always get a hump of French fries as well. Observing
Kobus’s magnitude, one would believe he would inherit most of his
children’s pizza as well.

As large as Kobus is, so petite is his wife. One can not really
believe that she would master – if that were the correct expression
for a real lady – a large pizza. Seeing them marching through the
door of the Pizza Den is always the highlight of that particular day.
If some one in that family is absent, it is because he or she is ill or
away on some sports tour.

Mostly Susan stays in the kitchen section of the den when

customers come in. But when Kobus’s family arrives, she comes to
the counter as well, chatting for a few happy moments. When they
leave, Susan is back in the kitchen. Even if the kitchen is open from
the counter, it does seem as though she finds some comfort in
putting some distance between herself and the world.

There are some other families or individuals that give us joy. Martin,
the man with the Harley Davidson, for example. Eccentric is
143

perhaps the best way to describe this bachelor and his dog,
Scoundrel. This dog has its own helmet, compulsory for any person
on a motor bike in South Africa. Nobody will convince Martin of
Scoundrel not being a person. Scoundrel, at least, has much more
character than many of our clients, and despite his name, much
better manners.

One can hear the Harley Davidson coming along two blocks away –
maybe more. Then one can start preparing one extra large
vegetarian, and a small Pepperoni, the latter for Scoundrel. Soon
Scoundrel will be coming running into the Pizza Den, his helmet still
on his head, and hop on to a barstool at the counter. His master will
come in a bit later. Already digging somewhere in the folds of his
leather jacket for his wallet to pay. Never even making a comment
about the price. Even though we might be the cheapest in town,
you will always have those who make a scene of being ripped of.

Statistically South Africans are overwhelming Christians. Religious

as well. But seeing how some behave, one would never have
guessed that …all the backstabbing and so on.

Yes, when speaking they are against the country’s liberal abortion
laws, and shocked by the thousands of unborn babies being
37
murdered. But when their own daughters trap oor die tou and
ends up in die ander tyd38 there is nothing wrong with an abortion.
Then murdering the grand child-to-be is much better of having to
face the humiliation of having a daughter with hormones.

37
Has sex without being married
38
Becomes pregnant
 144

Lillian is another client that draws Susan from the kitchen. The Lord
must have sent Lillian to earth as an angel to bring joy to many
people. She talks no end, and takes liberties. We had barely
opened the Pizza Den, when Lillian first danced into our lives.
Between her chatting away, she placed the order. Before we knew
it, she was in the kitchen with Susan, still chatting no end.

Normally we would have asked some one to leave the kitchen. But
not with Lillian. Some-how, I believe the words would never have
been expressed, even if one had a hard and fast rule on this.
Especially if the person would literally stick his nose into the pot,
and make comments – even telling what to do. But Lillian has the
way about her that does not offend. As she herself once stated it:
“What you see, is what you find.”

One of my hobbies is to read anything I can about the 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
145

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

The long run up to the pizza story is to demonstrate that South

Africa probably has more to thank Dennis the Menace for than
merely some humor and laughs. Or sympathy for poor old Mr.
Wilson.

While I can attribute my discovery of pre Colombian civilizations to

the Menace, South Africa as a whole probably has Dennis to thank
for discovering Pizzas. Until a mere few years ago very few South
Africans knew what pizzas are. From the Dennis cartoons we knew
it existed, probably due to the name from Italian origin, and it was
supposed to be very nice.

Suddenly pizzas were high in fashion on the southern tip of the

Dark Continent. American (not Italian) franchises selling Pizzas
sprang up all over the country. At first, very few people knew how to
correctly pronounce this newly discovered delicacy, but that was
soon put straight. My grandmother, born in 1900, dies at the age of
93 still referring to pizzas as daai nuwwerwetse goed.39

We became a Pizza consuming nation. Hawaiians, Tropicana’s

(how far could one get from Italy, with the product still being called
Pizza), four seasons, vegetarian, and …sure enough, pizzas for
those on diet.

