“Did you see the Daily Prompt from those WordPress guys?” Gertruida has managed to connect to the Internet via her new cellphone, and now spends long hours visiting her two favourite sites. “They want to know about six impossible things.”
“Well, for one: you can’t tickle yourself.” Vetfaan sips his beer thoughtfully. “And elephants can’t jump.”
“And you simply cannot lick your elbow,” Precilla adds. “I tried it in front of the mirror.”
“Yeah, and how about finding words that rhyme with orange…or purple?”
“Eternal love and happiness are also impossible for humans. Somebody dies, or goes away, leaving the other one grieving.” Siena has been on Servaas’ mind lately. “Even the most precious things get lost, or broken. “
“Well, then the ultimate impossibility must be hidden in the words ‘human rights’. In our country it means that a convicted prisoner – say a serial rapist or killer – has a vote worth just as much as mine, or the President’s. How is it possible to justify that? It’s impossible. We’ve become so involved with human rights, that we’ve pulled the whole picture out of shape. We preach equal rights for all, but how do you justify people being refused promotion, just because of the amount of pigment in their skins?” Gertruida sighs. “Maybe Servaas is right. We were so happy in 1994. We were ecstatic. It couldn’t last…”
(A small break from Rolbos, in response to Daliy Prompt. It’s an old story, but Vetfaan’s Surprise took a lot of writing, so I’m enjoying a break)
Tiny Jacobs is a small man in many respects. Although he comes from a small family – both in numbers as well in size – it is true to say that his body and his life are good examples of mediocrity. He came from a below average family living in the poorer section of the city. He scraped through school, was the last to sport bodily hair amongst his peers and has – up till now – never caught a rugby ball thrown at him. The opportunity to do so only presented itself but once: while he stood next to the field looking at Mandy Mitchell’s legs, the winger was tackled with such force that the ball flew from his desperate grasp that it almost took one of Tiny’s small eyes out. Being otherwise occupied, one can understand that he never saw it coming, anyway.
Mr Verster, the head of his school, often wondered about Tiny’s future. Small enough for a jockey, but after the ball incident, Tiny had to twist his head this way and that to see properly. There was no way he could steer a horse– nor most other moving things, alive or dead, come to think of it.
Tiny left school with the firm advice not pursue an academic career; it was a no-starter, Mr Verster said. One-eyed, small and somewhat disgruntled, Tiny trundled through town, looking for a job. At last, because he was physically impaired and possessed a stunted sense of ambition (Mandy flatly rejected his cautious and clumsy advances), he was appointed as Assistant-helper in the City’s Administration Office (Archive Division) . His job for the next 45 years involved working in the dusty basement where the records are kept. In essence, he was merely an office cleaner.
Of course his job suited him quite nicely, thank you. Because of his size, he managed to get into the nooks and crannies between and behind the shelves laden with boxes filled with documents nobody ever needed. This didn’t bother him: he still cleaned the place as if it were an operating theatre. The mayor remarked on this during his goodbye-party before his retirement – prompting the diminutive man to ask for a copy of the one-page speech (Times New Roman, 16 size), which he hung on his wall next to the photograph of Mandy.
They say some men fall in love once. Their minds, like the swallows in the summer or the salmon in Alaska, know only one route to happiness and joy. Call it noble instinct (or insatiable lust) if you like, but that was the way Tiny felt about Mandy. He could recall with remarkable clarity the way the wind ruffled the edge of her very short skirt that morning before the winger took the tackle. She had beautiful legs: shapely and long and oh, so alluring. He can remember how the fine white hairs stood erect that morning and how he drew in his breath once he realised what a powerful physical effect she was having on him.
But that was long ago.
He knows that Mandy got married to an investment banker (with perfect vision of what the future should hold, of course) and that they had two tall and strapping boys that played on the wings for the National Team. It would have been difficult to miss those photographs in the sports pages of the dailies: they were handsome, they were fast and they never missed catching a ball. Surest hands in the game, the journalists said. Tiny could only sigh when he read those articles: he still wondered about the fine blond hairs on those shapely legs.
Over the years Tiny accepted that Mandy made the right choice. Those two boys would most probably have been runty and sort-of underdeveloped if she chose to spend a lifetime with him. His jealousy towards the investment banker changed from total hate to a very mild form of admiration. Ce la vie...
After six months of retirement, Tiny decided that his dingy flat needed redecorating. After four-and-a-half decades of work, his pension was substantial and he had been living frugally all his life. He could afford to spoil himself with a little luxury. The plastic plants had discoloured and the carpet was basically a network of twine and fluff. With his chequebook in hand, he strode into Weatherly’s. He needed a new carpet, some pictures to go with Mandy’s on the wall – and a new couch.
The shop was a surprise and a shock. He never imagined prices like he saw there, but on the other hand; the range of merchandise was astounding. Then, suddenly, he wished the floor would open and the earth would swallow him on the spot. There, older but unmistakably familiar, was Mandy behind the desk in the carpet section. Breathless and in almost-blind terror (easier with one good eye), he turned on his heel to abandon his dream of more comfort in his flat.
