The Foefie Slide

Having read over the last post, I realise that there aren't yet any tales from the army days, despite my having mentioned that they are the most popular. The reason I always talk of the army and police tales together, instead of separating them, is that they both feature that amazing character, "Bob". He was with me during my national service and later in the traffic police, and without him those days would never have been as humourous or enjoyable as they were. So though you haven't yet heard about us in the army, you do know our antics already. Anyway, here is one of my all time favourites, dredged from a dusty old floppy disc that may have just issued its last gasp in parting with this story:

Place: 5th South African Infantry Battalion, Ladysmith, South Africa
Time: Late Summer, 1992

One fine sunny day we got a call from a girl called Cynthia that we were both trying to impress. Though none of us would admit it, we were actually in competition for her attentions. I felt I had been cuckolded by my steady girlfriend back in Durbs and Bob didn’t have a steady girl at the time, so we were keen on Cynthia, who was by far the most desirable of the local Ladysmith girls.

So here she was, asking what we thought of going with her and her mate Beatrice to the Colenso River for a braai (that's barbecue for you non-South Africans). Of course we were dead keen. Beatrice was short, fat and dark haired, whereas Cynthia was tall, shapely and fair. None of us were interested in Beatrice, but Cynthia had made it abundantly clear that while she would settle for either one of us it would only be on condition that the other one accommodated Beatrice. She played us like a fiddle, but we were happy to accept whatever conditions were imposed, so long as the hope of a night with Cynthia remained within reach. It was tacitly accepted that none of us were capable of getting it on with the tubby Beatrice, but that we would play the game as far as possible and cross that bridge when we got to it. That is to say, hopefully when the other one got to it.

So here we were in the foyer of the NCO's quarters, on the payphone with Cynthia. Knowing that if any of the other off-duty NCOs happened to overhear us they would want to jump on the bandwagon, we tried to keep our conversation low. This was our undoing, because it attracted the attention of my pre-Bob best mate, Padda, who was the last guy we wanted along, as not only was he quite a capable ladies man himself, but he harboured some resentment against Bob and I, as prior to my meeting Bob he and I were basically inseparable. He would certainly give it his best go to try and ruin anything that we had hoped to achieve with Cynthia and Beatrice.

Sauntering past, making it look as casual as possible, Padda gave us a wink and asked where we were going to braai that afternoon.
“What, us? Braai? No, we’re not braaing anywhere!”
“That’s funny guys, ‘cause I just heard you arranging to braai at the Colenso River, so how’s about it? You’ll just have to give me a lift to the Butcher so’s I can buy some meat and then we’re off, eh!”

Nothing for it but to take Padda along, damn. Well that put paid to any romantic notions we might have been cultivating. Once we had been to the Butcher and the Bottle Store, we headed out to the suburb where Cynthia's parents lived. Because she didn’t want her neighbours to see her getting picked up by us instead of her steady Permanent Force boyfriend (whom she had temporarily cut contact with on meeting the two of us) her and Beatrice were waiting for us there instead of at her flat or Beatrice's parents' place. Beatrice still lived at home. We could see their faces fall as they saw Padda, but we made out as if it was all part of our plan, as we couldn’t let them see that we had allowed ourselves to be bullied into bringing him along. The army was like that, especially amongst an elite group such as us that had endured the horrors and rigours of Infantry School together. You just didn’t get outright nasty with one another. It was okay if it was done by omission, such as neglecting to tell Padda that we were off on a fun outing, but it was something else to tell him outright that he wasn’t wanted.

Cynthia was such a lady that it was naturally accepted that she would get the front seat next to Bob, who drove. Of course this left Padda and I with Beatrice squeezed in between us on the back seat. While this sent Beatrice into ecstasies of delight, it did nothing for Padda and I, whose full attention was directed toward the front, in order to see to it that Cynthia was suitably distracted by our superb witticisms and didn’t have too much time to admire Bob's manly profile as he piloted us in that car of cars, the Cream Dream. En route between Ladysmith and Colenso Padda and I must have had at least three beers each, all the while urging another ale on Bob. You see, while we drank for Dutch courage, we were also aware that it wouldn’t do to have Bob appearing all sober and gentlemanly while we degenerated into drunken slobs in the back seat. Fortunately Bob played along and matched us beer for beer.

