Fountains of Hein

Archive for the ‘Storytime with the Señor’ Category

Fountains of Hein

2010 - 06.23

Tags: bimbos, blind, drunk, Hein, swimming
Posted in Storytime with the Señor | 1 Comment »

: The Blind Kid

I share a birthday with one of my best friends, Hein. Well, almost, he was born on the 14^th of February, and the doctor yanked my lazy ass clear of my mom three hundred and sixty three days earlier, or rather, on the 16^th of February of the previous year (provided it wasn’t a leap year? Oh God, was it a leap year? Now I need to check before I print something that is factually incorrect… Ok, I checked, my initial math was right – are you going to check it, though? Then how do you know I’m not lying? Ok, ok, I’ll get on with it!) Anyway, they had to use something that looks like a pair of wonky braai tongs. Apparently, I was a large kid and it seems not much has changed since then.

A few years ago, we had a lekker kuier* to celebrate our birthdays with some friends and touristy drinks. I say “touristy” because I don’t have the heart to tell you it was slutty. Slutty drinks! Actually, Heinie enjoyed a few too many Heinies, and that’s pretty much all we needed to have an awesome evening – an over-served Hein.

After our (slutty) drinks, Havenga decided that he’d like to go and play some cards at Gold Reef City casino. None of us are gamblers (except when we test our new pick-up lines on a pretty bird a la http://www.superawesomebear.co.za/2010/06/i-searched-for-landmines-in-demilitarised-zones/ ), but we can’t resist watching Havenga play, he is just one of the luckiest bastards I know. Allow me to explain by way of an example: One evening he was just walking through Monte Casino, just walking through, and slot machines started hitting triple sevens in his wake, vomiting cash by the bucket load! Ek sweer! Ok, but seriously, he stopped at a table where they were playing Blackjack and watched for a minute. He noticed one oke had a seven, so he put R5 down. The oke ended up getting two more sevens and Havenga left that table with R25 000 from his initial R5 investment. Wasn’t even his hand. He was playing! When Havenga goes to a casino, magic happens.

We all do stupid things when drunk. Hell, I’ve charged a wall (repeatedly), called my dad “Luke Watson” (that’s just the PC version of the P-Bomb – his payback was epic), two Decembers ago we had a Guitar Hero marathon round robin type thing, I was told that I had to take a shot of Jack Daniels every time I wanted to play a game because I was too good and my friends needed to handicap me in a way. Three quarters of that bottle o’ Jack later, and I was STILL kicking ass in Guitar Hero. I did end up losing my pants in the process… Damn, I was rocking the Kasbah that night, though my friend’s kids still look at me funny, what a cheap price for GLORY!

Most of the time drunk people are an annoying chore. But when they’re not an annoying chore, they can be fantastically hilarious to observe, much like Hein who decided he was going to be blind for the rest of that evening. I mean, why not?

I’ve faked being blind before, it’s really difficult (and embarrassing, especially if you want to sell it) But Hein made absolutely no effort to sell this disability. He didn’t have sunglasses, and he didn’t even bother shutting his eyes properly. He looked like someone of Asian descent aimlessly meandering through the great halls of the Golden Reef. He bumped into objects, bumped into people. It was so disgustingly obvious, and that just made it ten times funnier. People had no idea what the EF was going on – is he blind? Is he faking? Is it something else, like a mild case of cerebral palsy? These questions went unanswered as we walked (and Hein stumbled) through Goldies.

When we finally got to the Blackjack table, Hein sat next to Havenga and started playing as well. Yes, the blind man was playing Blackjack. His explanation to the bint next to him was, “You can hear what card it is by the sound it makes when it comes out of the shoe…” I mean, have you ever heard such nonsense in your life – it was so awesomely ludicrous, yet Hein sold it with conviction and she earnestly believed him. The dealer, who was a man and thus not infinitely stupid**, just chuckled and went on with his work.

We left Hein and Havenga to enjoy their game, while Fred and I played some of the cheaper games on the floor, away from the smoke-filled Prive (They say second hand smoke is even more dangerous! I’m just glad I made the right choice). We opted for electronic Blackjack. We each took R50, fed the machine, sat back, talked kak and played Blackjack, with no hope or intention of winning. The idea was to kill time until Havenga won R1-million, or until Hein got shot.