Fate can be very fickle. Sometimes the winds of fortune blow ill – but on that day a favourable breeze caused Mandy to look up, gasp in surprise and shout his name loud enough for the manager to look up in alarm.
“Tiny? My word, it’s you!”
What could he do? He turned back, sheepishly, hanging his head and remembering those tiny hairs that now was hidden beneath the fabric of her tight-fitting jeans. He mumbled a muffled ‘hello’.
“I never thought I’d see you here, Tiny?” She could have said that she didn’t think he could afford anything there, but didn’t. His trolley was already laden with some pictures of geese and mountains, which must have convinced her that he was now, despite everything, a man of considerable means.
“Nor did I expect to see you here, Mandy, not here and not ever, I suppose.”
The fortune-winds picked up strength. She was due for a coffee break…would he….?
Five minutes later we find them sharing coffee at the little shop around the corner. He’d return later to pick a carpet, he said.
“I’m glad to see one of the old friends,” she started. He closed his good eye, relishing the fact that she viewed him as a friend. “I’ve been very lonely, you know? Ever since my husband had that heart attack, my life has changed completely.” Tiny didn’t know about it and said so. “Yes, exactly four months ago. Good riddance, I say. He had the looks and the money, but he never saw me as a woman. I was an object, a centre-fold to exhibit and brag about. I was the bearer of children and the charmer he needed to impress friends and superiors; but never the loved wife of a successful businessman. Now he was rewarded for a lifetime of ladder-climbing with a fatal infarct and a nice head stone; while I had to find out the debts were more than the assets.”
She took out a well-used tissue to dab away the imaginary tear, watching him for reaction. He made sympathetic sounds, sipped his coffee and remembered all those years in the dusty basement. Their lives had been remarkably similar. Being too beautiful or too weird had the same disadvantages.
He said so. She listened. Made more understanding noises. Sipped her coffee. Weighed the facts.
“Maybe I must come and have a look at your flat before you buy a carpet, Tiny? I’d be able to tell you exactly what you need.”
And with that, the winds that blew them together became a gale. He didn’t mind that her tears were fake. He didn’t care that she saw him as the last shelter in the storm of life that treated her so unkindly. It didn’t even matter if she was playing him like an ancient violin.
All that mattered was Mandy.
And she saw. She conquered. And then she came, but only later. At first she was uncomfortable in the small flat with its sparse furniture. The kitchenette allowed only one person in at a time; its cupboards contained a mug, a tin plate and some KFC plastic utensils for eating. He had a one-cup kettle and a two-egg saucepan. Predictably, his fridge was empty.
“You don’t go for the flamboyant life, do you?” It was more of a sarcastic statement than careful curiosity. He didn’t notice. His attention was focussed on the spot just below the ‘Levi’ tag. Whatever else has happened to Mandy, she certainly retained the shape that almost ruined his sight. Now, with her inspecting the empty shelf below the sink, he gave in to his boyhood fantasy to run his hand softly, tenderly over the curve of her rump.
He stood back, anticipating a rebuke.
But Mandy, the erstwhile queen-of-the-roost, suddenly realised how lonely, loneliness can be. Here was a bachelor – virgin soil – waiting to be cultivated. She also reflected briefly on her own life and realised it had been no better than his. Life had used her, chewed her, spat her out. In fact, she had been as lonely as he.
Later (much later), they lay on his single bed, intertwined like only first-time lovers can be. He was breathless; she could only gasp for air.
“But, Tiny, this is sooo BIG! I never realised…” She pointed in passionate admiration, satisfied grin in place.
And for the first time in his life, Tiny smiled with pride.
It took years of misunderstanding, denial, social abuse, manipulation and shallow living for her to realise how special the body of little Tiny was – and to think she could have missed this opportunity…
“Yes,” he said shyly, slyly. “It is, isn’t it?”
She was talking anatomy. He was looking at the future.
In the end, it didn’t matter. It really was the same thing.
“Why is it that men destroy the very object of their desire?” Precilla is still hugely upset about the recent events. “It’s as if beauty drives them to destruction.”
“Oh, come on!” Vetfaan sits back and eyes her critically. “Women are just as bad. Remember Daisy de Melker? She took out two husbands and her son. And Nannie Doss killed eleven people, which included husbands, her mother, a nephew , children and a grandchild.”
“Those were serial killers, Vetfaan. I’m talking about apparently normal men – if there are any of them. Your usual John Doe, the happy teller in the bank. The guy driving the removal van. Even the CEO of an international company. Guys who earned the respect of society but then goes and steals the petty cash in the safe, or shoplifts an apple in Woolworths? If you have what you want in life, why do a Clinton with the intern? Or why build a Nkandla with corruption money when you life is filled with luxury already?”
“You need to define beauty first. Are we talking about perfect circumstances, or physical bodies and faces? Personally, I’ve never figured out why certain dimensions and proportions should be labelled as ‘beauty’. The eyes must be so. The nose just there. Lips a certain way… It doesn’t make sense.” Gertruida stares at the mirror behind the bottles. “Look: Precilla has the same number of ears and eyes as I have, yet you’ll all agree she’s much more beautiful.”
