The Real Danger

 

In the past 40 years I have witnessed several fires burning through the bush on the northern side of Broadway. Most of them occurred in late summer and were driven by an easterly wind. The vegetation they consumed was primarily Rooikrans (Acacia cyclops), the invasive Australian species that has displaced the indigenous fynbos.

About a year or two after each fire the seeds of this plant germinate and grow rapidly into saplings and reach maturity after five to ten years, ready to fuel another fire. Each time it happens the fire protection services are called on to contain the blaze, which usually destroys power lines and causes electricity outages, sometimes for several days.

Having observed this repeated cycle of events, it strikes me as being a fine example of inadequate planning coupled with a lack of foresight. I ask myself, when will it dawn on the authorities that prevention is better than cure?

The most serious danger to Pearly Beach and surrounding areas is the unchecked proliferation of alien vegetation. To be surrounded by dense stands of Rooikrans, Wattle and Gum poses a serious threat to habitation and lives. Should a fire driven by gale force winds take hold, fire protection services might be powerless to contain it, as has been seen in southern Europe, Canada, Australia and, most recently, the Los Angeles area.

An aerial view of Pearly Beach shows the most vulnerable parts, should a major conflagration occur, to be the Resort and Eluxolweni, where there is a high concentration of residents. Then there is the Church and water treatment plant, the eastern end of Charlie van Breda, Church Street, the entire length of Broadway, as well as Boundary Road. All would be on the front line.

With the increasing number of extreme weather events associated with climate change, it has become a matter of urgency for fire and disaster management authorities to develop a holistic strategy that incorporates preventative measures and not only an emergency response capability.

 The Proposal.

This would involve a partnership between land owners, the Overstrand Municipality and government departments. A long-term plan should be devised, and the systematic clearing of all alien vegetation, from Die Dam through to De Kelders, should begin. The plan should include the creation and maintenance of firebreaks and the establishment of a permanent team to monitor and eradicate subsequent new growth.

Although all this would require considerable funding, the investment would eventually yield dividends. Fighting a fire, especially when aerial support is called in, is extremely expensive. In this regard, there would be long-term saving as firefighting became a matter of backburning low fynbos scrub from an accessible firebreak. The programme would initially create hundreds of job opportunities and permanent employment for maintenance teams in the future. In addition, as the indigenous vegetation re-established itself, the promotion of eco-tourism would benefit the accommodation, hospitality and local business establishments.

Surely it makes sense to take this proposal seriously and break the cycle of growing fuel for fire after fire?

 (The following photos - © Guy Martin - were taken seven years ago in March 2018 when a fire swept past Pearly Beach.)

The real danger we face comes from the authorities’ inability  to prioritize immediate and long-term preventative measures that would help to ensure the safety of all who live in our area. To understand the psychology behind this reluctance to take the required preemptive action, I turned to AI for some analysis, and this is what ChatGPT came up with:

 

‘The tendency to prioritize immediate responses over prevention is closely related to several psychological concepts. The relevant and psychological terms and analyses include:

Temporal Discounting

• Definition: Temporal discounting refers to the tendency to value immediate rewards or outcomes more highly than future rewards or outcomes, even if the future rewards are greater.
• Similarity to Response vs. Prevention: Preventative measures often involve investing time, effort, or resources now for benefits that will only materialize in the future (e.g., reducing wildfire risk). Temporal discounting can make these long-term benefits seem less appealing compared to the immediate and tangible results of responding to a crisis.

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Hyperbolic Discounting

• Definition: Hyperbolic discounting is a specific form of temporal discounting where the value of future outcomes decreases more steeply as the delay to receiving them increases. This can result in inconsistent decision-making, where people might prefer the immediate reward now but would choose the delayed reward if both options were further in the future.
• Application to Disaster Management: When faced with a choice between spending resources on wildfire prevention (future benefit) or on immediate disaster response, individuals or organizations may disproportionately favor the immediate need due to the steep discounting of long-term benefits.

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Neglect of Low-Probability, High-Impact Events

• Definition: Humans often struggle to prioritize actions to mitigate low-probability but high-impact events, a phenomenon rooted in bounded rationality and limited attention. Preventative measures for disasters like wildfires may seem less urgent because the occurrence of a disaster is probabilistic and uncertain, even if the long-term risk is significant.
• Relevance: Once a wildfire occurs, the probability is no longer uncertain—it is happening now, and immediate action feels necessary and justified.