Fred and I were enjoying our Blackjack game when we received a call from Havenga but Fred was too late to answer. We assumed he was winning big and we wanted to leave in a hurry, he probably needed the extra arms to carry all the cash he’d won. Unfortunately the Blackjack machine we were playing on didn’t have a cash-out option, so we figured we’d lose our R50 quick, fast and in a hurry, so we can get up to Havenga and help him carry his chips.

Therein lay our conundrum – Fred and I kept on winning, no matter how recklessly we gambled in an attempt to lose our money and get out of there, we just kept on winning. When our initial R50 investment was over R700 plus, we came to our sense, called the pit boss and cashed out. Obviously we wasted a lot of time since that first missed call from Havenga, subsequently trying to lose our money and consequently cashing out. When we finally got back to Havenga and blind Hein, Havenga urged us to leave as quickly as possible, he didn’t elaborate.

When we got outside, blind Hein excitedly told us that he was invited by casino personnel to go and gamble in the special room for blind people. The casino personnel he was referring to was security and the special room for blind people was most likely the one room in the casino with no cameras where they could break his thumbs with a hammer. You see, blind Hein thought that no one would notice him stealing the chips of the lady seated next to him (apparently Wonder Woman didn’t notice either, which was roughly the time Havenga phoned us to GTFO*** of there.

The four of us lit cigarettes (see, right choice, nothing second hand my cousin!) whilst Havenga filled us in on blind Hein’s antics in the casino. I was bummed that I missed it, but I’m sure, had Fred and I been with Hein in the Prive, we would’ve been arrested, maybe shot in some back alley, and the scene would’ve looked like we turned on each other… sneaky casinos…

Now I don’t know if you’ve been to Gold Reef yet, and if you’ve been, do you recall the fountain at the casino entrance with the beautiful metal sculpture of wild antelope leaping forward? And of course, the little fountains scattered throughout the parking lot that look like the modern equivalent of a horse trough with an iron nozzle sticking out of it? No? Pay attention next time! Blind Hein was sitting on the big one at the entrance and accidentally stuck his bum in the water. Seeing that he was now wet and February is known for its lovely summer evenings, Hein wanted to go for a swim. But not in his own pool at home like a normal sober would, no sir, he wanted to swim then and there. Parking lot fountain = problem solved.

Being the good friends that we are, we allowed Hein to go for a dip, but not in the big fountain, and certainly not with his cellphone in his pocket, his shoes or his watch, we escorted him to one of the fountains obscured by darkness, close to our cars (in case we need to escape in haste). The three of us stood back as Hein took his run-up in the dark parking lot, leapt and dove into one of these (extremely) short and shallow fountains. He hit his head against the iron pipe in the middle of the fountain with some force (he took a run-up for Pete’s sake!).

He surfaced, crying, “Julle maak my seer! (You’re hurting me!)” all the while weeping like a little girl – I didn’t blame him for crying, that looked particularly painful, I mean, he bent an iron pipe with his HEAD! And with all the class of Jerry Springer contestants guests, we started laughing at our poor friend who had a massive owie-boo-boo on his forehead. At least he had dry shoes, socks and cellphone.

It was late, Hein was wet, we were tired and hungry. The usual thing to do in these situations is to go to Bimbos. Flip, Bimbos was awesome when we were younger, a nice meal (which would always be a rather questionable meal when sober) after an evening of dancing. Plus they sold beer! We rarely had money to go to the much classier Catz, the only other 24 hour bistro in JHB. The Bimbos tradition was simple: Semi-drunk friends hook-up at the B, have a burger and a coke, enjoyed that last smoke while we reminisced about the evening’s adventures, beautiful birds, cool songs and the odd wanker you almost bliksemed, ate and left to go to bed.

That evening was different. Hein was sleeping in the back of my car (it was about 2am) and Havenga, Fred and I decided to go for a bite, knowing full well we’d all probably be home by 2:30. But not that night. On the early morning of Sunday the 15^th of February, Havenga, Fred and I had one of the best chats in the history of the universe, we had everything right there, beer, food, smokes and of course a cornucopia of goodness to talk about.

It wasn’t until the sun started to come up that we realised Hein was still in the car, freezing his soaking wet behind off. Like any good friends would, we checked on him. The car was totally fogged up. We opened the door and a waft of steam escaped the vehicle while a shivering, quivering Hein lay on the back seat. “I’m cold!” he whimpered. We empathised. We too knew what it was like to be unbearably cold and not having any facility to do something about it. Except fart. But in a confined space that’s probably not the best idea. From the smell of the interior it was apparent that Hein was at his wit’s end and accessed his internal combustion ability to fight the cold, but to no avail.