Soon we found the river and the lovely picnic spot on the banks that Cynthia had in mind when she invited us there. There was a large old tree growing right on the banks of the muddy river, its branches reaching way out over the water. Under the tree was a grassy patch where we could set up our equipment, which basically consisted of cool boxes and braai grids. The big attraction, however, was the very professional foefie slide (known as a Zip-Slide elsewhere in the world) that was mounted in the tree and trailed out over the river, connecting at the far side to some fixed point on the bank.

Someone had attached a proper steel cable, about 10mm diameter, to the tree trunk and across the river. Suspended from the cable was a welded stainless steel inverted T-piece that one could hang from by the hands. At the base of the upside down T was attached a grooved pulley wheel with a proper roller ball bearing on an axle. I had never seen such a professional foefie slide, and naturally we three guys were as eager as hell to try it out. Of course Cynthia had known the reaction that we would have to the slide, and as she seemed to take a perverse pleasure in pitting males against each other to win her attentions, she was more than keen to encourage us to display our manly capabilities. Fighting the other two off, I was the first up the tree. Gripping the shiny stainless steel crosspiece, I launched myself and attempted a somersault as I let go mid-river. Half-stunning myself as I landed flat on my back in the water, I quickly recovered and cast my eyes shoreward to see what reaction I had engendered amongst the watching ladies. After my inglorious and pathetic crash-landing, they had no eyes for me and were intent on Bob and Padda, so I grabbed at the trailing rope (it hung from the T-piece so that you could drag it back to the shore) and headed hurriedly for shore to reclaim my share of the attention. As Padda managed to grab the rope out of my hands, so Bob was up the tree. Padda was left holding the rope for him. Outfoxed by the wily gentleman!

Swinging out over the river, Bob's jump wasn’t much better than my dismal attempt. It wasn’t helped by the disparaging shouts from Padda, who had quickly sussed out that Cynthia was the type to go for whoever was the most impressive and hadn’t actually chosen any one of us yet. Padda didn’t do much better either, and I think we were all left with the impression that we needed more speed on take-off, in order to achieve a more impressive leap into the river, not to mention that he who went furthest would be deemed more manly. With the order of sliding established it was my turn, and I determined that this time I would kick off from the tree with as much might as possible in order to gain the desired velocity. As I gripped the smooth stainless steel handle with my wet hands I gave an almighty push with my feet against the tree trunk. My legs shot out in front of me and the momentum created such a force that I had a moment of desperate panic as I felt my grip slipping on the crossbar. Only the unthinkable fear of making a fool of myself in front of the ladies gave me the necessary strength to retain my grip on the handle, but it was a very close thing indeed. Making a rather weak twist and somersault into the rushing waters, I surfaced thinking how lucky I had been and wondering if the females were suitably impressed.

Once I reached the bank again, rope trailing, I handed over to Padda. Bob had already scrambled up the tree and was waiting for Padda to pull the handle bar within his reach. I knew that he would be thinking exactly the same thing as I had been, and I shouted for him to beware of pushing off with his feet when his hands were wet, but I was too late. He had grasped the handles and pushed off with both feet, full force. To make matters worse, Padda had retained his grip on the trailing rope and was running below Bob, who was suspended a good 8 feet off the ground, pulling with all his might in order to give Bob a boost. As Cynthia, Beatrice and I watched in horror, Bob took off at high velocity, his outstretched arms just maintaining their grip against the force of Padda’s strong pull below. As the force of his kick-off took effect his feet and legs overtook his body, and, as I had feared, the momentum was just too much. His wet hands couldn’t maintain their grip, and the handle was ripped from his grasp by the forces in play. With the forward swing of his legs his torso was forced downwards, hands dangling groundward. The momentum kept him turning, and the everlasting picture burnt into my brain is of Bob descending, arms and legs outstretched like an evil spider dropping onto its unsuspecting prey, as Padda, eyes rolling in terror as he looked over his shoulder at the descending Bob, continued his run with an extra burst of speed to try and avoid the impending impact. Bob kept on turning, and eventually landed on Padda with his back, his head facing down and to the rear, firmly wedged up Padda's crack, while his backside rammed Padda powerfully on the back of his fleeing head.