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Action Bias

• Definition: Action bias refers to the psychological tendency to prefer taking action, especially in response to crises, even if inaction or preemptive action would be more effective. People often feel the need to "do something" in response to disasters, leading to a focus on reactive measures.
• Connection: Preventative actions are often less visible and can feel less satisfying compared to the clear and direct impact of crisis response.

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Present Bias

• Definition: Present bias is the tendency to give disproportionate weight to the present moment, often at the expense of the future. This can lead to underinvestment in long-term solutions like wildfire prevention, as the immediate benefits are not felt in the present.

 

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Addressing the Issue

To counteract these biases, behavioral interventions such as framing, commitment devices, and policy nudges can help. For example:

• Framing wildfire prevention efforts as saving money and lives in the long run can make the benefits more tangible.
• Mandating a portion of disaster response budgets for prevention can serve as a commitment device to balance immediate and long-term priorities.

Understanding these psychological tendencies is key to designing systems and policies that encourage a more balanced approach to prevention and response.’

 

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

My Writing Career

 

 (Image: Ideogram.com)

I began my writing career in 2000 at the age of 50. I was aware that the majority of famous writers hit their stride in their thirties and forties, and that I was making a late start. Undeterred, I told myself that my muse had been in no hurry, preferring to allow me sufficient time to accumulate a rich store of experience to draw on before releasing my pent-up creative energy.

It was also around this time that it dawned on me that I had finally developed a world view. I had given up the futile search for the meaning and purpose of life, and had reached conclusion concerning human nature and my place in the cosmos, which I put into print in a 4500 word essay entitled, Why I Haven’t Killed Myself, Yet.

While my wife went out to work, and between home-schooling our two children and performing domestic drudgery, I set to work on a semi-autobiographical novel that I called The Life of Henry Fuckit. This took more than five years to write in longhand (I could still see well enough to put pen to paper), and at least another year for my teenage daughter to turn it into a Word document. I then approached a publisher and began the first of many demeaning encounters with literary gatekeepers.

Around this time, 2007, I started to use a PC. Having hit a brick wall with Henry, I decided to try my hand at some commercial fiction, and wrote Pop-splat, a fast-paced modern novel with plenty of violence and sex in it.  After three rejections I began to explore the possibility of self-publication. My wife reluctantly agreed to ‘invest’ R25000 in the printing of 1000 copies of my book, which I assured her would fly off the shelves and make us a profit of R50000.

I tenaciously badgered the books editors of numerous magazines an newspapers, sending them copies of the novel and requesting a review. This proved a lengthy process but eventually yielded several positive results, which I used as promotional material.

“How many books have you sold?” my financial backer asked me after a year. “When am I going to get my money back?”

I had to admit that only some 200 copies had flown off the shelves, and nearly 700 were still in the printer’s warehouse waiting to fly.

“All I need is a lucky break. If some influential person was to endorse the book it would take off, I’m sure.”

It was about this time that I began to consider another reason for why I had not become a sest-selling author, apart from the ‘lucky break’ excuse. Maybe Pop-splat wasn’t such a great read after all, and the writer was a little short on talent?

Despite a great deal of help and encouragement from my daughter and son, who set up a website and Facebook page to promote the book, sales dwindled to zero, and I was obliged to admit defeat on the Pop-splat front. However, in the meantime, I had continued writing and completed a second novel, Kikaffir, in 2011.

“Have you heard of Smashwords?” my son asked me. “It’s an online publisher that sells ebooks. You provide them with your manuscript and they make it available on their platform, and take a small commission from every sale.”

I was through with mainstream publishers, so I agreed to give it a try. By this I meant I would be grateful if he went ahead and did the necessary formatting, cover design and submission, which all entailed a considerable amount of skilled labour.

Over the following decade I continued writing and he kept placing the results on Smashwords but, I regret to report, our efforts were almost entirely in vain, for sales over the years amounted to hardly more than $100.

“Have you heard of Print On Demand publishing?”

Technology had moved along and it was now possible to self-publish anything from five to a hundred, or more copies at a relatively low cost.