39
More or less meaning a new fashion – something recently
invented.
 146

The ingredients contained delicacies such as mushrooms, bacon

and olives, and, yeach! Anchovies.

They came in all sizes and forms. Mini-pizzas up to family size, and
even larger. Yip, some South African families are very big, a-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
complement the red meet.

South Africans, in fact, did not miss pizzas. We could eat well, and
a lot, without knowing pizzas. If we wanted to try something else,
we had Wimpy’s, Kentucky Fried Chicken and O’Hagans to go to.
Even the Spur, the one trying to be more American than the next.
The only significant franchise arriving at our shores after pizzas,
was Mc Donald’s, that participated in the disinvestment action
against dear passed away old apartheid. Passed away, but also
kept alive by the new government to use as the horrid Boogie and
when they messed up something, and it could be blamed on the
new government. Then apartheid is quickly dug up, and hanged
again.
147

One would expect a government reckoning folks such as Ghaddafi,

Saddam Hussein, Fidel Castro and the likes as their closest friends,
to be making some booboos as well.

But how did it happen that we decided to start with a pizza den?

With pizzas only just becoming popular, my sister, Mary was just
old enough for boy friends to start calling for more than just
assistance with homework.

As is usual the case, the most persistent callers were those that
were not welcome. The one after the other got the message to not
call again. After all, she eventually had a boyfriend.

But one guy, Joseph, was apparently immune to getting the

message. Mary openly flirted with her boyfriend, Mark, in front of
Joseph. She turned down every request for a date with Joseph, at
first politely, but later less politely.

One day Mary had a bright idea. She discussed the matter with
Mark, who thought it to be a bright idea as well.

When Joseph again asked Mary for a date, to his surprise Mary
accepted. But, she said, she had a better idea. She was going to
make pizzas. Why not join the family?

Joseph immediately accepted, not realizing by any stretch of

imagination what he was putting his neck into.

The Sunday afternoon Joseph showed up just after church. He

brought Mary a nice bouquet of flowers as well. Then he sat with
 148

my father, myself and my irritating little brother in the lounge,

waiting for the women folk to finish the pizzas.

Both my father and I were a bit perplexed to Mary’s sudden

friendliness towards Joseph. We both thought in silence that she
and Mark probably had a fall out, and that she was now spiting
Mark with Joseph.

Finally we sat at the table. The pizzas smelled very appetizing

indeed. My father asked the grace, and we started eating, sipping
ice cold white wine in between.

We noticed a few things in silence. Joseph apparently had a hectic

time in cutting his pizza into edible pieces. He also became
strangely quite. Mary, for some reason also became pale and
silent.

Both my mother and father, I learnt later, were becoming very

anxious, expecting the worst from the sudden friendship, silence
and paleness.

Mary only ate half her pizza. The rest of us had eaten ours, except
Mother, whom politely left a piece, pretending to eat, so as not to
finish before the houseguest. This was the first time, however, that
she had any trouble in finishing after any boy in her house.

Eventually, Joseph swallowed the final bit, but in a way resembling

swallowing a prickly pear with the thorny skin still covering the
delicious fruit.
149

After the last bit, Joseph suddenly remembered that he had other
urgent important tings to attend to. He declined an offer for coffee,
the expression on his face resembling being offered a bowl of
poison.

And then he was gone, his motor bike accelerating, the roaring
being heard several street blocks away.

But Joseph had scarcely left the house, or Mary was in tears,
sobbing as though just loosing her first teen-age love. She
disappeared to her room from where we could hear her sobs,
busting deep from inside her heart.

Mother went into the room and tried to console Mary. She came out
a while later, with Mary still sobbing, and Mother none the wiser.

When Mark turned up a while later, all smiles, even he had to keep
his trap shut, or is verbally lashed by Mary. Mary soon returned to
her room. And only then, from Mark, did we learn what happened.

