Richmond Reader April 2012

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Your Literary News from the Heart of the Karoo

As we prepare to put together our 3rd issue o Te New Rich-mond Reader I nd mysel in the small village o my birth,Stanbridge East in what are called the Eastern ownships,

which lie south east o Montral and extend to the Americanborder. It was land originally given by the Crown to what werecalled United Empire Loyalists, citizens o the then 13 Colonieso the United States, who did not wish to live under a revolu-tionary new government, one whose principles ran in directcontrast to their traditional values under the Union Jack andthe British Empire.

I like to think o my Karoo in South Arican as the new Easternownships in my lie, same sort o people with the same sort o

values.

Te annual Booktown Richmond BoekBedonnerd rom Octo-ber 25-27th will be hosting a great lineup o speakers; so dontorget to diarize. One o the community programmes which werun under the auspices o the Richmond Community

THe New Richmond Reader

Issue 03 April 2012 1st Ed.

Development Foundation is a daily story reading and book lending service to the many kids living in the town-ships o Richmond. Tese take place in the Richmond Community Centre and on Fridays in the new Richmondown Library. Michael Drysdale is the Pied Piper with his books and stories and is becoming the highlight o theday or many kids in the greater Richmond community. I have attached a clipping rom the local Graa ReinetAdvertiser or your interest. I would add that we are always looking or support in the way o books, writinginstruments, paper, and shelving.

Te rst South Arican newspaper I read whilst ying rom London to Johannesburg had a very pertinent articleby Maurice Smithers (Star Monday March 19, 2012), on the act that it was easier to get drunk than to read. Tisis so true in South Arica today and hence it is all the more important that we bring the written and spoken wordto the young people o this country; it is the only hope that they will see a uture other than through the bottomo a bottle o beer or papsak.

photograph Michael Drysdale


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Te J M Coetzee & S A Nobel Laureates Festival running on the 25th and 26th o May will be a great weekendeaturing some wonderul speakers including: Anton Harber; Allister Sparks ( utu biography); Deborah Stein-mair; Maureen Isaacson and Andries Oliphant on Nadine Gordimer; Kevin Harris (documentary on utu); IlseZietsman (In the Footsteps o Pablo Neruda); Engela Duvenhage (Mural owns); Darryl David (Jewish Memo-ries o Mandela); Jonathan Deale ( imeless Karoo) and Helize van Vuuren, Marius Crous, Lucy Graham andMarianne de Jongh on JM Coetzee. We look orward to seeing you there.

PC Baker

photograph Micheal Drysdale

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I strolled along the bumpy road towards the site or thenew cottage under a large acacia. Te rst had, I admit,taken a ew years to build but, aer all, you learn byexperience. I didnt do the books in the towns butcheryor thirty years without learning that.

From the top o the rise, a twin o the one on which theother cottage is situated and with the same view to thesouth, I could see a car approaching, sending spirals odust into the air.

Tey all thought it a huge joke when I bought thisrocky twenty-hectare plot and house needing tlc withmy pension third because o its lack o arable land, but

who wants to arm when you have views like this and apotential holiday resort? And here comes my rst cus-tomer, guest rather, paying guest, in a nice-looking car.

It was moving ast and was heading my way. I elt slight-ly elated, my pulse quickened, and I took a deep breathas I went back down to the road. It had to come. Tesepeople will spread the word and it will snowball. Asnowball rolling to success in a semi-desert. Ill have toget a move on with the second cottage. Further ahead, Ihad in mind a tea garden, but that was my secret.

I stood at the side o the road and the car skidded to ahalt beside me, sending up a cloud o dust.

Sorry about the bushveld conditions, I said. Pity yourcar is open. Te driver pressed a button and the hoodsilently slid out rom the back and clicked perectly intoposition. Oh, I say, some car.

I bought it a ew days ago. Te young man had longish

blond hair and was dressed smartly in a pale, shining,part-mohair suit, dark shirt and colourul spotted tieloose around his neck. I hear you have, like, a cottageto let.