Again, I managed to wheedle a few thousand rand out of my long-suffering wife, and we had 20 copies each of Kikaffir, Shark Alley Shootout and Strandveld Private Investigators printed.

“It should be dead easy to sell them locally, and then the word will spread and I can have more printed.”

The Gansbaai Book Exchange sold half a dozen copies, while the Book Cottage in Hermanus eventually told me after two years to come and collect my books, as they had been unable to make a single sale. Somebody suggested I try the flea markets in Pearly Beach and Stanford. Three Pop-splats and two Shark Alley Shootouts. Pathetic!

“Well,” I said to my wife at the end of 2020, “it doesn’t look like I’ll be asking you for any more money to further my writing career.”

It was with that acknowledgement of failure that I concluded my final attempt to prove that arsehole headmaster wrong.

Towards the end of 1967, which was my last year at Fish Hoek High School, this pedagogic prick called my parents in for an interview. He told them it was his sad duty to inform them that their son would never amount to much in life. Because I was dull-witted and lacking in any God-given talent, my prospects were bleak. It would be futile to hope that I might avoid the usual disappointment, boredom and pain associated with a life of mediocrity.

Well, it turned out that he wasn’t far wrong in his assessment. What he didn’t get right, though,  was the boredom bit. I have always been, and remain so to this day, interested in everything under the sun. I find the natural world and the antics of humans endlessly fascinating., and approach each day with fresh curiosity.

I now feel a certain degree of embarrassment that I should have deluded myself into believing I possessed enough talent to become a successful author. I also experience a strong sense of guilt when I consider how much time and effort, not to mention money, my wife and children have expended over the years in supporting me in my foolhardy literary ambitions. I can only hope that they do not harbour resentment or a sense of betrayal after realising they had allowed themselves to be persuaded to participate in such a misguided venture. My son, especially, has spent years trying to encourage me and promote my writing. Upon reflection, was it all for nothing? It is my hope that he will one day turn what he has learned from the experience into something of value and make it worthwhile.

Finally, although this signals the end of my writing career, it does not mean I will stop writing as a hobby. Hell, no! I intend to continue examining life and putting my thoughts into words. If I was to call a halt to this creative process the consequences would be dire. In the words of Henry Fuckit, “I'll be destroyed, totally and utterly. My spinal column will dismantle itself and fall in pieces upon the floor. My inflamed eyeballs will inflate and stand forth from my head before rupturing and collapsing back into their sockets. My liver will dissolve, my kidneys vitrify and my spleen will desiccate and crumble into dust. My poor heart will squawk and then shrivel to the size of a pea. My testicles will retract and putrefy with shame. My pride and joy will fall down dead, turn brown then black, and hang between my legs curing like a piece of biltong. My hair will turn white and fill my comb with tuft upon tuft. My tongue will thicken and become coated in lichen, choking my airway, blocking my gullet. My teeth will fall out with a clatter like ice into a bucket. My intestines will reverse the peristaltic flow and excrement will ooze from my nostrils. And my brain! The reaction of my brain to the terrible insult of being made to give up writing will be truly cataclysmic. My brainstem, cerebellum and cerebrum will fuse together into a dense, lifeless mass like a golf ball. The process will be instantaneous and the resulting vacuum in the cranial cavity will suck in stirrups, anvils and hammers to strike my defunct brain and ricochet out through my tympanic membranes. My entire nervous system, central and peripheral, will burn out in a storm of electrochemical fireworks and I will fall to the ground. Destroyed. Totally fucked in my moer."

Yes, that is what will happen if I stop writing, sure as night follows day.

 

Anybody for a FREE copy of Pop-splat?

078 455 7355

 

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

Waiting for Walter

 

On the last of our ten days with Guy, he drove us to Lanseria Airport to catch a 12.05 flight on a Safair Boeing 737 back to Cape Town. It was another fine day: mild, no wind, cloudless blue sky, minimal smog – just like all the other days we had been in Joburg. He chaperoned us as far as he could, we said goodbye, and checked our hand luggage through the metal detectors. I was surprised when the official told me to add my hat to the basket. Never try and be smart with officials, I reminded myself, and refrained from asking him if he wanted my shoes as well.