Her remark triggers a series of coughs and mutters. The men can’t agree or differ without offending one of the two women.
Vetfaan – who arguably has the least to lose, breaks the impasse. “I think men were created as sexual beings. Our job is to do our bit to ensure the survival of mankind. So, ever since the beginning of time, men are instinctively drawn to a certain type of woman. She has to exhibit certain characteristics. Men think boobs are sexy – and maybe they are – but in essence the better-proportioned lady will more likely supply sufficient nourishment for the baby. When men stare at voluptuous hips, they never think about the birthing process that requires certain dimensions to ensure a living mother and baby afterwards.” He quickly scans the group in Boggel’s Place to make sure he’s not offending anybody. “So men were wired to think certain attributes are sexy, and that’s why the old caveman dragged the woman back to his cave. He thought she’s a beauty, but in essense he instinctively chose the best genetic material to procreate.”
“So you’re saying that attractive women instinctively cause men to want to have sex?” A small spark of danger flashes in Precilla’s eyes.
“Think about it. There are two strong life forces, and they both have to do with survival. The one is the will to live – the mortally wounded soldier, trying to crawl back to safety. The other is, quite frankly, sex; the need to produce the next generation. So we are brought up to associate sex and success. Cars are advertised with a busty blonde draped over the bonnet. Sandy-rumped beach bunnies convince you to buy fruity drinks. Magazines with scantily-clad models on the cover, sell better than those featuring a rusty mine shaft. Society is at fault here: we’ve allowed the very intimate act of sex to become a social commodity. We use the female body to remind real men what real success is. Only, we don’t define real success as it should be: in the old days it was the assurance there’ll be a next generation. Nowadays, success is the curvy girl who tells you she’ll love you forever if you are man enough to buy the Porsche.” Vetfaan wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead – that was close! Precilla can be a bit of a prude when it comes to discussing sex in public.
“But that still doesn’t answer my question. Why destroy beauty? If a girl has all the right proportions – as you so succinctly put it - should a man not cherish her? Should he not protect her as the mother of the future? Why kill something so precious?”
“The same reason why men rape a girl to death in Bredasdorp or Delhi. Why a woman gets raped every four minutes in this country. Or why our President has so many wives.” Vetfaan is even more worried now – this is uncharted territory in Boggel’s Place. “It’s called inadequacy. Men are hunters. They’ll stalk an antelope, and the hunt ends in killing the object of their quest. They want to prove themselves as superior. As much as women bear the hidden promise of survival, men are burdened with the quest to conquer. Self-assured men do not need to boost their egos by proving their sexuality – they’ll be clever enough to fall in love with the biggest sexual organ a woman possesses: the mind. And then it doesn’t matter if that brain floats around behind a nice-looking face – or a hairless head with squinty eyes. But the chap who need to project success to the community, will carefully select a model, a celebrity, or a beauty queen. He wants to show the world the success of his hunt. She becomes an object – a medal to wear – to make him look good.”
Gertruida pats him on the shoulder. “Well done, Vetfaan, you got out of that one nicely. And I agree with you. These men – the inadequate ones – can only believe in themselves by surrounding them with the thing they lack most: beauty. And then, one day, they realise something terrible: the image and reality aren’t the same. They got what they wanted: the adoration and jealousy of their peers – but deep inside they know: they can’t bluff themselves any more. The paparazzi aren’t following them around because he’s such a great guy – they want the candid shot of a heated argument. And then the poor inadequate man starts doubting even more – can he hold on to this beauty? Won’t she see through him to discover his weaknesses?
“That’s when the arguments start. He gets jealous. He wants to possess her. And that sometimes means he has to kill her to achieve that.”
“You may be right, Gertruida.” Precilla nods quietly. “But what about rape?”
“Take one of these inadequate men - or a group of them. They simply know they’re not good enough to woo a girl with respect. And remember, in South Africa they hand out condoms in schools – the government is actually encouraging kids to experiment. They’re not trying to take a moral stand, they’re simply trying to cut down on the expense of treating AIDS. The President struts around, bragging with a harem and maybe 40 children. He’s the leader of the country and his message is: Look at me. I’m so successful. I have many wives. I produce numerous offspring. So, with that example and the encouragement to have sex, the youths of today want to prove their adequacy by having sex, even if they have to force it.”
“And so they destroy beauty?” Boggel’s concern is written all over his face.
“Yes. Whether you shoot somebody through a bathroom door, or rape a girl to death, the inadequate man will rather destroy beauty than admit he doesn’t have the guts to face himself. He’s prepared to throw away his future because he can’t live with the present reality.”
“So the value-system is all skewed? We’ve mixed sex and success and survival – the things people want most – into a recipe to destroy beauty?”
“Sadly, yes.” Gertruida shrugs and spreads her arms wide. “Look at government. Look at advertisements. Look at the heroes we’ve created for ourselves. Look at society and the signals of success it demands.
