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.