Mary told a friend that she could not get rid of Joseph. The friend
then told her of a remedy the young girls had many years ago, to
get rid of boys who were unable to get the message. Simply invite
him for pancakes, with one pancake one pancake not being what it
seems to be. This pancake, called a doekpannekoek, is made by
first cutting a handkerchief the size of a pancake. It is then put in
the wet dough, and then baked with the pancakes. This “pancake”
must end up in the plate of the unfortunate boy. Once, finding that
he had been served with a doekpannekoek (cloth pancake), he will
excuse himself. Even the most thickheaded boy will get THAT
message.
 150

“So Mary decided to rather bake Joseph a doek pizza” Mark said.

Not even our laughing made Mary feel any better. Joseph did,
however get the message, although knowing nothing about the
doekpannekoek tradition.

Mary is married now – with Joseph.

I soon afterwards met Susan. Susan came to the university with a

church grant, as she was a brilliant pupil.

We fell in love, and our bond grew throughout our years at

university. We married when we received our degrees. But finding
work was not that easy.

We stay with my parents, for which we are very thankful. My father

also borrowed us the money with which we started this pizza den.

Tonight is our big night. In our till we now have enough money to
pay back the last of our debts to my parents. Soon, if all goes well,
we will be able to start thinking of a family of our own. But more
important, we might have the opportunity to do some catching up in
the less hostile aspects that seemed to avoid Susan throughout her
life.

We will be closing soon, as it is nearing midnight. I walk to the

kitchen side of the den, where Susan is washing the last of dishes. I
take the cloth and start drying and packing away.
151

They are on us in a flash. We heard a car stopping, but at midnight

chances are better that some one has come to the automatic bank
teller in the shopping center, than buying a pizza.

The three blokes who ran into the Pizza Den had no intention of
buying pizzas however. One is pointing a revolver at us, and his
companions don’t seem to be the friendly type either. Our day’s
takings in the till destined to open up a new life for us, was flashing
through my head.

“We are on our way to Gauteng. Come to fetch us a new BMW. We

would like to have some take-away pizzas.” With this, the three of
them start reading the display menu hanging over the counter.

Our suburb, near the by pass around Bloemfontein, has recently

been targeted by car thieve syndicates from Johannesburg. Some
have been caught, but had to be released due to lack of evidence.
They come to Bloemfontein with a mini bus taxi, from, of all things,
the Legal Taxi firm. The occupants are dropped of a various venues
where they steal a car. They are mostly very fussy as to what cars
they steal, as “clients” ordered specific cars. The rookies steal old
cars. They, after all, have to practice on something, and the chop
shops have to have business as well.

“An extra large Hawaiian for me,” says the spokesperson.

“And I’ll have a Tropicana – extra large as well,” says his partner,
mocking friendly.
 152

The last one seems not be able to make up his mind. For this he is
hammered in the ribs with the elbow of the hand holding the
revolver.

“Ah..eh..F-f-rench f-f-ries f-f-for m-m-m-e p-p-p-lease.”

“Come on, get a move on with it,” demands the gun wielding
customer. He, in the mean time, has helped himself to a coke from
our fridge, and sat down. “We have a long way to go to Gauteng
40
…GP . GP for Gangsters Paradise, you know!” He laughs at his
own joke.

My head is working in over drive. If they need to travel to Gauteng,

some two hundred and fifty miles away, there is no ways they can
simply leave us. We will either be tied up, but as they are not
masked, more probably be killed. Since the government abolished
the death penalty, and allowed abortions, it seems as though the
entire perception of the value of life has become all-askew.

The only capital punishment South Africa now has, is the informal
one. Vigilantes taking matters into their own hands, but I am
actually referring to something else. Sending some one to jail, even
for a short period for a minor offence, means sentencing the person
to death. Gang rapes are frequent and even often a way of
“welcoming” a new inmate. This rape often has the inmate
contracting aids, and he’s had it.