“And, while all men aren’t insecure; those that are, get driven to acts that are as violent as they are unacceptable. It may be something that occurs as a spur-of-the-moment madness, or be a permanent insanity. But, in the few men who succumb to these urges, the result is tragedy. One woman told me: I heard the car door slam, and immediately looked at the clock. I knew then…it was too late..’”
“We’re not all like that, Gertruida.” Vetfaan gets up to go. The discussion has really clouded his day. “The majority of men are good, strong individuals who are completely comfortable with themselves.”
“Then, Vetfaan, it is time for them to get out of their comfort zones and change the rules. They have to make themselves heard. If they don’t change anything, everything will remain the same.”
Evey day a big, hairy monster takes a bite out of you. Sometimes it is a nibble, sometimes a chunk, but nevertheless you end up with less of yourself whenever you go to bed at the end of the day. The monster is called Time – and there’s no escaping the reality of it’s hunger.
That’s why Rolbos is important. Rolbos (English: Tumbleweed) is a plant that sheds it’s upper parts (either the flower or the whole bush) which is then driven by the wind. It stops at obstacles. Fences, houses, other trees and bushes. They never end up where they started. And nobody can predict where the next one will come from, or where it’ll go.
Of course, like with all living creatures (and that even includes politicians), there is a reason why these plants end their days by rolling, rolling along over the endless plains of Life. They scatter seeds as they do so. Mother Nature ensures that the many tiny seeds get spread over the widest possible terrain, in order to give the offspring the best chance to survive, The random rolling must surely give at least one little seed a friendly environment?
Surely?
And so successful has this strategy been that these simple plants outlived the dinosaurs. They go back to the very beginning. I am sure (have no proof thought) that there, in Eden, a humble Rolbos was hoping the winds of Life will eventually scatter some of it’s seeds near you, the reader.
In Rolbos town, we find different characters that have rolled into one another’s life. Their staying in Rolbos might seem as a random happening. And here, in Boggel’s Place, they swap stories and discuss current events. Their words carry the seeds of many ideals and sometimes even hope. Like the tumbleweed seeds, they hope to find fertile ground and a happy environment.
Rolbos has now been read in more than 100 countries. It has rolled into many lives. Sometimes, I am sure, the dried twigs were cleared away with hurried hands, having maybe touched the wrong nerve. Sometimes, too, the stories made people look at their own lives with questioning eyes. Hopefully, it caused a few smiles.
As the gusts carry the fragile structure of Rolbos onwards, we are reminded of our loneliness. Like the little seeds, we are individuals; loners trudging along. We scatter word-seeds and deed-seeds, touching the lives of those around us. Mostly (and sadly so) these seeds get ignored and won’t even sprout the green leaves of happiness when the season is right. But sometimes, sometimes, we plant something good in the lives of loved ones and strangers, leaving them with a smile and a twinkle in the eye. In true rolbos fashion, these acts and words ,may seem random, but they aren’t. The dinosaurs proved that even they – huge strong beasts – cannot compete when it comes to longevity. There’s a reason for rollling along.
So that is what Rolbos is all about. Spreading the global surface with a seemingly insignificant little seed, in the hope it’ll find a suitable place to settle and grow. It’s the oldest seed in the world. It’s also the loneliest seed in the world.
(This is a reblog, but it fits in so nicely with the theme…)
“Nobody believes in ghosts any more. That’s a notion that belongs to the past. In this, the 21st century, we are realists. It is impossible for a spirit – of a dead person, that is – to appear in our dimension. There is a definite boundary between what we live in, and the realm of the metaphysical. So, sorry, I don’t believe all this nonsense.” Gertruida has that knowledgeable look – the one she uses to stop arguments.
Vetfaan isn’t buckling down. “You can believe what you want. But what about angels? Don’t you believe in guardian spirits that look after you? And what about all those stories in the Bible – are they wrong, too?”
Gertruida says something about more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, before waving a dismissive hand. “We’ll never know everything, I agree. Some things beg explanation, but we don’t know enough to explain them. Point is: I don’t know anybody who has seen a ghost lately. Not within living memory, at least. And that should tell you something, at least.
“The old farmers and trekkers were lonely, superstitious people. They imagined all kinds of stuff: there was a mermaid in Meiringspoort, a ghost in Uniondale and a variety of spirits in the old Concentration Camps. Hollywood took up this theme by filming Scrooge; that story was written many years before, when people were still gullible enough to think ghosts existed. Nowadays they resurrect this fascination with the paranormal with Harry Potter and a selection of vampires. But still, it remains a fantasy of the superstitious. They don’t exist. Full stop.”
Despite the tone of her voice, Gertruida doesn’t like talking about other dimensions. This is one area where her vast knowledge and her sense for logic fails her.
The discussion was prompted by Kleinpiet, who said his grandmother used to talk about a spirit that occasionally visited her. “It was a woman in a red dress, quite beautiful, although it was difficult to see exactly what she looked like. She timed her visits to occur before major events – like deaths and births.
