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.

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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.)

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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. 

Injury on Gough Island

This photograph of the Gough 26 team was taken in October 1980 shortly before the Agulhas departed with the members of Gough 25 and the PWD (Public Works Department) workers. The man on the extreme right was an Army chaplain and not part of the team. (I think God had wangled a free trip for him on the pretext of him being needed to perform the last rites for anyone unfortunate enough to kick the bucket while so far from civilization. He too returned to Cape Town with the ship.) 

I can be seen standing on the left with a morose look on my face. At the back are Barney Barnard and Thys Kotze, and in the middle are Gordon McIntyre, Peter Stockwell and Kevin Brito. Squatting in front are Ray Holland and John Stone.

In contrast to John’s, my right hand is hanging limp and relaxed, while his is cupped, as if he was holding something about the size of a cricket ball. The explanation for this is that he was recovering from a recent injury to that hand and he had lost all feeling in his thumb. The accident had occurred right at the beginning of the takeover period some three weeks prior to when the photo was taken.

It was after the evening meal and he was reclining in his lower bunk with a drink on the bedside locker. The other occupants of the room were at least half drunk and in a boisterous mood. Two of them began a wrestling match in the top bunk and as John reached out for his drink one of them fell from above. The bulk of the man’s weight landed on the locker as John picked up his drink. The glass broke in his hand and inflicted a deep gash in the palm just below the thumb.

As I was supposed to be the medic, I was called upon to attend to the casualty. The situation did not look promising on three counts: I had been drinking, I had never done any suturing before and, even then, my eyesight was far from sharp. I was however a better bet than the Gough 25 medic, who was also drunk and had no training other than in the gelding of horses as a veterinary assistant in the Cavalry Corps.

I told all onlookers to stand back and stop breathing toxic fumes onto the open wound and went to work. First, I thoroughly washed and sanitized the gaping flesh with a liberal application of Dettol solution that stung like hell but was necessary. I filled a syringe with Lignocaine local anaesthetic and injected small quantities into several sites either side of the torn skin. I said we should now wait ten minutes for the drug to take effect and someone thoughtfully brought me something to steady my nerve.

I knew that I was incapable of performing any fancy stitchwork so I just took the curved needle and did some sewing the way my mother had shown me. Six stitches seemed sufficient, I wiped my brow, knocked back the rest of my brandy and Coke and got on with the easy part of the operation. A liberal amount of Bactroban antibiotic ointment, a surgical dressing and a crepe bandage to hold it in place and protect the cut, and I was nearly done with the patient. All that was needed was to provide him with a sling to keep his hand elevated and out of harm’s way.

 

Having spent more than a year at SANAE in the Antarctic and a year on Marion Island John was well qualified for the role of team leader. He also served as diesel mechanic, which meant that he was responsible for keeping the generator in good running order, ensuring an uninterrupted power supply. Despite his injury he continued to perform his duties, struggling one-handedly for several weeks until he regained the use of his right hand.

After returning to Cape Town the team members parted ways and for more than 30 years, I heard nothing from him. Then, out of the blue, a phone call. John Stone. He was on his way to Suiderstrand, near Agulhas. Would it be convenient if he called in at Pearly Beach?

We did some reminiscing, the way old toppies do, and he showed me his hand. There was no trace of a scar. Furthermore, he had regained full sensation in his thumb, much to the surprise of more than one member of the medical fraternity who had been told about what had happened. John seemed to think that I had contributed to his full recovery and we agreed that the happy outcome bordered on the miraculous.

 

This photograph was taken just before we left the island. Kevin is not present because he soon realised that he made a mistake and was temperamentally unsuited to a life of extreme isolation and managed to get passage back to South Africa with a fishing trawler heading that way.

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Frikkie And Plug Start A Business

Plug could have gone to university and acquired any degree that took his fancy. It would have been as easy as plucking fruit from a tree. But academia didn’t appeal to him. 

“I would rather be an autodidact,” he told Frikkie. “It’s the only way to get a truly well-rounded education.”

Frikkie was in no position to worry about further education of any sort, let alone embarking on a 10-year self-education project. His father had set the wolf at his door by refusing him succour and shelter on his return from the army.