40
GP is the car registration letters for the Gauteng province, where
both Johannesburg and Pretoria are situated.
153

With the pizzas in the wood fired oven, and the French fries in the
boiling oil, Mr. Gun turns to Susan. “By the way lady, can you
please hand me the contents of the till?”

For a brief moment I thought I caught something in Susan’s eyes –

some message. I know I have to be very, very ready now. I realize
that the three of them were now spell bound by Susan approaching
the till. The thought of money does seem to have a crook’s mind
corrupted. I slip my hand under the counter and grab hold of a
large, heavy kitchen knife we use for chopping the onions.

The same moment Susan presses the enter button to have the till
kicking open, she swings a hand full of flour in the eyes of Mr. Gun
who was standing close by. In the ensuing confusion, I grab hold of
the gun hand, smashing it on the counter. This sees the gun flying
into the now vacant customer’s section of the pizza den.

The next moment I run the knife through the same hand that’s
carried the revolver, smashing the blade deep into the counter and
so pinning the mischievous hand to the counter. No traveling to
Gauteng tonight for that gent, at least.

But I switch my attention to the rest of the crowd, to lend a hand.

But Susan is doing well. She has grabbed hold of one of the long
oven spades we use to put the pizzas in the hot oven, and taking
them out again. This she ram-rodded into the belly of the nearest
remaining crook.

“O-o=ow!” he stutters, folding double. This stupid move opens his

head for a vicious smack of the same spade.
 154

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

I, in the mean time, have kicked the oven door open. A hot oven
can be very useful. The last crook tries to make it around the
counter to the revolver, but my clumsy boot gets into the way and
sends him down. When trying to get up, I grab hold of his one hand,
and put it in the oven. Susan kicks the oven door hard.

“&*^%$@!” 41

Susan and I no turn our attention to Mr. Gun, who did not have our
attention for a while. We usually tend to our customers better than
that.

But there was no harm coming from that side as well. Mr. Gun has
fainted, and hangs from his hand still firmly pegged to the counter.

Before we phone the police, Susan and I hug. We hug tightly. We

are both shaking, but we are also very thankful. Being in South
Africa one is always aware of the danger of being robbed and
murdered. We were fortunate.

I kiss her in the neck. “Now our new life can really start.”

41
Not actually translatable
155

They eat horses don’t they?

Tsiane Galeboe folds double with laughter.

“You know, those SeSotho’s eat horses as well.” Tsiane is a

Tswana, and apparently they, closely related to the SeSotho, do
not eat horses.

It is 1988, in the hey days of the old South Africa. I am editor of a

black newspaper run for the government, specifically for the
SeSotho and the Tswana’s, the major black population groups of
my home Free State Province. Or as it was called then, Orange
Free State.

As usual, Tsiane is drunk. But drunk or not, Tsiane is brilliant. It

takes him ten minutes at the most to find loopholes in the forms my
boss and I take hours to invent to prevent him from taking liberties
with the government vehicle.

“You know, those SeSotho’s are not all that clever as well. When
those folks of Botshabelo stole the horse, they took it to their
makokoo to slaughter.”

Botshabelo was quite recently born when the ThabaNchu exclave

of the Tswana Bophuthatswana became independent as part of the
apartheid policy. The SeSotho’s inside the territory found them at
the receiving end of harsh discrimination, and fled to an area just
outside the exclave. Botshabelo was born over night, and grew to a
city of approximately a quarter of a million people in a few months’
time.
 156

“Those stupid SeSotho’s wanted to slit the throat of the

horse…probably with a blunt knife as well.” Tsiane is shaking with
laughter. “The horse did not take kindly to this treatment, and
bolted. It kicked the makokoo in pieces. But even more funny. It
kicked the thieves as well, and two of them died on the spot. The
third is badly injured.”