“Grandma told us the woman never said anything. Over the years, she realised the way this woman tried to tell her something. She always danced – a slow dance for deaths, a polka for births. If she slid her hands down her slender body, it signified female – while strong arm movements indicated male. Grandma used those dances to predict, and she was never wrong.”
Gertruida scoffed at that, calling it luck or coincidence. Kleinpiet looked hurt.
“And there was a platoon of British soldiers that died in the Kalahari in the 1914 Rebellion. They went after General Maritz’s troops, but got lost in the desert. They all died of thirst. The old hunters used to see them marching through the desert, late at night, still looking for water.”
Gertruida tapped the side of her head, saying brandy can do terrible things to you.
Later, the cold Kalahari wind finds its way down Voortrekker Weg (the name is still spelled incorrectly on the skew pole), chasing a lazy dust devil between the buildings. Way out in the desert, a jackal howls in the darkness, while a rather large rat scampers across the road towards Sammie’s Store. The double Hoooo of an owl drifts on the wind, wakes those that have dropped off to sleep. It is the perfect night for spirits to wander around.
Servaas has other ideas. He has been tossing and turning while contemplating the debate in the bar that evening. Now, if he can scare the others – especially Gertruida – into believing in ghosts, he can have a good laugh at their expense. And as the plan takes shape in his mind, he bursts out laughing. Man, they’ll all be scared out of their wits…
As postmaster, Servaas has a more than rudimentary grasp of electronics. This is going to help him a lot tonight. He dresses in his old army uniform (with difficulty – he has to leave the fly open to get the pants on) before rigging the tape recorder to his back and hiding the speakers under the tunic. With a torch hidden under his shirt, he sets out for the upper end of Voortrekker Weg.
Minutes later, the townsfolk gather at their windows to stare in complete surprise at the apparition marching down the main road – to the blaring of There’ll be blue birds over/The white cliffs of Dover… With the torch switched on, the sight created by Servaas is more than convincing. Making sure that he remains in step with the music, he marches down the street as quickly as he can. At the end of the road he switches everything off and doubles back to his house, using the little footpath behind the buildings to conceal his return.
Undressing quickly in his dark kitchen, Servaas watches through the small window as the lights in the houses come on one after the other. Soon, Voortrekker Weg is bathed in light and people gather on Boggel’s veranda. Kleinpiet is jubilant – the story of the dead English platoon is right, after all! No longer will Gertruida make fun of spirits – they all saw the troops, didn’t they?
When Gertruida climbs up the steps to the stoep, they all fall silent.
“Well! Now that was an interesting little demonstration, wasn’t it? I almost missed the dragging of the tape towards the end as the batteries started to give in. Then, of course, the prankster made a fatal mistake.” She had their complete attention by now. “Shows you how much somebody knew about 1914.”
“Go on, Gertruida, tell us?” Vetfaan doesn’t like the thought of Rolbos being declared a ghost town.
“Wel, Burton and Kent only penned that song in 1941. How is it possible that the British soldiers from WW I march to the tune of a WW II song? And remember, even they made a mistake. There never were bluebirds in England – certainly not over the cliffs of Dover. The writers were American and got it all so completely wrong.
“That recording was made by Vera Lynn – born as Vera Margaret Welch – who was born in 1917; years after the Rebellion.
“So the question is: who in this town is a fan of Vera Lynn? And then I remembered the tape amongst Servaas’s collection: Vera Lynn Remembers – The World at War, given out, if I remember correctly, in 1974. Now, maybe, Servaas would like to explain why he woke us all up at this unholy hour.”
Of course they smile at his effort and soon everybody is back in bed with the lights switched off. Peace returns to Rolbos with the ease of the dust settling down after the wind dies down. It’ll pick up again just before dawn, as it usually does.
This is a pity, though. The early-morning wind will blow the red Kalahari sand down Voortrekker weg, obscuring the three neat rows of footprints down the street: footprints of soldiers following a song promising their return to England. Like that time in 1914, they’ll have to stay where they are. Maybe, one day when there really are bluebirds over those cliffs, it’ll be possible for them to return. In the meantime, they’ll have to keep on marching, marching, marching along through the Kalahari – where the drifting sands disguise the signs of their passing every morning.
“It’s easy,” Servaas says, “all you need to do, is to look for the blown fuse. Wrap a bit of tinfoil around it, push it back, and it’ll work again.”
They are standing around the open bonnet of the old Ford, discussing ways to get the motor running again. Vetfaan says it worked still perfectly when he parked the vehicle in front of Boggel’s Place, but now it refuses to start. They’ve checked the battery and fuel, made sure the radiator is filled, and had a few beers. Having (in their minds) done everything possible, they now have reached the end of their problem-solving abilities.
“I read somewhere it is dangerous to do that. If a circuit gets overloaded, you can burn things out.” Vetfaan isn’t sure what could burn under such circumstances, but he’s not willing to take a chance. “Anyway, the fuses seem to be okay.”
