When I announced to friends and family that I was contemplating becoming engaged, a chorus ensued. Aren't you both a bit young? What about freedom? You're still only 22. Won't you be tied down? You had plans to explore the world. To engage or not to engage I can only say, upon reflection, that my own plans to explore the world were only ever enhanced by having a partner to share them with. That is as true today as it was almost 50 years ago. Of course this was a purely selfish attitude and the benefits accrued almost entirely to me. I ploughed on selfishly thinking only of my own priorities and ignoring the damage they might be doing (and I suspect did do) to my partner's wellbeing. I call myself Mr Responsible in this episode because I really did believe in the institution of marriage, not for the religious aspects but for its intrinsic romance and the unfettered companionship of living with a partner. So when Carmela and I became engaged, I hadn't for one moment considered her age and emotional preparedness for leaping over a cliff into a much wider world than she had imagined when we posed for the traditional formal engagements photographs (below). In fact, not in our wildest dreams had we even imagined what lay before us. Within weeks of our wedding we would be leaving the cocoon of respective sheltered parental homes, not for a new pad a few blocks down the road but for a continent 6,000 miles away. Carmela and I met formally shortly after my "coming of age". Her older sister, Elena was a friend of mine. We worked together at Barclays in Durban and I had spotted her sister popping into the banking hall occasionally. I was accounted for at the time and believe we probably attended the same parties for quite a while. Around my 21st birthday I was single again. Elena came to the party along with some of my other work colleagues. It wasn't long after that that I received a telephone call from the middle Toscano sister (Elena and Carmela had two younger siblings, Anthony and Luisa) inviting me to be her partner at a scarily formal function. If I agreed, we would be accompanying her parents and I was to meet her at the venue. In full view of the Padrino Napolitano (or so I imagined). Clearly I survived and, being the callow youth I still was really, I revelled in the wonderful Italian food that emerged every Sunday from Ciro's kitchen. From gamberi, deep fried in their carapaces, via a peppery calamari stew and arrosto di manzo l'osso to gelato. Oh, and a bowl of pasta Napolitana somewhere in there, too. I got fat for the first time in my life. In terms of dating I got two for the price of one, because Elena came, too, as a chaperone. I was also eating more food while making sure the middle daughter was safe while in charge of the family deli, Elena's Cafe. Italian pane with lashings of proper Neapolitan salami and bel Paese cheese. I was trusted to be there because it turns out my favourite uncle, Graham, knew the Toscanos and handled their business insurance. Unless their mum, Aurora, and Elena and Carmela kept a stash under their beds, the house was more or less dry of alcohol. Given the naïveté of my past experience, though, the ladies of the house could have been having secret binges on the forerunner of Prosecco while my back was turned. And turned my back was soon to be. I didn't really like working in the bank and leapt at the prospect of becoming a junior reporter on the Daily News. Under the eagle eyes of Crime Supremo, Roy Barnard, and News Editor, Chris Smith, I was mentored through traffic violations and the occasional petty theft by Garnet (Groper) Currie. Before long Groper moved off to one of our bureaux, probably Piemburg[1] while I became the Shipping beat flunkey (Durban being the busiest port in Africa in those days[2]) under the watchful eye of Chip (WTF can't we have the Bell telephone system) Mogenson. After six months, Groper was promoted to running the Empangeni bureau[3} and I scored his old patch, beating a path in my trusty old Beetle to and from the provincial Capital at the beginning and end of every working week. I was back where I started. Dating only at weekends. It was around this time that Carmela and I became engaged and the Beetle made way for a Fiat so that I could zoom back on Wednesday evenings and return to Piemburg by Midnight. Ok, so the shorts came with the gig. Be kind. While in Piemburg I came across Daryl "Bikey" Balfour. He was on the Natal Witness and we were both assigned to report on a streak from the uni there (his alma mater). The actual streak was a bit naff so Bikey ended up being the streaker on his motorbike. I still don't think he entirely believes that I am not retaining the negs to blackmail him out of his wine collection. Eventually, Groper moved on from Empangeni and guess who ended up in his footsteps? I was back to weekends only. On one of my home trips I was treated to a party (not necessarily in my honour) at the Toscano residence in Cowey Road. See if you can recognise any of the miscreants? The bombshell came when I was languishing in Empangeni after an argument with a Daily News manager who had made a R0.10 trunk call from Durban to inform me that I had made a mistake on my expense claim in my favour of R0.06. My boss on the other end of the line: "I hear you're planning on getting married this year," he said. "I am engaged, yes," I replied, wondering where this was going, "We haven't quite finalised a date yet, though." "I spotted you in town at the weekend, hand in hand with your fiancée." "Oh?" "Yes, she's far too good for you," he continued in his inimitable fashion, leaving me entirely baffled as to what he was trying to tell me. "You're probably right, Chris," I responded. "I guess I'm just a lucky guy." "The London bureau wants a married couple to start in the next secondment. They think they're more stable for their current needs. Think about it and let me know this week," my boss concluded the call. Wedding date set Thus it was that my first wife enabled me to see the world a whole lot sooner than I'd ever dreamed of doing. She was probably quite shocked and scared when I told her the news but she was then and still is entirely supportive of the decision we made to get married on the 28th of September 1974 and be in Fleet Street on the 1st of November. She carries that generosity of spirit to this day by sending me some of the Fuzzy Photos to be used in this blog. During that time she has hosted my daughter, Kate, in Sydney where Carmela now lives. A little detour into the future If you're wondering how I can write so freely about my first marriage when I am now coming up to the 40th anniversary of my second attempt at partnership bliss I would like to explain with a little example. Around 40 years ago when Shelley-ann (Shan) and I were clearing out my old flat in preparation for the one in which she and I were to spend the first period of our marriage, we had to make some decisions about some of the artefacts that remained. Having been crazy about photography and taken many of my ex-wife, it was decided that I should hand the whole lot over to Carmela. Quite a few years later Shan and I were settled in Oxfordshire and the subject of my previous marriage came up during a dinner party at our house. Shan gave an affectionate description of Carmela. "But what did she look like," one of the (female) guests asked. "Hang on a minute'" Shan replied, disappearing from the room and bounding up the stairs. The sneaky so-and-so reappeared in about a minute and handed a picture to our friend. "Where'd you get that?" I exclaimed. "I wanted something to show any future children, if they ever asked, about your previous wife, so I snuck this one out of the box before you took the rest to Carmela." The one Shan "snuck in" was the one on the left.This led to a decent amount of photo sharing in the early 2000s, including the one on the right. Kate was doing a degree project at university and asked if I thought Carmela would mind if she used the "picture of her with the flowers". I felt sure she wouldn't. Coming up: The gap between the wedding and departure to London in 1974 incorporated our first ever proper Stellenbosch wine tasting ... Endnotes [1] Tom Sharpe worked in the DN bureau in Pietermaritzburg, the provincial capital of what is now Kwa Zulu Natal (KZN). Tom Sharpe renamed the city Piemburg in his seminal satrical novels Riotous Assembly (1971) and Indecent Exposure (1973) He had been deported from South Africa a decade earlier for his anti-apartheid views.. [2] I'm sure Rory or Andy will correct me on this if I'm mistaken [3] The bureau consisted of one person and was the primary source of information for a huge area from the Tugela River to the Mozambique border, an area of something like 30,000 square kilometres
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How many of you think you know what Rites of Passage (RoP) are? It slides off the tongue so easily and yet I'd guess that most people, unless they are anthropologists, would be surprised by some aspects of a more formal definition. I intend to abandon the phrase after this blog. I'll explain. The phrase is often ascribed to a certain genre of movies, which, more often than not, leads to expectations of descriptions of teenage sexuality. This would be misleading in my personal experience. It just seemed like a convenient handle to describe the early steps in one's life and to give those steps an ending. A bit like a first floor landing on which to rest before ascending the next flight. Strictly speaking, this was probably a more accurate anthropological interpretation anyway. My favourite film of this so-called genre was Cinema Paradiso, which I saw in round about 1990, long after achieving[1] the supposed post-rites stage. What are rites of passage? Paraphrasing the link just provided, they are the rituals that occur between three phases of one's life, as defined by Arnold von Gennep, namely: separation, liminality, and incorporation. So far I have been describing separation from my initial state of almost total dependency on Mum and Dad for everything and dropping into a void of incomprehension. OK, so now I'll explain my totally gratuitous[2] adoption of the strap-line "Before sex was invented". That does NOT mean you can assume this blog is going to descend into a continuous scene of rumpy pumpy. In fact, as I mentioned before, there will be no revelation as to when or with whom that Rubicon may or may not have been crossed either. Before sex was invented The picture strip above is of Gillian. The centrepiece is from my cousin Jane's school group photo, probably in 1969 before I met her. The two outer frames were taken in London on the 9th of July, 2005. Shelley-ann (Shan) and I dined with Gillian in an atmosphere of solidarity with the victims of the London Transport bomb attacks two days earlier. The fact of the matter is that the phrase above the photos was a perfectly innocent attempt by Gillian to allay the fears of my wife and daughter, who were trying to make my 60th birthday celebrations special and were asking past acquaintances for anecdotes. Not that Shan had any fears that needed allaying, having engineered my thumb-screw catharsis before accepting my offer of marriage. Before I repeat Gillian's anecdote I must just explain that this event probably took place in 1971 when the contemporary local argot for going somewhere included the word "shooting". For example: "I'm just shooting off to the bank" did not mean I was planning a heist or "Mum, I'm just shooting up to Andrew's" was not an obscure means of breaking it to my mother that I'd become a heroin addict. I probably said as I was leaving our house that day, "I'm just shooting off now, Dad." I liked to venture off into the countryside in my greasy-grey Beetle to discover parts of the Kwa-Zulu Natal countryside. I won't deny that my journey that day may have been subliminally influenced by the fact the Gillian lived in the general direction I had been travelling. This is her verbatim anecdote that is now immortalised in the lovely book that Shan, Kate and Garnet collated from sources mined by my lovely wife. "Once upon a time, after rock 'n roll but before sex was invented, Mark was a former boyfriend. As far as my parents were concerned his manners were a mark-ed[3] improvement on his predecessor's and they were delighted to cultivate his visits. On one such occasion he dropped in unexpectedly and explained himself thus to my mother: "'Oh I'm sorry so sorry[4] Mrs Cargill - I was shooting down the North Coast and I thought that as I was in the area I'd pop in[5].' "My mother, who may or may not have had a G&T or two (and if so, more likely the latter) said wide-eyed: "'Oh Mark! I didn't know you went shooting!' "I have never forgotten the look on Mark's face as he struggled to ascertain whether he had heard correctly or if she was joking. She wasn't joking" Homogenisation of dating The mention of G&T in that passage reminds me that this episode in my life was probably the closing chapter in "separation" for a number of reasons. Dating was the first of these. Gillian was an adult and was treated as such by her family. For the first time activities were not constrained by school nights. We could go to night clubs and bars as couples instead of reserving bars for male company only. Alcohol became less of a shibboleth even if it did come with a safety warning. To be honest, I genuinely believe we behaved more sensibly around drink and began to discriminate. Wine wasn't just a cheap means of getting high. It could be savoured for its quality of taste. Dad probably had some influence on this. Suffice to say that a couple of years later when I went on my first proper wine tasting in the Cape, I was well aware that Backsberg was the place to go. This may have had something to do with Mum's renewed friendship with one of her university buddies, Molly Green. Molly and Michael were frequent visitors to our house, drank wine and encouraged younger adults to speak out. While Gillian was a responsible adult and deserved her parents' trust, I had treated my early university episodes like a dilettante. Played a lot of bridge and wore an oversized Harris Tweed jacket with books of poems artfully peeping from an outside pocket. Even smoked a pipe briefly, although that proved to be too much hassle and cigarettes won out. Gauloises seemed to bridge that gap so I was not only a bit of a pseud, I also smelled, as did my Beetle. Dad, understandably lost patience with paying my university fees. "You're on your own now," he announced when my second year's results at the end of 1971 proved I had woefully failed to apply myself. "You can continue living here but