Jack and Jill

The grandmother was left to care for five children after her daughter succumbed to the disease. Her old age pension and the child grants enabled them to survive in a state of poverty.

Her RDP house had a cold water tap but it had run dry more than a year ago. It was getting late in the day when she instructed the two eldest children to fetch a bucket of water from the well at the top of the hill. All of the villagers would have preferred a well at the bottom of the hill but were told that the Councillor’s nephew needed to drill an extra 400 metres to make the project worth while.

Jack and Jill climbed the hill to where the tank stood next to the borehole pump. There they encountered three men who had been smoking tik. These men beat Jack with a stick and their fists and then threw him down the steepest side of the hill. Jill was chased and caught.

When he regained his senses Jack found himself lying in a bush and bleeding from a head wound he had sustained in the fall. Up he got and managed to stagger back to his grandmother’s house. Being concussed he was unable to tell her what had happened or where his sister was. The old lady had no first aid dressings and bandages so she tore up a paper potato sack, soaked it in some vinegar and wrapped Jack’s head with it. Then she went to the neighbours to summon help. A man with a phone called the cops. Because the one police van had a puncture and no spare, and the other had gone to town to fetch supplies for the station commander’s spaza shop, they were only able to respond the following day. By then the villagers had discovered Jill’s body at the bottom of the hill.

All were in agreement that Jill would still be alive if the well had not been drilled at the top of the hill. The tender price should have been inflated by some other means, like double invoicing or falsifying the hydrological test results.

(From Fairy Tales and Nursery Rhymes)

To view my longer work as an author, you can find me on Smashwords here.

On the Beach: The Fishing Fraternity

(Here are two extracts from my social satire, Strandveld Private Investigators. All the characters and incidents are purely fictional.)

Sedrick was a lazy bum, and to substantiate her opinion of him she had supplied whole bucketfuls of detail about his reprehensible behavior and disgusting habits.

For one thing, he preferred to lie in bed all morning reading, rather than get up and help with chores around the farmhouse. And he wasn’t interested in looking for a job, even though his bank balance had a gaping hole in it and was sinking fast. She also disapproved of his newfound pals in Gansbaai who had initiated him into the low-life angling fraternity. He now liked nothing more than to go off at sunset with his rod sticking out the passenger window in the hope of landing a big cob or Steenbras. These fishing expeditions always ended up in one of the pubs, and he would come home after midnight and get into bed reeking of brandy fumes and rotten bait and want to have sex. Or, more likely, fall into a drunken stupor, open his mouth wide, and immediately start that bloody snoring again, like he was sawing up a log in slow motion. 

They shouldered their fishing gear and trudged over the dune to the beach and began the ritual with sinkers, swivels hooks and bait. Then, standing knee deep in the surf, they steadied themselves, raised their rods high over their shoulders, and swung the weighted lines in an arc overhead and watched for the splash beyond the back breaker.

This is better than sitting in a parking garage,” said Monty.

“And infinitely superior to sitting at an office desk,” agreed Sedrick.

To their surprise, they caught nothing with that first cast. And nothing with the second and third casts, either.

“The water is too clear,” said Monty. “Galjoen prefer it churned up and murky.”

“That’s what I once told Avril,” said Sedrick. “You know what she said? “She said that fishing makes you even more stupid than you might have been before you started fishing. She said that the reason why Galjoen don’t bite when the water is clear is because that’s when they can see what they are eating. She said that fish are a lot smarter than what the average asshole with a fishing rod thinks. You know what else she said about us fishermen?”

“No,” said Monty. “And I don’t want to know. That woman is full of shit.”

“She said that we act like we are tough macho types who brave the elements to put food on the table, but we’re just a bunch of pathetic wankers who can’t handle the responsibility of being a real man.”

“And I suppose a real man is some pussy-whipped nerd who stays at home and takes orders from his wife?” 

“We’re also a menace to the environment,” Sedrick went on. “We drive over the nests of breeding sea birds, we abandon miles and miles of fishing line that eventually snares sharks, seals penguins and other birds, and we are steadily wiping out the last of the fish stocks.”

“And what about our smoking and drinking?” asked Monty.

“Oh yes,” said Sedrick. “Most of us are overweight slobs who stand on the beach polluting the air with our filthy cigarette smoke, and we can never go fishing without our six pack or bottle of brandy. And … “Hey, something’s taking a nibble. Wow!”

