The spirit of PJ van der Bergh finally dies in Randfontein

I live in Randfontein, a town that during the apartheid-era was a bastion of conservatism.
The town owes its existence to gold mining although nowadays, most of the mines have shut down, leaving abandoned offices and buildings, many of which are occupied by squatters.
The mines may be closed, but a rough, mining spirit still lives on in some quarters.
The white miners that lived and worked in this town in the 60s, 70s and to some extent 80s had a reputation for being hard-drinking, quick-fisted, fiercely conservative characters, who punched first and asked questions later.
Predominantly Afrikaans-speaking, most belonged to the Mine Workers Union, headed by the neo-Nazi-like, Arrie Paulus whose dream was to unite all white South African wage-earners and to do everything possible to keep non-whites isolated and out of the mainstream.
"You have to know a Black to realise that he wants someone to be his boss. They can't think quickly. You can take a baboon and teach him to play a tune on a piano. But it's impossible for himself to use his own mind to the next step. Here it's exactly the same," he told the New York Times, of 3 June 1979.

PJ van der Bergh

Apartheid and white supremacy was deeply-rooted in this community as illustrated by an incident that took place deep underground in the workings of Randfontein Estates Gold Mine in December 1962.
A shaft timberman, PJ van der Bergh, was working in a blocked orepass. He was attaching cord to a fuse when the plank he stood on dislodged, sending him tumbling 60 metres down the orepass where he ended up on a pile of rocks on the level below.
Van der Bergh's boss boy, a Shangaan man named Gaumine Quibe, without hesitation, climbed down a rope and helped van der Bergh reach the level above. He knew that, at any stage, new rock could be dropped down the orepass from the levels above that would instantly kill both of them. For this Quibe was awarded the Chamber of Mines Golden Hat Award for bravery, as well as a gold watch.
But, at the ceremony, van der Bergh, who owed the man his life, refused to shake hands with his boss boy, while posing for a photograph. He said 'it was against his principles!'
There are many of PJ van der Bergh's ilk still in Randfontein and I thought I had come face-to-face with one recently.
I was in the bank, standing in a line, waiting to be served, when a giant of a man came in and stood behind me. He was the living version of what I imagined PJ van der Bergh must have looked like...a real-life, cartoon character of a racist, conservative Boer.
He probably stood around 6' 5", sported a moustache, had nicotine-stained fingers, wore white PT shorts, rugby socks and velskoens and had on a faded, slightly tatty, red T-shirt with a white slogan on the front that read:

Fuck the Rhino
save
The White Ou

I couldn't believe it, it was as though I'd been sucked back into South Africa 1972 except, back then, he would probably have been arrested for sporting a T-shirt with the "F-word" on it.
I tried, with some difficulty, not to stare at him and noticed some of the black customers and tellers were decidedly uneasy.
Then his wife came in. She too fitted the image perfectly. She was fat and her old-fashioned floral dress did little to hide the two rolls of blubber surrounding her midriff. These were poor Afrikaners, no doubt about it. Conservative, nigger-hating Afrikaners.
But what made the whole incident bizarre and surreal was, hung over her left shoulder was a large, pink, diaper-bag and on her right hip she held a baby. A black baby!
The youngster must have been about six months old.
She passed the child to her husband while searching for something in the diaper-bag.
And, this giant of a man held the little girl gently in his arms then kissed her on the cheek and tickled her with his sausage-like fingers.
Her squeals of delight and giggles produced another flurry of kisses from him.
At that point his wife took his position in the queue and he went and to sit on a chair where he cradled the child while she hungrily sucked on a bottle.
That's the thing about South Africa. Every time you think you have it sussed, it does something to surprise and astound you. It has a way of shattering long-held prejudices and beliefs. Here, truth, really is, often stranger than fiction.
The fact is, if government and sleazeball politicians would just fuck off and leave us ordinary folks alone, this country probably would truly become the Rainbow Nation and the spirit of PJ van der Bergh would finally die.

I've been asked if this story is true. Yes! Absolutely! 100%! The people are described exactly as they were on that day -- that is what made it so noticeable.

The Shocking Malema Cover-up!

I have just received some startling news about an ANC cover-up regarding Julius Malema's well-publicised outburst to the BBC journalist.
It seems -- according my source who comes with impeccable credentials -- it was in fact not an outburst at all. But before I explain what the fuss within the party is all about, let me, right from the get-go, tell the many government agents who've bookmarked this seditious blog, that no matter how much you may torture me, I will never break my promise to Phineas, the barman at the golf club and reveal that he is "deep throat."
I am after all a professional (albeit unemployed) journalist.
Some background to the story, for the benefit of my three foreign readers, one of whom is my sister.

