Week six or seven…
At some point, one so undisciplined as I (me?) starts to lose focus and drift. The days ooze on by. I forget yet again to make any kind of journal entry or notes at the end of another evening. And before you can say, “Waenhuiskransdorp,” another week has evaporated. Hey, I do my best to keep up, ok?
Some character sketches:
Offie Hoffman-Offie is the husband of Rika, one of Mimi’s quilting buddies. He is a former journalist, the crime beat, for publications all over the country, but finished his career at the newspaper in Cape Town. He is my age, (but why does he seem so much older?), and sports a large white beard and a midsection to match. He blames the weight gain on his having quit smoking a few years ago. Offie enjoys rugby and beer, two traits I hold in elevated esteem.
He introduced me to bowls, or lawn bowling, a “sport” popular in England, India, and SA. He is a member of the Franskraal Bowling Association, to which I, too, have applied for proper membership. We went for a practice round one day last week, Thursday, which is important since Wednesdays require all bowlers to wear whites only. (Which matches the racial make-up of the Club, too, now that I think about it.) Bowls is a game for the not-so-active, to put it politely. Shuffleboard may provide a better cardio workout and Scrabble better flexibility training. All of the players we saw in a tournament against the local powerhouse, Hermanus, on Friday, were retirees, male and female. Who the hell else goes bowling on a weekday, except for the Dude Lebowski?
The rules of bowls are similar to petanque (boules) and bocce in that there is an object ball and points are scored for being closest. The balls, or “woods” are somewhere between the size of a grapefruit and a cantaloupe and are weighted to one side. So, you get a curvature to your roll, one side or the other, depending on the markings indicating the weight. The court or pitch or field or lawn is manicured grass on par with a putting green (get it…on par?) and is a rectangle about thirty meters long divided into several lanes so that five or six games can proceed at the same time on the court or pitch or field or lawn or whatever.
When I would roll one far to the left or right of the white object ball, or “jack”, Offie would tell me that I had “too much grass.” Damn, I hadn’t been accused of that since the dorm in ‘72! I’m not sure how into Bowls I’m going to get, but there is a nice clubhouse with a friendly bartender, so Franskraal Bowling Association here I come.
Oom Paul- Oom Paul was recommended by the quilting ladies as the person to go to with sewing machine concerns. Lawn Bowling. Quilting. Now, don’t get the wrong idea about the Wixteds here in De Kelders. We retain our youthful vim, it’s just that nobody else here does and we are trying to make some connections to the local community.
Oom Paul, (Uncle Paul), has a long white beard and glasses and the most peaceful, Zen Buddhist approach to machinery I have ever seen. Mimi and I sat with him at his work table as he ever so patiently and logically tested the power, the works, the connections of her machine. Sewing machine, Kathy! Like acolytes at the foot of the Buddha we sat rapt as he accompanied each turn of the screwdriver with an explanation of what to expect and how it should
function. Peaceful. Slowly. Part by part. He predicted what the problem would be many, many steps before we got to that point in the operation, but his engineering mindset forced him to proceed step by logical step without jumping ahead.
Of course, he was right on. He could easily get the part in town, he explained,
and it would cost us 50 rand, about $6. Not just the part, not just his driving into town to buy it, but the whole repair job! To my knowledge, in the USA, first of all, there is nobody who does this kind of repair thing anymore, you just throw it away and get a new one, and if there were such a person left alive, I would expect to pay a heap more for his time and skills.
Mimi also brought along the hairdryer she had bought here in South Africa years ago, but hadn’t used for a few years due to its 220 voltage. When Mimi, wet hair dripping, plugged it in here at home for the first time after taking it from our shipment, it proceeded to belch thick funky white smoke and just sat there.
Oom Paul was unfazed. Safety first, he told us, as he checked the current with his voltmeter. Seems fine. To open the case required a weird tool, one which Oom Paul had constructed for himself but would have to find. He had a thought and tried to turn the fan manually before getting into the innards of the machine. Sticky at first. And like Sherlock Holmes he had solved the mystery again, and with more turning of the fan it freed up and when he plugged it back in..voila! Zen and the Art of Sewing Machine Maintenance.
Muriel-There are many hitchhikers along the roads of South Africa. I have never seen a white one, but I suppose there are a few. And, there as many stories about brutal rapes and murders and as many warnings about not offering rides as there are thumbs outstretched.
Mimi responds every time I pass one of these unfortunate souls, “Can’t we pick them up?” Lamely, I repeat every time, “ I didn’t notice them until we were already passed and there is a guy right on my tail.” I never do and there always is. Honest!
But, the other night was different. It was after dark on a Friday, cold, blustery, and we were going into Stanford to drop in on Michael, the brewery guy. At the corner of our street, just before getting up to the highway, we see two women and a small boy of six or so who flag us down at the stop sign. I am ready to give in, since I have indeed noticed them and there is indeed nobody on my tail and I’ve run out of bullshit excuses. “Where are you going?” “Gansbaai, menhir” “Oh, too bad, we are going the other way, to Stanford.” Whew.
A few meters past them and Mimi guilt trips me into turning around and taking them into Gansbaai, just “five minutes out of our way.” Hop in ladies. Excitedly they scramble in the back seat and let loose with several rounds of “Dankie, dankie, baie dankie” (Thank you, thank you, thank you very much, in Afrikaans.) We respond with our well-worn reply that we don’t know Afrikaans, English only, which gets their curiosity aroused as to our origin. “German?” No. “England” No. “Jewish?” No. It starts with an A. “Italy?”
