Die Spookhuis

Close to the public swimming pool in Ninth Avenue, Mayfair stood a derelict double storey house. The house must have been quite old for it was built in the style of early Johannesburg with sash windows, corrugated iron cladding and cast iron balustrades and ornamentation. The double wrought iron front gates hung askew and the grounds were covered in waist high weeds.
We didn’t know to whom it belonged nor what the story was but the popular belief was that the house was haunted. The Afrikaans word for “ghost” is “spook” and “huis” means “house” so together “spookhuis” means “ghosthouse” or more correctly, “haunted house”

Die Spookhuis

Die Spookhuis staan eensaam en verlate

Onsamehangend met sy omgewing

ʼn onbekende se verwaarloosde bate

ʼn Dubbelverdieping huis is baie opvallend

Veral tussen die plat skakelhuisie hordes

Wat netjies saamdrom in rye sonder end

Eertyds ʼn spoghuis, dit is duidelik van buite

Met sy skyfraam vensters en gietyster tralies

Plus deftige skilderglas voordeur en ruite

In die twintigejare volgens praatjies gebou

Deur ʼn welgestelde huidemakelaar

Vir sy eggenoot, ʼn beeldskone jong vrou

In my verbeelding ontwaak ʼn volkleurtoneel

Van ʼn geluksalige gesinsgroep

Wat heel gelukkig hier woon, werk en speel

Realiteit skep egter veel treurige beelde

Van jarelange verwaarlosing

En die verbrokkeling van weelde

Wat het tot hierdie stand van sake gelei?

Watter ramp, watter tragedie

Het hierdie bekoorlike toneel gekasty?

Het die Groot Depressie gely tot bankrotskap?

Of was hulle verslaaf aan dwelms of drank?

Het een of ander euwel hierde mense betrap?

Of het een van die paartjie ʼn minaar gekry?

En ontblood, is deur die ander vermoor?

Doodgeskiet tydens ʼn geweldadige stryery?

Die bouvallige huis staan baie lank leeg

En elke leidraad wat ek ondersoek

Loop vinnig dood in nog ʼn blindesteeg

Die raaisel van die spookhuis bly dus onverklaar

En sy onnaspeurlike voorkoms

Verklik geen antwoorde, stel eerder meer vrae

The Corner Grocery Store

There were no such things as supermarkets when I was young. The housewives would walk each day (or perhaps every second day) to the grocery store then on to the butcher shop, the green grocer and finally the dairy to purchase the daily household food needs. ”Our” grocer was Mr Isadore Goldsmith, a short, rotund man with thinning hair, big ears and sad eyes who always wore a white apron and gold pince-nez spectacles.

The Corner Grocery Store

Gold letters on green painted windows

Proclaim for the world to be seen

“I. Goldsmith - Family Grocer “

But who knows what they really mean?

He’s a refugee from Lithuania

Least that’s what mother told me

And he’s come to this faraway country

To live and to work and be free

Quiet spoken and short of stature

Ruddy face, big nose and thin hair

He’s proud of his little business

And treats all his customers fair

He’s there each day at eight- thirty

Sweeps dust off the red polished floor

Takes the shutters down from the windows

Flings wide the brown painted door

Round his middle he ties a white apron

Dusts glass jars on the counter displayed

Counts change into the cash register

Issy Goldsmith is ready for trade

All day he weighs out white flour

Brown rice, refined sugar and beans

His shop may be small but he’s happy

Since it’s made him a man of some means

Sometimes he thinks of his homeland

Of the family and friends left behind

But if thoughts cause his eyes to go misty

They are quickly dismissed from his mind

If a customer’s fallen on hard times

And for much needed goods cannot pay

He books it till things have got better

Mister Goldsmith turns no one away

He knows what it’s like to be hungry

To have will but be without means

To struggle when things are against you

Yesterday that was where he had been

Look again at the green painted windows

At the words the gold letters proclaim

And maybe you will know for the first time

That there’s more, much more in a name

Voëllym

One of the “characters” living in our neighbourhood (and there were a few) was Hannes Venter who lived with his wife Hester in the house vacated by the Strydoms after the "Lebs had trashed it".  They had no children and that’s perhaps the reason they had a car when so few others did. It was a cream coloured 1948 Pontiac four door sedan which made it about five or six years old when the events described below took place.