Tsiane is laughing even loader now.

Soon after the incident Tsiane went to jail, and was fired. Not
because of mocking the SeSotho’s, but because he helped himself
to a government vehicle over the weekend, and overturned it
somewhere in the Southern Free State whilst under the influence.

This more or less put Tsiane on track for a glorious political career.
But first, he had to be re-appointed by government, and fired again
for liquor-related offences involving a government vehicle.

The last time Tsiane was fired by the government, was shortly
before the 1994 elections, which brought the ANC to power.
Tsiane, out of work, reported to the National Party’s offices as a
volunteer. I was present when my boss, who felt very guilty for firing
Tsiane, advised him over the telephone to do so. I don’t believe my
boss had it in mind that this move would launch Tsiane into politics,
but might open some door as an employee.

But the Nationalist Party, being the governing force behind decades
of apartheid, was determined to change into a non-racial party, and
was desperately seeking black faces. Even be they somewhat
intoxicated faces.
157

When the proportionality list came out, Tsiane’s name was high on
the list. It was evident that he will be elected. His name was even
higher on the list than that of a former black member of the
provincial Executive Committee, a person with a master’s degree
and former schools’ inspector. Tsiane has made it, it was up to him.

Unfortunately, brilliant as he is, Tsiane has never bothered much in

getting his act right in terms of what the “civilized community”
expected of him. He also took some encouragement along, in the
form of some liquid refreshments.

He had everything in his favor. A party that supported him, as a

showpiece to prove non-racialism. My boss, by then ex-boss, wrote
his speeches for him as well, and advised him on all matters.
Ironical, as my boss belonged to a fairly right wing political party
with no formal representation in the provincial legislature. That is,
with counting Tsiane out.

Tsiane and my boss’s game were not all that strange to me as well.
I, myself, wrote all the speeches of a colored former colleague who
was parliamentarian under the new dispensation. He too, was
reduced to unemployment by the high position Tsiane took on the
list.

Admittedly, the Nationalist party thought they were to win many

more seats. The next election, however, saw them even falling
further back, and an alliance was made with the ANC. But by then,
Tsiane had been redeployed. In South African terms, that often
means one has been fired. Tsiane did not pop out in some senior or
ambassador’s position, so one must presume he’s been fired.
 158

From my side, I cannot say that I felt all that sorry for Tsiane as
well. During all the years, despite him constantly trying and
succeeding in making a fool out of me, I tried to get him on safer
ground. It was my potluck that I once inherited him, and then later,
in another position, found him to be appointed in my division behind
my back.

Discovering that I had been had, and was stuck with Tsiane a
second miserable time in my life, I was determined: either Tsiane
was going to walk the narrow road, or he was going to be kicked
out. The first option proved to very difficult, as Tsiane flatly denied
him having any problem, despite the complaints of the public and
colleagues piling up my desk.

Once, I even learnt, that some of colleagues drove behind him on a

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

But when I did find out, Tsiane was very upset, flatly denying. He
was so upset, that his belly protested and he could not come to
work for almost a week at a time.

By then there was also not much left of the brilliant Tsiane I used to
know. He was strangely unable to understand even the slightest bit
of what was expected of him in his new portfolio. He did, what most
others would do – try to focus on those aspects of which he had
some know-how. This he found in a sister component, which was
159

amongst others responsible for publishing a newspaper – for

blacks. Those were the apartheid years after all.

But, ironically, this also ended Tsiane up in trouble. For he found it

very difficult to go and see the editor when he was sober. Also not
to take some friends along, as (*&^ed as he was. The editor, Vlam
42
Fourie, was no easy man when knocked up late to receive a
“report” for the newspaper, when the bearer of the report had been
all over, and apparently, inside the barrel.

But back to the poor horse, which was probably hoarse after the
aborted effort to slit its throat.

“But Tsiane, I thought you and Fair Deal Mohapi were palls?”