Telly Tubby

Julius Malema is the leader of the radical ANC Youth League in South Africa. He looks a bit like a black Telly Tubby but is not nearly as friendly, nice or, some would claim, intelligent.
Jellybaby Julie took seven years to complete his five year high-school programme. You'd think those extra two years would have given him more than enough time to thoroughly familiarise himself with his school subjects. Nope. Big J did not cover himself in academic glory. In his final exam, for example, he scored a GG for standard grade woodworking and an H for standard grade mathematics. (A copy of his official matric results can be seen here.)
What is ironic is, at the time, he was the President of the Congress of SA Students which probably explains the current academic abilities of this country's youngsters -- 85% of whom (that's about half Julie) believe wanking is the old capital of China.
But I digress. Back to the cover-up, put in place to prevent extreme embarrassment within the ANC.

Sandton

In April, Julius Malema held a press conference at the ANC headquarters in Johannesburg. Amongst the pearls of wisdom he cast before the trotters of the assembled media contingent, was praise for Robert Mugabe's Zanu-PF party. At the same time he poured scorn on the "Mickey Mouse" opposition. He mocked exiles linked to the Movement for Democratic Change, led by Zimbabwe's prime minister, Morgan Tsvangirai, for using offices in Sandton, a wealthy suburb of Johannesburg.
"They can insult us here from air conditioned offices of Sandton," Malema told journalists at Luthuli House. "We are unshaken. They must stop shouting at us. They must go and fight for their battle in Zimbabwe and win … why are they speaking in Sandton and not Mashonaland or Matabeleland?"
As Malema foamed and frothed, BBC journalist, Jonah Fisher interjected: "You live in Sandton."
The comment rattled Malema and the UK Guardian newspaper reported:

Malema replied: "Let me tell you, this is a building of a revolutionary party and you know nothing about the revolution."
Fisher pressed: "So they're not welcome in Sandton but you are?"
Malema snapped: "Here you behave or else you jump."
This prompted laughter from Fisher and others.
"Don't laugh," Malema growled.
Fisher commented that the situation had become a "joke".
Malema then erupted, asking for a security guard to eject Fisher and telling him: "If you're not going to behave, you're [sic] going to call security to take you out. This is not a newsroom, this is a revolutionary house and you don't come here with that tendency.
"Don't come here with that white tendency. Not here. You can do it somewhere else. Not here. If you've got a tendency of undermining blacks, even where you work, you are in the wrong place. Here you are in the wrong place."
Fisher responded: "That's rubbish. That's absolute rubbish."
Malema continued: "You can go out. Rubbish is what you have covered in that trouser. That is rubbish. You are a small boy, you can't do anything."
Collecting his dictaphone and walking out, Fisher said: "I didn't come here to be insulted."
Malema bellowed after him: "Go out. Go out. Bastard! Go out. You bloody agent!"

Cover-up

The Jellybaby was later hauled before an ANC disciplinary committee and grilled.
My source -- who heard it from someone who has a friend who knows someone who says he is distantly related to one of the committee members -- says Malema turned the proceedings upside down when he dropped a bombshell which, if it had become public, would have shaken the ANC and its support-base to its core. It would have undermined all of Mbeki's years of attempts to emasculate white South Africans.
In the end, in the interests of the country and the party the truth was swept under the carpet as it was deemed the lesser of two evils and better for his future presidential ambitions if JJ was only seen as a raving buffoon.
It seems, my source says, when asked why he had yelled "Bastard" (pronounced "barsted") Malema stated that was not what he had said. He said that while the attention was focussed on the Brit journo, he'd asked his right-hand person what the guy's name was.
"He incorrectly told me it was Edward something-or-other," Malema reportedly told the committee.
"What I actually called him was 'Boss Ted'."

In case you're reading this -- or having it read to you -- Julie this is called "satire".

Police dealings

Around three weeks ago my small pick-up truck -- the vehicle I use to earn my living -- was stolen.
It was parked behind a pallisade fence with a locked gate that can only be opened with a remote gate-opener. In addition a gear-lock was attached, as was an AA-approved steering lock.
That apparently meant jack-shit to the sleazeballs who stole it. They were obviously pros. It was as though the car had never been there. There was no sign of glass from a broken window, no marks on the gate...nothing!
Welcome to South Africa! I became just another crime statistic.
The theft was reported to the police but the fact is, in this country, you do not make a statement to the cops to give them details they need to investigate and recover your stolen property, you do it so they can give you a case number to fill in on the insurance claim-form.
The only way my bakkie will ever be found is if it miraculously gets pulled over in a random roadblock.
The detective has not yet visited the crime scene, but I hardly expected him to, if past police performance is anything to go by. Seven years ago, a friend was shot in the face, neck and arms, in what appeared to be a carjacking attempt. He spent over a month in hospital and is still waiting for a detective to take his statement.
But we haven't yet given up hope. The wheels of justice turn slowly in South Africa and I am confident, as soon as they have taken his statement, they'll turn their attention to recovering my car.