“I do not tolerate parasites in my house,” Meneer Welgemoed told his wife. “It will be good for him if he is hungry and has nowhere to sleep. Then he will find a job very quickly.”

Plug was accommodated in the servant’s quarters at the back of his parent’s garage. 

“They are happy to provide me with free board and lodging,” he said, “Because I go out of my way to be agreeable whenever I see them. “We enjoy intelligent conversation over dinner, and they respect my privacy.”

Plug allowed Frikkie to sleep on a platform between the roof trusses above the family car, and he fed him on stale bread and scraps from the table. Like Meneer Welgemoed, Plug thought it unwise to make Frikkie too comfortable.

“I must find work,’ said Frikkie.

“What kind of work do you have in mind?” asked Plug.

“That’s the problem,” said Frikkie. “I don’t have any skills, so I don’t know who would want to employ me.”

“Hmmm,” said Plug. “You used to be skilled at climbing trees. How about tree felling? And please don’t ever talk about working for an employer again.” 

While in the army plug had received some advice from the Quartermaster.

“If you want to learn how to make good money in the world of business and finance, and you don’t want to actually have to do any work, all you need to do is observe and then imitate the behaviour of the members of an upmarket golf club.”

Accordingly, immediately upon discharge, Plug had taken a 2-week job as a waiter in the clubhouse of a larney Country Club. In that fortnight he absorbed a great deal of important information. The single most useful observation had to do with what he called the ‘cigarette box scheme.’

“I soon noticed a pattern,” he said. “Whenever two or more of these capitalists began discussing something in earnest, it was inevitable that one of them would start scribbling on the back of a cigarette box. Dunhill, usually. Looking over their shoulders, I saw that it was simple arithmetic, with an emphasis on multiplication. It became apparent to me that the inspiration for every innovative idea in the history of human civilisation was developed on the back of a cigarette box, or a scrap of material similar in size.”

“Our garden boy used to do sums in the sand with a stick,” said Frikkie.

“Exactly,” said Plug. “How much space does one need to write down E=mc²?”

“A matchbox would be plenty big enough,” said Frikkie.

Plug then produced from his pocket a piece of foolscap and a ballpoint. The paper was folded in half, and half again.

“Not being a bloody fool,” he said, “I don’t smoke, and as a consequence don’t carry a cigarette box around with me. But this is roughly the same size, and far more convenient. If I use both sides it’s equivalent to 8 cigarette boxes. That’s space for 8 brilliant ideas.”

He then began to make some calculations and devise a business plan for Frikkie.

“You will need a bakkie, a chain saw, an extension ladder and miscellaneous hand tools. The money I made from redirecting military supplies should be just enough if we buy everything second hand. I will charge you 20 percent interest on the loan, and as your bookkeeper and financial director I want 40 percent of your profits. What do you want to call the company?”

They kicked a few possibilities around and settled for Tarzan Treefellers.

“Now for some employees. If you have good workers you can get away with being stupid and lazy. On the other hand, if your workers are lazy and stupid, your business is likely to fail, no matter how astute you are, or how hard you try. You must pay them just above the going rate, they must be intelligent and willing, and their respect for you can be tinged with fear but not hatred. The time has now come for you to suppress your racial bigotry and stop referring to black people as kaffirs, coons and houtkops. You want your employees to work for you, and not against you.”

With Plug as his advisor, Frikkie was soon lopping branches and felling trees at a furious pace. He enjoyed the hard physical work and the satisfaction of being his own boss. His two workers were not as strong as he was but more importantly, their intelligence was superior to his. By following Plug’s advice to curb his ingrained racial prejudice, he was now able to recognise this embarrassing state of affairs and turn it to his advantage. Whenever faced with a difficult task he would instruct his men to get started while he pretended to tinker with the bakkie’s engine. Once they had worked out a procedure to follow, he would close the bonnet and order them to carry on with what they were doing.

“I approve of this strategy,” said Plug. “It’s a sign of shrewdness. You have worked out, all on your own, the style of management preferred by the majority of businessmen in South Africa. You behave as if you have everything under control and you know exactly what’s going on, when in fact you are pretty clueless about most aspects of the work to be done. You have learned to take credit for other people’s ideas and hard work, you blame others for your incompetence and ineptitude, and, most important, you never ever admit you were wrong. You should do well, Frikkie.”