As most men would, we left him on the backseat, walked back up to Bimbos and finished our conversation. I’m still waiting for the payback, knowing Hein, it’s going to be a bitch!

* Kuier: A get together, to be social, to spend time with friends.

** The dealer, who was a man and thus not infinitely stupid: Ok, so how many of you did I offend with that little line? I was going for all of my readers, yes, all three of you.

It’s just a joke, there is no truth to it, I’m sorry ladies, I was merely going for a cheap chuckle. By the way, while I’m defining the Afrikaans words ladies, did you know that “gullible” isn’t really in the dictionary? I swear! I even tried to google it, but Google couldn’t even give me results for “Gullible” – check for yourself! Clicky –>> Define: Gullible

*** GTFO: If you REALLY don’t know this one, just Google it, I ain’t gonna tell you.

I searched for landmines in demilitarised zones

2010 - 06.07

Posted in Storytime with the Señor | 2 Comments »

In my previous post, Blinky die Blokman, I briefly mentioned that I had a couple of weird jobs in my day. At one stage I was considering taking a job as the bouncer on all the Kulula.com domestic flights – if someone got unruly in-flight, I’d tune them, “There’s the door!”

I jest, but looking at my resume, I think “Bouncer for Kulula” would’ve looked like one of the pretty standard entries.

This brings me to the landmines. At that stage in my life, I was between jobs and between women. Had just finished studying Journalism at the Rand Afrikaans University, and like most young men with a fire in my gut, I decided to hit the road, travel, see the world and write about it. Unfortunately, my total lack of cash (or anything to sell sans my body) was a bit of a hindrance. I would have to work to afford a fancy trip overseas (After all, I am more overseas than Baber) and then it dawned on me – Why don’t I just work abroad, I’ve seen other people do it. Thus the job hunt began.

For anyone who wants to work in another country, as long as the requirement is “Being-in-another-country” as opposed to “Having-a-cool-job” then the world is your big filthy oyster, waiting to be cleaned. I considered a lot of opportunities; au pairing in San Diego, operating ski lifts in Salzburg, Camp Counseloring in Minnesota, Housekeeping service in Brighton. I even considered becoming some sort of manwhore, but being raised in SA, that thought scared me. So many terrific options. I thought about jumping from job to job, season to season, hemisphere to hemisphere and do this for the rest of my life.

That’s when I read about the jobs that the UN had on offer. Damn, they had a lot. And all over the world, from basic clerical duties to physical field work. Of course, being a huge movie fan, I romanticised third world countries. Time magazine, National Geographic, CNN, MTV – here I come!

I chose explosion recovery in demilitarised zones, and the closest one was Angola.

In January of 1996, a division of the Ukrainian Armed Forces were dispatched to Angola on a UN peacekeeping mission. It was basically a company of engineers, consisting of the 901 detached pontoon-bridge company, Staff officers, military observers, and of course the folks we learned to hate as well, the military police (but I’ll elaborate on them some other day, just thinking about them makes me mad). I think it was slightly over 200 servicemen and women, and the main task of the unit was the reconstructing of the country’s infrastructure, including roads, bridges and temporary pontoon-bridges over the rivers. The Ukrainians weren’t the only foreign nationals in the country at the time, but I ended working with one of the Ukrainian squads and a Belgian peace-aficionado named Ludolf. But I’m getting a bit ahead of myself.

Getting the gig was simpler than I imagined. There were about three security and background checks, two psychological tests, an IQ test and two interviews. I lied in my interview, I thought it best not to tell them that I was only doing it because it was a weird way of getting my jollies, instead I told them that I felt it necessary to make my contribution to help rebuild a country ravaged by war, and as a South African, I felt it my duty. They bought it. I shipped off. At that stage, I was kinda bummed that the detail could only last 3 months, anything more than that and we ran the risk of going a bit bonkers (Seriously, PTSD was a major concern – especially for a civilian with no basic training). It was roughly one month later that I was incredibly thankful it was only a short-term gig.

For the first two weeks we were housed in the UN barracks in Luanda. That’s where staff sergeant Dos Santos and Sergeant Camarinha trained us in the art of not-blowing-yourself-up, probing for mines, marking their location, and if necessary, digging the fuckin’ things up. We were 17 civilians from all over the world and we would be divided up into different groups and dispatched to different regions of the country. Ludolf and I got lumped together and we were assigned to the Ukranians. We packed our kit and headed to our camp.

