On the Beach: A Ship’s Hawser

It is now but seldom that a rough sea brings ashore any flotsam of interest. Usually, it is just nurdles and microplastics. Also, plastic bags and bottles, and the occasional lobster trap, or a wooden pallet, or some fishing net. Nothing worthy of much note. So, when I saw some heavy rope entangled with kelp lying just above the high tide mark, I stopped to take a closer look, and I am glad that I did.

It was exceptionally thick and had a colony of barnacles growing on it, which meant that it had been floating in the ocean for some time, possibly years. When I saw the two loops encased in protective sleeves, I realised this was a complete hawser that was once used to moor a large ocean-going vessel. Because it was entangled in kelp, it was difficult to judge its length, but I would say it was a good ten meters long. When I tried to move one end it proved far too heavy for a feeble old codger like me, and I wished somebody such as Soutie or the Beachcomber  would arrive on the scene and use their brute strength to help haul the rope out straight for closer examination. No such luck.

On doing some research, I learned some interesting facts about ropes, cables and hawsers that are made from natural fibres and not nylon or steel wire.

I already knew that ‘hawser’ is a nautical term for a thick cable or rope used in mooring or towing a ship. What I was not aware of was that some rope is waterproof, and some not. According to Wikipedia:

Ordinary rope is not waterproof. When a ship anchors in relatively deep water (greater than about 35 metres or 20 fathoms), the anchor and rope that is let down becomes drenched with water, becoming prohibitively difficult to raise again, even with a mechanism like a capstan. This ultimately limits the depths available with ordinary rope to within the weight bearing capacity of the rope. The rope will become so heavy with water it will break.

The traditional instructions, according to the British Royal Navy in the age of sail, are: Three large strands of tightly woven rope of about 200 metres (110 fathoms) in length are themselves tightly woven in a direction counter to the weave, or twist, of the rope and clamped together over intervals to provide one strong length of rope that is effectively waterproof. The three ropes are so tightly wound counter to the weave of the constituent ropes that the fibers are compressed and the individual weaves stressed, sealing out the water and resulting in a length of about 180 metres (100 fathoms), the UK traditional definition of  cable length. Using a cable, the raising of the anchor, or any activity involving submerging the cable, is not more strenuous than lowering.

Furthermore:

Hawsers are not cables. Hawsers are ropes of arbitrary length woven together to increase the strength of the overall line, but are not considered waterproof as the weave of the hawser goes with the weave of the constituent ropes. This has been come to be known as "hawser laid" and "cable laid". 

Enlightened, I now understood why that hawser on the beach was so damned heavy. And to think that I could have gone to the grave ignorant of such fascinating facts!

Two days after it was washed up, the hawser was gone, consumed by the beach. Maybe it will emerge if we get a big enough storm this winter and heavy waves scour the sand away. I will be on the lookout but I do not expect to see it again.

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

Memory Project: Beira

 

In landlocked Rhodesia the nearest destination for a seaside holiday was Beira, the second biggest town in Mozambique. My father persuaded my mother that it would be good for all of us to take a two-week break, and that the most affordable and fun way to do this was to go camping.

He was acquainted with a man known as Old Oosthuizen who lived two streets away. An artisan of sorts, he had built a caravan that he was prepared to rent out at a very good price. It had a home-made look about it, the box-like bodywork being of unpainted aluminium. It slept four, had a folding table and two cupboards but no fridge or stove. There was also a side tent.

The distance from Gwelo to Beira was about 700 kilometres, which was too far to travel in a day, considering the state of the roads. Accordingly, we set off at a slow pace in the Ford Zephyr, Oosthuizen’s caravan in tow, intending to stop over in Umtali. We climbed the Christmas Pass outside the town, pulled into a motel and hired a chalet for the night. The area was mountainous and forested, and much greener than the drab countryside around Gwelo.

In the morning after breakfast Alan felt an urgent need to empty his bowels. Finding the toilet occupied, he hurried off into the undergrowth. Unfortunately for him, he chose to go downhill from the chalet and my father happened to catch sight of him squatting in the greenery. His anger was so intense it made me suspect that at times he actually hated his oldest son.

“You are never to do that again, do you hear me?” he told the disgusting bush crapper on his return. “That’s what Natives do; not Europeans.”