“Well, to get this pickup to a mechanic in Upington, isn’t going to be easy. I wouldn’t like to tow her over the track to the main road at Grootdrink. Maybe we can get the mechanic to come here?”
“Sure.” Sarcasm drips from the words. “That man is going to drive out here and poke around. Then he’d say he needs to get the vehicle to his workshop. All that we’d have managed, is to add a call-out fee to the final account.”
“What about taking the engine out, putting it on the back of a bakkie, and then take it to Upington? Then we won’t have to tow the whole vehicle – we’d just take the sick part to the hospital.” Precilla sounds hopeful, but blushes when she sees the looks the men give her.
“Ahem.” Gertruida gently pushes Vetfaan out of the way, waving a small, white handkerchief. With seemingly effortless movements, she removes the distributor cap, cleans the points with the dainty cloth, and replaces the cap. “You can drive now.”
Gertruida says MOM is a genetic condition in half the population – Male Obstinate Myopia. They’ll talk for hours about a problem without going to the trouble of reading the instruction book. They’ll rather get lost than to ask for directions. Even if they lose an argument, they still believe they’re right.
Women, she maintains, inherit POP – Practical Observational Perception, the skill of learning from others.
Vetfaan can’t believe it when the engine starts with the first try.
“Gee, Gertruida, how did you figure it out?”
“Easy, Vetfaan. I smelled the petrol a mile off. Obviously you had electricity and petrol. There had to be a reason why the petrol didn’t ignite in the cylinders, which points to dust on the distributor points. Anybody can figure it out.”
Being a gentleman, Vetfaan takes her back to the bar to buy her a beer.
Being a lady, Gertruida doesn’t tell him about her trip to Upington the week before. When her car refused to start, she spent a frustrating hour trying to find the problem. When at last she gave up, the mechanic charged a rather exorbitant fee to come and have a look. That’s where she learnt to handkerchief trick. Gertruida says that’s the part of being female that men will never understand: the ability to solve apparently impossible problems with a bit of luck and a handkerchief. If you can’t fix it, you can dab your eyes and cry a little. The mechanic relented and said it’s okay, she doesn’t have to pay.
She isn’t going to be that stupid. A free beer and the men’s humbled faces are worth more than the mechanic’s original quote. Just like the advertisement says: it’s priceless.
The endless sand dunes stretch away to the heat-shimmering horizon. Somewhere out there, maybe a few hundred kilometres away, people are sitting down to dinner. It could be that-a-way. Or more to my left. I don’t know. What started out as a dare – to drive across this stupid stretch of sand in a day’s time – has now become a life-threatening situation.
The night will be cold, I know. With nothing to build a fire with, I’ll have to make do with my old jersey and the threadbare blanket I cover the back seat with. Maybe they’ll start searching in the morning, when they realise I didn’t make it. The wind is strengthening, however. By morning my tracks would be gone.
A movement at the crest of the dune makes me sit up straighter. Several small, yellow men are coming my way. They seem friendly enough. As they approach, I can see them carrying bows, arrows and sharpened sticks. Four men and a woman – of paler skin than the Bushmen I know. A hunting party? For what?
The next half-an-hour is confusing, to say the least. They seem docile enough, but are insisting I must accompany them. Of course, talking doesn’t help – I don’t understand the clicks they make and they have no inkling of the three languages I try. With no other option to speak of, I follow them through the dunes.
It takes hours and I lose track of time. Day is dawning when we reach a sandy outcrop. My travelling companions chatter away in excited clicks as they lead me around the hillock to the other side, where – to my great surprise – I can see the opening of what seems to be a deserted cave.
The opening is just enough for one man to squeeze through. At their rather insistent motions, I follow the woman through the opening. Her movements are voluptuous, daring, as she waits for me to make my way inside.
Then, in the dim light, I notice the white of the bones against the back wall. I want to make sure my impression is correct, before allowing panic to set in. I mean, I am a doctor and should be ablle to recognise human bones, shouldn’t I?
But I don’t get to opportunity to have a closer look. The heavy clunk of a rock closing the opening coincides with the sudden and complete darkness inside the cave. .
Servaas looks at the small instrument in Gertruida’s hand with a considerable amount of scepticism.
“That is a phone?”
“That’s right! It’s one of the new ones. Look: it’s got a bigger screen.”
“So, where is the wire? It’s got to be connected to a pole. Everybody knows that. You’ve been had…”
“No man. It’s wireless. 3G. You don’t need the old wires any more. And it can text. You can even surf with it…”
“Look, Gertruida. I’m maybe a bit old-fashioned, but if you try to balance on that thing – in the sea, nogal – you’ll electrocute yourself. It’s like when the lightning strikes the wire on the next farm. Gives you a helluva shock. Water and phones don’t mix.”
“Not in the sea, Servaas. On the Net.”
“Pull the other one, will you? I saw a man try that once. It was when the circus came to Upington a few years ago. They shot him from a canon and he was supposed to land on a net. Maybe the wind was wrong, or he had too much to eat that afternoon; but he never made it that far. Broke his arm, he did. You want to go on the net, it’s your business. I’m just telling you it’s dangerous.”
