Super Awesome Bear

I am sure the bulk of you have been voettered by a parent or a teacher at some point in your lives. I’ve been bliksemed more times than I care to remember. My dad had his own special method of doling out De Coning justice; the rule was simple, 6 shots standard, but he’d add two shots if you flinched. Thankfully he always stopped as soon as we started crying. Fan-fucking-tastic system for my sister who would start pissing two weeks before the first shot even landed. Not so nice for me, I would grit my teeth and take it like a man, surfing out the wave of discipline.

Instead of telling you the story behind EVERY last one of my hidings, I’m just going to tell you the story of my last whipping. To add insult to injury, I wasn’t even guilty of anything. Maybe I was guilty of being late? But seriously, better late than pregnant.

* * *

I was in Helpmekaar Privaat Skool. My nickname back then was Miami and a few very close friends still call me that to this day.
A quick stipulation for those of you who know me, please note that this was not a remedial school. I know the name sounds a bit wonky the first time you hear it. Then again, I seem a bit wonky the first time you meet me, but please, no, it wasn’t a special school. Jou ma was in ‘n special school!

Helpmekaar was a huge school, but tiny in terms of students. It ranged from std 5 to post-matric, and in its largest year during my tenure, we had 310 students in that old building on the hill. Jisterday, and did we play Rugby! I was even injured once, quite seriously injured. Well, ‘seriously’ in the sense that it hurt like a sonofabitch, it wasn’t fatal and I didn’t need surgery; I pulled all the ligaments in my ankle. That’s the kind of pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone. And it’s not as if I was on the field making a brilliant play and their defensive line tackled the snot out of me. No, tool-boy (me) came running down the pavilion, stepped on an empty coke can and BAM! Cheers ligaments, thanks for coming. I fought the tears all the way to the doctor’s office. She ordered me to stay off of my ankle for AT LEAST two weeks. I did what she said for about a week, because that Friday the Helpmekaar matrics left for the Klein Karoo Nasionale Kunstefees in Oudtshoorn. It was a matric tradition and there was no way I was going to miss the debauchery.

If you’ve ever been to the KKNK, you know that there is a lot of walking involved. Armed with my crutches, a Jansport backback filled with Amstel and a pant-pocket full of Myprodol (They were on special at the local pharmacy, R2 a pill – I bought 70) I hit the streets with my friends. Looking back, I don’t think mixing alcohol with any kind of medication is ever a good idea. Fortunately, I didn’t receive a Darwin Award for that stunt. If I did get a Darwinnie, more people would’ve probably heard about me by now.

I met her at the KKNK. Henriette. She was a member of the Roodepoort High School choir, and they were down in Oudtshoorn to perform for the masses. Henriette was absolutely delicious, a pretty little thing with the voice of an angel. I decided to ditch my posse and hang with Henriette and her entourage which consisted of other beautiful girls who could sing (you would to, admit it!)

The choir and their keeper (a.k.a the choir master) stayed in the Police Barracks, while Helpmekaar camped out at Langenhoven Gym. Maybe a visual aid? Ok, here it is: (I think you can click on the map to view a larger version)

While I would agree that walking isn’t a bad thing, it can get quite tricky when you’re minus an ankle. An 18 year old boy hopped up on Myprodol and being driven by hormones thought nothing of it. In fact, I thought it wise to cash in on my temporary disability. I don’t know if it was the aircast and crutches that did it, or whether it was a combination of my rugged good looks and sharp wit that got me the IN, but I cracked the nod, Henriette invited me back to the barracks. Much goodness.

Slightly before 10pm, my ankle and I climbed the fence of the police barracks. Climbing over the fence at the police barracks?! Thinking back, that move was liable to get me shot. Effectively, what I’m saying is: My ankle and I BROKE INTO the POLICE BARRACKS and went looking for Henriette. Some of the other dudes in the choir spotted me and invited me in for a chinwag, but that’s when their choir-master, a three-headed bitch with wings and acid spit, started roaming the halls. For fear of her reprisal, them kids hid me, my backpack full of beer, my broken ankle and my crutches in a big, steel locker. The Kraken entered the room where the lights had subsequently been killed and it started yelling into the dark, unnerving the kids who were faking their sleepy state. The banshee woman just stood there. I couldn’t move, lest I make a noise and risk being discovered and probably eaten, and not in that prison-movie kind of way. I stood in that locker for an HOUR before the witch eventually left the eastern barracks to return to her quarters, probably to hang upside down from the rafters or burn a bible. I had to get out of there! I had an 11pm curfew back at Aventura Langenhoven Gym. The chaps let me out, pointed me in the direction of Henriette’s room, gave me a boost through their window and sent me on my way.

I knocked on Henriette’s window, but before I could steal a kiss the Minotaur I’d been hiding from in the boys’ hallway started roaming the girls’ hallway. Seriously, what the EF was up with that bird? I’ve seen more lenient Nazis. Being in her choir must’ve made Auschwitz look like Club Med.
I bolted, my crutch making a rackety-clank at these speeds, over the fence and on my way to Langenhoven Gym.