Being unfair

Perhaps I'm being unfair. In the nightmare that is getting all the documentation needed by the insurance company and having the stolen car removed from the provincial vehicle-register, I had to obtain a copy of the police statement.
I first accompanied an officer to the docket-storage room, where, together, we searched through the files of crimes listed during the month of May. My case was reported at around 08h30 on 1 May and was logged as "case number 16 of May 2010".
Now to put this in perspective, it was 10 days later that I was at the police station searching for my case docket and I was then already sifting through May cases numbered in the 600s. We had no luck finding the docket there, so next step was to see the detective assigned to the case. He was out -- hopefully investigating -- but we rifled through around 20 piles of dockets, each containing about 20 files that were piled on his desk as well as on the floor.
A quick mental calculation showed the man is investigating at least 400 cases!
Maybe the cops at the coal-face aren't completely inept. Perhaps the reason so few crimes are solved in South Africa is the investigators are drowning under a tidal-wave of crime and an avalanche of dockets.
And the situation is never going to improve, no matter what the smarmy Minister of Police and his equally slippery cronies say, or how vigourously they massage the crime figures they issue once a year.

Gravy Train

There appears to be no support from the upper levels of the police food-chain. The Gravy Train has left the station and the workers behind!
A case in point (that is absolutely true) is an incident where a friend, a few months ago, went to report a case of theft at a police station on the West Rand.
"The officers in the charge office were actually quite helpful and sympathetic," he says. "But they told me they were unable to take my statement, as nobody had a pen.
"There are no pens in the charge office at all? How do you take a statement then?"
"We borrow the complainant's pen -- if he has one."
"I couldn't believe what I heard," my friend says.
"In the end I went to a nearby stationary shop and bought a box of pens that I donated to the charge office. It was the only way I could get them to take my statement."
To some, that may appear a drastic course of action but in the scheme of things, the effort was worth it. He got his case number, listed it on the claim form and the insurance paid out.
So what that spiralling crime is causing insurance premiums to sky-rocket? That's the way it works in this fucked up country. Thinking about it will just make our heads hurt and cause our eyeballs to pop out. Much better we should continue to jam our heads up our butts and pretend the Soccer World Cup will benefit anyone other than the cronies and the chumwallies!
I won't be attending any World Cup games. I will be home, waiting for a call from the detective. I have it on good authority he's working on case 289 of June 2003 and plans to call me soon.

Lion Lust

Perhaps it was because I was so excited I'd finally succeeded in being allowed into one of the South African Defence Force's most secret bases that I did not notice the knowing smiles and surreptitious winking of the inmates.
If I had, I'd have recognised it for what it was - a conspiracy against the new boy. Hell, at that stage I was too hyped to see anything except the honour and glory sure to come my way as my articles and photographs of the South African Reconnaissance Commandos were circulated to some 50 countries. This was going to be a good, old-fashioned scoop!
Some background is in order. I'd spent months trying to set up the story. I sent faxes, made countless phone calls and wined and dined countless generals and senior defence force officers.
"Nee, Boet (no ,Son)," I was initially told. "You've seen too many movies. There are no recces. That's just something the media created...or was it something we made up to scare the shit out of the Cubans and SWAPO. Actually I can't remember, but I can assure you categorically they don't exist."
Eventually, however, after buying enough beer to float a frigate, not to mention some serious brown-nosing, even the most stoic of military officials were forced to admit the recces did exist - a fact the rest of the world was aware of from the time of the unit's founding in the mid 1970s.

Fort Doppies

"But there is no way you can get up there to see them," I was told. I'm not too proud to be above begging and bribery, and so, a couple of months later I found myself at Fort Doppies, what was then the Reconnaissance Commando's base in Namibia's Caprivi Strip.
Fort Doppies was a beautiful place. A lush tract of ground through which a river flowed that was home to large herds of elephant and hippo. It could have been a nature reserve. I'd marveled at the vast numbers of buffalo and antelope that stared at us as we drove along the dusty road from Mpacha to Doppies.
Yep, it was beautiful, but I suppose the trainees who ran, lugging heavy kit with instructors screaming abuse might have thought otherwise. I arrived at Fort Doppies just before lunch.
"Find a basha," the liaison officer, a captain, told me. "Then stow your kit and come through to the dining tent."
In those days everyone slept in a basha, a small shelter made of timber cut from local trees and with a grass or reed roof. If there was no spare shelter, you were expected to construct your own - these were, after all, recces. The entire structure stood about chest high and contained two beds also fabricated from available materials. In a basha you could sit or kneel but not stand.
Much to my relief, I found an empty basha, stowed my kit and after lunch spent the rest of the afternoon acquainting myself with the lie of the land, the workings of the unit, and generally looking like a big-time war correspondent. I wandered around the camp with an air of superiority, complete with Ray Bans and compulsory foreign correspondent's flack jacket - though mine was made for trout fishing. Hell, I looked good!
That evening I bought drinks for everyone in the bar (I was on an expense account) and made sure I was the centre of attraction. At around 10.30, the party began to die.