In the passenger lounge Kryś picked up three free newspapers and we looked about for somewhere to buy a sandwich. Kauia. Never heard of it. She later Googled it; even the pronunciation. These were no low-class, pre-packed sandwiches, and we had to wait a good ten minutes while the woman behind the counter put them together. I had chicken mayo, and Kryś cheese and tomato between sourdough bread. Freshly made and hot out of the snackwich machine, one hundred bucks seemed a fair price and not too extravagant, seeing we were on holiday.

We made sure our bladders were empty, bar a few dregs, and took a seat for ten minutes before joining the queue at Gate 3. I did not enjoy standing there for a quarter of an hour, and worried that I might come over dizzy, like I did on the ramparts above the prison at Constitution Hill. It was a relief when we were allowed to descend onto the runway and then climb the boarding stairs. This time we were seated towards the back of the plane behind the wings, and there was a better perspective of the cabin, which was about three quarters full. Kryś sat between me on the aisle and an elderly German woman at the window.

Take-off and ascent were exhilarating, aware as we were that engine failure could send us plummeting to our death. We levelled up and unbuckled seat belts. It was then that she asked me what I had done with our free newspapers. Damn it! I must have left them on the chair in the passenger lounge. Not that we could have opened a paper in such cramped conditions, but it would have been interesting to look at them at leisure back in Pearly Beach. She agreed that I was a stupid old bugger.

At a quarter to one I suggested we tackle our fancy sandwiches. Mine had plenty of chicken but was a little short on mayo, while Kryś found hers entirely to her liking. Slow eaters, it took us nearly half an hour to munch our way through lunch, taking more than twice as long as a ‘normal’ person would need to wolf down a semi-masticated sarmie. By necessity, I tend to eat slowly because I only have 20 teeth left, twelve of the original allocation having fallen out or been pulled. On the other hand, my wife is a slow eater by design. She intentionally chews her food to a smooth paste before swallowing it in order to facilitate the digestive process. She also maintains that she is better able to savour the taste of what eventually ends up as wate matter after all nutrients have been extracted.

It was not long before we began the gradual descent to Cape Town International. After a turbulence-free flight the pilot got us to our destination punctually at exactly 2.20pm. Unfortunately, he blotted his copybook at the last moment by touching down with such a thump, I thought the undercarriage would collapse and the plane would skid to Arrivals on its belly. Luckily, this did not happen and he was able to taxi to the main airport building on all 6 wheels.

We had told Walter, the owner of GB Shuttles, that our estimated time of arrival was 2.20pm, and we foolishly believed that once we had disembarked, we would collect our old-fashioned luggage and proceed to P2, where our lift would be waiting for us.

P2 is an underground parking area with a pick-up section. There was no sign of Walter, so Kryś phoned him. He said Francois, our driver, had her number and would be in touch. It was now 3.30. We made our way over to the stainless-steel bench against the Passenger Waiting wall and sat down. Kryś’s phone dinged. It was a message from Francois to say he would be with us at 4.20. Christ, that was nearly another hour we were going to have to wait in this mausoleum! And we didn’t even have a newspaper to read!

I took a walk around the chill periphery of this echoing hellhole, breathing the toxic fumes of the cars that came and went. I returned to my spouse, who was keeping an eye on our luggage and waiting patiently.

“This is a fuck-up,” I said. “After such a great time with Guy and Jen, we end the holiday on a sour note. It’s going to be dark by the time we get home. And that’s if this goon pitches up at all!”

“Oh, stop whining! It has already gone four. Not long to wait now.”

At 4.30 she messaged Walter: ‘Francois said he would be here at 4.20. It is now 4.30.’ The answer came back: ‘He is right there.’

A silver-grey Kia Sedona had pulled up in front of us. GB Shuttles was written on the door. The man who came round from the driver’s side looked about 60, had a huge belly, and walked with difficulty. He refrained from explaining why he was nearly two hours late, and dispensed with apologies. Despite being relieved to see him, I was surly, and made him load the luggage into the back of the vehicle without helping him, even though he appeared to be in pain. Kryś chose to sit in the back, so I got in next to the chauffeur and he drove us out into the afternoon sunshine.