With a might thump the two collided and Padda went down under the dead weight, arms and legs splayed, literally biting the dust as eyes, nose and mouth were buried in the dirt with the splayed out Bob on his back. Now bear in mind that liberal quantities of alcohol had been consumed, and we were all loose-limbed and brave. What with Padda having taken the brunt of his impact, Bob was immediately up on his feet, albeit somewhat groggy, and ready to regain his stature in the eyes of the ladies. As for me and the girls, we were dumbfounded. What we had just witnessed was normally enough to kill someone, and while both were knocked breathless, and seemed a little dazed, here Bob was insisting that it was only a minor mishap. I realised that, true man that he was, Bob was, in his befuddled state, only following that unspoken manly rule that you don’t let on to women who you are trying to impress that you are mortally injured. Knowing that we were all as drunk as lords, and that Bob was seriously concussed, to say the least, I felt it my duty to dissuade him from another attempt. But he was adamant. “My Uncle Jumbo always told me, Bob, that if you fall off a horse you get straight back on!” he mumbled groggily. Something in his eyes warned me that it wouldn’t do to interfere at this stage, and I let him have his way. Padda was having nothing to do with this round, and stayed far away, nursing his bruises.

Up the tree Bob went again, loudly proclaiming to all and sundry that it was merely a minor setback, but no worries, this time he had everything under control. Noting the glazed look in his eyes I was not so sure, but recognising a fellow male recovering his pride I looked on as he made a repeat performance. Grasping the handles with his still wet hands he gave another almighty push with his legs and this time it was almost instantaneous as his legs shot out in front of him and his fingers relinquished their grasp on the crossbar. Performing a graceful but somewhat loose half somersault, he landed in a puff of dust, splayed out as if caught in a star jump during Army PT.

Dead silence. As we all looked on I was certain that he was dead. One could hear the birds chirruping and the bees buzzing. A couple of kids shouted on the far bank of the river. Bob didn’t move. As we all glanced at each other, wondering if he was alive, I gathered my wits about me and approached the “body”.
“Hey Bob,” I whispered, “Are you alright?”
A low moan emitted from the splayed out form on the ground. Relief! He lived, if only for now. “Bob, speak to me!” I said.
Another long, drawn out moan. Coming close enough to prod him, I gave him a nudge in the ribs. “Are you okay, pal?” I asked.
Loud grunts at the prod in the ribs, and another prolonged groan.
Realising that he was going to live, my usually sadistic side took control again, and I stepped back to view the effect he was making on the rest. Recognising of course that there was the ever-present need to impress the ladies going through his battered thoughts and that he would be extremely worried about the loss of face in front of Cynthia, I began to find the situation extremely amusing. Every time he hauled himself up on all fours he would collapse again in a cloud of dust with a groan. It was all we could elicit, a groan. He was so badly winded that he couldn’t talk, but in his desire to make out to the ladies that it was no big deal he kept on trying to talk, and the more he tried the more he groaned.

It was, of course, the end of the festivities. Cynthia, displaying that other, more mature side of her nature (she was older than all of us, I think) took over completely. Although Padda and I would happily have left Bob to recover on his own (we had after all been through far worse punishment in Infantry School) and thus had the field to ourselves with the handsome, debonair lieutenant out of action, we were quickly put to work by Cynthia who gathered up the car keys from the stunned Bob's possessions and set Padda and myself to packing up our things and getting everything into the car.