Muriel had had her full share of ale earlier apparently. She and her sister, whose name we didn’t catch, and her son, Coen lived in the settlement, Blompark, on the other side of Gansbaai, just past the library. We had never been back in there, so, just like Mimi’s love of the cultural route through the Shiite village in Bahrain instead of taking the more direct highway, she was pleased at the opportunity. At first.
The houses start out as simple rectangular structures, large enough for two rooms, all crammed together, gravel roads, simple, basic, but liveable. Then, as you go further into Blompark (the projects always have those lovely countryside names, don’t they!) it gets rougher. The brick walls give way to tin. The galvanized roofs give way to tarps. Sewage runs along the street instead of through pipes.
The big shiny white Nissan XTrail is garnering its share of looks, as Muriel is giggling and waving merrily to her friends as we roll by. She is having a grand old time, as they say. I, meanwhile, am envisioning the big pot I’m going to be boiled in and the size of the chief who is going to take Mimi as his fifth wife. (Jacob Zuma, in line for the presidency in 2009, does have five wives!)
After threading our way through the Bowels of Blompark, 7220, we arrive at Muriel’s place. It is a 10 foot shipping container converted to a townhouse. Inside we can barely make out several other people, among them is Muriel’s mum, some 300 years old, toothless, and pretty much clueless, as well. At this point, Muriel’s sister gets out with Coen in tow, thanking us again and wishing for God’s blessing upon such kind people.
Muriel pulls the door shut and says, “Let’s go to Stanford!” No, Muriel, you are not going to Stanford with us. “Yes.” No. “We drink beer.” No. Amidst this debate she is also grabbing our hands and kissing us, hugging us from her back seat , HER back seat and laughing hysterically. “Stanford!” No!! I think I can hear the water boiling for a hot bowl of Bo Bullion.
It would be called a Mexican Standoff, except Muriel is Khoikhoi and we are Italian, …I mean, American. Picture Nelson Mandela drunk and wearing a skirt. Then, like a gift from the gods, maybe the one that Muriel’s sister had wished upon us, Coen starts crying uncontrollably thinking we are taking his mother away. It’s a rare mum who can resist the tears of her offspring, and, even our Muriel, blasted on beer and ready for a night out on the town with her new white friends in Stanford, found herself unable to bear Coen’s weeping. With her sister, her toothless mum, and Coen, as well as a couple guys who had stopped to see what all the fuss was about all rooting and cajoling her to get the hell out of the truck in a mix of Afrikaans, English, and Xhosa, Muriel reluctantly …slowly, unclicked her seatbelt, unlocked the door, and stepped none-too-gracefully from the truck.
We u-turned, and retraced our route through the shacks as best as we could manage in the darkness, breathed our heavy sighs, and broke into a ten minute chorus of all-out relieved laughter. “Did you learn anything from this experience, dear?”
Gerhard-We’ve mentioned our real estate agent and friend for life, Gerhard (Hair-art), many times. He is such a great guy. He lives just up the hill from us, I can see his house and the B and B he runs from where I am sitting. He has a dry sense of humor that is often so dry you might miss the joke if he weren’t laughing so hard himself. We get together with him and his wife, Alet, every few days for dinner or just sundowners.
On Sunday, Mimi made a fantastic chicken artichoke dish using her sister, Carol’s, famous recipe, and we lit the candles for an intimate dinner on the deck. The food was delicious, the wine flowed. At some point, we got onto the subject of the scorpions in the bathroom, the otters in the cove, and the other various animals we might expect to spot around here. Gerhard mentioned that there is a great owl, a Spotted Eagle Owl, who likes the telephone poles near us. The male will hoot twice and you must answer with three hoots and he will believe it is his mate. Haven’t seen him, but we’ll keep an eye out.
Tuesday night, Mimi and I are enjoying our usual wave gazing from the glassed-in part of the deck. Whoo-whoo. Whoo-whoo. Damn, that sounds so close! Whoo-whoo. Must be Gerhard pulling a prank on us. Shhh, there it goes again. Whoo-whoo. Whoo-whoo. Mimi, the intrepid explorer goes to the big sliding window, slides it wide open to get a better view, and gasps. Whispering, “It’s the owl and he’s right here!!”
My god, in a hushed reply, he is really RIGHT THERE! Just a meter or so from the window, perched contentedly and silhouetted against the half moonlight, is Mr. Spotted Eagle Owl himself.
No hesitation. Mimi launches forth with her best Owl of the Evening, Whoo-whooo-whooooooo. Whoo-whooo-whooooooo. Like an F-16 Mr. Owl wheels and dives, claws outstretched, anxious to pounce on his presumed new mate, Mimi. Aaaaaaaaaaahhh! We tangle arms and she stamps on my toes as we try to close the slider in the nanosecond we have before suffering death by owl.
The window closes and muffles our screams. Mr. Owl veers away in a quick graceful arc. I’m not sure who (whoo whooo) was more surprised, him or us, but we have learned that it isn’t too wise to give a hoot to an owl. It nearly scared the hooters off of us.
The swells are swelling. The chum is spreading its pinkness across the surface of the gray waters all around us, snagging the attention of sharks in search of a quick snack or an early brunch. Chum, for those who haven’t had the pleasure, is the innards and outtards of fish, chopped and diced in a barrel and poured into the sea to bait and lure the great white. The expression, “acting chummy” with someone will never have the same meaning for me.
Even before we were lowered into the sea, the first of our shark encounters had begun, and it is definitely up close and personal. The cage is rigged so that it sort of hovers with your head just above the surface, and the crew shouts, “Now, now!” whenever a shark approaches and you are supposed to submerge and check him out through your snorkel mask, white face to gray face. We had two encounters during our twenty or so minutes in the drink. Each of our fellow creatures was about as long as the metal cage that separated us, maybe two meters. Just juveniles, we were told. Holy shit.