Well, camp is a strong word, in fact, I wish it was a little more “Camp” – at least it would’ve been more comfortable. My imagination was obviously WAAAAY too polluted by films in my expectations of a mobile base camp. There was a Mess facility, a few vehicles (including some APCs – awesome!) a few big tents, makeshift showers, toilets and a fence surrounding the perimeter and two fancy guard towers.

We were in it now, so we got on with it.

Now I’m not going to lie, the conditions weren’t the best; It was hot (especially when wearing your full blast suit), but more importantly, it was extremely dangerous. I recall the one evening when the sirens went off, one of the various political factions razed a local village. Incredibly terrifying. Extremely sad.

That first month was absolute hell. But after about 10 days you just give in. You give in. You give in to the heat, the bad food the constant danger that you’re in, but moreover, you give in to the fact that the slightest misstep will end your life, and so the uncomfortableness subsided. The fear subsided. Mostly.

It was after that first month that I converted about $500 into Kwanza and bought some cattle. Now some of you may already have an idea why, and the rest of you are asking, “Why? For what possible reason did Alexander de Coning buy $500 worth of cattle if he’s just going to leave in two months?” Hopefully, in asking that, you kinda already figured it out for yourself – it’s no picnic to repeat it.

I used those cows as my personal mine detectors. That’s right, I sent them into the mine fields, as I was just too damn tired of being afraid all the time. And though I know I should stop right there, I’ve got to ask you a question – have you ever seen a cow explode? It’s quite magnificent in its horror. Happy to report that at least the food got better from there on out – it was much fresher. Of course, the Ukrainians, and the village that sold me there cattle were plenty mad. Whoops.

The sad thing was, in 1999, the UN Security Council unanimously voted for removing 1000 servicemen (The “blue helmets”) from Angola. Unfortunately, nothing could stop or change the 40 year period of civil war or the clashing native leaders. As far as I can remember, the Indian peacemakers were the last to leave Angola, and they lowered the UN flag in Luanda.

I would like to leave you with one thought, and that is not to do what I did. You see, I used to use this as a pick-up line, and it worked extremely well! Until one evening where I decided to add the part about blowing up cows. And though a beautiful, intelligent woman may be reduced to mush, ESPECIALLY considering the way I tell this story (the horror, the danger, the humanitarianism), she will slip out of the awe-induced stupor when I start talking about blowing up cows. This used to be my favourite pick-up line, I perfected it after many tellings, but now that I’m a little older and a little wiser and I frankly cannot tell this story to every smart, pretty girl I meet, I stick to the tried and trusted, “I’m fucking rich” – that seems to work every time.

Blinky die Blokman

2010 - 05.11

Tags: Baber, Butchery
Posted in Storytime with the Señor | 1 Comment »

I worked in a butchery.

Don’t look at me like that, I was desperate and no one else was hiring. I couldn’t even get a job as an intern, fetching coffee for execs or vacuuming the long hallways. Believe it or not, I had a job in 2001 that actually required that I make tea for personnel when the tea lady fell ill. I also vacuumed on the odd occasion. Thinking back, I really had a couple of weird jobs in my day, anything to make a buck and pay school fees or buy a beer (or cigarettes!) Thankfully, it’s 2010 and I am a relatively successful public relations consultant. I believe that I still have miles to go before I can consider myself an expert in the field and I am looking forward to that journey.

But back to the butchery. Yes, the butchery. A quaint little mom-and-pop setup in Linden, run by a giant man named Ross. No, he really is a giant. Last time I saw him he stood slightly under 7 ft tall and slightly over 150kg. The only thing bigger than him was his heart – I started referring to him as the Robin Hood of Linden since he charged his affluent clientele a little more so he could give the church or the children’s home(s) a little more. And he had a gorgeous family, I was so in love with his eldest daughter, good grief, different times, now she’s engaged to be married…

However, this story is not about his beautiful daughters (he had three) or his wife that became like my second mother, nope, today’s story is not a story at all, it’s more of a recollection of my experiences while working there; a very different life filled with very different people.

Baber. Some of you just read that, probably in English and thought, “WTF is a Bay-ber?” Nope, it’s Baber, pronounced Bah-buhr, which is the Afrikaans name for a catfish. And some of you chuckled, because you’ve heard of Baber the person, or worse, you met him.

Allow me to explain. Everyone at the butchery had a nickname. My nickname was Boeta, Quentin was Blackie, we also had a Boelie, Spoetjie, Boesman, Flippie… Hell, there were 25 guys there, I can’t remember them all. And then we had Baber.