It was about 300 km’s from Umtali to Beira. The road was mostly untarred and in poor condition, making progress slow. At a certain point we had to cross the Pungwe River by pontoon, there being no bridge. The last crossing of the day was at 4 o’clock, which meant we should be there no later than three, in case there was a queue. It was after three when we reached the flood plain known as the Pungwe Flats. My father drove as fast as he dared, but there was a cross wind and Oosthuizen’s caravan was an aerodynamic disaster. At a certain speed it began to swing from side to side in an alarming fashion. An oncoming motorist hooted angrily and shook his fist as he took evasive action.

Fortunately we made it in time for the pontoon, were winched across the river, passed through some tropical forest with monkeys swinging in the trees, and made it to Beira by late afternoon. As we passed a smartly uniformed policeman with long white gloves directing traffic at an intersection, Alan leaned out of the window and shouted, “Caramba! Caramba! Treshertinda yonda scootas! Radioclub da Mozambique!” This was the only ‘Portuguese’ he knew, but from his accent you could have been fooled into thinking he had been born in Lisbon, and not London.

The Estoril Caravan and Camping Resort was situated on the beachfront near the Estoril Hotel. We were allocated a site some distance from the ablution block and Alan and I helped to erect the side tent. Jean, who was about 5 years old, played with her dolls on one of the bunk beds while my mother prepared supper. She heated tinned food on a Primus stove and there was the smell of meths and paraffin as well as cooking. The air was thick and warm, the humidity must have been around 90 percent and everything felt sticky with sea salt. As it grew dark swarms of mosquitoes began to forage for human blood, and we were forced to take refuge inside the caravan behind the mosquito net screens.

The days were hot, the sea was lukewarm and the beach was a dirty brown colour. In that climate and that setting no pleasure could have surpassed the joy of sucking on an ice lolly made from Mazoe citrus concentrate.

On one occasion the camp’s main sewer blocked and a tanker pulled up nearby and a big mobile diesel pump filled it with stinking effluent. Then one evening a car drove slowly up and down with a man in the passenger’s seat leaning out the window shouting into a megaphone. His English was terrible but he managed to convey a message to all campers that they should stay inside while DDT was being sprayed. In due course a truck appeared and then we were engulfed in a dense fog of pesticide that burned in the nose and eyes and seared the throat and lungs. The mosquitoes stayed away for two nights and then returned in even greater numbers.

Our holiday was particularly ill timed from my mother’s perspective. It was after supper a day or two before we were due to pack up and return to Rhodesia. She had gone off to the ablution block and on her return to our cramped little caravan she seemed distressed. She held her toilet bag and towel in front of her but I caught a glimpse of the big red blood stain on her skirt. She murmured to my father that there had been an accident, and when he saw the evidence his reaction was one of exasperation and not sympathy. Not surprisingly she was crying, and between sobs the accusations and recriminations tumbled out. Alan, Jean and I went for a walk to the beach and back.

It was the kind of holiday that left you wondering why you hadn’t rather stayed at home.

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

Talking of Domestic Workers

 

Frikkie And Plug Discuss The Domestic Servant Problem

 

“They cleaned me out,” said Frikkie.

He was taking Plug through his mansion, and his voice bounced about in the empty spaces and made him sound like a guide showing tourists around a mausoleum.

“Must’ve been an inside job,” said Plug. “You say they even took the beds?”

“They even took the fucking beds,” said Frikkie. “No forced entry, and the alarm didn’t go off. All the time in the world.”

“Suspect anyone?”

“That lazy bitch, Constance,” said Frikkie. “I fired her just before we went to the States. Maybe I should have waited until we got back.”

“At least they didn’t take the outdoor furniture,” said Plug. They sat under the big umbrella on the terrace and Frikkie extricated two beers from a six-pack the thieves had kindly overlooked in the garage. “And they couldn’t steal the view. You are fully insured, I take it?”

“Of course,” said Frikkie. “But you know how much hassle this is going to be?”

“This is one of the major drawbacks to living the affluent lifestyle in South Africa,” said Plug. “It’s all very well being waited on hand and foot, but cheap labour comes with a whole lot of crap you really don’t want to have to deal with. From the moment they arrive in the morning it’s nothing but trouble.”