Sniggers

"I'm going to turn in," said the Liaison Officer.
"Yeah, don't let the bugs bite," said another soldier. I was too drunk to hear the sniggers.
I staggered back to my basha, kicked off my boots, flung my clothes into the corner and collapsed on top of my sleeping bag wearing just a pair of underpants. It was too hot to sleep under any sort of covers. After smearing my body with mosquito repellant, I lay back and listened to the sounds of the Namibian night.
In the distance I could hear hyenas; nearer a par of jackals called to each other. Through the open door of the basha the sky and stars were clear as crystal. The moon was full and so bright you could almost read by it.
This is as good as it gets, I thought as I drifted off into a peaceful, alcohol-induced sleep.
That is until I was woken by a male lion attempting to have conjugal relations with me.
I woke with a start as the creature jumped onto the bed on top of me. Waking up and smelling a lion's breath is not good for one's health, but when said lion attempts to have sex with you, its far worse than waking up with an ugly woman you can't remember meeting in the bar last night.
I did the only thing I imagined to be appropriate at that moment - I faked an orgasm and then began to scream. The more I screamed the more amorous the lion seemed to become. Hell, I was turning the bastard on! Finally with a grunt and a look of satisfaction on his face, he left, wandering out of the basha.
Gingerly I felt to see if I still possessed all of my limbs. Then the shock of what had just happened hit me and I wanted to vomit and release my bowels at the same time.
And then I heard those recce bastards, laughing worse than the hyenas I'd heard earlier and the bloody lion was standing there amongst them, being petted.
"I see you've met Terry," said the RSM.
"Ja, he really seems to like you," said someone else said and they all collapsed and fell about on the ground screeching.
It seems that Terry, the amorous lion, was found as a cub. I'm not sure of the circumstances, but he was brought to Fort Doppies where he was raised as though he was a house pet. He was fed from the kitchen, given beer from the bar and generally became one of the manne. He was never caged and was free to wander as he pleased. As he grew older he developed the habit of roaming during the day and returning to the base at night where he would search for a basha whose occupant had forgotten to set up a barricade, Then he would proceed to show his affection in that special kitty kinda way.
Sometimes Terry would disappear for a week or two at a time as he lived a schizophrenic existence of tame and wild lion.
"Ag, no man, I'm sorry we forgot to tell you to put your kit across the entrance of the basha," said the RSM and everyone collapsed again.
Though we'd shared a special moment, I still hated that lion. I was scared as hell of him. The power of that beast was phenomenal and sometimes as I watched him rough and tumble with some of the troops, I wondered when he'd cross the line and it would no longer be a game.

Cabinet Minister

But Terry eventually got his come-uppance though I was not there to see it. Apparently a year or two later a terribly prominent South African cabinet minister visited Fort Doppies on a sort of fact-finding-funded-by-the-tax-payers mission.
I am told that in all the excitement, no one remembered to tell him about Terry. At that point the base had seen considerable development and the bashas were replaced with bungalows equipped with doors that could now be closed.
However, the latrines remained pit toilets consisting of a series of "go-carts" set out in rows and surrounded by hessian walls. The long drops could accommodate around eight people, all of whom could sit next to each other in a row. Daily bowel movements became quite a sociable event, as it was the one time the troops could sit, relax and chat.
The cabinet minister arrived with a small entourage in tow. He was wined and dined and by all accounts had a jolly time. Things were going swimmingly until nature called the great man to rev up the go-carts. In the spirit of diplomacy and decorum, no one else needed to go and the politician retired to put the cherry on top of a fine meal.
As he sat, with his trousers around his ankles, Terry made his grand entrance. I am told it's hard to reassert your authority once you've been seen running around bare-arsed and screaming.
Two days later a signal came from Pretoria. "Get rid of the lion!"
Terry disappeared shortly afterwards. I'm still bitter about it and I'm angry with him. Though it's years later I'm still trying to work through my animosity and resentment - but it's difficult. I mean, he doesn't write, he doesn't phone, he doesn't send flowers or anything!



Note: The official story is Terry was darted and relocated to a game park somewhere in Namibia. Whether that is true or not, I don't know.

This story was published in the now defunct Southside Online Magazine in 2001

Is flatulence ruining your sex life?

Throughout history there have been some discoveries and inventions that have changed truly changed our lives.
Fire, the wheel, the printing press, the steam engine, the telephone and internet spring to mind.
But now there is something even more profound and earth shattering.
It has come about because there is a problem in the marriage bed that no-one wants to talk about. It is a problem that is sometimes silent but almost always, deadly. But fear not, the solution has arrived.
No longer need you tremble in your jammies, worried you may cause a stink. This is a truly mind-boggling invention that uses cutting-edge military technology to promise to restore marriages and at the same time fire up stagnant, rotten, sex-lives.
And, judging by the fact that almost 1,3 million people have viewed the advert on You Tube, there can be no doubt, there is a need for the Better Marriage Blanket.
Yes ladies and gentlemen, for less than $60, excluding postage, you will no longer have to answer "yes" to the age-old question: "Is flatulence ruining your love-life?"
I don't know about you, but it's a topic that comes up regularly at our dinner parties and, no doubt, you too have likely spent many hours discussing the problem with family, friends and work colleagues.
But now, with the arrival of the Better Marriage Blanket, the acrid, foetid smell of your bed-partner's farts will no longer leave you gasping for air, like a landed mackerel, while you desperately flap the sheets and struggle to open the window.
According to the manufacturer, "flatulence molecules pass through a cotton layer and get absorbed by the carbon layer, leaving you to experience fresh air and added under-blanket warmth!" Actually I added the bit about the warmth -- it's a selling feature they probably didn't think of.
Available in different sizes, the Better Marriage Blanket is said to contain the same type of fabric used by the military to protect against chemical weapons.
It's also touted as a "great wedding or anniversary gift too."