My seat was astonishingly comfortable, ergonomically designed with the needs of those suffering from spondylosis of the lumbar spine kept in mind. A far cry from the non-reclining, cramped accommodation foisted on travellers by the avaricious Airline Corporations. To his credit, the transport Walter provides for his clients is more than adequate. This luxurious 7-seater must have cost him a pretty penny.

The Friday traffic exiting the City was heavy but moving at a brisk pace. I had decided to show my displeasure at having been kept waiting by not talking to Francois and merely grunting if he attempted to engage me in conversation. However, he seemed an affable sort and kept up a commentary, to which my wife was responding with interest, and my resolve soon dissolved. After all, if I saw myself as a student of the human condition, why miss the opportunity to hear another autobiography complete with analysis and pronouncements on the state of the world, the meaning of life and the price of cheese?

He was talking about the elections that were coming up in five days’ time. He held up his left thumb to show the blue-black mark on the nail.

“We had a home visit this morning. With my knees, I can’t stand in a queue, and my wife has five auto-immune diseases. Every vote for the DA counts. We have got to stand together and keep those people out of the Western Cape.”

He had more to say about ‘those people,’ describing how useless, corrupt and backward they were. When I asked him if he had ever been accused of being a racist, he answered with glee, as if he had been hoping I would ask him just such a leading question.

“I’m not a racist. I don’t hate white people.”

As we approached Somerset West, his phone, which was on speaker, rang. It was Walter, and he suggested stopping to buy the clients coffee and a hotdog, seeing they had been kept waiting for so long. I firmly declined the offer, stressing the urgency of our desire to get home as soon as possible.

The traffic began to thin as we started the long climb over the pass. I asked him what was wrong with his knees, having already diagnosed part of the problem. My knees would also be buckling under the weight of such a massive gut. It spread out in front of him and to the side like a half-full sack of mealie meal and almost reached the steering wheel. He said he had played competitive hockey right up to the age of 45, and his joints had taken a hammering. What about knee replacements? No. The orthopaedic surgeon at the state hospital in Worcester had taken one look at him and refused point blank.

“I was 160 kg’s then. Now I’m down to 140. I don’t have any pain while driving or sitting in a chair, or lying down. It’s only when I stand and try to walk. I will just have to live with it. It could be worse, you know.”

For a second time he coughed so horribly I nearly put down the window and spat on his behalf. Christ, had he swallowed that lot? My wife, who is far more knowledgeable in medical matters, later assured me it was not phlegm that I had heard rumbling and gurgling; it was a classic smoker’s cough erupting down deep in his lungs as dead tissue was sloughed off, resulting in irritation to his inflamed bronchi.

“I am the only smoker I have known who has never wanted to quit. You know how much satisfaction I get in the morning when I have that first smoke with a cup of coffee?”

“It’s an expensive habit, these days. Cigarettes aren’t cheap.”

“Depends where you buy them.” He picked up the pack lying in the well between hand brake and gear lever. “R7.50. I get them from Bagit, the Chinese shop. No tax, you see.”

He was a good driver. I approved of the way he obeyed the speed limit and kept a respectable following distance. And it helped that it was a powerful vehicle with a 7-speed transmission that gave a smooth ride. Not like our old Venture, which requires multiple gear changes and a heavy foot on the accelerator to climb hills or overtake other vehicles.

“I was a rep for 12 years, and I used to drive 7000 kilometres a month. But then the management changed, and they got rid of the other guy and expected me to cover his route as well as my own for the same salary. At the end of the month I handed them the keys and walked out.”

We were approaching The Orchard farm stall. On the left informal housing stretched away from us in a jumble of corrugated iron.

“More and more shacks. There’s no work for them but they keep coming. Have you ever bought apples from them at the side of the road?”

“Hell, no,” I said.

“The best apples in the world. The big red ones. You never get them in the shops, because they get exported. We only get the rubbish they can’t sell to the Europeans. R20 a bag; they taste divine.”

“Isn’t it dangerous to stop? And those apples are stolen?”

“I’ve never had any hassles. Fantastic value for R20.”

His wife was on the phone, and she did not sound like she suffered from five auto-immune diseases. But who am I to judge a person’s state of health from the sound of their voice on speaker phone? There was only a trickle of water. They had a plumbing problem and needed a number 13 spanner. He told her his toolbox was in the car, and the car was at Walter’s.

