Memory Project: Caught in the Act

There were two travelling circuses that visited Gwelo. One was Boswell’s and the other Wilkie’s. It was in the time before TV and apart from the cinema there was little entertainment to distract the public. Consequently, the circus performances were keenly anticipated and well attended, especially by children.

Tickey and the other clowns played slapstick pranks, there were wonderfully clever dogs that could walk upright on two legs like humans and bark tunefully in a canine choir, and a girl stood on a horse’s back as it cantered around the ring. Elephants were made to kneel, walk backwards and sit on a stool, and a lion tamer controlled his lions by cracking a whip and ending the performance by removing his top hat and sticking his head inside a pair of gaping jaws. Then there were the acrobats on the trapeze high overhead, their most daring stunt being preceded by a long drum roll followed by a triumphant crashing of cymbals and brassy blare from the rest of the circus orchestra. And there were other acts like tight-rope walking, knife throwing, juggling and fire breathing.

On the one occasion I have in mind my mother gave us money for the cheapest entry fee and Alan and I went off on our bicycles to catch the five o’clock show. It was Alan’s idea to sneak in without paying and use the money we had been given to buy popcorn and sweets. He led the way to a point far from the entrance, checked that the coast was clear and wriggled under the heavy canvas wall of the big top. As his feet disappeared, I got down and began to follow. Half way in I stopped and looked about for him. Overhead was the scaffolding supporting the tiers of seats and there was the noise from the orchestra and the ring master was making an announcement, but there was no sign of my brother. In panic I began to reverse, and as I did so I felt a hand grab my ankle and start pulling. My fright was so great that as I was dragged into the open I wet myself. The circus hand, a huge black man in an overall, roared with laughter and let me go. I got to my feet and ran in terror and embarrassment to where we had left the bikes in the long grass and never stopped pedalling all the way home.

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No Power, No Water

The township of Pearly Beach was established about 50 years ago. The area was surveyed, unsurfaced roads were laid out and over 1500 plots were demarcated. A pipeline was brought 10 kilometres from the dam on Groot Hagelkraal farm to the newly-built concrete water tower in Crest Road. This tower, which was gravity fed, provided a head of water that had enough pressure to supply the whole of Pearly Beach.

Originally, there was a simple sand filter up at the dam, but about 20 years ago a filtration plant was built on the corner of Charlie van Breda Drive and Melkhout Street. It consists of a reservoir with filters and a pump station. From here the reticulation system is pressurized and water is pumped to the tower. When the pump stops working, it is the force of gravity that feeds the pipes from the tower. When the tower becomes depleted water slows to a trickle and then dries up.

Under normal circumstances the system works well. However, because the design is reliant on the efficient running of the pump, the town is under constant threat of low pressure and ultimately a complete failure of supply. Each time the power is turned off, it is necessary to reset the pump manually.  That is why, with constant load-shedding, the water pressure in PB is woefully feeble for hours on end.

Apart from the inconvenience caused by Eskom’s unreliability,  Pearly Beach faces a far mor serious threat. Fire. As we move into the dry season the likelihood of runaway bush fires increases, and if power lines are destroyed, as has happened in the past, we could be without electricity for an extended period. That would mean we would also be without water.

The solution to this very real problem is relatively simple. A standby generator should be installed at the pump station and should kick in automatically whenever the main power supply goes down.

This is a photograph of the 2018 fire that destroyed power lines and left Pearly Beach without electricity and water for more than 24 hours.

In December 2004 this fire came perilously close to houses in Broadway, and the residents of Eluxolweni had to be evacuated. It was only brought under control when, for the first time in Pearly Beach, helicopters were called upon to fight the blaze.

This is what it looks like today. The land bordering the town is infested with a sea of invasive alien trees. This vegetation  burns a lot more fiercely than fynbos.  In the event of a fire being fanned by a strong wind from the east, Eluxolweni and the houses in Broadway would be threatened. And should the pump station be out of action, leaving the fire hydrants without water, the situation could turn disastrous.

Memory Project: Boys’ Brigade

 

Here we are standing in roughly the same position as in the previous photograph but two or three years has elapsed. Alan is in his Boys Brigade uniform and I am wearing a Life Buoy cap.