Yes, bJove, as a matter o act I do.

Ill take it. Which way?

Its a short walk rom my house. Teres no roaddirectly to it, but soon

Get in, Grandpa. Show me. He opened the passengerdoor.

Bumptious young pup. However, in business trivialityshould not interere with potentiality, and ortunately,I am not easily humiliated. I got in and he drove to-wards the house.

By the way, Im not a grandather yet.

But you will be one day. Right?

I certainly hope so. How long will you be staying? Iglanced at his unshaven jaw, and Rolex.

Forever. He stopped behind my lean-to garage wheremy trusty old 90s bakkie was parked. Our compactlittle house suddenly looked scruy and needed some

work. Empty paint tins and planks lay scattered about.Funny how you dont notice these things.

Which way now?

Well have to walk rom here, Im araid.

Which way? He stared at me with cold blue eyes.

Te cottage is straight up this hill. Exactly orty-threemetres.

He put the car into extra low and drove uphill astridethe ootpath, over the rocks and clumps o grass, be-tween the trees, twisting, scraping and grinding metalon rock. He parked at the door o the cottage.

Is this it?

Yes. It was rustic charm. Te quartz pieces wereglinting in the rays o the late aernoon sun.

Its a palace. How much?

Its um three hundred

Dont be shy, Grandpa.

With continental breakast it will be three-twenty-vea night, I said rmly, cunningly adding on the twenty-ve. Ill show you grandpa, young whippersnapper.

Grandpas B&B

By Robin Whales

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He took out a wad o two-hundred-rand notes, peeledo a bunch and handed them to me. Ten he pulled asuitcase and a large holdall rom the boot and went tothe cottage door. I ollowed but he stopped and gaveme that look.

Ill see you, he said.

Ill need your name or the receipt. Im Gregory.

Dave, but dont bother right now. He pointed towardsthe east. Hey, thats the highway, right?

Yes.

Can you hear cars passing?

Yes, but they are not all that noisy.

And sirens?

Occasionally, but the police arent a problem, theyreasleep most o the time.

You really think so? Tat look again as he wentinside.

I had built the one-room cottage mysel and it wasattractive, i I may say so. I inspected it requently.

From my property came the stones and quartz pieces,the black mud that dried hard like cement, and thetimbers or the ne-combed thatch grass. Te brownschist with blue and white patches where I hadchipped contrasted with the rosy-pink quartz placedevery our along and two up in the walls.

It is a practical piece o work because I am a practi-cal man, but there is a air amount o artistry in it too.My wie, Beth, on the other hand, is not practical orartistic. I had wanted cheerul quilts and curtains, o-ral, but I accepted the black and blue patchwork maderom some o her old winter skirts and our worn table-cloths, and heavy-sheeting curtains, dyed to match.

Beth had not turned out exactly as I would have liked,but thats lie. My daughter and I, however, are goodriends, although any time now she would nd herown place. Nevertheless, were a amily unit.

Back at the house I joined my wie or tea on the ront

verandah. I decided to delay the revelation o my mo-ment o triumph as long as possible.

Hows it looking today? she said.

It improves with time. Cosy, tranquil. What the in-spectors rom the Department o ourism would gradeas comortable. I would not tell her again that we

were making a contribution to the hospitality industry,however small.

And the crooked wall?

It is not crooked. Its slightly inclined which adds tothe rural charm and conorms with the general atmo-sphere. I sighed. I had never elt calmer in this recur-rent conrontation. Ive decided to change its name toGrandpas B&B.

It does have a nice ring about it, although youre notone. We may have a guest by the time you are. I didnot reply. Dont you think, she said aer a pause,that you should advertise?

No.

Its been nished our months and not a soul hasmade the vaguest enquiry.

I repeat. I do not believe in advertising. My businessconnections are acquainted with the situation and theyhave all been out to have a look, as you well know.

Small town curiosity.

