Super Awesome Bear

I searched for landmines in demilitarised zones

2010 - 06.07

Category 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 Category 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)

Dogs

2010 - 05.03

Tags: fun Category Daily Dwang | Comments Off

Play undead.

Good boy.

Not quite “Die Antwoord”

2010 - 04.21

Tags: music, video, WTF, zef Category Daily Dwang | Comments Off

That’s it!

What’s it?

That’s the melody to Funky Town!

Die laaste keer wat ek gebliksem is

2010 - 04.19

Tags: benji, funny, Helpmekaar Privaat Skool, Ms. Nel, Storytime with the Señor, teenager Category 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.