“You’re telling me? That bloody Constance used to drive me crazy. ‘Good morning, Constance.’ ‘Good morning, Mister Frikkie. How are you?’ Of course I had to say, ‘Fine, and you?’ That was her cue, and for the next half hour I would have to listen to all the shit going on in her life. Expensive sob story shit. Her son had been mugged on the train; her husband had been retrenched; bus fares were going up; her grandchild needed an operation. Jesus, there was no end to it, and she constantly needed help. If it wasn’t a handout, then it was a loan. And if it wasn’t a loan, it was a handout.”

“Yah, I know, I know. And if you don’t help them, they make you pay, anyway. Not only do they get dikbek surly, they deliberately break stuff, and hide things, and work incredibly slowly.”

“And when you don’t give in and keep them happy you never know how they will take revenge,” said Frikkie. “Sometimes Constance would serve up a meal, and there would be a very smug look on her face. And I would catch her watching me intently as I sniffed my Scotch and took a sip.”

“That’s their standard procedure with brandy and whisky,” said Plug. “They take their 25 percent and top you up with piss, and there’s no way you can tell without having the stuff tested in a laboratory.”

“They are never happy, no matter how much you give them,” said Frikkie. “I paid that ungrateful cow twice the minimum wage. Four thousand a month, plus breakfast, plus lunch, plus tea, coffee and biscuits whenever she felt peckish. But it was never enough.”

“It seems the more you give them, the more they want,” said Plug. “But that’s typical of human nature right across the board. Our own extravagance and wastefulness corrupt our employees’ values and they become consumed by envy, greed and gluttony. Just like us.”

“You could be right,” said Frikkie. “But I find it hard to feel guilty just at this moment. In fact, I’m convinced that it is me who is the victim here. Christ, my house has been stripped bare!”

“You are lucky you weren’t at home,” said Plug. “They might have roughed you up, or worse. And the vehicles?”

“No, my car was at the airport, and the SUV was with the panel beaters.” Frikkie did not seem to derive much consolation from this. “Now I’ve got to replace all the stolen goods and find another housekeeper. And what if she turns out to be another Constance? Man, I feel trapped!”

“You could downsize and move into a flat and not bother with servants at all,” suggested Plug.

“Are you joking? And have to sweep and vacuum, and wash and iron and cook and do the dishes? And clean the toilet? Are you crazy, or what?” He was treating Plug’s remark with the contempt it deserved. “What’s the point of being rich and not having servants?”

Plug pulled another two bottles of beer from the plastic wrapping.

“All over the world rich people are faced with this problem,” he said. “There is something both shameful and shameless about letting strangers into our homes and getting them to wait on us and clean up our mess, and then sending them back to their hovels and their domestic problems. Yes, the way we exploit poor people by paying them a pittance to work in our palatial residences is shameful. And the way we expose ourselves to these strangers is obscenely shameless. It is not surprising that this relationship between employer and domestic worker is fraught with conflict.”

“You know what that woman said to me when I told her I couldn’t afford to give her another raise only six months after the last one?”

“Mm?”

“She said that the Bible teaches us not to tell lies. Can you believe it? When she knows I am the Archbishop of a church with hundreds of thousands of devout followers? What kind of respect is that?

“No respect at all,” said Plug.

“Then she starts asking me questions like I’m standing in the dock at the TRC. Not that the TRC was worth shit.”

“No, the TRC was worth less than shit. What kind of questions?”

“Well, stuff about the cost of living. She points at my feet and asks how much those boots cost, and looks at a cash slip and tells me R3800 and says she earns R 4000 a month.  And she tells me I look stupid in these boots, and they give me blisters because she heard me telling someone on the phone that these boots are killing me and make my feet stink. And I can waste R3800 on these boots but I can’t afford to give her a R200 a month raise?”

“Their ears are always flapping,” said Plug. “And they have phenomenal memories. Where did she get the cash slip?”

“Hell, I don’t know. She had a whole fistful of them. She held up one about half a metre long. Groceries and booze from Woolworths. Close on seven thousand for a trolley load. And she starts going through items. R90 for a little piece of Blue Vein cheese. R70 for a little tin of oysters. Eighty bucks for an asparagus and mushroom quiche. R240 for a Black Forest cake. Then she starts going through all the meat; all the steak and kebabs and ribbetjies and rashers in marinade. Danmn it, she says it’s enough for six families! And then the wine. R660 for six bottles of Chardonay. 900 for six bottles of Merlot. R720 for six bottles of bubbly.. And then, and now she’s shouting at me, the big bag of dog food. R620! For a dog! And I can’t afford a R200 a month increase? At the end of it she is baring her teeth like a wild animal and I can see she really hates me for the life she has to lead.”