Word o mouth is the surest marketing medium.Tere was no anger in my voice this time. Tere isalso a sign at the turno. I was proud o that as well.Plot 63 B&B it read, soon to change. I had made itrom limbs o my own trees, treated with preservative.

No one rom town is likely to come here or the week-end, or even a night, now are they? she persisted.

Some people do like to get away. I smiled to mysel asmy moment drew closer.

Yes, but not three Ks rom home where you can stillsee actory chimneys. Its the big city people you musttry and attract. Teyll think its quaint.

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Ill be starting on the second cottage tomorrow.

How nice. It should be nished in a year or two, and Isuppose hal the town will come and have a look.

Tat will orm part o the marketing strategy.

I do hope we get a tenant in the rst one beore I have

to make all those teas again.

wo pi R, I said. Tree point one our six pointtwo eight. Radius will be our metres. Mmmm. Allworked out. A simple ormula and I have the exactcircumerence o the new building.

Oh, dont start on that stu again. I knew that wouldrattle her.

Tank you or the tea.

I stood up and took out the wad, peeled o threethousand rands as Dave had done, and icked themthrough my ngers so that they oated higgledy-pig-gledy to the oor. As I headed or my room I heard herstartled shriek.

Whats this? Whats going on, Gregory? I enjoyedthat.

My guest will be staying or a while. Tat was evenbetter. I turned to look at her on her knees.

Later, as I was watching television, I thought it wouldbe a good idea to have the young man to dinner. Bethagreed. A small celebration. My daughter was backrom the butchery and I ound her in the kitchenunloading her ree meat allowance into the ridge. Shesmelled o polony and boerewors. I had never noticedit when we worked there together. Nice kid. Homely.Pale and a bit chubby, muscular legs rom cycling towork and good arms and shoulders rom the butchery.She was a woman or all that. At thirty-eight, in theprime o her lie.

She looked at me strangely when I told her about theguest. Ywant me to go etch m?

Ill invite him over, Del. You take a bath and get tidiedup.

Te young man was standing at the cottage door, talk-ing on his cell and looking east towards the highway,when I rounded the ront wall. He was in long shortsand bareoot and shirtless.

What do you want?

We wondered i youd care to sup with us? He stared

at me. Were having a delicious spread, lamb cutletsactually, and my wie and daughter are very goodcooks.

His ace soened and he smiled. I was hoping youwould ask me. Tey told me at the garage about youramily.

Splendid. Shall we say at about seven? Well have aspot rst. So it was the garage. Ill thank them.

Right-oh.

At the house I took out the whisky, brandy and gin,and my soda siphon, handed down to me by my atherand to him by his. I am not a drinking man but I al-ways keep it in the house. Te bottles were still nearlyhal ull although Id had them or years.

Te young man drove down at six-thirty and parkedon the kikuyu lawn right in ront o me, and Beth

came out to meet him. Most evenings I like to sit onthe verandah and watch the changing colours at sunsetin the valley below, and the V soaps over my shoul-der through the window. His early arrival was irritat-ing but I let it pass.

You wish that was, like, all your land, dont you,Gregory? he said. He was smoking a cigar and hadshaved which showed respect.

No, no, Dave. Im happy with my ew hectares in thehills.

Yeah, right. o own all that land. He gazed at thedierent shapes and shades o the ew cultivated elds,and white dots o houses with green surrounds. Pow-er. Money. Money is power, isnt it?

Well

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Many years ago I used to dream, night aer night,that I was, like, locked in the vault o the Bank o Eng-land.

Tey say the subconscious is unpredictable and di-cult to understand.

I would wake up laughing, with the most wonderul

eelings Id ever had.

I poured two whisky and sodas and told him to helphimsel when he elt like it. He didnt have much to sayaer that but by the time we moved into dinner he hadnished the whisky.

Will my stu be all right up there?

Yes.

Anyone likely to come round?

No, people seldom go visiting on Fridays in theseparts.