Gertruida tries another angle. “Look, this is the camera. It takes real great photos. Even videos.”
“Ha. What are you going to snap with that small lense? Ants? Crumbs? Flies? Why would you want to do that? If you can see them, that’s all you need. Why photograph them?”
“And it’s got a GPS. It tells you where you are.”
“Now that’s rich! The Japanese have finally come up with something useful! I can see it: Im walking down Voortrekker Weg, on my way to Boggel’s Place. Then this thing tells me I’m in Voortrekker Weg, on my way to Boggel’s Place. Isn’t that wonderful? I suppose it can tell me to stop walking now, I’m in my bedroom. Then it’ll order me to undress and go to bed? It’ll be like being married again. No thank you…”
“Ag, Servaas! Stop it. Look, with my banking app it can act as a mobile bank branch. I can do all my banking stuff on it. That means I don’t have to drive all the way to Upington to pay my accounts.”
Servaas takes the cellphone from Gertruida, turning it around and around.
“No, thanks. I want to look a teller in the eye as he counts out the notes. Banks have nice young ladies with short skirts and nice smiles. What happens if you get the wrong bank? With this thing you can’t tell. What’s an app, anyway?”
“It’s an application for an appliance, dummy. There are thousands of them and they all fit into this litte thing.”
That’s where she loses Servaas. A phone is for talking and listening – anything more will be the start of a catastrophe. He can just see it:
One of these days, people will have little implants on their arms with a small receiver in the brain. They’ll think it’s the ultimate technology and will stand in queues to get the newest model. They’ll listen to music, get news updates, receive their salaries and pay the groceries with the new I-con (for: I Contact). Nobody will buy newspapers or books – you’ll be able to summons anything up with your I-con. Hard cash will become obsolete. Talking will be unnecessary. You’ll be able to tune in to anybody, wherever they are.
And then, one morning, they’ll all wake up and stop thinking. The I-con will do it for them. It’ll program entire populations to start doing strange things. It’ll tell them where to gather and what to do. Governments will fall. Armies will march. Unthinking fingers will press the launch buttons on consoles. Bankers will watch as the numbers on the screen scroll down to zero. And then I-con International will take over and convince their loyal customers they are happy now.
That’s why, he says, there’s little difference between cellphones and the Illuminti (he still maintains they exists) – maybe it’s all the same thing.
Ahmed watches as they remove the bandages from his leg. The surgeon had told him the operation was a success, and the physiotherapist would be around as soon as the wound was cleaned and bandaged again.
His attention, however, continues to drift back to his problem. Being in police custody doesn’t fit in with his plans. As soon as he can manage to walk, he’ll use his money and his influence and his network. There is no way they’re going to keep him here for a trial. Spending a lifetime in South African jails! Forget it! He, Ahmed, is used to a life of luxury, and he intends keeping it that way.
The physiotherapist is a surprise. She’s young. Cute. Dressed in a well-fitted uniform, Ahmed cannot but help to think she’ll be on one of his lists soon. A girl with such beauty and such a body would surely fetch a good price. He’s reasonably sure she’ll have to spend quite some time with him during his rehabilitation, so he’ll have ample opportunity to find out all he needs to know about her.
She’s working on his operated leg. The one they plated and screwed back into place after the unfortunate incident next to the road near Upington.
“Is it sore here?” Her liquid-brown eyes seem concerned as she presses against the muscles of his calf. “There’s some swelling around your ankle as well.”
His whole leg ha been sore since the femur fractured. He shrugs and tells her so.
It’s a strange feeling – a type of rushing in his chest – something that makes big beads of sweat suddenly appear on his forehead. He tries to speak, but then the pain in his chest kicks in, leaving him quite literally breathless.
He sees the girls face blanch, her eyes widen in fright.
“Are you alright?” Her voice is louder than he expected.
He tries to tell her about the pain in the chest with anxious hands clawing at his ribs. No, damn it! I’m not! Can’t you see? I’m suffocating! Give me air! Help me…!!! But something has gone wrong. He knows he wants to shout out the words, but somehow his tongue, his mouth, his lungs, won’t cooperate.
She rushes off to the corridor, shouting something about Code Blue. Maybe it’s only a second, maybe it takes eternity, but soon he’s aware of a lot of people around, busy with machines and pipes and injections.
And….suddenly…strangely…inexplicably so, he’s aware that he’s looking down at himself, where a team of doctors and nurses are working in quiet desperation to resuscitate the dying body he used to inhabit. It doesn’t upset him to see them pulsing electricity through his unresponsive heart muscle. He can hear the ribs crack under the pressure of the hands doing the cardiac compressions. The tube forced down his trachea doesn’t hurt him.