“There’s no way we can deny she has got a point. What we pay them and what we spend on ourselves is utterly shameful and entirely inexcusable. And what we expect them to do for us is despicably shameless.”

“You keep going on about this shameless shit. I mean, what’s so shameless about employing someone to do domestic work for you?”

“It stems from our ingrained sense of superiority,” Plug said. “We think it’s perfectly fine to take this stranger into our home and let her mingle with us and observe us in intimate detail, and allow her access to all our personal stuff and not feel in the least bit embarrassed. After a while we say she is one of the family. But we mean she is one of the family the way the family dog is. Because she is socially inferior we regard her as not quite human like us, and so it doesn’t matter that she knows all this stuff about us.”

“Yah, I kind of see what you’re getting at,” said Frikkie. “Like you don’t care about farting in front of the dog, or letting it see you naked. And even when it comes into the bedroom while you are busy with your partner, you just tell it to fuck off back to its basket in the kitchen, and carry on with what you were doing. Yah, you don’t feel skaam at all.”

“It’s a version of a very old story,” said Plug. “If you dehumanise people it is so much easier to exploit and abuse them.”

“Yah, now you mention it and the more I think about it, it is kind of weird,” said Frikkie. “I mean, I would hate it if a friend or colleague could observe me the way Constance did. It would be a gross violation of my privacy, like having some pervert with his eye to the keyhole watching me in the shower. And then walk around knowing this about me, and maybe telling other people about what I get up to in the bathroom.”

“I bet Constance used to watch you through the keyhole,” said Plug. “You know, that after a time their role changes, and their job is no longer just doing the housework. They become forensic investigators, scrutinising every minute detail of your life.

They examine your dirty washing as they load the automatic, analysing odours and stains. As they hang the clothes on the line they picture you in them, especially your underwear. When they make the beds they are on the lookout for signs of sexual activity. Scrunched up toilet paper and tissues reeking of ejaculate and juice are there under the bed for the maid to pick up and dispose of. Your shameless behaviour confirms your deep lack of respect for her. And for yourself.”

“You seem to know all about it.”

“I do,” said Plug. “I’ve seen it with my own domestic, Blessing. She is far more of a curse than a blessing, but I am too scared of the consequences to get rid of her. You know, I have even seen her using her phone to photograph my stuff, including documents. They all have smart phones and can go home and blow up the images and analyse the info. In this way they are able to compile a body of evidence that cannot fail to have you convicted. The moment you fire them they hand you over to the tough guys who come round and administer justice. That’s what’s happened to you.”

“I know,” said Frikkie. “She knew the codes and the passwords, and she would have made copies of the keys.”

“Over the years she has been going home every night and reporting back to her husband, her kids, her relatives and her friends about all the grimy details of your disgraceful life, and telling them what a mean son of a bitch you are, and they have been urging her to steal as much as possible from you, in the way of sugar, tea, coffee, biscuits, sweets and chocolate, loose change, booze, toiletries, and just about anything she can lay her hands on without arousing too much suspicion. And when you eventually fire her there is unanimous agreement that you deserve the full treatment. And that’s what they’ve given you.”

“Don’t keep reminding me,” said Frikkie. He drained his beer, jumped to his feet, screamed, “Fucking lazy cunt!” and hurled the empty bottle at a tree some twenty metres away.

To Plug’s astonishment a man materialised out of nowhere and began raking up non-existent leaves as if this was his one-and-only chance of making it to Hollywood.

“Frikkie, this is a problem faced by all employers of domestic staff. It is now virtually impossible to dismiss a housekeeper, or even a gardener, no matter how unsatisfactory their performance might be, because you are then left in a suicidally defenceless position. Your expensively elaborate security system is reduced to junk status, and your only option is to relocate to another town. Or country.”

“Not a damn,” said Frikkie. “I know what I’m going to do if I end up with another Constance.”

“And what’s that?”