Before I knew what I was doing I found myself in the backseat of the Cream Dream with a subdued Padda and Beatrice. While Cynthia drove and Bob sat in the passenger seat protesting that he was more than capable of driving his own car, I sat brooding that I hadn’t taken the initiative myself. After all, he was my mate, and no woman should have been driving the Cream Dream!

Looking back, I realise that it was disgruntlement at the kid glove treatment that Bob was receiving at the hands of Cynthia due to his fall that was causing my irritation. You see, we were all at the absolute peak of fitness, Padda, Bob and I. As I watched Bob I could see his recovery in his eyes, but he, wily bastard that he was, was busy realising that as long as he hammed things up he was going to continue receiving preferential treatment from the luscious Cynthia.

Unfortunately for him Cynthia was wiser than we knew. Once again with hindsight I think that we underestimated her. She was a pretty, single girl saddled with a child from a liaison with her Permanent Force Corporal, and she stood no chance with the locals, who had branded her, but she was able to make a big impression on us “newies” passing through on our military service. While she had intimated to us at the time that she was through with her Corporal, I think he was under the impression that she was wanting a little ‘breathing space’ and not aware that she was dallying with a couple of national servicemen. She must have realised that if Bob was seriously injured then it wouldn’t take long for her name to come out as having been present. This would have put paid to any form of respectability that she may have hoped to retain after we had passed through her life. In fact everything we ever did with her was, without our realising it, kept in secrecy. But that’s another story. At this time it was her priority to dump us safely back at the base where we were dissociated from her. As we arrived at her parent’s house she and Beatrice hurriedly grabbed their belongings from the boot. Once they had entered the house I sauntered around to the drivers door, only to find that Bob, miraculously recovered, had assumed the driver’s seat and was snarling at me to “get in, we’re going!”

“Are you sure, Bob?” I asked, in the hope that I may still recover the chance to pilot the Cream Dream.
“Yeah yeah, only a little bump on the head,” he said.
Ensconced in the back seat Padda just shook his head.
As it turned out, when we got back to the base Bob checked into the sick bay and was treated for concussion. After he was settled in his sickbed it occurred to him that we had arranged a night out on the town that evening, and he wasted no time in signing himself out again. As you can imagine, it was a cheap round for him that evening, what with the medication and concussion. We had survived another rigorous day in the South African Defence Force.

Networks

I'm still here. To those good people who still return even though there is so seldom something new here, I haven't forgotten you. Promise. Life is just so full of things to do that, despite my desire to the contrary, I cannot sit still long enough to jot down all the things here that I would like to. Here are the latest figures on who's doing the most reading:

Switzerland: Well over 400

USA: Just over 100

Denmark: 26

South Africa: 18

Indonesia: 11

The rest (all at ten or less readers) are led by the UK at 10.

I see that the English Forum in Switzerland is responsible for the high readership here in Cheese-Land. Thank you, chaps. I read your forum often too. It's fun, interesting, helpful and entertaining.

To the Ami's (Swiss and German for Americans, pronounced "Ummies"), good for you. It's hard to keep a good nation down. Thanks for helping all us colonials whack the Krauts back then.

To the Danes, how many of you are expats? Viva the Vikings!

To the South Africans, shame on you!

To the Indonesians...uh...you just have to be expats???

Had a good Friday night a short while ago. My ex-apprentice phoned up and insisted that I join him for a "session" in the magazine. Sounds funny huh? I can't help but use the direct translation for the German word "Magazin" (pronounced mug-a-tsin), which is the term for the workshop/stores of a company.

In the bad old days, when I was a bricklayer and later foreman in the firm where he still works, we would have an informal, once-a-month bash after work on a Friday. This was something that I imported from South Africa. It's a great team-building exercise, and fun to boot. Nearly every job I've ever been in in SA was distinguished by an impromptu get-together after work from time to time, and I was horrified to find that the concept seemed unknown over here. The first time I suggested such a thing, typical questions and worries were "who's going to pay for everything?", "how much will I have to pay?", "what happens to the left-overs?", "what's your motive?", "what do you want in return?", etc.