Farts are funny!

I wish it had been around when Mrs White Ou and I tied the knot 31 years ago. That way we'd probably still be sleeping in same the room -- and maybe even in the same bed.
She's a strange girl, my dear wife. She's not amused by the same things I am. For example, I find it difficult to get her to crack even the smallest of a smiles when, lying together, I trap her head under the blankets and fart.
What can I say, I find farts -- particularly mine -- funny. I laugh so much I can hardly breathe, yet strangely she fails to see the comedy.
That, and my snoring, has seen me moved to a room down the passage and now I am forced to keep the clouds of gas I emit from my bottom trapped firmly beneath the blankets until she comes into my room in the morning with a cup of coffee.
Then, with a flourish, I'll fling back the bed-clothes and hope for the best. Once I got lucky. She dropped the cup in the middle of a choking fit but, in truth, it's just not the same. It's a poor substitute for the genuine "Dutch Oven" or "Covered Wagon."
That, I think is one of the drawbacks of the Better Marriage Blanket. It will do away with those intimate, fun-filled moments that couples, enjoy in bed and have so much fun remembering. It's also going to make Two-and-a-half-Men a lot less funny.
I am also afraid, if they ever start making baby diapers from the new wunder-fabric, it's going to mean the end of that endearing Mommy ritual where -- usually in a restaurant -- some mum sticks her nose against her little-one's butt, takes a lung-filled sniff and loudly announces "someone's made a stinky poopie!". But at least the old finger up the diaper's leg-hole is likely to remain.
Before anyone gets the wrong impression, let me place on record that I am not solely responsible for producing noxious odours in my home.
My dear wife must also bear some responsibility. Consequently, a nice pair of sweat pants in activated-carbon fabric in her size would indeed be welcome.
When it comes to rear emissions I tend to be noisy -- and, if I may be so bold as to say, quite musical.
Mrs White Ou, on the other, hand is covert and sneaky. The first indication that something is horribly amiss comes from the dogs.
When they are suddenly startled from their slumbers on the TV-room carpet and slink away, you know what's coming.
You see, my dear wife, kind and sweet as she may be, is by no means above blaming the dogs for her odouriferous indiscretions. With noses (thankfully) hundreds of times more sensitive than mine, they know an undeserved scolding is only seconds away, so they get the hell outta Dodge.
"Blah, blah, blah," Mrs White Ou has just said, while reading over my shoulder.
"No one will believe you because everyone knows women don't fart."
"Yes, Dear," I replied meekly.
I didn't have the guts to show her the comment from someone called PyroRob69 who recently wrote about the Better Marriage Blanket on a chat forum. I think he summed it up quite nicely when he said:
"Women don't fart because they can't keep their mouths shut long enough to build up any back pressure."

P.S. Yes, the Better Marriage Blanket is a real product!

The Middle Age Malady

It was obviously some dumb youngster who first said 'age is just a number'.
Anyone with more than two brain cells knows that is nonsense.
As you first edge towards, then reluctantly embrace middle-age, things happen. Bad things!...that creep up on you unnoticed, like the mould behind the basin that your wife nags you to sort out -- but I digress.
Let me give you an example.
Some parts of my memory are starting to fade. I can't remember how many times (see what I mean?) I find myself standing in a room in my home, wondering why the hell I went there in the first place. I know there is some reason but I can't remember what it is.
My head starts to throb and often I have to sit down, as I rack my brain, trying to recall but, inevitably, it's a lost cause and I will be forced to retrace my steps in the hope something along the way will jog my memory.
It could be that I am easily distracted, cursed with uncontrolable thoughts that flit from stimulus to stimulus. For example, I'll be standing empty-headed and bemused in the kitchen and decide I need to go back and start again but then I spot the kettle and decide I should make a cup of tea and a snack first.
That is immediately followed by the idea that I should find and read the newspaper while I wait for the water to boil which sends me off to the lounge.
An hour and thousands of jumbled thoughts later, Mrs White Ou, my dear, long-suffering wife of thirty-plus years, will come looking for me and ask: "Why is there no water in the kettle and a mug with only a teabag on the counter?"
Of course I'll have absolutely no idea.
She'll shake her head sadly, like a school teacher who knows the very best the slow kid at the back of the class can hope for, is to some day earn a living as a car-guard.
In my defence I have at times found her alone, wild-eyed and confused, muttering: "What the hell am I doing here?" But perhaps she's questioning her life with me rather than grasping for a memory-trigger.
If I can remember, I'll ask her.