you will need to pay rent. You'll also have to pay for your own university education. You'll amount to nothing if you don't get a degree." I couldn't argue with this analysis. It was a much-needed wakeup call for a privileged twat. The only thing that stung from that conversation, which had been delivered by both parents, was the allegation, as I accepted my fate and prepared to leave the room: "Your friends' parents are blaming you for their poor performance at university." Mum and Dad refused to reveal their source(s). The list of possibilities was too large for me to review the evidence and be confident enough to work out who had put the knife in. I got a job in a bank rather too easily and, despite meeting Gillian during that period, the rudderless, if romantic, milieu continued without much further academic success. After two years I switched jobs and it rapidly became clear that I would need to leave the parental nest if I was to progress in my new found career. Separation had occurred I cannot take credit for all of the content in this latest blog. Shan sought the anecdote from Gillian along with so many others that Kate had to work like a trojan to collate them into a fabulous layout which Garnet helped get printed in time for my 60th birthday celebration. I'll end off "Rites of Passage" there and move on to new blog pastures but, before I do, here's one last little story that Shan loves to tell. 60th birthday in a prehistoric campsite By calling it a little story isn't to diminish the stupendous effort that went into the organisation of getting more than 100 people into a seriously rustic site adjacent to the Uffington White Horse prehistoric monument. That deserves a blog of its own. This is merely a small fragment as a taster for stories to come. Suffice to say that Shan asked what I wanted to do to celebrate my 60th. I said I didn't wish for anything elaborate just a bunch of friends in a field around a log fire singing songs. At one point I did stipulate musical instruments and bicycles might be an option. Excuse me while I duck from the arrows of rightful indignation about the logistical naïveté of the idea that this would be simple to organise. A few of our friends might be firing some of those arrows, too, as I had insisted that camping was de rigueur for the occasion. Almost 10 years later, friends remind me that they had to purchase tents especially ... and then at the last moment I pitch up in a newly-acquired motor home (Campy). Not only that, but my wife and my ex-girlfriend from the early 70s shared our first outing in Campy. Gillian DID take some fabulous pics, though[6]. A sample follows and a fuller gallery will be supplied when I can persuade Shan to tell her version of the event to accompany them. Coming up next: Another detour into the future recalling some wonderful anecdotes from a favourite winemaker has fascinating adventures and recalls his own ruminations with flair. After that, my first 70s wine tasting. Endnotes:
[1] Or maybe not [2] A headline writer's cheap attempt to draw in more readers [3] Agsisnomen you really gave that one the tweetment, Ms Cargill! [4] Was a I really that grovelling? I'm pretty sure I wasn't that grovelling. [5] What a greaseball ... if someone used that excuse on me, I'd be tempted to exclaim: "Get a bit of backbone young man. You wished to visit our daughter. Is that something to be ashamed of." [6] And presented them to me in another book Freedom was soon to appear over the horizon in the form of a rebuilt VW Beetle but it still remains for the beach buggy to be laid to rest along with a schoolboy obsession, drawing surfboards. Actually, I built and/or modified a few of the latter, too, often aided and abetted by the likes of Boz. He reminded me this week that his reward for helping rebuild the VW chassis of the blue buggy had been "sitting in the backseat ie wet seat all the way while father and son hunkered down behind the windscreen" during "that horrendous return trip" from Mpelane. May I embrace this opportunity to formally thank an old friend for his fortitude. On the other tack, the first board was a monster. More than 10 feet long. None of us had a driver's licence (for a car) when it (the board) was first launched at Addington Beach and no self-respecting bus driver was going to accommodate it on a bus. Furthermore it would have been totally uncool to have been delivered, avec board, with a parent in evidence. Eventually it was Dad who took me down to Addington. This was a mixed blessing. He didn't retire gracefully but sat on the beach making mental notes while I surfed, and gave me a full critique as I emerged from the water. The critique was NOT flattering. Deale family avec Maman at around the time yours truly was being given a verbal battering by his father. I wonder if my future bride, Shelley-ann (Shan), aged about 8 here, had picked up on this and decided I was weird from then on. You can see the gesture: "What is that weirdo doing over there?" While mother and sister look on indulgently and the brothers are sympathetically too cool for school. Anyway, Dad was always reflective after such moments and made his amends. He administered a block of flats nearby and when the developer asked if his sons could store their surfboards in the basement, a large bell in rang in Dad's head. "Better still, why don't you build a custom hut in a corner of the parking area. You can keep a key for your sons and I'll keep one for my son and his friends." Given the size of surfboards in those days, Boz and I used to carry mine from hut to beach, surf, put the board back in the lockup and stroll into town for movies and a bus. We may or may not have found a dodgy Castle vendor along the way. The hut[1] eventually passed into history and many duplicate keys were made. Who knows how some of the key-holders provided the wherewithal to purchase these. It was not my place to ask. That board went through several incarnations from monster plank to 8 ft pintail in which I reshaped its bum, made a reasonable fist of smoothing it out nicely and then topped it off with a gold/bronze spray-can job so it looked like a demented wasp. It worked well though. It then went on to become a 5-ish ft twin fin that turned on a tickey (we used to say strange things like that in those days; nowadays nobody knows that a tickey was a threepenny bit. Not even the Poms have heard of one). Nonetheless the board fitted inside the car, which was about the only way to make it go it a straight line. It was bright yellow and I eventually gave it to Shan's cousin, before he was in any way related to me. And so to the last days of the beach buggy. Soon to be replaced (for Dad anyway) by an Italian sports number. If I'm to be more exact, it was a GTV (i.e. Gran Turismo Veloce). I guess that meant you could tour around in style and at great speed. I wasn't going to be allowed near it, not in the short term, anyway. The blue buggy's send off also happened with some style and perhaps too much velocity. A friend of Dad's (Gordon, the maker of the fibreglass body in Durban) took pity on my impecunious state. He had been approached by a modelling agency who was procuring props for a cigarette advertisement. The agency had sold its services to whoever it was who made Life cigarettes. It was a brand that was briefly popular and then disappeared without trace. I