Suffice it to say that after many years my colleagues came to understand my point, and there were many Friday evenings on the company premises where the fire burned merrily while beers were consumed happily and the smell of roasting meat and the sounds of cheerful camaraderie filled the air. When I left that company two years ago, the will to continue the parties seemed to fade. My ex-apprentice has now taken it upon himself to revive the tradition.

This time around was such a hoot. It's great to catch up on old stories and keep contact with people. Life has become so international these days, eh?! At our impromptu little party were: two Poles, a German, three Swiss, an Albanian, a South African (yours truly), a Macedonian, a Portugues and an Italian.

What's interesting here is that out of this group almost all have been able to help one or more of the others in a significant way that is not related to work. Here one must bear in mind that not everyone still works for the same company. This made me think of the network that I have been trying to build among these and other guys over the last few years. They have certainly grasped the concept, and it's gratifying to see how it all comes together for us when we need help. I hope to enlarge on this topic in a later post, because there is a rather funny tale about how we all helped one of the guys to move house, but as you readers know, there's no telling when that will be...

On a different note, with the run-up to Christmas and year-end I have been swamped with end-of-year inventory checks, wrapping up of last-minute, minor construction sites that of course all must be finished "by Christmas" (even though the quotes only went out in December), and of course that dreaded task of billing. Naturally the brass want all sites (especially if they're big, lucrative ones) financially wrapped up and the billing up to date by the end of the year, but this year every single site had to completely current as far as the financials go. This is because here in the land of fondue and chocolate we have a new VAT percentage as of the 1st of January, so there must be no bills for work done this year sent out next year or the customer will start kicking and screaming about the fact that he has to pay more tax to the government.

I knew this was going to be a big job, but the carrot at the end of the stick is of course the break between Christmas and New Year. I have been editing my book and had planned to use this week of rest to finish that and start sending out query letters to prospective agents. Also planned was a launching online so prospective customers could order the book via Amazon, Noble & Barnes,etc. or download the e-version on their Kindles. Something else planned was an aggressive "attack" on the blog, with more Police and Army tales (I see that they are by far the most popular of the stories). Altogether, a veritable feast of writing was in the cards. Was...

Alas, after two years of being flu-free I have been floored by the flu, and boy, do I mean floored! Hit me the day before Christmas and only now am I returning from my zombie-like state. In the few lucid moments I've enjoyed over the last few days, I have joined Facebook. I've always put this off with the reasoning that I don't have enough time yet, and I was right. From the minute I registered yesterday, every waking moment has been used to catch up on where all the good ole boys (and girls) are and what they've been up to. Not too hard when you're stuck in bed anyway and propping the laptop on your lap between dozing is so easy. However, now that I have made the graduation from bed to desk, I shall be attacking the stories again. Hope to have something good up for you all this week.

For now, even though I missed Christmas, I would like to wish you all a merry Christmas and a happy, healthy and prosperous New Year.

Regards,
...

Grumpy Old Men

This morning I finished a book that was brought to me all the way from my beloved Underberg in South Africa. The book in question was written by a notoriously grumpy old man who has lived in the district of Underberg for many, many years, and who just happens to be one of those world-class raconteurs that we very rarely get to cross paths with in our lives. When I closed the book, I took the time to lean back and reflect on the years I had known him, and how we had met. After that, I decided to write about it here. Before this, however, I went on the Internet and googled him. Knowing him as I do, I very much doubted that he would be active on the web, but knowing how randomly one’s personal details can find their way into cyberspace these days, I gave it a try anyway. Sure enough, there he was. Under an article on what to do at “Splashy Fen” (Underberg’s reply to Woodstock) were a number of entries concerning local attractions. One of these was the Himeville museum. Himeville is five kilometers from Underberg, and despite the ancient feuds that raged between these two isolated outposts over the last hundred or more years, they are both a part of the so-called “Underberg district”, and their inhabitants and the inhabitants of the farms that surround both towns are all happy to call themselves locals within the context of the greater area. My friend is now curator of the local museum in Himeville, though he would fit in as one of the exhibits too. I know he’ll have a good laugh at that one should he ever read this.Unfortunately, like so many of his kind, computers and the Internet are foreign concepts to him, so I shall have to send him a printed version of this entry.