Compensations

However, there are some compensations, as I age, my long-term memory seems to improve and I get many opportunities to bore people with it.
A rare and simple pleasure in middle -- and I am sure old -- age is, absolutely every story you tell, need ever be simple or brief.
Let's be honest, it is an intoxicating rush to see the growing fear and panic in victims' eyes as they realise there is no escape and you are going to make sure you prove there 'ain't nothing wrong with my memory'.
It usually goes something like this:
To keep the conversation going all I need to say is: "I too, once owned a Renault motorcar."
That's it, seven words that say it all and it's all I would have said 20 years ago.
But not now, oh no:
"Yeah a Renault is a nice car. I had one too. It was back in 1975. I bought it with my army danger pay.
"Jeesh can you believe all we got paid was 97c a day and R5.50 a day danger pay but I saved up and paid cash for the car...a white one with an engine in the back.
"In those days, we more frugal and careful with our money. Not like people today where everything is bought on credit and no-one wants to save. Easy credit is the reason we're all in the situation we are today.
"The banks are out to screw us. When I was a youngster, banking, and life in general, was much simpler. They used to hand out piggy banks to kids. I got a black one in 1969. The black ones were more stylish but they also had silver and gold.
"I remember it was 1969 because my teacher was a Miss Thompson, although maybe I'm wrong...maybe it was 1968 and, come to think of it, it wasn't Miss Thompson, she was a teacher at high-school. She was the hot one that we guys all had a crush on. That reminds me of my first girlfriend...
"Gee, we had some fun in my first car. It was a Renault. A white one, with the engine in the back..."

Honour, Glory and Safe Sex in Durban

(This article was published in 1994 in Living Africa Magazine. It evoked a flood of letters. Many guys enjoyed it but a lot of women were offended and couldn't understand how my wife could continue to stay with me. I sometimes wonder about that as well -- we've been married for over 30 years -- but I've come to realise it's probably all due to my boyish good looks.)

"This is serious stuff," I said. My pep talks to the team always start like that. "No messing around. We've got one and only one objective: to come back covered in glory!"
A little background. There are four of us involved in a sport that takes us around the country to various provincial championships. I am nearer 40 than 30, write and do training for a living and am a reasonably big guy. For that matter we're all pretty big guys, in fact you could say we're under-tall - except Dudley, but more about him later. Then there is Andy, younger than me by a year or two but considerably heavier, with a big belly. Harry is the third of the disciples, an ex-policeman, with an old time apartheid cop's temper and disposition. Though not as big as Andy, he too is no jockey, with a third trimester tum.
And then we come to Dudley. Studley Dudley, the youngest of our crew, having just turned 27. He comes from an obscenely wealthy family and is the general manger of one of the family companies. His parents are conservative in their outlook so I guess it is possible the cradles could have been switched in the nursery all those years ago. By day Dudley is a hard worker in Dad's factory, slaving away diligently, but at night he is a male stripper with horny housewives rubbing oil on his body and pushing fistfuls of lolly and phone numbers into his G-string.

Tupperware parties

Dudley works the Tupperware party circuit. The "yes darling, Lynette and I are just going to another Tupperware party"..."Oh my Denise, who needs a man when you can have Danny the Dolphin!" scene.
By all accounts the women love Dudley. He gets to see and examine more married women than the local gynaecologist. He's built like a brick outhouse... a Chippendale. He can genuinely do 70 press-ups in a minute and like Sam Malone of Cheers, he does not drink.
So there we are, a strange team: three outta shape barflies with Penthouse-like fantasies that never come true and a Mr Universe who has to beat off women with a club.
And so the games began. We set off to take part in the Natal championships, a serious event with reputations and prestige at stake. Hell, we had good intentions: no mucking about, just serious competition. That lasted all of 15 minutes and then the war stories started and the hairier they got the hornier we got.
We were booked into a little hotel in the Natal midlands that the proprietor had assured me was very nice and cosy. It sounded idyllic, a little romantic getaway where we could mentally tune up for the challenges that lay ahead.
That is until we told others of our intended place of accommodation.
"You've gotta be out of your skulls!" was perhaps the gentlest of the warnings. "You'll be up all night trying to repel boarders!"
Of course we didn't believe any of that. Gee the guy on the phone told us it was nice and cosy and he wouldn't lie to us.