On my way, a little stoepkakkertjie (yapper-type dog) piped up and started barking yapping at me. This dog was straight from the ‘There’s something about Mary’ set, it looked rabid and rather raggedy, but it was still just a small dog. I wanted to give it a whack with my crutch (not really), but it had a bigger brother, a Rottweiler, which was decidedly more quiet and thus infinitely scarier. I thought it best to ignore both and continued on my way.

Back at camp. Slightly after 11pm. Everyone else was there. Our Teacher, Ms Nel, extended our curfew to 12pm the following night, seeing that we were all such obedient students. I was *SO* going to capitalise on that extra hour of Henriette. Yayness!

Let’s skip forward 24 hours. Two teenagers doing what teenagers do best – making their parents worry. I totally lost track of time. Henriette didn’t have to worry about that kind of thing, she was already in her room, her crazy choir-master was either in bed or out on the town (probably looking for small children to eat. Or a baby.) When I finally pulled myself away long enough to check the time, it hit me like a bucket of ice-water. I was already an hour late and I still had to leg it about 2-3kms back to Langenhoven Gym on an ankle with pulled ligaments. I leapt out of the window and started doing my crutch-bound gallop, I swear I sounded like a horse with two mechanical legs, over the fence, and down the street.

This time I was really not keen for the yapper-dog. I even crossed the road so I didn’t have to pass right in front of its house. Besides, they didn’t have a gate and that Rottweiler could make me his bitch in a matter of seconds. I thought it best not to tempt fate. When I finally got to the yapper’s house, he was outside, standing in the drive-way going absolutely berserk, yarping at me like I just stole his Beeno. I couldn’t see the Rottweiler anywhere so I thought I’d scare this rubbish. Big mistake. As I raised my crutch in the air (just to give it a fright, people!) this little shit started storming me!

Now when it comes to my fight-or-flight response, I can quite confidently say that I:

1. Scream like a little girl, sometimes just a bit longer than necessary, then
2. Run away with almost as much panache as said little girl.

So I ran screaming with the possessed pooch in hot pursuit. This little pup obviously didn’t have self-esteem issues, he was confident that his scruffy little 7kg body could dispatch my almost 90kg body, so he jumped me. HE JUMPED ME! He tried to bite me in the ass, missed and clamped his jaws shut on my very fancy shirt. I kept running but the dog held on, just bouncing off of my ass, flapping in the wind, holding on to my shirt. He finally ripped a hole in my shirt big enough to pass a watermelon through, that’s when he let go and started ambling back home. I kept on running until I reached Langenhoven.

My ankle killing me, my beer undoubtedly undrinkably foamy and my crutches smoking from the neckbreaking speeds, I finally walked into camp an hour late. There was quite a commotion. Our head boy, Nicky, called all the chaps for a special conference in the ablution facility.

Whilst I was off vry-ing with a beautiful girl, my matric brothers and sisters had a ball at the Rock Art Café, kuiering like in the days of yor. Unfortunately, that’s when our chaperones, Ms Nel and Mr Fourie, spotted some of the dronkies. Ooh la la! Nuclear devastation had nothing on these two. Ms Nel is one of the most reasonable people I know and she really didn’t care for us abusing her trust like that. Needless to say, she was furious.

Back at camp she rounded us all up and gave us a choice. Either the boys all get a hiding from Mr Fourie, or she will have the boys locked-up in jail until the end of the festival. Like the morons we were, we believed every word of this threat, and no one was particularly keen to go to the tjookie. We voted for the hiding. After all, two shots on the ass made much more sense than two shots in the ass.

And so, at roughly 2am in the morning, we formed a queue outside the men’s room at Langenhoven Gym. I remember Kallie offering to take Nicky’s punishment because Nicky didn’t drink. Mr Fourie gave Kallie the four shots he requested, but when he walked out all the while rubbing his butt, he saw Nicky standing there rubbing his. That cheeky bastard Fourie bliksemed Nicky FIRST and Kallie simply didn’t notice. When Kallie made the offer to fall on his sword for Nick, Mr Fourie didn’t enlighten him on Nicky’s ass’s status, no, he just moerd him. What a douche.

My turn. Backpack on my back, shades on my head, torn corner of my shirt drooping over a buttock, ankle hurting like hell, tired, headache, innocent. But I was not about to chicken out! Mr Fourie warned me not to flinch. I chuckled, that’s something my dad would say, and old Jan could bliksem! I bent over, knee cocked at a 90 degree angle to keep my ankle in the air, still focusing to keep my balance when *CRACK*! The first shot landed. It was so unexpected that my upper body violently jerked backwards, sending my sunglasses soaring through the air and landing IN the toilet almost 5 meters behind me. Mr Fourie stopped for a second so the two of us could appreciate these flying sunglasses. Also, I might’ve let out a little yelp from the shock, but I can honestly not remember it hurting that much – bad choice of wood I would venture, as ek bliksem, bliksem ek met ‘n besem stok! His second shot wasn’t memorable at all.

That’s pretty much it, the last time I allowed someone to hurt me where they had no fear of retaliation. The last hiding I got from my dad was when I was in Std 8. But that was for something much more irresponsible than chatting up cute girls and staying out past curfew.

Thinking about it now, I’m still not 100% how I’ve managed to survive this long.