For the life of me, I can’t recall his real name, but to be honest, I really don’t want to remember. He was not my kind of people. In fact, I still lovingly refer to him as human debris. It may sound harsh, but let me tell you more about this chap:

He had a drug problem
He faced manslaughter charges in Wolmaransstad
He loved prostitutes
He is the dumbest human being I have ever had the misfortune of meeting

Now I am a shiny, happy person and while I would hate to dedicate an entire blog post to dear old doosgesig Baber, I just HAVE to tell you all about this spanner. Nay, not a spanner, a spanner has some use, albeit limited. Baber is more like a cock flavoured lollypop – What POSSIBLE function could a cock flavoured lollypop serve?!

Oom Ross, being a kind-hearted man, took pity on Baber and offered him a job at the butchery. The rest of us, who finished high school could read, knew that something was slightly amiss with our new colleague. Was it the multiple scars on his hands and face, reminiscent of healed stab wounds from a home-made prison shank? Could be. Was it the horribly tacky and slightly cancerous prison tats that would put Ninja of Die Antwoord fame to shame? Perhaps. Was it his foul mouth, racist tendencies, limited vocabulary, small life or his even smaller mind? I just don’t know, we could never put our finger on it.

What you have to understand is that everyone that worked at that butchery had a very strong value set. They loved their families, went to church on Sundays, and watched their language in the presence of a lady or a dominee. All in all you have to take your hat off to their mothers. Admittedly we could all be a bunch of vuilgatte when cleaning the fridges and no one could hear us outside, we all drank cheap beer, we all made rude jokes, but we were gentlemen when someone entered our humble shop. After all, a butchery is a place for men. The women are men, the children are men, the men, of course, MEN. We were men, we were brothers! Though i am not now, nor will I ever include Baber under that “We” banner. Unless I undergo a frontal lobotomy and move to Triomf, maybe then.

Baber had little going on in his life. Oom Ross gave him a small bachelor flat to live in, it was situated right above the butchery. He also gave him a bakkie, Ross even paid the petrol. This, of course, left Baber free to spend his salary on rocks and prostitutes. Baber’s dad had also fallen on some tough times so he moved in with his son. They both lived in the single bedroom apartment above the butchery.

The hours were kinda rough. We opened every weekday at 05:30 and then closed our doors at about 6pm. It was a long day, considering you’re on your feet most of the time. Saturdays were slightly worse. Our doors opened at 4:30 but thankfully they closed at 3pm – it was an absolute madhouse on Saturdays – everyone had to bring their A-Game. Working on Sundays was optional – I always opted out (but then again, so did the other guys). Whahaha, I remember going out one Friday night, partying to 4am and then driving from my jol to the butchery – man, I looked fancy in my blood covered smock and my fancy going-out attire! Anyway…

It was on one Monday morning were I shotgunned to do the deliveries, a trip through Jozi, leave at 6am, only back by about 9, listening to Fresh on YFM, Mark Gilman on 5 and Jeremy Mansfield on Highveld, the longest I would sit on my ass for the rest of the day. On this Monday, Ross told Baber to go with me – I think it’s because Baber annoyed him and ol’ Rossie could do with some peace and quiet.

Baber felt it necessary to speak to me. My sister, once a member of Jaffae (Johannesburg Academy for Finishing and Etiquette) told me about passive listening noises, which I chose to do instead of actually interact with this unbearable nuisance in the bakkie next to me. I wish I hadn’t, because had I been paying attention to what he was saying, by not Mmm-ing and Aah-ing I could’ve saved myself a brain-scar. See, Baber told me he was tired. Big fucking whoop, we are all tired, we work like slaves (funnily enough, even with those hours, I still think I work harder with my butt in a chair behind a notebook for 50 odd hours a week, than in the butchery, carrying hind-quarters and whole lambs around for 70 odd hours a week) Arbitrary rambling aside, Baber felt it necessary at that juncture to explain why he was tired.

Apparently, he had an itch that needed scratching (and on a Sunday night, nogal – Die Here se spesiale dag!) consequently he drove to Charmant. For those of you who are not familiar with Charmant, it’s a rather dodgy brothel in Braamfontein, and unlike La Chic’s in Klerksdorp, Charmant doesn’t have student discounts (Damn, I know WAAAAY too much about whorehouses). Baber picked up, and these are his words, not mine, a “Jap from Thailand” – because if your brow looks slightly more pulled than the average westerner, you MUST be Japanese, and according to Baber the Japanese people live in Thailand and China. Oh, and Japan. He accused me of making up names like Burma and Cambodia and when I mentioned Vietnam, he thought I was referring to a movie, he didn’t realise it was an actual country.

