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)