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

Semigration Control

 

As living conditions in the rest of the country rapidly deteriorate, a growing number of people is moving to the Western Cape, where provision of services is of a higher standard. There is also an exodus from cities to smaller towns, especially along the coast.

The Overstrand, from Rooiels to Pearly Beach, has seen an influx of these migrants in the past five years and, although they have contributed to the local economy, they have unfortunately also brought with them some undesirable values and attitudes that threaten our environment and rural way of life. It is, therefore, important to encourage those who wish to settle here to respect their new surroundings and the people who have been living here for generations.

Accordingly, I propose the introduction of something similar to the requirements imposed on those applying for citizenship in a new country. Anyone wishing to buy property and/or settle permanently in the Gansbaai and Pearly Beach areas should be asked to apply for a Welcome Certificate. To qualify, they would have to:

Demonstrate a knowledge and appreciation of their new natural environment by being able to name and identify

5 indigenous plants

3 invasive alien plant species

5 local garden birds

5 sea birds

3 local reptiles

3 animals still seen roaming wild.

They should also undertake to abide by the following guidelines:

New houses should not be ostentatious or vulgar in style and should not exceed 250 sq m in floor area

Houses should not be let as weekend party venues

No high walls and electric fences should be erected. The ‘fortress mentality’ in city suburbs is to be discouraged.

No kikuyu grass and large roll-on lawns that require watering in the summer months should be planted

No indigenous vegetation should be removed without first consulting a local conservationist

No bright security lights should be installed unless they are on a motion sensor control. Light pollution hinders appreciation of the night sky, and deters the movement of nocturnal animals.

Do not let a dog bark for more than one minute without silencing it, and do not leave it unattended when you are not at home

If you keep a cat, it should be neutered and fitted with a warning bell to prevent it from hunting birds

Furthermore, applicants should visit Masakane, Blompark and Eluxolweni to make them aware that not everyone in the area is a member of the privileged middle class.

They should also make themselves acquainted with the archaeological discoveries at Klipgat Cave and learn that there were people living along this coastline thousands of years before Europeans arrived.

Finally, they should be able to sing or recite a traditional song, like Daar Kom die Blouskuit or Wie Maak vir Gansbaai Lekker, and have read a local book, like Shark Alley Shootout or Strandveld Private Investigators.

Upon satisfying these requirements, the new arrivals will be congratulated and issued with their Certificates. Those who fail or refuse to comply will be informed that they are NOT WELCOME and will be urged to go back to where they came from.

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

Walk Through Time

 

I recently took a short, slow hike along the Geological Trail at the Penguin Sanctuary near Kleinbaai. By ‘short’, I mean about a hundred metres, and by ‘slow’, I would say it took about an hour. The trail consists of a series of information boards that track the geological history of the Earth from 4.6 billion years ago to the present. I was accompanied by my wife, who read aloud to me, as I am three-quarters blind. She had a lot of reading to do but she is used to it and, anyway, she was also interested in the topic, so I didn’t feel it was an imposition on her.

The trail has been put together by members of the Dyer Island Conservation Trust under the guidance of mike Dormer from the Overberg Geoscientist Group. The driving force behind the Trust is Wilfred Chivell, and I must congratulate him on an admirable project. Being freely accessible to the public, it is not only generally informative but serves as a valuable educational resource.

There are many samples of sedimentary, metamorphic and igneous rocks along the trail, and the description of how our Cape fold mountains were formed 155 million years ago is cleverly illustrated by reference to the low range right there behind Gansbaai. 155 million years. This stirred some memories of my year on Gough Island, which is only 1.5 million years old.

When we got home, I took down from on top of a bookshelf the chunk of rock I brought back from the island 42 years ago. I had picked it up from the barren ground high up on the Rowetts. Very light and porous, it is almost certainly a piece of pumice, or rock that is created when super-heated, highly pressurized rock is violently ejected from a volcano. It is estimated that Gough last erupted some 500,000 years ago, and that makes my pumice far younger than anything in the vicinity of Gansbaai and Pearly Beach.

I put the fragment of Gough Island back on the bookshelf, poured a glass of wine, and went and sat on the stoep in order to contemplate the passage of time. (See Die Oupa Sit op di Stoep.)

What this Geological Trails tells me, I mused, is that humans have been around for a very brief moment in the history of the planet, and that our species is certain to become extinct before much more geological time has elapsed. This thought, far from distressing me, was strangely calming.