If you lived in Mayfair it was because you didn’t have much money and Hannes and my father were constantly hatching “get rich quick” schemes one of which was to drive out to an area Southwest of Johannesburg and there tap a particular species of succulent plant of its milky sap which would later be boiled to produce birdlime. Once this was done we would leave in the early hours of a Saturday morning to drive to Rustenburg (a country town located a good distance from Johannesburg) where there was a farm dam that Hannes knew of. According to him the dam attracted many thousands of exotic wild birds which we could capture using the birdlime smeared on the thin side branches of the trees surrounding the dam. The birds would attempt to land on the sticks covered with birdlime and become stuck. We would then grab them, clean the birdlime off them and put them in holding cages. When we had caught sufficient numbers and varieties we would transport them back to Johannes burg and sell them to breeders and pet shops and thereby make our fortune.

That was the premise. The reality was a little different. We captured only seven birds in total, five of one species and two of another and neither species was particularly rare. I doubt they recovered the cost of the petrol to get there and back but we youngsters didn’t care. We had a fine time in the car and at the dam so our world was okay.
 

Voëllym

Oom Hannes Venter sê ons kan wilde voëls gaan vang

By ʼn dam naby Rustenburg genaamd Sukkelaarspan

Blousuisies is volop en Vinke is miljoene verby

En ons gaan hope geld maak, altans so sê hy

Maar eers moet ons self die voëllym produseer

Wat ons dan sal gebruik om op stokkies te smeer

Dit op hul beurt word aan boomtakke gebind

Sodat voëls wat beland hulle vas sal bevind

Suidwes van die stad lê n groot stuk braakland

Deel van oopvlaktes duskant die Suikerbosrand

Juis daar kry ons genoegsame beeskloutjie sap

Deur die plante te sny en die vloeistof te tap

In ʼn pot op die stoof word dit dan afgekook

Tot die inhoud wel lyk soos taai gouestroop

Voorbereidings is voltooi en die motor is gelaai

Vroeg bedtoe,môre wiel ons nog voor hanekraai

Kort voor twee uur die oggend ry die ou Pontiac

Met ons jonges onder komberse op agtersitplek

Voor sonsopkoms is ons daar en als is gereed

Die toneel is spookagtig in ʼn misbaadjie gekleed

En die swerms waarmee ons ons rykdom bereken?

Daglank is daar weinig van hulle ʼn enkele teken

ʼn Skrale vyf ou Blousuisies en ʼn Sebravink paar

Is ʼn power opbrengs om by die huis te verklaar

Die kool was nou wel nie die sous werd gewees

Nietemin wag daar op ons ʼn koninklike fees

Mayhem in Mayfair

Being a poor area, the suburb of Mayfair attracted people of many different nationalities and many different social classes. Among my fellow school pupils there were children of German, Greek, Dutch, Italian, Portuguese, Irish, English, Welsh, Croatian, Afrikaans and Lebanese origin. Some folk were financially comfortable (by Mayfair standards) while others were dirt poor (by any standards).
The Afrikaners were among the poorest and worked for the Railways or the Post Office, most often in menial, lowly paid jobs while the Lebanese (or “Lebs” as they were more commonly referred to) worked for themselves running shebeens, selling liquor after hours and weed at all hours. They also did a little illegal gambling on the side and were available as “muscle” to settle disputes. The following poem describes an incident to which I was witness aged about ten or eleven at the time.

Mayhem in Mayfair

That fateful Saturday in Mayfair was, to all purpose and intent

No different from any other that routinely came and then went

There was simply not an inkling of the violence that would come

To scar so many folks before this sad day was finally done

 

Two young girls played with their dolls beneath a poplar tree

Play that should have come to naught but that was not to be

For they began to wrangle as children frequently do

And in this act the makings of a feud began to brew

 

An older brother intervened and smacked the little friend

Who’s brother then came running, his sibling to defend

And thus it escalated with members from both clans

Trying to kill their neighbours with flailing boots and hands

One side sent for reinforcements that lived not far away

And were willing to defend their kin in just such an affray

Soon five cars screeched up and spewed out twenty men

Who stormed the Strydom semi and when they left again

The furniture was kindling, the people bruised and bleeding

Who knew that this was where a kiddies spat was leading?

The vanquished left soon after with no forwarding address

Perhaps it was simpler to move than to clean up the mess?

Klein Duimpie

The words “Klein Duimpie” are the Afrikaans equivalent of “Tom Thumb” which was, of course the story of a very small person. When I was growing up we had our own small person in the figure of a little black man who stood no higher than the average eight year old child but was clearly an adult because he rode an adult bicycle (albeit with some difficulty). He did not appear to have any deformity and he certainly wasn’t a dwarf in the normally accepted meaning of that descriptor. He was simply a very short person that was extremely agile and could perform all manner of acrobatic movements to entertain us. This he did on the tar surface of the street and in return for his performance he expected not only our applause but a few pennies as well.