Fair Deal is Tsiane’s SeSotho colleague. Very often these

westernized names were not very descriptive of the person so
christened. The most ugly woman would have a name such as
43
Beauty, a very lazy person the name Fluks and so on. But Fair
Deal’s name was a fair reflection of what one could expect.

“But we are friends,” protests Tsiane. This, it seems, means that

Fair Deal will do his utmost to cover for Tsiane when out in a
drunken spree.

At that stage, as strange as it might sound, Tsiane was not my

biggest headache. This was thanks to a white lady with a law

42
Flame, often where a person has red hair, but only when the
person has a fiery temper as well.
43
Very eager to work
 160

degree, married to a doctor. She must have been used to getting

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

Its very unpleasant writing about this lady, therefore I would like to
concentrate on Tsiane. Because, despite everything, we remained
friends. There were dips, off course. Such as with my second round
encounter with him, my boss warned me that Tsiane had made up
his mind that I was to blame for all his misfortunes. That I need to
take proper care for the safety of my family.

Ironically, both bosses just a few weeks prior to firing Tsiane, told
me that I did not know how to work with black people.

Yet, when things went wayward the first round, Tsiane was very
mad with Boss 1. After being locked up after over turning the
government vehicle, Tsiane used his one allocated call to phone
my boss, to come and bail him out. This was the middle of the
night, in the middle of the weekend. It was some 100 miles off. The
boss simply could not see why he should leave his family alone, to
go and bail some one out in a distant town, after stealing and
overturning a government vehicle.

When, in fact, Tsiane had to be back in that town on the Monday

morning for a brief court appearance.
161

Tsiane some-how reached office by Tuesday, but as vicious as a

snake after some one had stepped on its tail.

“Dis sommer ‘n baie slegte wit man!” 44 he would explode in front of

the boss’s office door. What decent man would, after all, cause
him, Tsiane, with matric and a decent job, to end up locked up with
criminals?

Eventually the magistrate took it somewhat further, by sentencing

poor Tsiane. As far as I know, Tsiane had the option of paying a
fine, but he used a lot the money raised to pay the fine to have
parties with his friends.

And so parted our ways. From time to time, I would learn something
about Tsiane, but always the same story. Drinking and looking for a
job. He did get married in the mean time, however. To the mother
of his child.

But our ways were not to be separated for ever. I was tasked to
create a new component to assist preparing the work for the
coming of the new South Africa. This work could not be done by
white people alone.

So entered Peter Bergies, a colored. I new Peter more by

reputation, a “former” politician who lost his seat when the coloreds
discontinued the working of the Colored Representative Council.
He approached me, and I appointed him despite some reservations
by my head office.

44
That’s a very bad / evil white man
 162

The second step was to appoint a black person. We advertised. We

received many excellent applications. Plus, Peter brought that of
Tsiane.

“I know you and Tsiane did not quite see eyeball to eyeball,” Peter
said. That was, to put it in some awkward terms.

“Tsiane had stopped drinking as well. He can bring you a letter of a

priest to that effect.”

With all those excellent applications, plus the one of Fair Deal, I
was, to put it mildly, not very eager to get myself involved with
Tsiane again. What I did not know, was that Peter had also gone to
talk to my new boss, and has apparently struck a deal.

But in this matter, I had the final say. Eventually, to get Peter of my
neck, I said Tsiane could also come for an interview. But knowing
the quality of the other applications, I knew that Tsiane had no
snowball’s hope in hell. Or so I thought.

The day when the interviews were held, to my amazement, one

appointment after the other came and went with the candidates not
pitching. When the same happened with Fair Deal, I phoned him,
for at least I knew where to find him. I got some 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.
163

I only later found out that Peter got hold of the short list, with all the
contact details. Together, Peter and Tsiane went to see the other
candidates. First, being very reasonable. Explaining that Tsiane
was unemployed, and therefore should be offered the opportunity.
By then, South Africa’s unemployment problem had not taken on
the magnitude of what is the case now.