Anyway, unbeknown to him his home number was also listed on this site, so I gave him a call. We spent a delightful 45 minutes on the phone. The sound of his voice, the cultured colonial English rolling off his tongue in his well-modulated baritone, brought back a flood of memories. It was as if the last 12 years had never occurred. We discussed the weather, politics (both local and international), local affairs and past characters and events, and bemoaned the decline in standards in South Africa and the world in general. We could have been standing in the queue at the local farmers co-operative for all the change in our conversation. I have thought of him often over the years, but to hear his voice again was quite electrifying. To those of you who have read the rest of the blog, he is the gentleman with whom I would share my finds out in the wilderness as related in the entry entitled “Forgotten Places”. To read this one, go to the column on the right of the page you’re looking at now and look under “Popular Posts”. It should still be one of the four there. It used to be the most popular, which has prompted me to share more of my Underberg tales with you.
Well, I’d like to tell how I met my friend, and as I have his permission to share his name with you all, I shall, for the first time ever, use a real name.

Time: Sometime in September 1994.
Place: Underberg, Kwazulu-Natal, South Africa.

I hadn’t been long in town as the new “Chief of Underberg Protection Services” when I had the pleasure (some would say misfortune) of meeting Mr. Michael Clark. By now I had left the provincial traffic police for a new position in Underberg, for those of you who have only read the “Screaming Patrolmen” and “Shooting the Spider” tales, and was rather un-firmly ensconced in Underberg. It was a responsible position that required a responsible attitude which I will elaborate on another time. Suffice it to say that under the circumstances in which I first saw the terrifying Mr. Clark in action, I was forced to remain hidden behind a door.

I had an office in the old building that housed the original Underberg Health Committee. Health Committee was the name given to the town council of a town so tiny, insignificant and poor that its municipal seat of office didn’t even warrant the title of Town Board, which was what they got if the town was marginally more noticeable. This was followed by the title of Municipality, and if a town had this status then they were well on the way to getting included on a map sometime in the future.

Back to the point. Housed within this little building were the town clerk, the local sheriff (yours truly), a front office clerk-cum-secretary who handled day-to-day town business (permits, accounts, etc.) and a back office lady who dealt with all matters to do with transportation, such as the issuing of licenses, renewal of registration plates, etc. At the time there was no town clerk, so we were all without a boss. I was the only man about. The front office was operated by a geriatric of doubtful vintage (she lived down the road with her boyfriend of similar age to herself) and the back office by a young girl of my own age who was as quiet as a mouse and had a heart of gold. The old bat reigned supreme in that establishment. I was only 21 and the young lady in the back office (who later became, and still is, my sister-in-law) was a year younger. The old girl was probably only about 67 or so, but she looked and acted about 80. At least to our young eyes. She was an extremely domineering and shrill old woman, and she would go out of her way to make life unpleasant for the two of us. She knew how to operate though. Moments after she had nearly caused me to draw my pistol and fill her with lead, she would be bringing in a tray of tea and biscuits, all beautifully laid out on a silver tray with cups and saucers and the whole works, with some comment such as “here you are my dear, have some tea!” Whilst munching on a biscuit and sipping delicious hot strong tea, I would think back over the last hour and suppose to myself that maybe I had just misinterpreted her intentions and misread her words. Perhaps she wasn’t so bad after all. These musings would then be shattered by the crash of my office door flying open and her shrieking incomprehensibly at me while she waved some form in my face. “Did you tell Mrs. So-and-so that I’m the one who deals with this application? Well! Speak up, boy, I don’t have all day, you know. I’m a busy woman and I won’t have the general public all flocking up here to waste my time!”