My daughter looked dierent at dinner. She wasscrubbed clean and had put water on her hair andbrushed it at on her head and back behind her ears.Tis was against well-meant advice because it accentu-ated her ears and nose, not her best eatures. She wore

make-up and smelt heavily o perume. Tat was betterthan wors.

My wie served the cutlets, mash and beans, and tookhers through to the kitchen, as usual, and I pouredthe wine. Tis was nice. Good ood and drink, amily,company and a new beginning. How many men myage, in retirement, were as content as I was and on thebrink o a new adventure? I dug in.

Troughout the meal my daughter stared at Dave andbreathed as though she had just chopped up a sheep.Halway through we nished the wine and Daveetched the brandy.

Te coee came and I brought in the gin and poureda good tot into each cup. My wie had hers with usand started to clear the table. Te young man smiledbroadly at my daughter and she responded with thatgenuine smile o hers, all teeth and gums, a picture ohappiness. Dave closed his eyes and shook his head

and shoulders like a dog stepping out o water. We hadmore coee and I proposed a toast to Del.

May you have dual successes one day, daughter omine, in the butchery business and in securing yourdearest wish, upon which we will not elaborate.

It had been a wonderul dinner. I asked my daughter

to take the torch and show Dave to his car. My wiebegan washing up and I heard Dave start up, rev theengine or the town to hear, and go grinding andclanking o. Del didnt come in but I knew she couldlook aer hersel. I went to bed and my wie must havedone the same. Some time later I heard my daughtergiggling happily, most unusual or her, as she climbedinto bed.

In the morning I decided to take coee to the young

man mysel while my wie prepared the breakast tray.I peeped into Dels room to nd her still snoring. Tisroom would be my ofce when she moved into herown home. On the oor by her bed were wads andwads o notes. I stood staring at them, then pickedthem up and took them to the sae in my room. Forthe dinner. What a generous young man.

Te cottage was closed up. I walked all the way round,listening careully or any sound o lie. Nothing. It waseight oclock. I decided to try again later. I took the tray

back and went to the other hill and placed a pile ostones where the middle o the new cottage would be.With a sharp piece I marked the two trees that wouldhave to be uprooted by my neighbour, who kept thewood or payment and provided labour.

It was nine-thirty when I returned, this time with thebreakast tray. I placed it outside the door and knockedsoly, then harder. Te door wasnt locked so I openedit a ew inches.

Hullo, good morning. No response. Louder: Hullo!Everything all right?

I went in. Te place was a mess. Paper and stu allover. In the light rom the doorway I could see theyoung man was sitting up in bed, leaning back againstthe wall, naked and smiling. I said good morningand took in the rest o the room in more detail as myeyes became accustomed to the gloom. Te paper wasmoney! Tere was a carpet o rand notes.

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Tey hid the bedspread and table-top, they werepasted to the walls and the door. In the home-madeashtray blackened, hal-burnt notes lay with cigar buttsand the remains o the cake o soap he must have usedor glue.

Puzzled, I looked at the young man. He had notmoved. Ten I saw a small pistol dangling over the

side o the bed rom his orenger. It was short-bar-relled and had an ivory handle. In the young manstemple was a round hole the size o a nostril and downhis cheek and neck, a squiggly line o dried blood.

Te police and townsolk caused somewhat o adisruption aer that, although Beth did get some teabusiness. Tere were investigations, an inquest andplain snooping with cameras, and all the money wasconscated and, I presume, returned to its rightul

owner. But the surprise o my lie came when our dar-ling daughter achieved, though not in a manner I hadanticipated, her hearts desire nine months later.

About the Author

Robin Whales

Robin Whales was born in then North-ern Rhodesia, grew up in then Rhodesia,where he later taught English at his oldschool, moved to Johannesburg wherehe opened his own broadly-journalisticcompany, and has now retired to Knysnain the Western Cape.

