The Cycle Race

The Police Athletic Stadium in Mayfair was located directly behind the public swimming pool in Ninth Avenue and consisted of an oval, eight lane athletics track surrounding a grassed rugby field. On the Eastern side was a grand stand overlooking the start/finish straight and a six foot high diamond mesh perimeter fence enclosed the whole complex. While the stadium was under construction the entrance gates were not locked and this gave the local children access to the athletics track which was informally used as a bicycle race track.
On the day in question, workmen had dug a trench on the far side straight in order to gain access to some underground piping. The trench cut through lane one and then into the rugby field leaving the other seven lanes intact. I was not present when my “friends” spotted this and decided it would be an excellent opportunity to play a prank on me by challenging me to a cycle race in which they would give me the inside lane. We would start, as usual, from the start/finish straight so I would have no opportunity to see the trench on the far side in advance. During the race the group would box me in so that I was forced to stay in the inside lane and when we got to the trench I would fall in to the hole going at some speed. They imagined that the accident should be quite spectacular and all except me would have a big laugh about it.

The Cycle Race

Bring your bike and we’ll race the track at the police athletic ground

One quarter mile flat and the quickest time is now 65 seconds around

Who did the best? Who got that time? Was what I demanded to know?

Well, Leonard did by a country mile, the others were much too slow

If you think you’ll do better come with us, we’ll settle the matter there

The trap is set, they know me too well and I just can’t resist the dare

Next thing we’re ready, five abreast and I’ve drawn the inside track

Get away fast and stay out in front, that’s my simple plan of attack

 

I’m much too excited to spot the deceit, winning has addled my brain

Almost too late I look up to see a trench, three feet wide cross my lane

Instinct takes over, I’ve no time to think, fling body and bike in the air

Up over the maw that’s waiting to bite, land safe with inches to spare

 

Now it’s a joke, let’s all have a laugh but clearly I see through their plan

From quasi “friends” a lesson in life, trust only yourself my young man

Kleilat Gooi

My youth was spent (or perhaps misspent) in the vicinity of a number of goldmine dumps and two small dams. The dams were fed by a combination of water pumped from mine dewatering operations and rainwater runoff, neither of which was very healthy I suspect. We didn’t care whether the water was good for us or not and played and swam many long summers away in the one dam or the other. The upper dam was known by us as the “Blue” dam while the lower dam was the “Brown” dam. The major difference between the two was that the “Blue” dam had sticky yellow clay deposits along its shoreline and we spent many happy hours making war by hurling clay balls at one another using short sticks cut from the blue gum trees. The idea is simplicity itself. First you cut a 600 to 700 millimetre long blue gum stick of about 15 to 20 millimetre diameter. Then you gather a huge lump of the yellow clay and knead it until it’s nice and plastic. Then you mould a lump of clay the size of a golf ball on to one end of the stick and holding the other end firmly in your hand, you swing the stick in a 90 degree arc starting from a horizontal position and stopping abruptly at the vertical position. This action has the effect of releasing the lump of clay from the tip of the stick and turning it into a projectile that, with practice can be accurately aimed at a target and delivered with painful consequences if the target happens to be human.

Many a bloodless battle was thus fought between two opposing armies and the most serious injuries that I can recall were some lumps and a few multi coloured bruises.

KLEILAT GOOI

Daar onder by die Bloudam

Was die klei so taai en geel

En elke dag was dit onspret

Om kleilat te gaan speel

Gepaste lat van bloekomboom

Brei klont stewig op sy spits

Lanseer die skoot op volle vaart

Die vyande goed te klits

 

 Dis ek en Bob teen Boet en Jan

Elkeen het hope klei

Staan dan gereed, oorlog begin

Die klonte gons verby

 

Jan tref vir Bob hier langs sy kop

ʼn prima skoot voorwaar

dis twee teen een tot hy herstel

ek gooi net aanmekaar

 

Boet tref my skielik teen die bors

Dit pyn maar ek moet veg

Ek korrel goed en brand weer los

Jan snik en vryf dan aan sy nek

 

Die stryd woed voort met onopthoud

Tot laat sons ondergaan

En more kry ons weer die kans

Ons vyand te verslaan

The Soldier

My father, Gerhardus Hermanus du Toit, was one of life’s great enigmas. He came from an Afrikaans upbringing yet married an English speaking woman, spoke only English himself and considered the “English” orientated United Party his lifelong political home. During World War Two, he was working on the Langlaagte Deep Mine as a shaft timber man and because mining and miners were considered “essential “to the war effort,he was not allowed to “signup” for active duty.