We knew not his name, where he came from, where he went to nor when he would return because, you see, he spoke a language that we didn’t understand and he didn’t understand the language we spoke. He would simply arrive and park his bicycle (which was highly decorated with chrome doodads and multi coloured lights) and send the first available child to call the rest. When he had what he considered an audience of sufficient size, the show would begin. He did forward and backward somersaults, flick-flacks and cartwheels, all the time making these amazing feats look so easy. Notwithstanding the fact that he wasn’t a dwarf, we always referred to him as “Dwergie” the Afrikaans word for dwarf.

Klein Duimpie

Die Dwergie kom! Die Dwergie kom!
Die boodskap word versprei
Van straat tot straat en huis tot huis
“Kom kyk die jolery!”

Die mannetjie kom so af en toe
Ons kinders te vermaak
Met bolmakiesies en tuimeltoere
Op die teerblad in die straat

Forsgebou die Kleine Duimpie
Op sy versierde ysterperd
Wat glinster met blink chroomdele
En menig liggies kop en stert

Kommunikasie is wel minimaal
Sy taal kan ons nie praat
Slegs handeklappe en ʼn paar ou lappe
Beloon hierdie bobaas akrobaat

Kort voor lank vertrek hy
Waarheen sal ons nie weet
Tot ʼn ander dag “Die Dwergie Kom!”
Weerklink as bykomskreet

Fourteenth Street

Vrededorp (which literally translated means “Peace Town”) was a small residential area situated on the Western side of Johannesburg. The residents were a mixed bunch of Blacks, Coloureds, Whites and Indians but predominantly Indians that operated retail “shops” along the length of Fourteenth Street. While some of the stores were large, well lit affairs others were little more than holes in the wall but all had in common the floor to ceiling towers of trading stock which frequently spilled out on to the pavement during business hours. The combination of products not usually found in “White” shops and their willingness to haggle down to a “bargain” price attracted customers not only from Johannesburg but also the surrounding towns. The owners invariably lived in dwellings above their shops and entire families were involved in the daily operation of the business.

Fourteenth Street was so narrow that vehicular traffic was restricted to only one direction but even so movement was painfully slow and finding a parking spot was all but impossible. Pedestrian traffic was equally congested more particularly because of the piles of boxes and clothes racks that spilled out of the shops on to the pavements. Happily these impediments did nothing to reduce the number of visitors particularly on Saturday mornings.

Fourteenth Street is sadly no more because the then government decided to “move” the Indians to their own area and in the process one of the most colourful aspects of Johannesburg life simply disappeared.

Fourteenth Street

Just step inside the shop Sir
I’ve bargains you can’t beat
You’ll hear this cry in Vrededorp
On bustling Fourteenth Street

 The shops are small
The stocks are large
Goods spill out everywhere
You dodge a box
You mind a rack
Smell incense in the air

 With names like “Family Shoe Store”
And “Ismael’s Bargain Centre”
They stand out on the pavement
Entreating you to enter

 “Look at this suit
Just feel that cloth
Let’s slip it on for size
It’s perfect Sir
I’ll wrap it up
Now what about a tie?”

 The young, the old and in-between
To purchase, would induce us
The kids sell combs and razor blades
The mothers sell samoosas

 His price is high
You beat him down
He cries “That’s less than cost!”
You turn to go
He grabs your arm
The sale must not be lost

 From Kensington and Florida
From Houghton or Crown Gardens
The people come from near and far
To find those special bargains

 The same they say
Will cost you more
At any other shop
Their profit’s low
And so is the rent
Besides, it’s bankrupt stock

 Saris direct from India
Fine weaves from Hong Kong
Brass ornaments from Thailand
All write the merchants song

 A bell rings out
The auction starts
“Who’ll give me five and six?”
The bids increase
The vase is cracked
“But Sir, it can be fixed!”

 Amid the clamour suddenly
A voice rings out somewhere
In mystic tongue and unknown chant
Calls the faithful to their prayer

 Some go some stay
They work in shifts
Lose business? Not a one!
The money flows
And goods change hands
Until the day is done

 Then shutters up and close the doors
On Fourteenth, straight and narrow
And naught but night sounds will be heard
‘til they trade again tomorrow

Die Politiek

When I was a child, South African politics was the almost exclusive preserve of the white population and loyalties were split very much along language lines. Up until the elections of 1948, the ruling (and English speaking) party was the United Party under the leadership of General Jan Smuts while the opposition (and Afrikaans speaking) party was the National party under the leadership of Dr D.F. Malan.
Electioneering at grass roots level was done by way of street corner meetings in the suburbs. These were always rowdy affairs with speakers being heckled and members of the audience verbally abusing those of the opposing party. Arguments frequently became heated and there would always be a number of tough guys ready, willing and very able to settle matters by physical violence. To see one or even several brawls in an evening was the attraction for us youngsters and we wouldn’t miss such a gathering held in our neighbourhood or close by.