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Poetry

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aken From:

SOUH AFRICAN POERY: A New AnthologyCompiled by Roy McNab with Charles Gulston

Published by C.A Roy or Collins, St. Jamess Place, London 1948


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Frank Wild

By Angie Butler

Te uneral party made its way rom the little woodenwhalers church in Grytviken to the cemetery that liesupon a tussock hill overlooking the glassy waters o

Cumberland Bay, heart tugging in its simplicity.

As the small pine box containing Frank Wilds asheswas lowered into the ground, watched by some 80 pas-sengers, Alexandra Shackleton, Sir Ernest Shackletonsgrand-daughter and six Wild descendents, I reectedon the extraordinary seven year journey I had under-taken to bring the ashes o John Robert Francis Wild,known simply as Frank, back to Grytviken, a place hehad described as one o the most perect little har-bours in the world. Tis was the nal act o my quest

to nd his lost remains, but more importantly it wasthe ullment o his wish to be buried alongside oneo the greatest polar explorers, Shackleton, his dearestriend and the man he called Boss.

Wild had accompanied Shackleton on three separateexpeditions to Antarctica. It was during the nal expe-dition on the Quest, that Shackleton suddenly died oa heart attack at the age o 47. Te continuous stress ounding expeditions and the lack o money to pay hismen their wages contributed to his death. Little wasle or Wild once he returned to England and in 1923he departed or South Arica in search o a new lie.

Sixteen years later Wild died o pneumonia in Klerks-dorp, a small mining town near Johannesburg. Hedied in obscurity. Little was known o him other thanrumours that he was a drier and a drinker. Unbeliev-ably, no one knew what had happened to his remains,in eect, he was lost in lie and in death.

Frank Wild was born in Skelton in North Yorkshire in1873, one o 13 siblings and the son o a schoolteacher.At the age o 16 he joined the merchant navy ollowedby the Royal Navy. It was a school o hard knocks butit led to his rst polar expedition in 1901 on the Dis-covery, with Captain Robert Scott and his rst meetingo Shackleton.

During the Discovery expedition Shackleton, accom-panied by Scott, broke down on the return journey

rom an unsuccessul attempt o the Pole. Scott senthim back to England on a relie ship announcing hewas not well enough to remain down South. Shackle-ton, urious, assembled his own expedition, Nimrod in1909, specically to try once again to attain the elusiveglory and invited Wild to join him.

Accompanied by Adams and Marshall, they came to

within 97 miles o the elusive prize, beore turningback, knowing that, i they had reached the Pole theydid not have the resources to arrive back to base alive.Tis decision set Shackleton aside as a leader.

Scott implored Wild to join him on another attempt othe Pole but Wild declined. It was the ill-ated erraNova expedition on which Scott and our companionstragically died. On reaching the Pole, Scott was metwith the sight o a uttering Norwegian ag and a tent

as evidence that Amundsen had beaten him. Ravagedby hunger, cold and disappointment Scott and his menperished on the return journey.

We can only speculate i Wild had accepted, would theoutcome have been dierent? Instead Wild chose to

join Douglas Mawsons Australasia expedition map-ping and charting a swathe o Antarcticas coastline.

Wilds calm countenance, his popularity amongst themen, his loyalty and humour and an extraordinary

capacity to withstand the punishing hardships oAntarctica, made him one o the greatest explorerso his time. He demonstrated these qualities again onElephant Island during the doomed Endurance expe-dition. It is said that Shackleton never made a decisionwithout consulting Wild rst and said o Wild in a let-ter to a Mr Perris a news editor o the Daily Chronicle,he is my second sel. I love him. He has been a towero strength to me.

Little wonder that when Shackleton died on the Quest,the mens nal sortie into the ice, Wild was at a lossand he immigrated to South Arica. It was there hisrst marriage ailed as did his cotton arming project.Caught up in the 30s Depression he took what jobs hecould, mainly in the mining industry.

My research showed that in South Arica, he had lostnone o his qualities. He was popular, unappable,sel-eacing and prepared to ace any obstacle. Heremarried in 1933, rixie Rowbotham whom he

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described a helpul and loving wie, in a letter to Em-ily, Shackletons wie. Yet he mourned or the comrade-ship o his exploring days and in particularShackleton.