When he felt the third tug, Sedrick pulled back hard and the line went taut, his rod was bending, and he knew he had hooked something that wasn’t a piece of kelp or, God forbid, a rocky crevice.

Click here to read Strandveld Private Investigators.

The Railway Bridge Over the Buffeljagsrivier

She still loves having a train run through her. It doesn’t happen often now; not like in her youth. In those days they would come at her every few hours, first from one side and then the other. Over the years she has lost her allure and she is visited but rarely. That makes her yearning more poignant and her fulfilment more ecstatic. She is always listening for the call away in the distance. When she hears it again it is louder and closer and more insistent. As the deep throbbing and rumbling grow louder, she can feel his urgency. He has straightened up and is bearing down on her, making her rails buzz and vibrate. He is almost there, charging with desperate lust towards the beckoning goal. Then he is in, and as his segmented length is drawn through her girders and struts, she quivers and shakes in rapture. Then she feels the last of him leaving, abandoning his conquest to other suitors. Or maybe he will return.

To view my longer work as an author, you can find me on Smashwords here.

The Wanderings of an Elephant Hunter

I bought this for R10 at the second-hand book stall outside the Standard Bank in Hermanus one Saturday morning about 25 years ago. It was first published in 1923 and my copy is the 1958 edition. After many years of being out of print it was brought back as an annotated digital version by Big Game Books in 2018.  Favourable reviews of the book can be found on Goodreads.

I regard hunting as deplorable, and when I read that the book is ‘Lavizhly illustrated from on-the-spot sketches by the author,’ my low opinion of hunters, including WDM Bell, was confirmed. The cover drawing, which shows a tiny figure with a rifle confronting  a charging elephant of laughably enormous proportions, is clearly meant to demonstrate courage of the intrepid white man as he holds his ground and takes aim. However, I did find the book fairly well written, entertaining and factually as well as historically interesting.

Bell’s description of rifles, ammunition and shooting technique partly inspired me to write the Curiosity leads him into a gun shop section of The Life of Henry Fuckit, which I later published as the short story, Sell Me a Gun.

You know, I'm going to tell you something no word of a lie, and I'm proud of it. It's part of my heritation. My father, and his father too before that, they used to hunt bushmen, and that's the truth. Jus' like animals. They were vermin."

"I'm sure they were." Henry was shocked. "They must hardly have been human to have been capable of such heinousness."

The blue eyes regarded him uncomprehendingly for a moment, suspicion flickering just beneath the surface.

"I suppose you're telling me all this,” said Henry, “In order to illustrate some point or other. Maybe even then, back in those dreadful days of decimation and extermination, maybe even then there was the right gun for the right job. Is that where you're heading, Sir Fatguts?"

"The right gun for the right job! Just so!" He was grateful for the cue. "My father, he use to say to me, many times, Boitjie, you got to have…"

"Is that your name?"

"What?"

"Is that your name? Boitjie?"

"No, course not. What you think? We was a big family. He called all the sons Boitjie. Anyway, that's got fuck-all to do with anything. My real name is Gerhardus. But they call me Mike, or sometimes Okkie. You call me Mike."

Now Henry was beginning to enjoy himself. This was just the right situation to stimulate his senses, which he felt had become rather dulled of late. Everything was a surprise and he was delighting in the absence of logic and predictability. He breathed rapidly and his eyes sparkled. Mike continue

"The style of killing my father enjoyed the best was using a light calibre rifle. His style was slow and cool, never in a hurry. The idea he had was never to fire unless he can place the bullet in a vital organ. You see, if you places a bullet correc' it doesn't matter what the calibre. But you got to have nerve for that, that's for sure. You get other okes completely different. Take my uncle Poeslap. Now, he think…"

"Your uncle's name was Poeslap?" Henry was staggered. "Jesus, man! Was he christened that?" (Poeslap is Afrikaans for cunt rag.)