“I was 200 metres from Walter’s when the cam belt broke this morning. That’s major damage to the pistons. A backyard mechanic is supposed to come and look at it and give a quote. All my tools are in the car. I don’t know why she and the boy can’t get a spanner from one of the neighbours.

He lives at Uilkraal, which is a kind of upmarket trailer park. The house is small but he likes it there. The sea and the lagoon are on their doorstep, and it’s nice and quiet and safe most of the time.

It is getting dark as we enter Hermanus. I am surprised that we are already there, time having gone by largely unnoticed, thanks to our driver.

“After repping I worked as a barman. At the Sea View, and then at Oppie Dek, and also Kuslanks. A few times at the Sea View, where I was also bouncer.” I found it hard to imagine him bouncing anyone, unless he was to fall on top of them. “I don’t believe in violence. I just tell a troublemaker they will be banned for two weeks if they don’t leave. It usually works, but the worst troublemakers are the women. Man, there are some rough ladies in Gansbaai! And can they vloek, and throw things!? Glasses and bottles and billiard ball, you name it.”

His wife was on the phone again. Now there was no water at all. He told her to send the boy to the neighbours to borrow a spanner. The boy, he said, was her adult son who had come to live with them because he had a drug problem.

“He is coming right with us, but I have to watch him like I’m a psychologist.”

He also told his wife he would be late, because he first had to take clients to Pearly Beach. In the meantime, she must take out the fish from the freezer.

The Klein River lagoon was reflecting the last light from the west and was fast losing its lustre. It would be dark when we reached Stanford.

“My fisherman friend gave me three katonkil. I will fry them when I get home.”

“Katonkil is a good fish,” my wife, who gets our fish from Boetie Otto when she goes shopping on a Friday, spoke from her seat in the dark just behind me. “It’s very nice on the braai.”

There was still a fair amount of traffic. After Stanford the country side and the sky turned so dark only the road lit by our headlights and the lights from other vehicles were visible.

Walter again. The mechanic had been, but he said it was too big a job. Not worth it. And trips for the rest of the week had been cancelled. Francois was silent as he digested this double whammy. Then he sighed.

“We will just have to make a plan, like we always do.”

Gansbaai was still wide awake, with police vans pulling up in front of the cop shop, cars and bakkies waiting for petrol at Caltex and Shell, and patrons parked on both sides of Jimmy Rockets. Ok Foods was doing a brisk trade, and there was a queue outside the Absa ATM. Gangsters in a mobile boombox nearly rammed a Quantum at the four-way. Light traffic all the way to Fraskraal. I was relieved he did not want to call in at Uilkraal. Across the way at Johnny Rockets, the boozers were playing darts and pouring alcoholic beverages down their throats, and then we were out into the dark.

And I mean dark. I would not have known we had crossed the lagoon if the concrete railings had not shown up in the headlights, and from there on there was nothing to tell us where we were until we passed Duineveld. Just four cars parked outside.

For the next 10 k’s we drove in silence until his GPS told him to go right in 300 metres. The big green and white signboard repeated the instruction and he obeyed, turning into the stretch of road lit by five solar-powered street lights. For the last 5 k’s of our journey, only the woman who knew where we were going spoke, and I had the feeling our driver was done with talking to us.

There could be no doubt that we had left civilization behind us and were now in the depths of the countryside. If we did not know better, we might have thought there were only half a dozen habitations in Pearly Beach.

“Your destination is 200 metres on the left.”

The headlights lit up the path and the front of the house, and I hurried stiffly round to the back door, disarmed and unlocked. I turned on lights, picked up a torch, opened the front door and hastened, less stiffly now, down to the car. Kryś had meantime handed over the cash, all R1760 of it, and unloaded our luggage.

“Thanks for the ride,” I called out, But he was already reversing into the road.