blame the logo, which had a faux badge, complete with latin motto: "Vita Magna Est." Classy stuff. Not. I'm sorry but which advertising "executive" came up with that? I did some marathon training at a later stage with some guys from a club with a Latin motto, Semper in Excretia. That was bad enough but at least it was tempered with a certain wry humour. But how do you encapsulate life being great in a glossy picture for the back cover of Scope magazine? Ag no fine, you just get a bunch of scantily clad beautiful people, take them to the beach, and stuff them into the sporty vehicle of the day. At least the Lichtaffen on the job were awake. Most beach buggies at the time were sort of gold coloured and wouldn't create much of an impact against the sands of Durban's golden mile. Result. We had the only blue one in Durban at the time. Always canny, Gordon negotiated for me to be paid the the going rate as a supermodel and the buggy came too. Also, I was the only one allowed to drive it. In fairness to me, I did have some skill in that department being a self-styled pseudo-intellectual adventurer. The Lichtaffen were keen to have some action shots. All the beautiful people were crammed into the buggy and we did some circuits of the dunes adjacent to the Snake Park. The airborne shot was the last straw. The beautiful people (most of them fellow students) declared they'd never get in a vehicle with me EVER AGAIN. That is why the ad on the back of Scope is more cheesy grin than action. The fee was welcome and we all went our separate ways. For me the money meant I could pay off my last instalment for repairing buggy damage (Blogs passim). The others probably needed the money, too. I can't even say an appropriate Slàinte to Gordon as he was teetotal. There are two things that disturb me about the first picture of the two above. Why was I lying on the road to take it and why was I wearing those extremely naff sandals? "Because you're weird," Shan pronounced this week, viz. 50 years later. "Always have been," she concluded. Driving, dating and drinking before sex was invented Why am I introducing my first car in the same breath as the consumption of alcohol? Because dating and drinking were completely separate entities. Younger readers might find this concept weird for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the belief, fostered by our mothers, that young women did not drink. Apart from being complete kak, why did I swallow this myth? Essentially, drinking in our late teens occupied a complete dichotomy. We either went out drinking with our mates or we went on dates ... we were yet to combine the two. I have subsequently learned that the reverse was happening on the other side of the fence. Gillian, a friend I dated back in the day, revealed fairly recently that she and Jane used to procure a bottle of vodka and drink it after school while my aunt and uncle were at work. How were the adults not aware that this was going on? Reminds me of the time I was lying under the bedspread in my room having a surreptitious smoke when I heard someone outside my closed door. Quick as a flash I tucked my cigarette-bearing hand under the cover just before Dad entered the room. He didn't often linger but he did this time. "Just came in for a chat," he said. The still-lit cig smoke started to visibly billow through the coarse weave of the spread and I could feel the heat nearing my fingers. Before a complete disaster occurred, Dad left the room. "Thank Christ for that," I exclaimed to myself under my breath. "He didn't notice!" I wrenched the window open and removed the evidence, smoke and cigarette butt, while congratulating myself on my presence of mind. What would we have done without Sen Sen to disguise our nefarious activities. The moment anyone came anywhere near me reeking of licorice I knew immediately that they were either disguising alcohol or smoke. Often both. Our parents were so naïve. When the occasional mother of a friend of interest finally allowed her young and innocent daughter to be spirited off in my newly renovated Beetle, there tended to be a curfew involved. Often an itinerary had to be provided containing more detail than a visa application for foreigners travelling to the USA. Movies were OK for evening dates but every parent knew to the nanosecond how long it would take to return from the cinema to the home doorstep. Chaperones helped a bit, in the form of a sister or a friend, but weren't always infallible in gaining permission for an afternoon interlude. At one point, Viv and I hatched a cunning plan. She had been tie-dyeing the odd teeshirt and confessed to wanting to try a batik. Batik bedspreads were de rigueur at the end of the 60s along with bullfighting posters. Dad (literally with his own hands[2]) had built me an annex at the end of the family home complete with study, shower and sleeping area leading to an enclosed courtyard. The decor was quite trendy and required batik bedspreads to go with the matador posters. Weekday afternoons for at least a fortnight were spent at either Viv's house or mine, creating this one-off designer bed linen. When Viv came to my house, our friend Mandy came along too. In the picture above, Viv is weighing up her artistry while Mandy ensures a safe environment. What I hadn't realised until almost half a century later was that there was a spy ring emanating from the campaign office of the Durban North Progressive Party. Vida, Mum and probably Joan, all of them extraordinarily intelligent women who had been confined to sorting polling cards alongside each other, hatched their own Cambridgian consipracy to keep things interesting. Mum never broke the Official Secrets Act to me. I suspect Joan didn't, either, to Robbie. He, Mandy, Viv and I (none of whom were part of SMERSH) were part of a band of "Young Progs" and occasionally lent a hand putting up posters for the forthcoming election, blissfully unaware that we were being watched at every turn. Maybe I should have suspected something because Viv was still allowed out when Mandy had better things to do than accompany us on batik making expeditions. After Vida confessed all to her daughter more than 40 years later, certain clues seem to click into place. Mum's sewing room had a good view of our garden and they must've recruited my four-year-old brother, Paul, as the pesky super-spy who could move around the hidden corners of the garden with great stealth, only to pop up at unexpected moments. Mostly when we were taking a brief break from batikery in the courtyard. Sadly, no-one can confirm these allegations as the Cambridge trio are no longer with us and Mandy and Paul died tragically young. In this day and age I am mortified by the bullfighting posters (Viv had nothing to do with those) but the Batiks were pretty cool despite the matching Spanish motif. As far as the booze went, we couldn't afford too much booze so it was easier to have a Castle or glass of wine at home with than to venture too far in the car. As I have mentioned, Gillian provided evidence that skullduggery was happening elsewhere ... a story corroborated by others, including the mother of my child. They weren't drinking Babycham, either. My "fourth" surfboard, and my only shop bought one, was a big wave board. Unlike its predecessor, it was all but impossible to wrench off a straight line. I bought it towards the end of the 70s and it was never a great success and for all I know still mouldering away in the basement of a block of flats in Felix Dlamini Road. Next time: An explanation of sex not being invented. Endnotes:
[1] Shan insists that this lockup achieved a cult status as "Tekwen". That must have been after my time because I don't have any recollection of that name. [2] Well, there was the occasional skilled tradesman in the form of plasterers, plumbers and electricians and the unskilled and unpaid labour, viz. moi. *Fuzzy Photos & Unreliable Tasting Notes, **Cape Town Road Trip For a trio of Durban greenhorns in 1970, Cape Town was seriously exotic. Apart from the Mediterranean climate, it was considered to be a step-change in sophistication for those of us on the East Coast. Having had a taste for it a year earlier, I jumped at the opportunity to join Andrew and Jem in revisiting the 1,600 Km excursion. This time the transport was to be a Ford Escort Mk1 Andrew shared with his older sister, Catherine. I can't really remember how they shared it because, at that time, Catherine was studying medicine at the University of Cape Town (UCT). The fact that they shared it was relevant to our plans, however, as Andrew didn't have exclusive rights to the 'scort and his Dad retained conservatorship. Also, Andrew and I had been on a road trip to the South African Grand Prix in Johannesburg with my aged VW Beetle chewing up the miles. I think my friends' parents considered my jalopy a tad insubstantial for the safe conveyance of younger brother Jem (A.K.A. Jeremy) on the 3,200 Km round trip. The journey proper was to commence from a short distance South of Durban where Andrew and Jem's family had a beach cottage. Their parents were in residence and were a little surprised to see my sister, Sue, arrive with us. Andrew had agreed, without his parents' knowledge apparently, that Sue could accompany us as far as Gqeberha[1]. As with my previous excursion in a South Westerly direction, Mums had equipped us with introductions to friends en route. In my case it was the same friends in the Eastern Cape but A&J's Mum had come up trumps with an altogether more exotic relation at Boulders' Beach on the outskirts of Simonstown, itself on the outskirts of our cultural Mecca, Cape Town. Sue was booked in at Chez MacEwan in Qqeberha where we were to abandon her for the onward trip. This was a great cause for concern for A&J's Dad. Andrew, being the senior traveller, was summoned for a dressing down in a different room. We left the next morning much as we had intended and my two friends had been accorded a substantial travel allowance each by their Pater. I had recently been informed by the University of Natal that I was no longer welcome to continue my degree in 1971 so was rather impecunious at the time. I had secured a job, which would commence on our return, but in the meantime would have to exist on the remaining scratchings from my prematurely aborted university career. Our first day's target was, once again, Port Alfred. Happily Mum's uni friend, Paula, would be in residence in her family's holiday cottage. Paula's daughter, Cherry, and I were born within a few days of each other and she was to be there too, along with her slightly younger sister, June. Could a bog-standard lime-green 'scort Mk1 1100cc be a controversial conveyance? We made it to Port Alfred safely. No sooner had we arrived than June summoned us. An oyster vendor was at the door. Did we want 100 freshly-picked oysters for a Rand. At that time there was more or less parity between the Rand and the Pound. The Rand had started life being worth 50p but the UK currency had dropped in value like one of the rocks that oysters clung to. The oysters were splendid and we learned to eat them with Tabasco. Not everyone was keen so those who were probably had at least 20 each! The beginning of curried milkshakes While we were staying with Paula, Cherry and June, it turned out that Cherry was moving to Cape Town and would arrive there before we would. We invited her to spend a weekend with us in Simonstown. Given that I had been there the year before, she asked me for recommendations of places to eat when she and her flatmate first arrived. Turns out I remembered one restaurant, an Indian establishment on the way up to Kloof Nek, name, address and everything. We had razor sharp memories in those days. "Wow Mark, that's brilliant, right near where we'll be staying," Cherry enthused " Well then, make sure you check it out and report back when you come out to Simonstown," I grinned before the divvil got to me: "You must have one of their curry milkshakes," I added waiting for a klap[ ] around the earhole. But I'd forgotten that Durban was reputed to be the alternative Capital of India and Durbanites knew about this stuff. I'd assumed Cherry knew too. Rather unfairly I went in for the kill. "You must insist on the milkshake having the proper garnishes on top, coconut, maybe chopped onion and tomato, certainly chutney for the sweetness balance." I was pushing my luck but the Durban angle seemed to give me credibility. "Anyway, it wouldn't be unusual to have chocolate garnishes on a chocolate milkshake, would it?" Cherry seemed grudgingly convinced and the subject moved on. The next morning we continued to Gqeberha. As we waved goodbye we shouted out: "See you in Simonstown, don't forget to report back on the restaurant." We dropped Sue with the MacEwans and headed towards Plettenberg Bay (Plett). The three of us heading for the Fairest Cape: (L to R) C'est moi, Jem and Andrew in the early 1970s. I was excited to return to Plett. I had been there the previous year but had learned about it long before that from Mum, who had first holidayed in the area when the Beacon Island was home to a modest whaling station. During the early part of WW2, the whaling station was supplanted by the first iteration of the Beacon Island Hotel and Mum was taken there as a young(ish) teenager in the early 40s. Her parents spent most of the war in Kenya building trucks for the Allied forces so kind parents carted her off with them for family holidays. My grandfather ran the General Motors factory in Nairobi (L), making trucks (R) for the North Africa campaign, during Mum's teenage years. Friends took her to Plett during the school holidays. In case you're interested, my Grandad was the bloke on the right, wearing a cap. Granny was the person in front of him. She worked in the machine shop. When Andrew, Jem and I arrived in Plett the first Beacon Island hotel was about to give way to the new Sol Kerzner[3] monstrosity that stands there to this day. Not that we could have afforded either. Like the previous trip, de rigueur was sleeping bags, cold food and the deserted Lookout Beach for us. Jem and Andrew had brought "posh" enamelled tin porridge plates but I had remembered the indignity of the previous year when trying to wash greasy plates in the breakers with beach sand for soap. I had come equipped with disposable styrofoam bowls (remember this was 50 years ago, before such containers were widely reviled). Boy, was I complacent relaxing after milky cornflakes, listening to Cat Stevens and Santana on Andrew's torch battery driven cassette player, while the brothers dodged the waves to rinse their soiled crockery. After two nights of this, we needed provisions