In search of adventure

And so with pure thoughts, resolve in our hearts and a boot-load of beers (mineral water for Dudley, "my body is a temple") we sallied forth in search of cosy accommodation and adventure.
Andy drove. It was his car and he wasn't taking any chances with us, while we (excluding Dudley) quietly got plastered and lied about how many women we'd laid.
"Wadda ya mean I can't drive?" belched Harry, enveloping us in beery fumes. "I drove when I was in the police.
He made a grab for the steering wheel but was pulled off by Dudley as the car veered across the road.
"Well screw you too," he mumbled and sat in the corner sulking and burping like a bullfrog that had OD'd on liver salts.
We ran out of beer just as we began the long, downhill swoop into Pietermaritzburg.
"I told you we should have packed in more," grumbled Harry. He was beginning to look ragged now. Five o'clock shadow beginning to look like night. "But does anybody listen to me? Nooo!" He laced the negative with heavy inflexion. "What do I know...I'm just an ex-cop."
"Stop the car!" I yelled.
Andy jammed the brakes and we slid sideways onto the verge of the highway, scoring rubber skidlines onto the asphalt.
"What the hell!" he shouted, struggling to keep control of the vehicle. "Don't tell me Harry's going to puke."
"No, I just have to pee," I said somewhat sheepishly. The sage spoke the truth when he said man does not buy beer he just rents it.
"Dammit man, you can't stop here," said Dudley, his voice a little anxious. He was new to the game and this was his first trip with the rest of us.
"It's either that or pee in the car," I said, already out and unzipping my fly.
"Just get done so we can get out of here and check in at the hotel," snapped Andy. Always the father figure and the voice of reason he was beginning to feel the heat from the crazies in the back.
"We've got to get more beer first," slurred Harry.
We had our first feelings of foreboding when we drove into the little town in the Natal midlands. (It shall remain nameless for fear of legal consequences and letters from an irate mayor.) There were only two other white faces to be seen. An old wrinkled crone with a face like an albino prune and the other, a guy on crutches. (Obviously too old and too crippled to get out.)
Now this isn't a racist thing. Let's put the time into perspective. It was four months before South Africa's first all-party general elections. The battle between the ANC and Inkatha was going full-tilt and a State of Emergency had been declared in Kwa Zulu/Natal. Having a white skin counted for beans. For that matter, having a black skin counted even less.
We took one look at the motel, turned our noses at the stale smell of urine in the lobby, made a quick stop at the off-sales and beat a track to Durban. It meant a round trip of about 140-km a day but what the hell? We were in civilization. We checked into the Holiday Inn and were allocated one of those one-room, two double beds, four-guys-in-a-room, rooms. But we didn't care. We were saving money and we were going to party until the blood vessels in our eyes popped.

Sleeping arrangements

I ordered up a couple of beers for supper and we discussed sleeping arrangements.
I don't care what anyone says; being in a double bed with another guy just doesn't feel natural. I guess we're all afraid that somewhere within us may lurk a little latent homosexuality.
"I don't care who I sleep with," said Harry. He'd hit his second wind and was well into party mode.
"Yaaaaah!" he screamed in a wild shriek as he dived across the bed onto Andy and began planting wet kisses on his cheeks. "I want to sleep with Andy baby!"
"Get away you pig!" screamed Andy, in a volume I was sure would bring the manager.
"Keep it down guys," I pleaded in a kind of half-whisper. "You'll get us thrown out of here!"
"Turn the TV up then," said Harry as he sat on top of Andy. "That way they won't hear us shout and they won't hear little Andy squeal."
He rubbed his rough, sandpapery cheeks against Andy then bit him on the butt.
Yep, no doubt about it, Harry was flying.
"Don't talk to me, talk to my lawyer," Harry sang as he wandered around in a pair of underpants, his hairy belly bulging over the waistband. "I gotta unload."
"Well close the bloody door this time," shouted Dudley. "I'm going to have eat just now."
I was restless that night. I suppose that's always the case when you sleep with a strange man for the first time. We tossed a coin and I got to sleep in the same bed as Dudley, who first had to do push-ups and sit-ups before we retired. I woke often, afraid to turn over normally in case I brushed up against him and he thought I was queer or something.
In the next bed Harry snored while Andy had gas. Eventually I must have fallen asleep for I woke with a start. An arm slipped around me and an unshaven face nuzzled up against my back. I lay there, too terrified to move. My worst nightmare had become a reality - Dudley was a fag! Every fibre in my body was taut as a banjo string and my mind whirled in confusion. What to do?
I lay there waiting for the hand to move or for the little kisses to be planted on the back of my neck. At least his breath wouldn't reek of booze, I thought. But nothing happened. He lay still, obviously dreaming he was back home.
"Dudley! It's me," I yelled as I leapt out of bed and switched on the lights. The others woke and stared at me bleary-eyed.
"What's going on?"
"Dudley's trying to fondle me."
"Ag no, never!" You're kidding. You must be dreaming. Turn the lights off and go back to sleep"
"Not before..." I said, as I ripped the top blanket off the bed and rolled it into a long, thin sausage, "I do this!"
With a flourish I laid it in the bed between us.
I pointed to his side: "That's yours and this is mine. Any bit of you that comes onto my side will be ripped off!"

Let's go whoring!