We got our goods into the house. She trotted to the toilet while I went out to check whether the garage and the shed had been broken into, and if the car was still in the carport. Before turning on my torch, I stood on the stoep and savoured the night air, which was cool and clean in my nostrils. I could hear nothing apart from the faint mumbling of the sea in the distance. No sound of traffic, and no activity over at Eluxolweni. Jesus, it was quiet! And dark! It hit me like an epiphany, as if an extreme event had taken place in my brain. I later attributed this astonishment and awe to the dramatic contrast between city life and living out in the sticks. For ten days we had been immersed in unceasing traffic, street lights, headlights, the lights of houses and commercial buildings, lights everywhere at night, the smog from exhaust fumes and smoke, the constant sound of human activity, and the ubiquitous presence of thousands and thousands of people. And now we were plunged into this void. The shock was exhilarating, and I realised I would not have experienced it to this extent if we had arrived in daylight. Instead of our holiday ending with a disappointed whimper (from me), it had climaxed with a bang. And for this satisfactory ending to a holiday that had doubled as an adventure we owed thanks to Walter and his driver.

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

My Building Career

 

In my late twenties, disillusioned with city life, I began to dream of building a simple seaside cottage well away from civilization. At that time Pearly beach seemed as good a place as any, so, on returning from a year on Gough Island with a few thousand in my bank account, I began my building career.

 

Knowing next to nothing about the process, I bought a book entitled Building Basics, and got started. At the same time, I fell in love with a woman in Cape Town, and persuaded her to give up her job and join me. She agreed, the house got built, after a fashion, and we settled in. Oh, but life was so hunky-dory! Then, loathsome reality poked its filthy face round the corner. Money. 

“Damn it,” I said to my wife one day, “I am going to have to find work and earn a living for us. But what can I do?”

“You have learned the basics of building, sort of,” she said, as she stroked her belly. “Maybe you could find some odd jobs, like building a garden wall, or a septic tank?”

My first job was a concrete strip driveway. Then I met Fred October, who claimed to be a bricklayer, and said he would work for me and put together a team if I could land a contract.

One day, I saw a man loitering in the bush not far away, so I approached him and asked him what he was up to. He said he was the owner of the erf he was standing on, and it was his intention to build a holiday house right there. He had an approved plan and all he now needed was a builder. Well, of course I told him I was a building contractor and I could start tomorrow.

“I’ve just landed my first big job,” I told my spouse, whose belly had gone down after it had been vacated by our first born, a daughter. “I will have to get up at the crack of dawn in the freezing cold tomorrow, drive to Elim, and find Fred.

“You poor thing. We’ll have to get to bed early, then”

I found Fred, whose father and older brother also happened to be bricklayers and were willing to work for me.

“I can get four good labourers, and that will be enough. But you must buy a bakkie and some tools and two wheelbarrows.”

Taking his advice, I sold my Peugeot station wagon and acquired a battered Isuzu diesel bakkie from a farmer, and the next Monday saw me back in Elim to pick up my team of seven.

At this point I must confess to using a strategy that has served me well over the years. I pretended to know far more than I actually did, and issued instructions that left plenty of scope for the artisans to exercise their own discretion. In this way I have learned a lot and been credited with expertise and depth of knowledge I do not possess. It is a subterfuge that requires an act of faith on my part. I have to believe there is always a solution to a problem, and that it will be revealed to me if I conceal my ignorance and coax others to apply their minds and share their know-how.

By using this cunning method, I was able to complete my first major assignment to the satisfaction of the owner, who recommended me to a friend, and from there I never looked back. By that I mean I got going, and not that I never made mistakes or had regrets. Christ, no!

Another admission. I am not cut out for playing the role of an employee. By this I mean I am temperamentally incapable of meeting the expectations of an employer who is looking for someone with a good work ethic. My father, who was apprenticed at the age of 14 and worked until he was 65, saw my reluctance to hold down a job for more than three months before taking an extended holiday as a flaw in my character. I once overheard him describe me as both feckless and work-shy, and he might have had a point, but the strange thing is that, when self-employed, I apply myself with diligence and perseverance. So much so, that my building career eventually spanned 17 years.

For seventeen years I toiled unceasingly in order to provide for a wife and two children.

Beginning in Pearly Beach, I built seven houses and four garages, and completed several alterations and additions too numerous to remember with accuracy. Then, because work was scarce, I decided to look further afield. A sizable alteration in Hermanus came my way, and then I heard of a project in the industrial area that involved converting a warehouse into a marine workshop and sales room. The entrepreneur behind this scheme was a wealthy Dutchman who had recently arrived in the country and was looking for ways to launder his money and enjoy an opulent lifestyle while escaping the European winters. I think he saw in me the qualities that would render me malleable in his hands. I was outwardly hard working, honest and naive. It was only later that I began to understand the devious way his mind worked and what lay behind his business ventures.