So strongly did he believe that he had an obligation to do his bit that his simple solution was to quit the mine job and signup anyway leaving my mother to do the best she could on the meagre army pay. Joining the army simultaneously gave the finger to his Afrikaans relatives since the majority of Afrikaners openly or secretly supported Germany. Manie, as he was known, spent three years in the Signal Corps seeing action first in Egypt and later in Italy. He returned home physically unscathed but like so many returning soldiers the scars were on his psyche.

The Soldier

Come let me wash your face son

We are going to meet your Dad

He’s coming home from up North son

And he’ll leave us no more, are you glad?

The troop train’s due in at eleven son

Three years last week he’s been gone

But today he’ll be at Park Station son

And he’ll wonder at how big you’ve grown

Just look at the flags on the streets son

We are flying the proud Union Jack

Johannesburg is happy today son

For at last her men have come back

Hold tight to my hand on the platform son

Or you’ll surely get lost in this throng

Hear Johannesburg lifting her voice son

To welcome her men with a song

Don’t fret, I’m not really crying son

For tears can mean both joy and pain

And my heart’s bubbling over today son

For your Dad will be with us again

Some day when you have grown up son

You’ll know why I’m no longer afraid

And why there are faces missing son

And the terrible price that was paid

But for now be happy and smile son

There’s nothing can mar our joy

We’ll pick up the threads of our life son

Your Dad your Mom and their boy

Look! There’s your Dad at a window son

Now wave, wave with both hands

There look, he’s seen us, he’s waving

At last, back from far distant lands

There’s hugging and kissing and crying

No more will Mother be sad

For a man is back with his family

Our Soldier, our Hero, my Dad

Meneer de Kalkoen

I entered high school aged thirteen years and ten months and quickly realised that this was a very different world to that which I had enjoyed in primary school. For starters, there were “boys” in short pants that had heavy facial stubble and looked old enough to be my father. Some of them were already hard cases and when, at lunch break they enquired “What are we eating today?” you handed over your lunch without argument.

The teachers were also a motley assortment with some so old they looked as though they might drop dead in the middle of a lesson and others younger and more intimidating. It was the latter group that was more dangerous because they gave “cuts” for real or imagined transgressions. The “caning” of boys was standard disciplinary procedure in those days and generally consisted of three strokes to the behind with a light, bamboo cane for minor infractions and six stokes for more serious offences.

The headmaster of the school was a stern, red faced individual with thinning hair combed straight back. He was devoid of a sense of humour and I didn’t once see him smile in the five years I was at the school. Understandably, his nickname was “Turkey” because of his ruddy complexion but also because of his drooping jowls which resembled the wattles on a turkey. The Afrikaans word for turkey is kalkoen and this poem is accordingly titled “Meneer de Kalkoen” or Mister Turkey.

Meneer de Kalkoen

Die Hoof van ons skool was besonders gemeen

Met ʼn bloedrooi gesig en ʼn kalkoen kakebeen

Groen oe soos albasters, koud hard en rond

En nimmer ʼn glimlag op sy stywe ou mond

Langer as ses voet en reguit soos ʼn paal

Hare effe bles die blinkkleur van staal

En hande soos skopgrawe soepel en sterk

Heel geskik om oorlelle se sake te werk

Sy bynaam? Wat anders as “Meneer de Kalkoen”

Maar slegs buite gehoor word dit hardop genoem

Want sê jy dit elders en word jy gevang

Gaan jou sitvlak goed brand van rottang se gesang

Sy voorkoms en humeur het gesag afgedwing

Maar seuns bly maar seuns en die duiwel glip in

Onnoselle jeug hoekom waag jy so ʼn streek

In sy kantoor word jou astrantheid gou-gou gebreek

Regter, Jurie en Laksman drie in een is Kalkoen

Jy’s skuldig, buk vooroor, vingerpunte teen skoen

Trek boudspiere styf, beheer skreeuende brein

Hoor rottang se fluit wetend hier kom die pyn

Drie pers strepe sal kort-kort jou boude versier

Net bravade dwing jou daartoe die seer te verduur

En die folteraar kyk snags diep in ʼn bottel brandewyn

Sy gewete te sus vir sy rol as boodskapper van pyn

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