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