Ok, so now Baber has his whore and he takes her back to the single bedroom apartment he’s sharing with his dad. Upon their arrival, his dad told his son how disappointed he was and gave him and earful – since Baber only brought one home, his dad had first. Baber only got to ride that pony after his dad was done. But like most little kids, he stood in line and watched the carousel go round and round as he patiently waited his turn.

I almost rolled the bakkie at this point and in my outrage I just had to ask, “Don’t you see anything wrong with that?” To which he replied, “Why would I? She showered after she had my dad” If this isn’t bad enough, Baber then told me how enormous his dad’s penis was and how envious he was of it. I (STUPIDLY) asked how he would know this, and Baber told me, matter-of-factly, that he watched his dad… well… bangkok the bird from Bangkok. I suppose everyone needs a rolemodel. (And I think my carousel metaphor is more elegantly crafted than this bangkok one)

I asked him to keep this story between us and not tell oom Ross. (Hello! Wife, 3 daughters! Family man! Would not necessarily dole out the high-fives when it comes to shagging pros) but he ignored me and told Ross, as if he was proud about what he had done. That was the day when Baber was no longer allowed to pick up Selme, Oom Ross’ 13 year old daughter, from school anymore.

I’ll give you a minute, I know, it’s a lot to take in. Does the term “Human Debris” seem less offensive yet? If not, let me share some of my other fleeting memories of Baber.

He was a stupid bastard, and I mean unforgivably so (I mean all asians are Japanese? Vietnam is a movie? C’mon people!) I would equate him with an empty yoghurt container, but at least the empty yoghurt container would have some culture. This Neanderthal thought it a good idea to give me lip, probably about my weight or hair or whatever so he sends a little chirp my way. I have no respect for this villainous cretin, unlike Ross, who would chirp me and I’d laugh it off, because 9 times out of 10 it was a well constructed zinger and everyone laughed. Not Baber, no. The only well-constructed thing that ever came out of his mouth is probably his prison bunkmate’s cock. His little one-liners are filled with more holes than a homeless man’s undies and he leaves himself wide open for my retort. I draw heavily on the fact that I have Std 7 and send something back his way. Something clever, but not TOO clever, else he might not understand what I just said (more on that later). I reply without mercy. He started it and I finished it, but I managed to get him so angry in the process that he picked up a knife and stormed me. It took 3 okes to restrain him. I’m not going to lie, I was afraid at that point, purely because Baber was facing manslaughter charges in Wolmaranstad and that was brewing in the back of my mind as this violent, snorting, gasping pig tries to stick me with a longblade. See, at his previous job he was horsing around with a digger and liberated a colleague of an arm. The location was remote, the bleeding was profuse, and as a result, Baber effectively aided his colleague in kicking that nasty oxygen habit he had. Had we been alone that morning, Baber would’ve stabbed me.

Later that day, Baber came to me with his tail between his legs and asked me not to press charges, he also said that he will stop giving me lip if I did the same. I agreed.

Months later, our no-chirp embargo going strong, Baber did something that took me completely by surprise and I said, “Wow Baber, you’re quite an innovator” upon saying that, he threw the meat tenderiser on the floor like a 2 year old throwing a hoer beroerte (tantrum) and asked me Why? WHY am I tuning him kak when he didn’t say a word!? He was genuinely upset with me because he didn’t realise that “Innovator” was in fact a good word, not a bad one…

Now, I’m writing this in English because the bulk of my readers are English, but please don’t think for a second Baber could speak the language. Here’s a sample sentence – an English speaking customer came into the butchery and Baber engaged her. She started giving her order in English to which Baber replied, and I quote, “Pliz lady, hold for me on, I are get Boeta, he are more overseas than I are”. (Damn, it’s painful just typing that!)

I wouldn’t blame you if you thought I was making this shit up, thankfully there were witnesses. Hell, even I forgot that Baber said “He are more overseas than I are” and I overheard a friend who was there IN THE BUTCHERY, when Baber showcased his marvelous grasp of the English language retell the story.

The butchery was a different place, different people in a different time. I think back on my experience with those guys and I smile, I had to go through that to end up where I am today and while I wouldn’t necessarily say it was bad, I also know that I’d rather never go through that again.