Die Politiek

Politikebyeenkomste het ons jonges verwonder

Want deurgaans het volwasses mekaar dik gedonder

Die skeiding was duidelik tussen Bloedsap en Nat

Geen plek vir ʼn draadsitter nie jy’s dit of jy’s dat

Verrigtinge verloop kalm en die spreker kry kans

Tot hy iets omstrede sê wat die poppe laat dans

In elke gedrang skuil daar ʼn slu onrustoker

Wat kamerade kan opsweep om ander te moker

“Moer hom Koos” is genoeg vir ʼn vuurige ou

Om ʼn stommerik te laat lê met een uitklophou

Dan is dit chaos, ʼn toneel veel beter as ʼn fliek

Want almal slaan vuis terwille van die politiek

Spookstories (ghost stories)

I grew up at a time when there was no such thing as television, there were no computers, no cell phones (very few people had even a landline telephone) and no shopping malls. This meant we had to make our own entertainment and my all time favourite was for a group of boys to sit around an open fire out in the veldt, listening to one or more of the older boys tell terrifying but wildly improbable ghost stories. This poem is written in Afrikaans, find out more about this language here.

Spookstories

ʼn Geniepsige wind en ʼn maanlose nag

en ʼn brak wat eentonig vir ʼn skaduwee blaf

ʼn Knetterende vuur en ʼn Eveready flits

en ʼn bibberende groep liggelowige niksnuts

ʼn Bouvallige kerkhof waaruit spoke snags rys

en geraamtes wat klater gee kits hoendervleis

ʼn Flitslig word stil onder ʼn kennebak gedruk

en die gedaante wat verskyn laat elke man skrik

ʼn Gruwelike spookstorie om ʼn kampvuur vertel

en byklanke wat eggo teen die pikswart nagvel

ʼn Geselliger byeenkoms sou jy nêrens kon vind

En sonder twyfel die lekkerste prêt vir dié kind

The City built on Gold

Like all the colonies of the major European powers, South Africa served as both a dumping ground for wayward noblemen and a happy hunting ground for adventurers and charlatans. The discovery of diamonds at Kimberley and gold near what would become the mining camp named Johannesburg, caused a veritable flood of fortune seekers to descend on both areas. Some would grab what they could and move on to the next big opportunity while others would become pillars of the new community. Life in the mining camp was harsh with hunger, disease, crime and deprivation the constant companion of all but the privileged and cunning few but the thought of the potential rewards made the suffering tolerable.

The City built on Gold

Come young man and listen close for I’ve a tale to tell,

Of vision, greed and spirit, of paradise and hell.

Of men who built a city where none before did stand,

And gave the very breath of life to our fair and sunny land.

They came from earth’s four corners, princes, paupers, thieves,

Plunged by fate in a melting pot to forge a brand new breed.

Strong of back or sharp of wit and most uncommon bold,

These were the noble sires of the city built on gold.

 

From Germany and England and Canada and France,

Came many fortune seekers all looking for the chance,

To pit their wits against nature to strike the mother lode,

And reap a richer harvest than man had ever sowed.

With single minded purpose they tunnelled in the earth

To extricate the golden flake that measured each mans worth.

Fortunes won and fortunes lost each time the dice was rolled,

No place for the faint hearted in the city built on gold.

 

Now close your eyes and in your mind conjure up the sight,

Of straining men and creaking gears toiling day and night.

Hear every spoken language in the hubbub of the throng,

And thrill as black men labour to the rhythm of their song.

See the rutted, dusty streets, the tents placed here and there,

Strange order midst the chaos, excitement midst despair.

Imagine each rough component that shaped the final mould,

In which was cast the future of the city built on gold.

 

Give image to that tent town of a hundred years ago,

Than overlay the present scene and you will surely know,

That though their motivation was solely for self gain,

They set events in motion, the first link in the chain.

Now built upon their bedrock there stands a magic sight,

A million blazing jewels fired by early morning light.

Glass fingers reach into the sky, a wonder to behold,

A thing of unique beauty is the City built on Gold.

 

Back now to those men of men as ‘cross the scene they strode,

Sing out their names, Barnato, Rissik, Harrison and Rhodes.

The wheelers and the workers, each played their destined role,

And left behind some legacy, the price of which, his soul.

Expensive? That’s as may be but of this you can be sure,

That if asked to do it over they’d choose the same once more.

Lie peaceful then you pioneer’s in graves so long grown cold,

We salute you, Founding Fathers of the City built on Gold.