They really try. When at last they stand back, his body lies still. The tracing light on the monitor is a flat line. Even now, Ahmed looks down on the scene in unconcerned distraction. Somehow it doesn’t matter. His life is over. He feels himself lifting away, swept upwards at an alarming rate, through a tunnel of white. So this is what dying is all about? It is so peaceful…
But then the screams start. Raging, ragged howls of fury. Skeletal finger reach for him, dragging him away from the light. A thousand – no, a million –grotesque faces combine to form a mosaic of disgust and revulsion. And then the little band of children appears. He recognises some of them. The little Arab boy. The Italian girl. And there –there is the small kid who cried so much, pleading him to take him back to his mother.
All of them, every one, are coming to get him. Ahmed, the child smuggler, is about to find out what it means to spend eternity in Hell.
***
Doctor Goedhart calms the young physiotherapist down.
“It’s not your fault, young lady. Pulmonary emboli are common after such injuries. We had him on prophylaxis, but it’s no guarantee.” He looks into her pleading eyes and wishes he could take away the pain of losing your first patient. “Look, the transition from life to death is instantaneous. He had no pain. He’s at peace now…”
She lifts her chin and tries to smile. “Thank you, Doctor,” she whispers.
She’ll cry herself to sleep tonight, wishing she could believe the well-meant words. There was something so terrifying in Ahmed’s eyes when they closed them afterwards…
Straining, she rolls the log back to its original place before sitting down gingerly on the mossy old tree stump. It’s been there for ages, even before she first played here. The teacher said it was a magical stump – fairies came out of it at night – and it’s been there forever. She remembers how they built little mud houses and planted twig-trees for the fairies to play under. Now it’s all gone. No see-saw, no slide, no swing; just the old stump, rotting away quietly amongst the weeds.
Of course, this is the right place. A visit to long-lost innocence and purity by a woman who finally has to let go of her childhood dreams. Where else can she leave her fantasies, anyway?
The fairies always made her come back initially. When she left the play-school for the real thing, she still clung to the fantasy. And of course she could never tell the others about it, because they’d laugh at her and call her a baby. Still, on weekends when the little playground stood empty and forlorn, she’d sneak back there to build a mud palace surrounded by twig-trees. That’s when she sang the fairy-songs: little rhyme-less verses on impromptu melodies, telling the fairies and gnomes and dwarfs about her life. They always listened from their hidden rooms inside the wood, always understood when she cried or laughed. They were very kind…
Later still, she went to high school – and still the playground remained her secret place where she could talk about growing up. About her parent’s divorce. About the uncertainty of becoming a woman. About the first date and the first fumbling kiss. About…
That’s why she’s back.
“My marriage lasted five years, that’s why I’ve been away so long.” Somehow, the tuneless melody comes back as she sings. “I should have known, shouldn’t I? But I was in love and I didn’t come and tell you, because… well, because I was afraid you’d say no. I knew you would. You’d have seen right through him. You’d have said he’s too old. You wouldn’t have liked his games…
“Well, now he’s all yours. Now I have to go away. Far away. Before they find him. Before they find me.”
The fairies will sort him out – he’s their problem now. She gets up and walks away without looking back. The destruction of innocence is complete, the playground gone forever.…
“Did you see the Daily Prompt from those WordPress guys?” Gertruida has managed to connect to the Internet via her new cellphone, and now spends long hours visiting her two favourite sites. “They want to know about six impossible things.”
Tiny Jacobs is a small man in many respects. Although he comes from a small family – both in numbers as well in size – it is true to say that his body and his life are good examples of mediocrity. He came from a below average family living in the poorer section of the city. He scraped through school, was the last to sport bodily hair amongst his peers and has – up till now – never caught a rugby ball thrown at him. The opportunity to do so only presented itself but once: while he stood next to the field looking at Mandy Mitchell’s legs, the winger was tackled with such force that the ball flew from his desperate grasp that it almost took one of Tiny’s small eyes out. Being otherwise occupied, one can understand that he never saw it coming, anyway.
Evey day a big, hairy monster takes a bite out of you. Sometimes it is a nibble, sometimes a chunk, but nevertheless you end up with less of yourself whenever you go to bed at the end of the day. The monster is called Time – and there’s no escaping the reality of it’s hunger.
Of course, like with all living creatures (and that even includes politicians), there is a reason why these plants end their days by rolling, rolling along over the endless plains of Life. They scatter seeds as they do so. Mother Nature ensures that the many tiny seeds get spread over the widest possible terrain, in order to give the offspring the best chance to survive, The random rolling must surely give at least one little seed a friendly environment?
“Nobody believes in ghosts any more. That’s a notion that belongs to the past. In this, the 21st century, we are realists. It is impossible for a spirit – of a dead person, that is – to appear in our dimension. There is a definite boundary between what we live in, and the realm of the metaphysical. So, sorry, I don’t believe all this nonsense.” Gertruida has that knowledgeable look – the one she uses to stop arguments.
“It’s easy,” Servaas says, “all you need to do, is to look for the blown fuse. Wrap a bit of tinfoil around it, push it back, and it’ll work again.”
Servaas looks at the small instrument in Gertruida’s hand with a considerable amount of scepticism.
Ahmed
A place from your past or childhood, one that you’re fond of, is destroyed. Write it a memorial.