"Allemagtig man! It was his nickname - everybody called him Poeslap, even his mother, even his wife. Something to do with his bokbaard, jy weet. Hy was ‘n rooikop. (Something to do with his beard, you know. He was a redhead.) His hair was red coloured. But what's all this name kak? I'm trying to learn you about rifles. Now, Oom Poeslap was always a bietjie bang (a bit scared), and he believed in the biggest bore rifle he could get hold of. A Rigby-Mauser double .577. He wired all two triggers together and when he pulled the back one all two barrels fired at the same time. But he always fired too soon. I don't think he got even one. Not even one. One time he went out to try catch them poisoning his sheep and when he come near the water he see them and fire, jus' like that, from three hundred yards. Of course he miss the Bushmen but hit one of his own sheep. My father told me he seen that sheep later and it was just about cut in half. Now my father was different. He got at least six that I know of, before they all run away to the Kalahari. His favourite weapon was a Lee-Enfield .275. He only fired when he got real close and were sure of a brain shot or a heart shot. He believed the best ammunition was the old round nose solid bullets. He sweared that was the best way to find the brain of a Bushman. You know, he said it was like shooting a springbok. When he come right up to the kill the body was still warm and soft and smelling just like a wild antelope; and, if the face wasn't taken away by the round nose, he saw the last light going out the eyes, just the same like when you shoot a wildebeest. He said they were wild and beautiful just like the wild animals but they was wragtig (extremely) treacherous and sly. I mean, he had to shoot them to protec' his sheep, didn't he? Ja man, my father learned me good lessons. It just shows you, you don't need a big calibre. You must jus' stay cool and calm, and take your time, like."

(You can read Sell Me a Gun for free on Smashwords HERE.)

Broadway Then and Now

This photograph was taken 40 years ago in 1981. With the money I had saved during my year on Gough Island I started building a cottage on the plot my father had bought in 1978. Initially, I did most of the work myself and stayed on site.

At that time, there were only a few dozen houses in the whole of Pearly Beach, and in Broadway there was only one. This was owned by Vernon Kruger, a retired Air Force brigadier. Broadway was a narrow track surfaced with a thin layer of gravel. Being at the back of the village it carried virtually no traffic and I was able to park my Peugeot 404 station wagon in the middle of it for days and nights on end without having to move it. The vehicle served as a bakkie as well as sleeping quarters.  My toilet and cold-water shower were situated at the bottom of Beach Road, a mere five-minute walk away.

There was no electricity and water came from the tower, which was gravity fed direct from the dam at the back of Groothagelkraal farm. Apart from a rudimentary sand filter there was no attempt at purification, and the water quality was better than it is now.

At that time, there was virtually no crime in the area and when we went out windows were left open and doors unlocked.

 

This is what Broadway looks like today.

Forty years ago, there were no tarred roads beyond Gansbaai, there was just one small shop at the Camp Site – and it was just that: a caravan and camping site – and basic services like water supply and road maintenance were provided by the Bredasdorp Divisional Council. Many species of fish were still plentiful and perlemoen poaching was unheard of. Moonless nights were genuinely dark and the stars actually sparkled, the air was so crisp and clear. Giant moths battered the window panes and smaller insects, along with the damsel flies, swarmed about the gas lamp and candles. At any hint of rain, a cacophony of frog chirps and croaks drowned out the muffled clamour of the surf. There were frequent sightings of small game, especially at dawn and dusk. Grysbokkies, porcupines, Cape hares, mongooses, polecats, otters, civets and honey badgers were not uncommon. There were plenty of snakes,too, and the mole and mouse population was kept under control.

No more than thirty Whites lived in Pearly Beach permanently, and at what is now called Eluxolweni there were only Coloured folk and no Blacks.

I had been looking for isolation in a place of unspoilt natural beauty and that is what I found. However, over the ensuing four decades, and most noticeably in the past three years, Pearly Beach has lost much of its lustre. It has begun to take on some aspects of a refugee camp. There has been an influx of migrants from the Eastern Cape attracted by the lure of easy money poaching abalone or engaging in other illegal activity. And then there are the middle class fugitives fleeing the perils of urban life, or the deteriorating conditions in other parts of the country. Very few of these new arrivals show any appreciation for the environment they now find themselves in, and appear resentful that they have ended up in this backwater. And they all have dogs! The peace and quiet is repeatedly shattered by the mindless barking of these animals while their owners sit inside watching soapies or sport.

I am tempted to sell up and look for some other place to live, but where would I find peace and seclusion on this over-populated planet? I am afraid I will have to resign myself to being surrounded by detestable people whose howling, barking and yapping dogs will eventually drive me insane.

To view my longer work as an author, you can find me on Smashwords here.

Two Soldiers

The two soldiers marched up the long driveway to the house. It was a grand residence built like a stately home of old. One of the soldiers rang the bell while the other knocked on the door, which was about three and a half times the size of a normal door. Presently it was opened by a young woman of very attractive aspect. She wore the costume of a noblewoman from a previous century. She looked at them with approval and gave a welcoming smile.