Having watched the rapid proliferation of our species over the past seven decades, and seen the way we have trashed just about everywhere we have set foot., it gives me a sense of satisfaction and relief to know that one day the planet will be rid of us, and the forces of nature will eventually erase all trace of our vainglorious attempt to dominate the Earth and remain here for eternity, however long we imagined that might be.

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

An Aggressive Uptake of Glucose

Alright, so the surgeon had been largely unsuccessful in his attempt to remove the cancerous lymph node from my neck. There being nothing more he could do for me with his scalpel, he pointed me in the direction of an oncologist just down the road.

On Friday, 23 September 2022, K took me to meet Doctor D. The Oncology Centre is part of the Hermanus Medical Village, a small private hospital on the corner of De Goede and Church Streets. First, we saw the social worker, who gave us some general information about what they did to treat cancer patients. Then she talked about how the town was being overrun by semigrants from the rest of the country, where services and infrastructure were collapsing. We went back to Reception, and while we waited an old man and his wife emerged from a room and tottered towards the exit. As he passed close by, I was struck by how ill he looked. Jesus, I thought to myself, this guy has got to be terminal! Pain, resentment and anger were written on his ashen features and I detected hatred in the glare he gave me on his way out. 

Doctor D appeared and welcomed us into his office. Around 50, dressed smart casual, he was tall and slim built but with a slight pot belly. He gave me a cursory once-over, palpated the growth and explored the rest of my neck, my armpits and my groin. Looking for more tumours, I assumed. Apart from a slight swelling in the node above the left clavicle he found nothing. To treat the cancer in my neck he recommended five weeks of radiotherapy. Before that, though, he wanted a CT scan done to ascertain whether there was any other malignancy lurking beneath the surface. His receptionist would schedule an appointment with Radiology.

The serious business out of the way, K asked him about the framed print on the wall behind him. He seemed quite happy to talk about it and said the artist was the Scottish painter Jack Vetriano and the piece was called The Singing Butler. He agreed that, apart from its sentimental appeal, there was something intriguing about it. He also acknowledged that it could be criticised as kitsch, like the work of Tretchikov. That didn’t bother him at all. When K said it reminded her of the tango scene in an Al Pacino movie, he enthused about Scent of a Woman, which he recalled in some detail.

K was working on Monday 3 October, so Nina took me in for the scan at 9.45. The appointment with Doctor D was for 1.45. After another slow trip in and out of the white doughnut, I went with N to the light industrial area where she stocked up on packaging and food items for her mobile takeaway business. We parked on the seafront near Fick’s Pool and ate K’s sandwiches for lunch and then made our way back to Oncology.

Before Doctor D could discuss the results of the scan, I asked him about fasting as a way to slow the growth of cancer cells. N had been reading up on it and we wondered what he thought. Only slightly impatient, he said he would give us a quick Physiology lesson. From his explanation I gathered that, being much faster growing than healthy cells, cancer cells consumed more nutrients. The idea behind fasting was that these cells would be deprived of food and their growth would be slowed down. However, in reality, only the healthy cells would be starved and the malignant one would continue to grow at their expense. Something like that. Anyway, the bottom line was that fasting was no way to tackle cancer.

He fiddled with his laptop, turned it to face us, and attempted to interpret what was on the screen. Of course, being three-quarters blind, I couldn’t see much, but N was able to follow what he was pointing at with his ballpoint pen. Apparently, the lymph node in my neck and to a lesser extent, the one above the clavicle, showed up as dense white blobs. He scrolled to another image and said that the scan had also picked up a suspicious speck in one of my lungs.

N took a picture with her phone in order to show K. Doctor D said that this might or might not be cancerous, and there were two ways to find out the truth. One was to surgically remove the growth and have it analysed; the other was for me to undergo a PET scan. He was not in favour of surgery, as it was an unnecessarily invasive procedure, while the scan, although expensive, was able to detect any malignancy without me having to do more than lie on my back. As the cost would be covered by Medical Aid, it was agreed that an appointment would be made for me to have the scan at the Cape PET-CT Centre, which was in the Panorama Medical Clinic in Cape Town.