His plans to return to England evaporated and theve expeditions he had undertaken were taking theirtoll. Wild, the only second person ever to be awarded

the Polar medal with our bars died on the 19th Au-gust 1939 with his beloved wie rixie at his side. Hisuneral took place at the Braamontein cemetery inJohannesburg and I discovered the reason that he wascremated and not buried was in order or his remainsto be returned to South Georgia to be buried alongsidethe Boss, which was his and rixs dearest wish. How-ever, he died only weeks beore the outbreak o WW2and it was not possible. Aer that rixie did not havethe wherewithal to carry it out.

My passion or the Heroic Age led to my discovery othe little known and unsung hero, Frank Wild. He hadgained a tarnished reputation in latter lie that I wasdriven to repair and it seemed barely credible that hisashes were lost. I truly believed i anyone could ndthem, I could. Te South Arica that I was born andgrew up in was not that dierent to the South AricaWild knew and my tenacity held no bounds.

I had ound a newspaper cutting written in 1965

suggesting Wilds ashes were in a chapel but with noindication o where. I knew o only one chapel, thecrematorium chapel in Braamontein cemetery andsomething told me I must return.. I ew to Johannes-burg in January 2011.

A cemetery worker took me down into a little-knownvault under the chapel, known as a columbarium aplace to store ashes, and the hairs stood up on myneck. A sixth sense told me they must be there. imeconstraints orbade me to check every niche and thehundreds o caskets and urns, I asked Alan Bu a cem-etery expert to look or me and I ew back to England.A ew days later I received an email. CommanderWilds ashes ound. I elt weak.

All that was le to do was to have the blessing o hisdescendents and permission rom the Falkland Gov-ernment to take his ashes back to South Georgia. Teynot only agreed but in an unprecedented move allowedthem to be buried next to Shackleton. A voyage to the

Falklands, South Georgia and Antarctica was neces-sary and I had come to the end o my quest and thebeginning o Wilds nal voyage.

About the AuthorAngie Butler was born and educated

in Johannesburg, where she remainedor several years working in lm andtheatre. She moved to London in hermid twenties and attained a degree insculpture at the City and Guilds o Lon-don Art School. She became a sports

journalist beore moving into broaderjournalism and more recently Polarhistory. She has written two booksICE RACKS odays Heroic Ageo Polar Adventure and HE QUESFOR FRANK WILD a biography oa great polar explorer which has been

made into documentary by the BBC.She is also a co-ounder o the travel company ICE RACKS EX-PEDIIONS taking people on voyages to the Arctic and Antarc-tic. Although she returns to South Arica several times a year shelives in Warwickshire, England with her husband, the sculptor,James Butler RA and their ve daughters.

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BIOGRAPHY CAPURES HE ROMANCE OF HE HEROIC AGE

Reviewed by Rose Willis

In March this year 100 years will have passed since the discovery o the South Pole. In the light o this it is per-haps tting that a new book bringing all the drama o the era to lie again, has been published. Te book, ScottsForgotten Surgeon, captures the adventurous lie and poignant love story o explorer, Dr Reginald Koettlitz, agreat man, o noble descent. . Aer a lie o great adventure and excitement he died in the Queens Central Hos-

pital, in Cradock, in the Karoo, on January 10, 1916, within two hours o his beloved wie, Marie-Louise.

Koettlitz was only 55 at the time o his death. He had been part o the Teatre the Heroic Age, witnessing thepomp, ceremony, triumph and tragedy o major expeditions o discovery to the Arctic, Antarctic, the Blue Nileand Amazon. Te great Scottish explorer, William Speirs Bruce, described him as a man o great charm andcharacter, an explorer o the best type, scientic, painstaking, and indierent to notoriety or reward. In this bi-ography author Aubrey A (Gus) Jones, has captured the ull drama and excitement o our journeys undertakenby Koettlitz leading up to his ill-ated trip with the erra-Nova Expedition.