My parents had survived the Second World War, in which unspeakable atrocities had been committed on a grand scale, and they were convinced that Good had triumphed over Evil. They believed that solid British values had enabled them to withstand invasion and ultimately defeat the enemy. They felt it their duty to inculcate these same values in their children that they might grow up to be honest, hard-working and patriotic. So when, in 1955, eight-year-old Alan expressed an interest in becoming a Boy Scout, they encouraged him to join the movement.

A Scout had to swear an oath to do his duty to God and his country, and to obey the Scout Law, which required one to help other people at all times, and to keep oneself physically strong, mentally awake and morally straight. Not only that, he also had to be trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and reverent. Finally, as if all that was not enough, the boy had to promise to do a good turn daily.

Alan was too young to be a Scout and take on such a burden of responsibility, and instead became a Cub, which is the male equivalent of a Brownie in the Girl Guides. He enjoyed himself without getting into trouble until the family left Fish hoek and went to Rhodesia at the end of 1956.

I don’t think there were Boy Scouts in Gwelo, but instead there was Boys’ Brigade,  which was a similar organisation based on Christian principles and military discipline. We joined when Alan was thirteen and I was eight or nine, and all went well for a short time. However, being rebellious by nature, my brother soon fell foul of authority.

Meetings were held in the Presbyterian Church hall, and each session started with a prayer and then marching, two abreast, several times around the perimeter of the room. On the fateful evening in question, all the boys were dutifully swinging their arms and striding in time like parade ground soldiers, when Alan got it into his head to start shouting instructions like a sergeant-major.

“Left, right, left, right. Kill the bloody Germans, kill the bloody Japs. Left, right, left, right.”

This went on for a short while until Mr Morris, the Brigade Officer, rushed into the hall and demanded to know who had been shouting like that. Alan stepped forward.

“You are a disgrace!” the furious man snarled. "I do not want to see you here ever again. Now, GO!”

And that was the end of Boys’ Brigade.

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Island Bread and Vetkoek

As Medic, I was responsible for the health of the entire population of the Island. I did not let this weigh on me too heavily because, apart from me, there were only six inhabitants, and they were all young and fit. My employers, the Department of Transport, realised that I would have a lot of time on my hands and, accordingly, placed me in charge of the storeroom. I found this a somewhat ironic coincidence, as I had been a storeman in the Dockyard several years prior to going to Gough. This additional duty entailed rationing our food supplies and keeping the pantry stocked.

When I went through the inventory, I discovered that there was an abundance of flour, white, brown and wholewheat. As I had wanted to try my hand at baking bread before going to the Island, I decided that now was the time to add Baker to my CV.

Following instructions from the baking section in our Food Preparation manual, I began to experiment. First of all, I battled to bring the tinned yeast to life. Then I had to get the hang of kneading the dough and letting it rise to double its size. Because the yeast had been brought back from the dead, this proved a challenge that required  perseverance and ingenuity, like placing the covered bowl of dough in the equatorial climate of the drying room for a whole hour. I also discovered that the flour had not been replenished for several years and, as a consequence, I was working with stale ingredients.

I persisted and produced two loaves a week for most of the year. Although I considered my bread to be of an acceptable quality, I later learned that the other team members found it to be substandard, and only ate it out of politeness. This explains why Thys approached me one day while I was kneading dough and made a suggestion. Why didn’t I try making vetkoek? He told me how his mother had dropped balls of dough into hot oil and turned them into his favourite, most mouth-watering, golden brown species of confectionary. He persuaded me to experiment with a small quantity of risen dough. I took a generous pinch  of the stuff and dropped it into the pot of hot oil he had placed on the stove. After briefly sinking it began to swell and popped to the surface. When it reached the size of a small bun and began to turn brown, I removed it from the oil, placed it on a plate and waited for it to cool. After less than five minutes Thys insisted it was ready to be tasted. I cut it down the middle, handed him his half, and we took our first bites. This was better than boring old bread! We applied butter and took another mouthful. Even better. I dropped more lumps of dough into the pot and that was when Barney arrived. Before long the whole  team was in the kitchen chomping on fresh doughboys.

 

This image is of vetkoek with curried mince, which some people rave about as a filling. I prefer peanut butter and fig jam.

 

With this photograph I captured Thys in a pensive mood. I could be wrong, but I suspect he was thinking about vetkoek.

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