I would be hastily trying to choke down the remains of my half-chewed biscuit and get to my feet, my face red hot with rage and humiliation, ready to inform her that that was precisely what her job was about and that the only reason she was actually still employed at her advanced state of decay was to deal with the very “general public” that she so despised, but before I could even open my mouth she would have slammed my door and been back at the little glass window giving the poor unfortunate on the other side a further dressing down. I hated this treatment of the town citizens, and it was one of the reasons that I eventually came to realize that, despite her moments of kindness and the fact that she didn’t even realize how she was perceived, I actually truly disliked her.

One day I was sitting in my office with the inter-leading door to the front office open. It was shortly before lunch time, so I was winding up my paperwork and preparing to nip off home for a bite to eat. My aged protagonist was ensconced in her knitting in front of her typewriter, just out of my line of sight. All I could see through the doorway was her reflection in the glass panel that separated her from her tormentors when they summoned up the courage to visit the seat of the town authority. Through the hole in the glass I heard the sound of the front door opening and closing, followed immediately by the sharp and hurried sound of typing. How she got her knitting safely stowed and her fingers flying over the keys in such a short space of time befuddles my brain to this day. I had by now stood up and was putting on my jacket, preparing to leave. As I passed the inter-leading door, I got a glimpse of her, just as a deep baritone voice made itself heard over the clacking of the electric typewriter.
“Good morning.” An instant of silence and then the clacking resumed. After another ten seconds or so had passed there came another “Good morning”, followed by the same pause in typing and then more clack-clacking. I now had the door to my office open and was in a unique position whereby I could look through the door between my office and hers as well as out the glass panel in the door that separated our side of the building from that of the public. Standing there in the area before her counter was an elderly gentleman with a weathered look about him, his eyebrows rather tussled and bushy, and his large, elf-like ears sprouting the odd clump of hair similar in appearance to the ones protruding from his nostrils. He wore an old blue jersey and some corduroys of indeterminate age. The holes in his sleeves reminded me very much of the ones in my father’s sleeves. Not ones there through poverty, but simply there because the owner saw no good reason to rid himself of his favourite garment simply because it had begun to show a few minor signs of wear. In fact, the gentleman in question reminded me unmistakably of my own father in all respects. A similarity that was to be borne out in the next few minutes.

All of a sudden, there was a loud bang as the man crashed the base of his clenched fist down on the wooden counter and bellowed “I said GOOD MORNING!”. The clackety-clack of the typewriter ceased instantaneously, and I quickly shifted position so that I could look back into the old she-wolf’s lair. She turned to her would-be customer with a look of absolute disbelief on her face, her mouth hanging open in surprise. I was frozen in delight. This was bound to be interesting, most interesting indeed! I shifted again to get a view of the old chap. He had a grim set to his features and was eyeing her like an eagle on high studying the movements of its prey far below. She leapt to her feet and fired her opening salvo.
“Can’t you see I’m busy!!” she screeched.
“No, you’re bloody well not!” he replied, leaning her way and fixing her with a beady look from under his beetled brows.
“I certainly am,” she yelled, “and I won’t have just every Tom, Dick and Harry waltzing in here and interrupting my work!”
The gentleman gave her a look that would have melted rock and with a slight increase in his already impressive volume replied. “You’re bloody well sitting here knitting on public time, time that I pay for, you old bag, and time that therefore belongs to the public, so get up off your lazy backside and give me the service I expect!”
By the end of this sentence, his voice had taken on the power and volume of a Berg thunder storm, matched only by his thunderous visage. The old girl was apoplectic. There was a moment of silence, during which I wondered if she was in the throes of a coronary seizure brought on by her rage at this unheard-of attack on her supremacy.
“What?! WHAT did you say?” I heard her squeak in a choked voice. “What did you say to me, you…you horrible, uncouth man!!?”. By now she was panting in her rage and quite unable to find her voice, so indignant was she. I had shifted closer to the door in order to get a better view of the stranger through the little glass pane, and was now crying tears of pure mirth at the scene being enacted in front of my eyes. This grizzled old gent was like an incarnation of my dreams, a rugged apparition from the past. The formidable ***** was simply no match for a man of his ilk, and he knew it. He loomed over the counter, his nose inches from the glass, and said, “I suggest you stop wheezing and get on with it before I REALLY lose my patience!”