“We are busy rehearsing our opera,” she told them and led the way down a hall. There was the sound of an orchestra and a baritone and a tenor singing a duet, so she wasn’t making it up. In the kitchen, where a chef and two assistants were busy, she turned to the soldiers.

“You must be famished after all that shooting and marching. You can store your rifles in the broom cupboard where they will be perfectly safe.”

When they were seated at the table they were served with freshly baked bread and bowls of steaming pea soup. She placed two tablets on a saucer.

“Take this with your soup and it will make you strong.” She laughed as if it was a joke. “Now I must be getting back to the rehearsal.”

After the meal both soldiers felt weightily engorged and agreed that they had fallen in love with the young woman.

When it was time for bed, she led the soldiers into her chamber where there was an enormous four-poster. While they removed their army boots and trousers she undressed completely and they were able to admire her nakedness from all angles. The first soldier, whose member had grown to about three and a half times its normal proportions, coupled with the young woman with great enthusiasm while the second soldier stood stiffly to attention awaiting orders.

It was as the first soldier was about to mount the young woman for a second time that the enemy aircraft flew low overhead, dropped its bomb with pinpoint accuracy, and blew them all to smithereens.

When the two soldier’s families were told the terrible news, they were consoled with the knowledge that their loved ones had died a heroic death defending the nation.

(Taken from Fairy Tales and Nursery Rhymes.)

To view my longer work as an author, you can find me on Smashwords here.

Why I Haven’t Killed Myself, Yet

It’s strange that I have bothered to hang around this long, considering all the nihilistic thoughts that populate my brain. 

I was about 17 when it first occurred to me to ask myself, ‘What’s the point in being alive?’ And over the next 50-odd years I have repeated this obtuse question, and I still come up with the same answer: No point. I am not able to justify my existence, and as a consequence, have failed to develop a socially acceptable outlook on three important levels. Firstly, how I perceive myself; secondly, how I view my fellow human beings; and thirdly, how I see my place in the cosmos.

How do I see myself? Most people work very hard at constructing a heroic image of themselves. The moment I get started on any such image building activity I am stopped in my tracks by the sound of sniggering at my shoulder. I suddenly feel embarrassed, as if I had been observed practising a smile in the mirror, or someone had opened the door to find me busy masturbating. It’s as if I possess some kind of mental mechanism that automatically alerts me to any sign of self-delusion with regard to my physical appearance, my character, and my achievements.

My appearance. Physical beauty is heavily dependent on symmetry. If you were to take a corpse to a sawmill and run it head first through one of those big circular saws they use to turn logs into planks, you would end up with two matching halves that, put together, make the whole. (This doesn’t apply to the internal organs, though.) There is something aesthetically pleasing about discovering or producing any form of bilateral symmetry, and the more seamless it appears, the closer it comes to our sense of perfection. In my case, if you were to split me down the middle, you would have difficulty in putting me back together again, because the two halves don’t quite match. There’s something faintly grotesque about my appearance, as if Pablo Picasso had interfered in my design. 

Admittedly, I am above average in height, which is considered by many to be an advantage for a man. However, I have found that smaller men tend to resent having to look up at me, and many have made my life difficult on that account. And because I am tall it doesn’t mean that I am correspondingly strong. My bones are light, my shoulders droop somewhat, and I have little muscle mass, which all combines to make me unmistakably ectomorphic. A much shorter mesomorph would have no difficulty in overpowering me and shoving my face in the dirt. There is no grace in my movements, and I showed no sporting ability in my youth. So, all in all, I am not a particularly good physical specimen. (I can’t even boast a large penis by way of compensation for this general lack of prowess. My erect member, when I can get it up, is unexceptional in both length and girth.)

My character. As for my character, the evidence is similarly uninspiring. Although I know how to make myself passably agreeable when I have to, it doesn’t come easily. Being an introvert, I am ill at ease and self-conscious in a group. My sense of social inadequacy causes me to experience rising embarrassment and I become tongue-tied and red in the face. I am wary of extraverts, suspecting them of shallowness and insincerity, and resenting their effortless ability to interact with other members of the species. Yet I do not feel drawn to fellow introverts, for I recognise myself cowering behind that self same contemptible diffidence. Yes, I score low when it comes to the evaluation of social skills.

Find out why I haven’t killed myself here.