After a year Frikkie was able to repay his debt to Plug, the 20 percent interest included. After two years he had grown his workforce to ten men and he had bought a second bakkie. Plug announced it was time to diversify.

Click here for the full text of Frikkie and Plug.

Meditations of Marcus Aurelius

In my teens and early twenties, I suffered from severe bouts of mental anguish whenever I tried to make sense of my existence. I had long since dismissed religion and belief in the supernatural as little better than magic and superstition as a way to explain the world and the purpose of human beings in it. I grappled with questions relating to suffering and injustice, and got nowhere.

In my youthful naivete, I searched for a source of wisdom that would help me discover the reason for why I was living this stupid life. Reading widely, I could find no satisfactory answers to the central question, so I shifted my search to finding out how to cope with living in a world of senseless conflict and cruelty. By chance, I stumbled upon a Penguin Classic, Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations.

Aurelius (121-180 AD) was a Roman emperor who spent much of his time leading campaigns against enemies of the Empire. It was while he was supervising the subjugation or slaughter of those challenging Roman rule that he composed most of his philosophical writing. His brand of Stoicism appealed to me, as it suggested a way to deal with the misfortunes that were bound to beset me as I blundered my way through life. Basically, what he was telling me was to stop whining and, grit my teeth and put up with all this crap, because things could be worse; far worse. I got it.

In my semi-autobiographical novel, The Life of Henry Fuckit I incorporated a scene in which Henry is given a copy of the Meditations:

MIKE: Greetings, gentlemen. (Formally shakes hands.) Hello, Fackit. Glad to see you, and so sorry to hear about your mishap. (Shakes Henry's hand vigorously.) I brought you some assorted dried fruit to promote digestion and regularity. And also some reading matter - I know you've always got your nose in a book. I asked the bookshop owner to recommend something philosophical, but none of that damn existentialist crap you were so fond of. Something to uplift you and strengthen the character.

STEVE: What was your choice? Dale Carnegie? Billy Graham?

JOE: (Takes book from packet.) 'The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.' Not a bad choice, Mike.

IVOR: Stone cold stoicism. I don't know about STRENGTHENING the character. STRANGLING the character is more like it. Stoicism, asceticism, Spartanism, flagellation, self-deprivation, cold showers, abstinence, frugality, humility, chastity, and all manner of self-loathing. A mirthless devotion to duty and virtue. I don't know, Mike. I somehow doubt whether he's ready for the straight and narrow, but I might be wrong.

JOE: Ah, here we are Henry. This is for you. "Do not say 'How unlucky I am, that this should have happened to me!' By no means; say rather, 'How lucky I am, that it has left me with no bitterness; unshaken by the past, and undismayed by the future.'

STEVE: Ag, it's all very well to urge an oke to be dispassionate and long-suffering, but does that deal with any of the underlying problems? What Henry needs to do is analyse where he went wrong and how he got himself into this condition in the first place.

JOE: Not so easy. How do you pinpoint a moment or an event in your life and say, This is where I fucked up? Too facile.

Read the full text here.

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On the Beach: Nurdle Gatherers

For several weeks a team of workers has been seen at high water mark along our coast sifting sand in search of nurdles. These plastic resin pellets used in the manufacture of plastic products have become a major source of pollution around the world. They absorb poisonous chemicals and when mistaken for food are harmful to sea creatures like fish, turtles, whales and sea birds. In recent months an increase in this form of pollution has been evident as it washes up on our beaches.

In the past year there have been at least two major spills at sea involving containers falling overboard. These accidents have had disastrous consequences requiring costly clean-up operations along the Cape coastline. The team of workers seen in Pearly Beach has been laboriously sifting sand in order to recover the pellets that have floated ashore.

These workers are employed by SpillTech, a company specialising in hazardous waste management and emergency response to accidental spills. When contacted, the spokesperson for the company was unwilling to respond to the following questions:

Who was responsible for the spills?

Who is paying for the clean-up?

How much is being paid for the operation?

What quantity of nurdles has been recovered so far?

Sand being sifted for nurdles at Pearly Beach.

Nurdles at Buffeljagsbaai on 8 November 2020.

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