Scotts Forgotten Surgeon is a ascinating read. Gus Jones has captured the essence o this true gentleman. Hishighly proessional attitude led to dissention and dissatisaction because he was too oen highly critical o the

lackadaisical, oen disorganized, attitudes which were prevalent among expedition organizers o the day.

Koettlitz was a geologist, botanist o great skill, expert ski-runner, dog and pony handler, as well as an authorityon polar survival. As a surgeon and medical man his knowledge surpassed that o most expedition doctors. Hehad the skill to prevent and treat scurvy, the most dreaded o expedition diseases, yet this was neither acknowl-edged nor utilised and this resulted in his dismissal. Koettlitz perected a new three-colour development processwhich enabled him to show the rst colour slides o Scotts expedition in Dover, his home town, where he wasnever orgotten.

Tis biography is rich in hitherto unpublished material, it contains many quotes rom personal correspondenceand it brings the late 1800s to lie in a rich, romantic way. Aer spending so much time on the ice Koettlitzchose to settle in a place in the sun. In the Karoo he armed and worked as a doctor with his beloved wie,Marie-Louise, the love o his lie, at his side. He stood by comorting and supporting her, sharing all her grie,when their rst and only child died a tragedy because both adored children. Ten, when she developed a heartproblem he almost literally worked himsel to death caring or her. He too became weakened and ill and diedwithin two hours o her passing. His last wish, to be carried to his grave by Freemasons, was honoured. For sixyears he and Marie-Louise lay in an unmarked grave in the little Cradock cemetery, then, in 1922, Rev C W Wal-lace, Rural Dean o Cradock, with the support o the Freemasons, collected unds and placed a memorial stoneon their grave.

p.s. Gus Jones will be at the Schreiner Festival in Cradock from 9 -12 August 2012

Te book costs18.99. More info from [email protected]

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On Sunday I popped down to the local conveniencestore at the Engen service station to return someDVDs and pick up a ew things. On the way I passed

a scrap metal cart being pulled by a donkey. When-ever I see this sight I eel the same as I do at the sceneo a car accident - I really, really dont want to lookbut some awul compulsion always makes me have aquick glance to ascertain the state o the poor beast oburden. I was standing in the check-out queue wait-ing to pay when my attention was drawn to a suddenburst o noise and activity outside on the orecourt.Trough the window I saw that the donkey and cartwere pulled up alongside the pumps or reuelling.Te donkey had its nose in the watering can generally

used to top up cars, and the cart passenger was swab-bing down the poor creatures sweaty anks with thesqueegee-thing usually used to clean windscreens, andto score a bigger tip. Te driver and passenger werehaving an extremely loud and colourul conversa-tion, none o which I could understand apart rom thevoks and jou ma comments, but which must havebeen extremely unny judging by the toothless gu-aws. Te terrible misuse o the squeegee caused oneo the (bored and almost lieless) pump attendants toamble across lethargically to this comic tableau andconscate the item. Tere ollowed an incomprehen-sible diatribe accompanied by lots o hand gestureswhich ended with the attendant shambling reluc-tantly back to the cashier window and mumbling along story, at which the cashier shrieked indignantlyand told him nee man, hulle moet vok o . She thenexplained to her intrigued audience that the donkeywould only move away rom the pumps i it was givensome apples. It seemed obligatory to donate the bag oapples I had just purchased or my son. Tis was met

with huge toothless grins, much bowing and God BlessYou Merrems. As I returned to my car I had the happyhonour o over-hearing the donkey being told loudlythat it must be the most vokking ency-schmencyblerrie vokking perd on the whole o the Cape Flats,eating epples rom vokking Woolwurths.

Kaapse Vlakte vir die Dag

By Unknown Author

photograph Micheal Drysdale

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I you wish to submit material we shall look orward to receivingyour writings or photographs.

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The New Richmond Reader

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Richmond Reader April 2012