Maybe they also convinced the candidates that I was the worst
person to work for.

Or maybe, as I found out later, Peter was a Griqua chief, apart from
a former head master from the days when teachers were still
allowed to whip kids. His knick name from those days was not
Groot Vuur 45 for nothing.

Whatever means the two of them applied, it was efficient enough

for only Tsiane showing up at the interviews.

I got Peter back for that. When I learnt of this incident, I made Peter
Tsiane’s supervisor, and I applied the screws. Being Tsiane’s
supervisor was the worst punishment I could think of. At first, it
seemed as though I had made the mistake of my life, with the two
of them having a ball. Peter, after all, was also well known for his
capacity when hard liquor was to be had.

Soon enough the complaints came rolling in. I pretended not to

notice that the both of them were implied in the complaints. I merely
referred letters to Peter to instruct him to obtain Tsiane’s
explanation for this and that incident. Peter, being in cahoots with
Tsiane, felt like a sick horse for having to take action against his

45
Huge fire
 164

pally. He, off course, tried to put as much distance between the
trouble Tsiane was ending up in, and his role in that, that I almost
felt more sorry for Peter than for Tsiane.
In the run up to the new South Africa, came the three chamber
parliament. A house for whites (the dominant one), a house for
coloreds and one for Indians.

Despite these non-white houses not offering much in terms of

power, at least they offered a lot in terms of salary. This interested
Peter a lot and he decided to once again give politics a shot.

During one of these elections, Peter had about as much as he

could take from Tsiane, and he challenged the parliamentarian in
“his” seat. First, he challenged the man for the candidacy of the
Labor Party, the ruling party in the colored house. He did not make
it, however, and I later learnt that the party leader kept him out
because of his reputation with hard liquor.

Peter entered the election as an independent candidate. This

brought the wrath of the entire Labor Party down on him, with being
expelled being the least of his worries. This is how I became a
politician as well. Because Peter was automatically retrenched from
government service when his nomination was accepted. Apartheid
might not have been much of a democracy, but at least it was very
strict on keeping the legislative, administrative and judicial tiers of
government separated.

In theory at least, but for Peter it was harsh reality, as he was

unemployed.

Tsiane put in some leave, to assist his old friend with the campaign.
165

This made me even more an unwilling politician. For whist the two
of them went through their campaign the jolly way, some one had to
look into insignificant matters such as election strategy, policy,
speech writing, issuing media releases. This had to be done from
way behind the scenes, for the same legal requirements applied to
me.

Then we hit the jackpot. The MP, with the impressive last name of
Leeuw, subpoenaed Peter46. Independent candidates had to get
the signatures of at least 300 voters in the respective constituency.
Peter got way more than the required 300, but unfortunately some
people liked Peter so much, they signed his lists more than once.
Peter came through, when it was discovered that even by striking
these signatures, Peter still had more than 300 signatures of
support.

But Mr. Leeuw set the pace. We soon learnt that the Tax collector
had a warrant of arrest out for Mr. Leeuw for not submitting his tax
returns. It was a bit of a handicap of conducting an election
campaign whilst running from the law.

We, on the other, new there was one place Mr. Leeuw could not
avoid: The election court where his candidacy would have to be
officially confirmed. Some one tipped of the police. Also the media.

It does make some sort of big news when a parliamentarian gets

arrested at the election court. In fact, it did not go of any of the
news bulletins until quite late that night.

46
Old Afrikaans for Lion
 166

Some time later, we discovered that there was a warrant out for the
arrest of Mrs. Leeuw as well. Some civil matter where she did not
pitch at court. So again, it was arranged that she too be arrested
amidst some publicity.

I showered twice that evening. I knew politics were dirty, but I could
not imagine all that dirty.