This last shot seemed to defeat the tyrant, for she snatched up the form from where he had thrown it under the glass and flopped into her chair with an indignant little “Oh!” and began processing whatever it was that he had come for. I wiped the tears from my cheeks and straightened up, the laughter-induced cramps in my belly not yet gone. A last fit of giggles convulsed me before I was able to compose myself into the serious chief of the traffic police that I was supposed to be and step into the room in which he stood. As I closed the door behind me and turned to leave, I found myself face-to-face with him. He gave me the once-over and harrumphed in disdain before turning his attention back to the office in which his now cowed adversary was silently attending to his needs. With a last smile of delight at his broad back, I exited through the front door. Once outside I broke out in howls of unrestrained laughter again. I was so incapacitated by mirth that I must have lingered longer than I intended to, for suddenly I heard the door slam behind me and there he was.

“And what the bloody hell are you laughing at?” he demanded to know. This was too much, and I doubled over in mirth once again, all thoughts of professionalism cast aside in the joy at seeing a real old character of the past do his thing. The wonderful accent, with its overtones of British Imperialism, the tatty old clothing that told the world to go jump, the expectation of a member of the public from his public servants and the classic manner in which he had dealt with a typical, rude bureaucrat had endeared this man to me without his even knowing who I was. Like all Underbergers, he had of course heard about the new young upstart in town who was to fulfill the hated and despised role of “traffic cop”. For the locals, it didn’t matter what grandiose visions I may have had, or that the times and laws had changed, giving the local law enforcement far more powers of criminal investigation if they so chose. I would remain a traffic cop, a being put on earth to plague and harass regular souls as they went about their business, relieving them of their hard-earned cash and generally performing a function that they deemed completely unnecessary in their day-to-day lives.
I straightened up and attempted a serious look. This was not the time to make an attempt at conversation. That could come later. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I replied, “it’s just something personal. Have a good day, sir!” With that, I scampered off to my vehicle and left. I could see the old gent in my rearview-mirror, standing there gazing after me with a puzzled expression on his face.

There is more to tell about the famous Mike Clark, but I will relate it in another entry. For now, I wish to let those of you who would care to read more about Underberg and the rich tales it has to tell know where to get hold of copies of some of the excellent books written by this wonderful man.

These are the titles:

The Saga of Sani Pass and Mokhotlong (also available on www.abebooks.co.uk )

Ihlanyati

The Lighter Side of the Berg and other Stories

The author’s name is Michael Clark, and books can be ordered via the following address:

Mr. M. Clark
PO Box 122
Himeville
3256
South Africa

Alternatively, post a comment on this blog and I will telephone Mike with your order after making contact with you. His writing gives one an insight into how life in one of the true last outposts in the wild country of the Drakensberg really was. I was privileged enough to have experienced the waning remnants of this lifestyle, and it was a pleasure to read his stories. Those of you who have enjoyed my tales will undoubtedly relish the stories Mike has to tell.

In closing, I must mention that in spite of my decision to make the next entry one of the tales of my military adventures, I am going to continue with the story of how I met Mike properly for the first time, and how he became my friend. It’s been great thinking of you, Mike, and I thoroughly enjoyed your book. I know you never thought of me in the same light that I thought of you, and I understand. Just know that your humour, your knowledge and your great insight (not to mention your pessimism, your complaints and your incessant grumbling) have never left my memory. I considered you one of my best friends in Underberg. Keep the home fires burning, and don’t stop writing…