I asked him what would happen if the result was positive. Chemo therapy, came the reply. Six three-week cycles. Eighteen weeks. Call it five months. And side-effects? Hair loss, nausea and vomiting, to a greater or lesser degree.

That evening I experienced another tachycardia episode with my heart pounding away at about 200 beats per minute and leaving me so dizzy I had to lie down until it subsided. In the morning I phoned Doctor D and told him I had had a panic attack and described the symptoms. He said he had not intended to alarm me and prescribed some Ativan pills I could pop under my tongue should there be a recurrence.

A week later, having heard nothing further concerning the PET scan, I phoned the rooms. The receptionist, Marissa, said she had submitted the necessary documentation on the 4th and they would contact me direct. Well, another week went by and still no word, so I phoned the PET Centre. They said nothing had come through from Hermanus Oncology. Christ Almighty! I informed Marissa and shortly afterwards received a call from Doctor D himself. Irate and apologetic, he blamed the PET-CT Centre for the administrative bungle. I thought of saying something suitably facetious and sarcastic but desisted.

That was on the Wednesday. On Friday PET-CT phoned to make an appointment for 11 AM, next Wednesday, 26 October.

It was a warm day with a cloudless blue sky and next to no wind. Having become country bumpkins, we were a little apprehensive about finding the place, and K did not know how to use Google Maps. We got onto the R300 and passed through flat, mostly residential areas of scruffy appearance until we made it onto the N1 heading for town. When we realised we had gone too far, K took a left off-ramp and pulled up at a small shopping centre. While she hurried off in search of directions, I sat looking at the blank side aspect of a single storey building. A man was sitting on a beer crate in the shade with his back against the wall. He was talking on his phone and I idly wondered what language he was speaking. It did not sound like Xhosa or Zulu, and then I realised it was French. He must be from the DRC or further north, I conjectured. Maybe he was arranging the arrival of illegal migrants, or he could even have been plotting a coup somewhere up there in West Africa.

K returned with the news that we were not far from our destination. The Panorama Medical Clinic, we soon discovered, was situated in a leafy suburban setting and we pulled into a parking bay just a few minutes before eleven o’clock. At the PET-CT Centre k filled in a form for me and we were led to a large room with comfortable chairs and a TV on one wall. There were three other people present, possibly waiting their turn to be scanned.

A radiographer told me I was to relax for half an hour or so and then the radioactive tracer would be administered over 45 minutes. After that, another 45 minutes for it to be absorbed, and then I would undergo the actual scan, which would take about half an hour.

K said she would take a walk and then have her sandwiches in the car and maybe do some reading. I could not see it, but gathered there was the usual mindless sports coverage on the box, probably cricket highlight, or some other shit. I stared into space and let my mind wander until a nurse entered the room and called my name.

She took me to a narrow room with a bed that was also narrow and got me to lie down on it after inserting a canula in my arm and checking blood sugar levels. Once I was hooked up to the bag of radioactive tracer hanging from a drip stand, she told me to lie back and chill. She would call in every five minutes or so to make sure all was well.

Over the years, I have taken an autodidact’s amateurish interest in many subjects without making a serious study of any one of them. My superficial knowledge of anthropology and anatomy now enabled me to admire this young woman as a fine example of a particular body type. She had a friendly, self-confident manner and an open face with regular features. Her attractiveness was enhanced by the warmth and humour I detected in her eyes. She was short of stature with large breasts, broad hips, a well-rounded abdomen and prodigious posterior and thighs.

As an ectomorph, I am tall and lean with little muscle mass and, to my regret, my buttocks are not well padded and pronounced. By contrast, this nurse was clearly and endoporph with a large amount of fat deposited on her gluteal muscles. So much so, that I wondered if she might suffer from the steatopygia associated with Sara Baartman. It pleased me to note that she seemed unselfconscious, and I looked upon her rump as a thing of beauty, and certainly not a deformity.

Back in the waiting room, I did my best to ignore the TV and decided to occupy my mind by thinking about the procedure I was undergoing. I started with the PET-CT scan itself. Positron Emission Tomography combined with Computed Tomography to give a 3D picture of internal structures. And the role of the radioactive tracer. Fludeoxyglucose F18, abbreviated to FDG because of pronunciation difficulty I presume, is a glucose analog that accumulates in tissue with high glucose demand, like tumours. Thus, the scan is able to visualize cancerous tissue that shows up as a bright blob.