and Andrew added three eggs to our booty: "Fried eggs tonight," he smirked inscrutably. "But how are you going to fry them," I inquired, unaware that we had a budding Bear Grylls[4] in our party. Turns out he'd secreted a small pan and a Calor camping stove deep in the boot of the 'scort. A bit of leftover butter would do the rest. I was impressed. I began to salivate at the thought. After pride comes the fall (into the sand) With the first egg sizzling in the pan, Jem prepared to receive it in his enamel bowl. It slid seductively alongside a buttered slice of bread. Salivating turned to drooling. In no time I was ready to receive my own feast and Andrew served it on to my disposable plate with a flourish. It went straight through, taking my bread with it. The styrofoam had been no match for the heat of the egg and had melted without so much as a by-your-leave. It sat there all glutinous and covered in sand while the two brothers pissed themselves. I did try to wash the egg in the sea but it was too slippery. By this time Andrew and Jem were rolling about on the sand in mirth. "Watch out for sand, Spook," Andrew shouted, using my derogatory nickname. Humiliation was complete. Above L to right: The first Beacon Island hotel replaced the whaling station; Mandy (see below); Sol Kerzner replaced the hotel with the one on the right, which remains there to this day. My egg debacle was not the only highlight of our the time in Plett. We spent our days on the central beach in front of Beacon Island, with a foray to Robberg, affording us a spectacular view of porpoises frolicking in the ocean below while Andrew's cassette player "blasted" out Matthew and Son as tumultuously as it was able. On the return journey we bumped unexpectedly into Mandy, a lovely friend from Durban to whom the brothers insisted on regaling with my eggy humiliation. Mandy was the closest friend of my girlfriend of the day, Viv, who was off in Europe skiing. Mandy's family was camping in the campsite in the centre of Plett with her parents and, I believe, her sister, Sara. Sadly Mandy died far too young from cancer leaving a hole in our lives. We also met a family on Central Beach. Parents and two daughters. Turned out the mother was a golfing legend in the 60s, the women's equivalent of Gary Player, whom she knew well. I wish I could remember her name. It was instantly recognised when one mentioned it back in the 70s and. They invited us to stay with them at their home in Port Shepstone on our way back. We took them up on it for a night and dallied in the pool where they had the best lilos I've ever seen. Tried to find one like those ever since and never succeeded. We left Plett during torrential rain that had been forecast to continue for a while. In my impecunious state, I imagined that we'd have to sleep in car. A bit tricky for three mature dudes in the 'scort. My companions weren't having any of it. Their parental travelling allowance[5] came to the rescue and extended to motel accommodation just outside Knysna. I was glad of a "squatter" space on the floor between the beds and continued sleeping while A&J went off for a full breakfast. A housekeeper came to strip the beds, and I thought I'd been rumbled, but she daintily stepped over me as if I wasn't there. I pretended I wasn't. Simonstown and Boulders Beach We arrived at our terminus at Boulders Beach and gaped at the splendour of our accommodation. I've tried to don my virtual Google microlight to see if it's still there but I'm not optimistic. It was the optimum spot at Boulders and had a lawn sloping down to a cove, sheltered by the massive "boulders[6]". Idyll was too bland a term to describe the setting. Our hostess lived in a smaller house in Simonstown, away from the sea. She came down to welcome us and to invite us to the local golf club for dinner, adding that she'd leave us to our own devices after that. We had a few days to settle in before Cherry and her flatmate were due to descend so we were rather relieved to be economical with the truth about two young women descending on us for the weekend. Paula knew all about it, so it was fully above board, but, in those days attitudes about that kind of thing were pretty mixed. We duly spivved ourselves up for supper at the golf club, and reported to our benefactor for more of her beneficence. She was quite excited about the menu du jour as they were serving avocado ritz as a starter that day. Avocado ritz, got right, is a splendid thing and we were hungry young lads. We were also from Durban, which was primarily famous for its curry, avocados and sugar cane, so we were smiling and completely unprepared for the apparition that arrived. This probably sounds ungrateful but shrimps in Marie-rose sauce surrounded by jet black, slimy avo-flesh demanded a further imbalance in the truth/economy quotient to summon up the appropriate approbation. What with our delight at our accommodation and the generosity of our benefactor, we'd kind of forgotten the Durban curry advice given to our imminent guests. "Mark Harrison, you complete bastard," Cherry snarled as we rocked up to fetch les femmes from the station. "Wha-a-a-a," I exclaimed as I dodged a klap[2]. And then the penny dropped, at which point I should've stopped digging, but I didn't. A bit like holding out my styrofoam dish for a sizzling fried egg, I retorted: "Oh! I never expected you to believe that old yarn ..." "Can't wait for you see the cottage," Andrew interjected with an all-knowing twinkle in his eye. Cherry's flatmate switched her interest but my babyhood friend hadn't finished yet. "The proprietors weren't very friendly when we asked for the milkshake and became a bit frigid when we insisted on the, what did you call it, 'sambals'[7]." Her friend resumed nodding at that point but then Andrew turned the corner and the cottage was in sight. All was forgiven. They even cooked us dinner that night. Cherry and I had "known" each other for almost all of our lives. Most of the time this would have been a virtual knowledge but Mum and Paula (holding us on the left) kept up consistent correspondence by letter so, when we were reunited at the beginning of 1971it seemed as if I knew her well. The picture on the right shows me as the introvert with Cherry clearly the extrovert.
Coming soon: Back to the future ... well, post 1975, anyway. Plus a few tangents into human interest stories Footnotes:
A week later and I'm running slightly behind. A birthday intervened and had to be celebrated in style. Given the theme of this series of blogs, "style" included exclusively SA wine shared with my "bubble"[1]. Cartology and seriously old dirt for the birthday boy and Die Kat se Snor and Paul Cluver for the Burgundians[2]. Added to that, my ex-boss and current friend sent me this message from America: "you know you are old when your age gets a full page in the Kama Sutra." Thanks Dave. One step back before two steps forward While signing off from episode 2 in this mini-series, it occurred to me that there had been a couple of anecdotes that had been leapfrogged but had some strong relevance to the narrative i.e. learning to appreciate (or not) alcohol and transport (definitely not contemporaneously) over one's formative years. I'm cheating a bit here because I wrote these notes for a friend fairly recently and am now proposing to "retweet" them with one or two solicitous adjustments. They refer to a preposterous trip to Mapelane that was made with my Dad back in the 60s. Three men in a beach buggy embark on an epic journey to deepest Zululand. This should also shed some light on our reticence to subject Barbi's ball gown to being delivered to the ball in the beach buggy in a downpour (blogs passim). We were to accompany members of the Hathorn clan to the notorious fishing destination over roads that were only fit for an ox and cart. Even discounting the stop at the Hathorn farm for “refreshments”, the journey took on epic proportions. The beach buggy wasn’t really man enough for the job and its lack of roof was to come back to haunt us later. In those days there were only a few clearings in the coastal bush for tents and not much else. Boz and I were teenage schoolboys and I think there were four men (Hathorns plus hangers on). I suspect the teenagers had to erect the tents while the older generation made a full-frontal assault on the Castle stock. Despite having sampled the delights of Castle and Klipdrift ourselves by that stage, it had only been in a clandestine way and Dad’s last vestiges of responsibility precluded us from their festivities. Boz can correct me if I’m wrong but the erection of the camp took a while and the eventual supper consisted of a makeshift braai with a smattering of sand-encrusted wors. I think we had been expecting succulent shad caught with our own hands. We were then banished to the tent we were to eventually share with Dad. The Klipdrift consumption continued apace. We did have mosquito nets but all I can remember is, after about half an hour, Boz turning his inside out in a fit of rage and presenting it to me with a ball of crushed mozzies the size of a fist. We were then driven by despair to go and stand in the shark-infested surf to get away from the pesky whining beasties, We felt quite sorry for ourselves by this stage. An informal risk analysis eventually persuaded us to take on the mozzies rather than the sharks. After that, I can remember thrashing about on my camp bed growing increasingly resentful of our "superiors". At one stage there was a chorus from the campfire contingent: “And now one for the mozzies”. I remember glancing over in Boz's direction and seeing the blazing resentment in the eyes staring back at me. At some stage, the Klipdrift anaesthetised the responsible adults and they repaired to their respective sleeping accommodations. Within minutes the snoring commenced. We would never have heard an approaching hippo. I do remember leaving the tent after this point but my long term memory is hazy as to whether we made a raid on the Klipdrift. Maybe Boz has better recollection? The final denouement came the next morning when the heavens had opened and it was decided to abandon any thought of our primary objective in going to this remote location, i.e. fishing. We struck camp and loaded up the blue buggy. I remember Dad boasting that it would probably float if required to do so. Well, he was probably correct. We hadn’t even traversed the seemingly endless track to the tarred road before it was evident that our transport was dangerously taking on water. Despite being soaked to the bone from the top, we were now being absorbed from below. As we had spent the whole day travelling it started to get dark and one of us had the bright idea that we should seek refuge. But where? Was it in Mandini where we fetched up at the local SAP station? All I can remember is the ultimate humiliation of being refused a cell for the night. Another myth exploded about where to go in an emergency. I don’t remember anything after that but Shelley-ann (a.k.a. Shan) and I did go back to Mapelane many years later and stayed with friends in a comfy Parks Board chalet. There were magnificent sightings of pelicans in the estuary to entertain us. I don’t think we even saw the estuary back in the 60s. In addition to travelling to North Eastern Kwa-Zulu/Natal to masquerade as mosquito and shark bait, Boz and I had to rely on Mums and Dads to transport us to otherwise inaccessible parties. In those days helping us to break the law was infra dig. Flying pigs would have aided and abetted us to smuggle a Castle or five to a youthful gathering before our parents would have countenanced such a thing. All very sensible but rather socially limiting. Dad once drove a bunch of us up to Hilton for a party at Susie's parents' house, more than 60 miles, and then performed the cred-limiting crime of arriving to fetch my friends and me at 11PM. The selfishness of it. Not only did it invite my friends' contempt but it happened on more than one occasion that I'd just met someone interesting at 10:55. Such a callow youth I'd become under the influence of grog and sophistry. Salvation came in the shape of two older friends, Pete and Ted. Actually, really just Pete because Ted didn't have his own car. But Pete had a clapped-out Renault Dauphine in which he transported us over similar distances. I felt pretty bloody sophisticated the first time Pete and Ted arrived to fetch me from my home in Durban to head off to a party in Richmond, a distance of some 120 km (same hostess, Susie, whose Mum was a teacher at our sister school). It rains a lot on the East Coast of South Africa and a downpour was nearly our nemesis. Shortly after dark the torrential rain started suddenly. Pete turned on the windscreen wipers and began to peer through the windscreen rather more tentatively than I (and probably Ted) felt confident with. The windscreen wipers weren't too effective. Which was a mere inconvenience with what happened next. First one wiper flew off into the pitch black night, shortly followed by the other. Pete's only option was to reverse up the hard shoulder and see if we could spot them with the assistance of the pretty dim headlights. I believe despair might have crossed all of our minds by the time some brighter lights approached from behind. Fortunately the white Dauphine was pretty recognisable. The approaching lights were attached to the front of Fozzy's Dad's car ... might have even been a Valiant. Mr Fozzy was transporting the rest of our crew to the same party. We were recognised and suddenly had a search party with effective lumination. We all arrived safely with tales to tell. It would have been a fool's errand to attempt to return that night so Susie suggested we sleep on the floor of their farmhouse unbeknownst to her Mum. Her Mum was the first up in the morning and, upon entering the sitting room, pronounced calmly: "So that'll be 12 coffees and 12 breakfasts, then." I eventually reached the age of consent and pretty quickly obtained my driver's licence and almost as quickly managed to inflict damage on both the Valiant and the Beach Buggy. On both occasions the vehicle was filled with young people, it was raining and I was showing off. My only saving grace was that I hadn't been drinking. I couldn't really afford such a luxury; even less so when I was repaying Dad for the damage inflicted on the parental vehicles. In both cases the damage was of the kerb-nerfing variety so no-one was hurt and the damage was (costly for me but) relatively minor in the grand scheme of things. There was brief excitement one evening a month or so later when Dad came home and announced he'd bought a car on my behalf. "We need to go and fetch it in the morning," he added "That's brilliant Dad," I enthused. "We'll have to stop off at Bill's place on the way for a tow bar." "Why do we need a tow bar?" I asked in some trepidation. "It is Yvonne's[4] Beetle. The engine's blown up[5] in Pietermartizburg. We need to tow it back. I'll drive the Valiant and you can steer the VW." And that was how I drove the first 80 km in my first car. After Dad and I had rebuilt the engine I was genuinely grateful. Freedom at last[6]. Coming soon: Before sex was invented part 3. Discovering new horizons Endnotes