Had Peter not started celebrating too soon before the election
booths closed, he would most probably have received the eight
votes he needed to win.

Peter was unemployed, and not a parliamentarian as well.

Positions in the government service were frozen, and because

Peter was no longer a candidate transferred, he did not qualify for
the position he recently vacated. I had to write one of those
mammoth submissions to the Government Service Commission to
motivate the reappointment. After some months, this succeeded,
and Peter was reappointed in his old position, in a lower rank.

One has limits to one’s abilities in working miracles.

But that was not to be the end of this sidetrack. Mr. Leeuw was
sequestrated. In South Africa one may be a parliamentarian even if
one was found guilty of dodging the tax collector, but one is not
when one had gone bankrupt.

All the trouble, to be at some point where one had not been quite at
soon before. Or something like that. Peter would have been the
logical candidate now, had it not been that he had been expelled
167

from the party for opposing the official candidate. The

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

One can be open on this matter now, as Peter has passed away
some years ago. By then Peter was no longer a parliamentarian.
He survived into the new South Africa, but not his political career.
This time round, he came out of politics with some pension as well.

But before this happened, major shifts were to take place. The
house of which Peter was a member, fell in turmoil when an act, the
Act on Political Interference, was scrapped. This meant that parties
could legally have members of more than one race. The ruling
Nationalist party soon started rounding up the members of the
House of Peter’s.

Peter also joined the Nationalist Party. He, for once, did not follow
my advice, which was to hang on, giving enough indications, but
not actually crossing the floor before a major deal was struck. Peter
had had enough.

Soon after Peter came back to home for good, his wife, Hildebrand,
died. This was especially tragic, as she lived in a colored rural area,
called Thaba Patchoa, some 70 miles from Bloemfontein. Peter
was the chairperson of the local council, but because of his own
employment, he basically only came home over weekends. When
he went to Cape Town as parliamentarian, he came home even on
fewer occasions.
 168

Peter and Hildebrand had never been blessed with children of their
own. The pair did take over some of the brother’s kids, of which
there seemed to be abundance.

Peter started calling at Hildebrand when he was a young teacher at

the tiny town of Vredefort, and Hildebrand was teaching at Heilbron,
some 70 miles away. Weekends would see Peter tackling the dirt
roads with his bicycle to go and call on Hildebrand.

Later years, Peter would suffer from hip ailments for these
marathon-distances to his true love.

Now, for the first time in their lives, they were really together, and
together at home. Then Hildebrand died. Peter simply started
melting away after that, and soon followed her to the grave.

I, in the mean time, got unstuck from Tsiane. My boss overruled my

refusal of some more leave for Tsiane before he had not gone for
some treatment. I indicated that I was going to take the matter on
appeal. My boss refused me permission to appeal (to which he had
no right to). I simply said I have by now more than enough grounds
to fire Tsiane on.

That was the second time in my life I heard a boss saying to me:
“You do not know how to work with black people, and I am taking
him directly under my control.”

For the second time in my life I said: “Fine, as long as he is not

applied in my division.”
169

For the second time in my life a boss fired the same black person
soon afterwards. For the same reason.

So, imagine my surprise when I learnt that Tsiane was a candidate

for the Nationalist Party. Not for parliament, granted, but for the
provincial parliament or legislature. Not only was he a candidate,
but also was he high up enough on the proportionality list to be sure
to be elected. In the process, edging out highly qualified and sober
black candidates.

Yet, somehow, history was repeated. Where I wrote Peter’s

speeches, my boss wrote Tsiane’s.

I have no idea what happened to Tsiane after he had been sacked

as member of the Legislature.

Somehow I doubt that he would still be pitching up at job interviews

as he used to do after his second sacking from government service,
as drunken as a lord. And somehow, I doubt that Tsiane will be
shouting back when criticized for this: “I am master of my own
destiny.”

Somehow I also doubt that he will be laughing at the SeSotho’s for

eating horses.