He proposed setting up a construction company with me as its manager and he as the controlling investor. The first assignment would be to build him a mansion on a huge property overlooking the Onrus lagoon.

Enticed by the prospect of prestigious work and the financial backing to acquire the vehicles and equipment that would be necessary to tackle large projects, I agreed to go into ‘partnership’ with the man. It meant staying in Hermanus and only returning to PB for the occasional weekend, and for the next ten years, with my wife as bookkeeper, I slaved away at trying to establish a successful construction company. Predictably, it all ended in tears.

We built dozens of luxury homes, a school in Bredasdorp, and a 20-unit complex in Glencairn, but increasing friction with the Dutchman finally led to an acrimonious parting of ways, and the demise of the business.

Apart from a bakkie and some tools, I walked away with next to ‘fokol’ to show for the years of stress and hard work.

“Now what am I going to do?”

“Reinvent yourself. You could start by looking for odd jobs, like a garden wall or a septic tank.”

I followed her advice and, with the help of my trusty foreman, George Montaque, it was not long before the work started coming in. Over the next seven years I established Ian Martin Construction, building luxury homes for wealthy clients, as well as some commercial projects like a winery and cellar, a restaurant, and an ambitious development on the seafront.

At one stage there were just over a hundred men on the payroll, not to mention several subcontractors. On the surface of it I seemed to be doing well, but trouble was brewing. Overheads were high, and three large contracts ran into trouble, one after the other. And making running the business increasingly difficult was my deteriorating eyesight.

“You shouldn’t be driving.”

“I know. I can’t read plans any more, either, and people are taking advantage of me. The writing is on the wall.”

When another builder made an offer to take over the business, I accepted gladly, even though the deal was heavily loaded in his favour.

“We will have to sell up and move back to Pearly Beach,” I told my wife. The children can be home schooled, and maybe you can find work in Gansbaai.”

That is how my 17-year building career came to an end. It was at the close of the 20^th century and I was 49. I took on the dual roles of school teacher and domestic servant while my wife became the bread winner.

So, what did I have to show for those 17 years? What had I achieved? I had provided us with a comfortable living, but had been unable to amass enough to provide financial security into the future. Was it all for nothing?

“You built a lot of high-quality houses and learned about running a business. More importantly, once you got away from that Dutch crook, you have been honest and fair in your dealings with clients and employees, as well as subcontractors and suppliers. And, in spite of all the rubbish that has come your way, you haven’t become bitter, and you have retained your sense of humour.”

“I suppose so. And I have learned a little about human nature and the way of the world. Did I ever tell you about how that Van Huysteen woman tried to seduce me after a site inspection? You know, the one whose husband cheated me out of my retention money? That fancy house down at Kwaaiwater?”

“Yes. More than once. You’re lucky she didn’t succeed, or I would have thrown you out on your ear, minus your manhood. But what did you learn from that experience that you didn’t already know?”

“Well, it was further evidence that members of the moneyed class, including the women, behave just as badly, if not worse than the rest of us.”

“And the workers? What did they teach you? Remember Melvyn Minaar? How he always got drunk on half a beer at the roof wetting parties, and played an oil can banjo and sang something about oh, my darling, I love you? What did you pick up about human nature from that?”

“Nothing specific. Just another detail in the bigger picture.”

We could have continued reminiscing about my building career, but a feeling of mental fatigue came over me. Twenty-five years later, I still have no desire to dwell on that period in my life, which must mean it was largely a failed undertaking. I made many bad choices and wrong decisions, and it has left me with a lingering sense of regret and self-loathing.

“I should have stayed small and never aspired to be anything more than a bakkie builder,” I tell her, and she agrees.

“With a small team you could have made an adequate living here in Pearly Beach, and spared us all that stress. But you wanted to get rich quick in order to stop working and sit around tippling and contemplating your navel.”

So, there we are. We agree that my building career was a fuck-up. Fortunately, she was able to go out to work and provide for the family, and I embarked on a new career, the last, which was to prove as unsuccessful as the previous ones. I shall describe it in a future post and add it to the list:

My Military Career

My Academic Career

My Nursing Career

My Writing Career

 

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