Over dinner the next evening we discussed our options.
"Competition starts early tomorrow so we'd better be fresh," said Andy as he tackled a monkey-gland steak with relish.
"Stuff that, I vote we go whoring," suggested Harry.
"Let's be democratic," I suggested. I wanted to get out of the restaurant. Harry was demanding a balloon from the waitress.
"All in favour of going to bed early to be fresh for the competition tomorrow, raise your hand."
Andy lifted his right hand and waved his fork in the air.
"Right, all in favour of whoring, raise your hand."
Four hands went up.
"I thought you wanted to go to bed early," Dudley accused Andy. We all stared at him.
"What can I say?" he asked sheepishly. "I guess I changed my mind."
"Yep," I said, "these are my principles and if you don't like them I have another set."

Sources

Harry knew all the places and a whole bunch of whores in Durban. "When you're a cop you've got to have sources," he explained. "I just kept mine.
To cut a long story short we ended up at a massage parlor sited on the way to the harbor. In the pile of slags standing at the bar, smiling at us and trying to look like Kim Basingers, were two that actually were not bad. We sidled over, gunslingers from outta town, ready to sow some serious wild oats. Our choice made, the other whores went back to watching a video playing at maximum decibels on a battered Blaupunkt television.
"So what do you boys do?" asked Bambi or Fifi (she had a name that had something to do with an animal).
"Er...um...well we're down here for...." before I could finish explaining about the provincial championships, Dudley jabbed me in the ribs with his elbow with such force it left me gasping for air like a beached mackerel.
"We're game farmers down for a tourism conference," he butted in.
The whores' eyes lit up, the smell of big money and horny hayseeds obviously intoxicating.
"Really? Well yes, now that I look at you, you do look kind of rugged." She paused as she took a swig of her drink, trying not altogether successfully to look seductive as she peered over a Klipdrift Brandy and Coke.
"Where are your farms and are they big?"
"In the northern Transvaal, up against the Limpopo (river), " said Dudley, "and no they're not all that big although one does take four days to drive across from edge to edge."
"Jeez," she said, her voice breathless. She put her hand onto his upper thigh. "You married?"
Dudley shook his head and you could almost see the possibilities as they flashed through her mind.

Be gentle

Harry pulled her into his lap, running his hands up under her skirt.
"It's very sad. Be gentle and kind to him," he whispered. He indicated to Dudley. "His wife recently died while giving birth to their first child - a son who was to take over the farms. Little Frikkie was stillborn so now there's no heir and he's vulnerable and looking for a wife.
"Ag shame," she said and I could have sworn I saw a tear in the corner of her eye, though I guess that could have been a trick of the ultra-violet light.
In the meantime Andy and I were in the process of seducing - if you consider haggling over a price as seducing - the other whore. She was small and girlish, through close scrutiny revealed she obviously had a few miles on the old odometer. Yet, like 65 Mustang she could still get your revs up. Jet-black hair stretched down her back to where it just kissed the tight little buns, wrapped in gold spandex ski-pants.
"You've got to be kidding," I said. "We don't want to buy you. We just want to rent you."
The massage rooms were upstairs, above the main lounge area. Entry was via a dingy passage with a heavy steel security gate, and a particularly large Zulu cradling a pick-handle acted as bastion.'
"To keep the police out," said Bambi or Fifi, but I could not help wondering if it was not also to keep the steamers in and prevent them from leaving without paying.

Cubicles

To call them rooms was generous. They were little cubicles with a single waist-high massage bed in the middle. You could touch both sidewalls while sitting on the bed. But then they weren't really walls either. Rather hardboard partitions that, if you stood on your tiptoes, could be peered over. You didn't even have to keep quiet to hear the guy next door.
"I've just had a lekker garlic steak," I heard some guy tell a girl next door.
"Well I'm definitely not going to kiss you then," replied a woman's voice. "But I'll do oral for a hundred."
Next to the bed was the customary Johnson's baby oil, talcum powder, tissues, towel and deodorant.
"Okay baby, what's it going to be?" Bambi or Fifi asked me. She'd undressed by now and though her body was beginning to show signs of wear from almost 10 years in the game she was still a handsome woman.
"I don't do anything kinky and I don't kiss on the mouth. You can't hit me but for an extra two hundred, I'll spank you."
"I'll take the chef's special," I replied, trying to act cool. It flashed over the top of her head.
"Huh?"
"The full-house, the Dagwood, balls to the wall, pedal to the metal, the big cahunah."
"Huh?"
"I want to..." I whispered so the guy next door would not hear me.
"Okay, well why didn't you say so?"
"What's that?"
"A condom."
I knew I was screwed. That was me. Blown out of the water, Gone. A has-been. I just have to hear the word 'condom' and the flag won't fly.
She was obviously a pro, but even with her best ministrations it was no use. Mr. Happy had died and it was going to take a crane to raise him from the dead. It's a real bummer when every time you close your eyes your wife and kids are standing in the room wagging accusing fingers at you while thousands of Pacman-like AIDS spores snap at your crotch.
"You're still going to have to pay," she said, finally giving up.
"That's okay, but please don't tell the other guys."
"For an extra hundred I'll walk out of here bow-legged and panting," she said.