I was thinking about the gluttonous cancer cells in my neck that were chomping sugar at a furious rate in order to establish themselves in my lymph node an then go on to colonise the rest of my body with the express intention of killing me, when a radiographer arrived and told me to follow her. It was doughnut time again.

 

I removed my shoes and some of my clothes, and got into a dark green smock that came down to my knees. She led me into the white interior of the space station and told me to lie supine on the gurney positioned before the mouth of the plastic doughnut. For my comfort, a wedge was placed under my knees, I put my hands behind my head, elbows jutting at 45 degrees, and she rolled me into the tunnel and out again, just so I knew what to expect. Then I heard the heavy hatch slide shut behind her and the procedure finally got underway. 

The gurney moved forward and stopped with just my head penetrating the orifice. There was a slight jolt and I was being thrust into the duct ever so slowly. Deeper and deeper for about a metre and a half before coming to a halt. Obviously, it was a confined space, but it was well-lit and I did not feel claustrophobic. Another jolt and I was being withdrawn at the same slow, stealthy pace. I paused at the mouth for a few moments, and then went back in, repeating the manoeuvre. This process lasted for about half an hour until, instead of stopping at the opening, I was withdrawn completely. The experience over, I dressed and went in search of K.

The next day they emailed the results.

At 5pm, Doctor D phoned to say he had good news for me. The scan showed that the cancer had not spread to my lung. This meant that chemo and radiation treatment to my neck could now proceed as soon as possible.

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Beware of Cattle

Have you heard the joke about a warning sign near the brink of a dangerous cliff? They took the sign down because no one ever fell over the edge.

One might question why the traffic authorities don’t take down the old cattle hazard sign on the R43 near the Pearly Beach turnoff. After all, there are no cattle farms in the vicinity. The nearest, and only, farm where cattle are kept is Duinefontein, and that property is surrounded by a sturdy game fence.

The sign dates back to a time when it did serve a useful and necessary purpose though. Klein Hagelkraal, when it was owned by Charlie van Breda in the 1950’s was a cattle farm, as were all the other farms between here and Gansbaai. Over the next three decades farming beef cattle became unprofitable and was phased out. While Jerry Puren owned Klein Hagelkraal in the 1970’s, there was still enough pasture to support a small herd of cows that was milked twice a day, and some of the fresh milk was sold at the shop. Then, after his death in 1984, his assets were placed in a trust and the dairy closed down. His daughter, Nelia, was able to buy out the Pearly Beach Trust in 1986 and, when she married Jan Koekemoer, farming activity resumed. A limited number of beef cattle was kept for a while, but it became clear that the poor soil could not provide sustainable pasturage and the herd was disposed of.  Operations have now switched to harvesting of flowers, cutting of firewood and maintaining a flock of some 400 goats. These hardy animals are able to survive largely on a diet of alien vegetation, of which there is no shortage.

The cattle sign on the R43 is of significance to me because it is a reminder of how life along this stretch of coastline has changed. For example, I can remember getting up in the morning on several occasions to find cows grazing in Broadway and wandering about unattended.  That was after the big fire of 1980 when much fencing was destroyed and stray cows were a serious hazard on the road, especially at night. And, by the way, this lack of adequate fencing caused problems not only for motorists.

Around that time a dispute between two neighbouring farmers was reported in both the Cape Times and Die Burger. At the centre of the case was a bull owned by farmer A. Farmer B claimed that the animal had trespassed onto his property in order to have sex with some of his cows. He had complained to A, insisting that he should mend the broken fence dividing the two farms. He did not want any of his cows being impregnated by this ill-bred beast. Farmer A maintained that it was B’s responsibility to make the repairs, and it was not long before the errant suitor was again seen attempting to mount one of farmer B’s prize heifers. Farmer A claimed that B had then not only illegally apprehended his bull, but had surgically castrated the animal with a Newberry knife and emasculator before releasing it, thereby destroying its potential value. I never learned the outcome of this case, unfortunately, but it impressed upon me the importance of keeping one’s domesticated animals securely confined within one’s property.

Although we no longer have to worry about stray cattle on the road, they should leave the sign where it is. It might encourage drivers to be more vigilant and avoid running over the remaining wildlife that still inhabits our part of the world.

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