I was fired from the butchery round about Christmas time that same year because I got drunk and stuck my finger in the biltong slicer. I know, I know, I wasn’t thinking clearly. Thankfully, they fired her too…

(Had to be done)

Die laaste keer wat ek gebliksem is

2010 - 04.19

Tags: benji, funny, Helpmekaar Privaat Skool, Ms. Nel, Storytime with the Señor, teenager
Posted in Storytime with the Señor | 2 Comments »

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:

Scream like a little girl, sometimes just a bit longer than necessary, then
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.

The Señor’s sister – The woman with the iron will and golden heart

2010 - 03.31

Tags: Birthday, Iron Will, Kids, SenorBlinky, Zonkie
Posted in Storytime with the Señor | 7 Comments »

“I’m only reading because I want to read, you can’t make me!”

“Ok, now I’ll play for a little bit, but please note that I’m only playing because I WANT to play! (and because the book was kinda shitty”)

Last night I went to dinner with my family to celebrate my sister’s 27th birthday. She is 13 months younger than I am which means that I pretty much had a best friend since I was one year old. That tiny person had an iron will – come hell or high water, that little bird would get her way. Being raised by conservative Afrikaans parents, let me tell you that for her to get her way was no small feat – she moved mountains!

Like any brother and sister would, we fought a lot. Sometimes we fought about the most trivial kak* imaginable. If you have a brother or a sister, I’m sure you can relate to the fighting, but it has to be a sibling of the opposite sex. If I had a brother, I’d probably have bliksemed** him more than a few times by now (the likely truth is that I would be the one missing a few teeth), but when you fight with a girl, you have to be smart about it – you can’t leave marks!

As kids, we were best friends. We are still very close, but we’re two very different people today. When we lived in Kempton Park (back in the very early 80s) we would have the time of our lives with a bendy stick and this weird mud pool thing in our backyard. My sister completely ruined her first, and up to her Matric farewell, her ONLY, dress in that mud pool. I remember the neighbour’s kids weren’t allowed to play with us, because their mom liked dressing them in white, and we liked to roll in mud – that’s also the reason why our first dog wasn’t a poodle, but a brownish spaniel named Floris… As long as we were outside the house, but within earshot, my folks were ok.

The death-by-mudpool dress:

It was in that house where my sister and I had our first fight. I was 2 or 3 years old, which would make her 1 or 2 at the time. Now I don’t personally recall this, but my father retells it with delight!
Mini-Señor (that’s me, blondie) was sitting on Señor Senior’s (my dad) desk, in the study, playing quietly with some bulky toy (Actually, we were so poor growing up, if I wasn’t born a boy, I’d have nothing to play with…), while my dad was working at his typewriter (yes, no laptops back then) probably hammering out something intelligent and businessy. Suddenly, a small voice pierced the long bout of silence, “Owie! You’re hurting me! Stop it Boeta!” It was my sister, yelling at me, nay, PLEADING with me to stop hurting her. Immediately after that my mom’s voice boomed, “Alexander! Leave your sister alone! Don’t make me come in there!”
My dad looked up from his typewriter, he looked at me playing on his huge desk, nowhere near my sister as these yelps of terror escaped her room. He stood up and walked down the hall. He didn’t enter her room, instead he took a little looky loo whilst standing outside in bemused silence, waiting.
According to my dad, my sister was colouring. He watched her intently as she was going to town with her crayons and her brand new Popeye colouring book. After a few minutes, without even looking up, she screamed into her colouring book, “Ouch! That hurts! Boeta, stop it!” followed by my mother’s voice from the kitchen, “Alexander, how many times must I say it?! Leave your sister alone or I’ll voetter*** you!”
My dad started laughing and fetched my mom to point out what this wily minx was doing. The first womanly thing she perfected, it would seem, was multitasking – colouring and selling out the brother. The CHEEK?! (But don’t you worry, payback is a biatch!)

I remember my sister as the obedient, quiet one. I was the unruly, loud one. Well, I got more “ruly” as I got older, unfortunately I also got louder. As I mentioned, my sister was stanch about getting her way. One day, still in Kempton Park, my mom made us hotdogs – you know, kid food. We had the worsies ready and some fresh foot-long rolls when young (VERY young, according to my mom, she was no older than 18 months) Hanli piped up and mentioned that she didn’t care for these long rolls, she wanted a bun. Of course my mom hadn’t purchased buns, who eats a hotdog in a bun, seriously!? The wors was ready and my mom sure as hell wasn’t going to the shops again to satisfy the whims of a silly 18-month-old. She probably said something along the lines of “tough shit” (though I may have coloured the language since then). But Hanli wanted her bun. The breadrolls my mother bought was clearly not up to the queen’s standards, so she walked the 3 blocks to the Spar, liberated them of one bun, and walked back. I think this was a massive shock for my folks, they didn’t see her for a few minutes, assumed she threw a wobbly over the whole roll/bun fiasco, and all of a sudden she walked in with the bread type of her choice. How about that? Amazing what a little kid soaks up, her 18-month-old brain must have told her, “Thar be buns, yar!” and she pillaged the Spar accordingly.

That reminds me of the South African magician named Martino. Like most kids, my sister and I adored Martino. Magic was awesome, and he made it look so simple! One trick Martino performed was plucking the table cloth from this heavily laden table, and everything remained perfectly still. “Oooooooh, aaaaaaaaah” the audience sang in approval.
To my 3 year old sister, this looked doable. There was an added bonus, she didn’t have to go look for a table cloth or anything as the table in the dining room was already stacked to the ceiling. Not with your conventional knives, forks or candelabra, but rather with a myriad porcelain figurines that my mom and gran had purchased in other countries or antique stores, some of them heirloom and quite frankly, irreplaceable. In one smooth motion, my teeny tiny sibling basically destroyed everything on that table.
My dad warned her not to do it again, he didn’t punish her immediately but let’s face it, she isn’t a magician. My sister heard him and acknowledged his warning, but instead of heeding it, she laid the table again, stacking it up with broken and yet-to-be-broken figurines alike. And with a 1-2-3 kul-jou-hier-kul-jou-daar en SIEDAAR, she managed to break everything.
My dad took her by the hand, led her to her room, explained what she did wrong, spanked her for not listening to him in the first place and for breaking gran’s things, hugged her and sent her on her way. Her eyes filled with tears, her cheeks red and puffy, she went back to the dining room, put everything back on the table. First the table cloth and then the shattered porcelain figurines. For the third time that evening my sister failed to master Martino’s trick. My dad, perplexed and vibrating from sheer lividness, asked her WHY she continued to do something he told her not to do. Through teary eyes, little Zonkie matter-of-factly replied, “Omlat ek wil!” (Because I want to!)

We did some stupid things in those days, good grief! Inconsiderate things, dangerous things, but we were kids, we didn’t know. One day, my sister and I got my mother’s entire teaspoon collection, two candles and a hammer. We played blacksmith-blacksmith. How do you play that? Well, you heat up the pewter teaspoon over the candle and then you flatten the little scoopy bit with the hammer, BAM! Like a blacksmith would!
One day we played dead at the side of the road to see if we can get motorists to stop. The only thing we had that looked close to blood was the All Gold tomato sauce and some Worcester sauce. I did her make-up (by emptying the two bottles on her) and directed her to lie on the side of the road, leg on the curb, head in the street. She did exactly as I said, but we still didn’t get any motorist to stop. Today I am forced to ask myself – what would we have done if we got one to stop? What would i have done if some tool didn’t look where he/she was going? Stupid kids!
Near Guy Fawkes we’d go to the kafee on our corner which was run by a questionable gentleman from some eastern sub-continent. “Change? What change? Here, take chappies!” was his mantra. He stocked fireworks, but the best shit was under the counter, and you had to ask for the good stuff. Since we spent all our allowances there, I guess he didn’t have any qualms about selling us the dynamite he kept under that counter. Ok, it wasn’t real dynamite, but it was extremely expensive to us almost-10-year-olds, and it sure left a few holes in our backyard. My mom still doesn’t know what happened to some of her pots…

There are so many wonderful stories I can tell you about my sister, and I probably will tell you those stories as the Super Awesome Bear gets older. But today, as it was her birthday yesterday, I want to thank her for always being a solid citizen, a good daughter, a great sister and a best friend. I look forward to the next 27 years worth of wonderful memories and silly stories, and I hope that every one of them will be as beautiful and as awesome as she is. Happy birthday sis!

A few more pics of the cutie:

The Timotei people are here? show them in!

Afrikaans words to learn, featured in this article:

* “Kak” means shit or trivial stuff.
** “Bliksem” = Fisticuffs. “Bliksemed” is just the past tense of fisticuffs… Fisticuffed?
*** “Voetter” is the polite, parental way of gently informing a child that they are going to fuck your shit up!

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