[1] Current UK guidelines passing themselves off as legislation are that two nuclear families can associate a little more closely provided they've declared themselves a "Bubble" provided they comply with government "advice". [2] For the purists, the wines are identified in a little more detail here. I do like Burgundy BTW. We also didn't drink it all on Wednesday. Some still going: 2016 Cartology from Chris Alheit, a Chenin Blanc with a little Semillon added; 2016 seriously old dirt from Vilafonte, a Red Blend with a bit of magic; 2017 Die Kat se Snor Chardonnay, 2017 Paul Cluver Village Pinot Noir. No tasting notes at this stage. More to come when we get to that stage in history. [3] Not yet in use ... for a later explanation [4] The wife of of one of Dad's business partners [5] Blowing up isn't as drastic as it sounds ... back in the day it meant that the car could go no further without major mechanical repairs. [6] This was a pretty middle-class view of freedom at the time, more akin to mobility. Let's not forget that more than 80% of the population of South Africa was not free in any way. Nonetheless, public transport from where we lived and where I needed to go was virtually non existent without a long walk, a bus and another long walk. When I eventually moved to London in the mid-Seventies I found public transport one of the most liberating attractions. *Fuzzy Photos and Unreliable Tasting Notes; ** Road Trip Immediately after Christmas in 1969 three of us set off on what, for me, was to be the first in a long chain of road trips. Three young blokes in a Vauxhall Viva about to traverse the 1,000-mile journey from Durban to Cape Town. Did I say mollycoddled young blokes? Well, we were all students. One of us, Marshall, was a little more world-wise being, I think, a year older. Gorgs and I were freshly-turned 18 and pretty wet behind the ears. I seem to recall Gorgs had been much further afield on family tours to Europe but the furthest I had been was Gqeberha. It wasn't called that, then, having gone by the far more pedestrian name of Port Elizabeth[1] and only rightly returned to its Xhosa roots in 2021. Personally, I had never covered much of the ground between Durban and Gqeberha. We had sailed there once or twice on a Union Castle liner in the 1950s to visit our grandparents, who were burghers of the colloquially known Pee Ee. Now Gorgs was inviting Marshall and me to accompany him on this road trip in his brand new Viva GT. Earlier iterations of the Viva had been somewhat optimistically hailed in local radio advertising as "the sports car for the family man". This refrain had drawn some derision from car aficionados of the time, with its 54 bhp 1057 cc engine in a dated, boxy body with laughable American-styled fins. So, when Gorgs announced to his mates that he was getting a Viva GT for his 18th birthday, we were a little dubious to say the least. Little did we know that our friend had done his homework and discovered that, not only did the new Viva have a svelte new "coke bottle" body, but the GT version he was getting came equipped with twin-carbed, 112 bhp 2-litre power. The younger two of us had barely owned drivers' licences for more than a few months and now we were to be let loose in this beast for a 2,000 mile[2] round trip, provided we could stump up a third each for fuel. We would sleep on beaches at our overnight stops. What a question! The svelte new Viva in GT form. I have already described how I was a bit of a greenhorn at this travel malarkey but it turns out that Gorgs' Mum and mine had clandestinely conspired to pin down contacts on our intended route and had provided letters of introduction to ensure we had safe sleeping arrangements. My gran, Molla, was also in on the secret and presented me with a monster torch, something the intrepid trio had overlooked. Mollycoddled? Us? Quelle Horreur? Marshall had a bit more street cred than his two 18-year-old companions and had come equipped with an entree to a hippy cabin on the outskirts of Cape Town and a knowledge of bleeding-edge music, an important quality seeing as our Gran Tourismo had an actual radio on which we first heard Peter Green's Fleetwood Mac's Oh Well. It had also been our understanding that Mike Hailwood had crashed his Iso Grifo[3] into a cow in the Transkei and our eyes were constantly on the lookout for evidence. This tended to sharpen our synapses in our vigilance for hazards, particularly for cattle-at-large, on the unfenced roads. The first day of our journey was consequently quite a trek and ended at Port Alfred. But we were young and intrepid and wired with adrenalin. Port Alfred The original attraction of Port Alfred had been the fact that we'd had an introduction to Paula, one of my Mum's uni friends from Rhodes who had a holiday house there. Sadly for us and happily for this story, Paula and her two attractive daughters weren't in Port Alfred at the time but, hey, we'd come equipped with brand new sleeping bags and Molla's torch ... Our first night was spent on West Beach at the mouth of the Kowie River. Aware that this wasn't strictly legal, we pulled the bright red Viva well away from the road and made our camp. It was dark after the long journey and the torch came in handy while we were laying out our sleeping bags. The torch was highly commended by my travelling companions and (I suspect it was Marshall who suggested it) we decided to test just how far it would shine out to sea. The answer was: a long way. Just to finish off the evening we agreed to test its morse code capabilities. "SOS is dit-dit-dit, da-da-da, dit-dit-dit," one of the jokers suggested. In other words, three shorts followed by three longs and and three more shorts. The light show looked impressive. We were satisfied but tired and climbed into our sleeping bags. No sooner had we got ourselves comfortable and were drifting off than all hell broke loose. Awakened by the commotion I opened my eyes to a sound and light show way beyond the capabilities of grandma's torch. It must've been after 9PM. "Bly stil," a commanding voice commanded. Technically speaking this meant "keep quiet" but to the discerning ear it could also be loosely translated as "move one muscle and you're dead". One thing we did know was when to be humble and compliant. "Is julle Engels? Jou registrasie is ND vanaf," the voice continued, basically stating that we were English-speaking ne'er-do-wells from Durban. He'd seen our car's number plate, which was prima-facie evidence that we were, at best, drug runners or, at worst, Commie terrorists. One of us had the nouse to respond in a supplicant manner. We weren't carrying too many cards. We opted for the truth: "Yes lieutenant (he was probably a sergeant at best but never let the facts get in the way of a good arse-creep), we are from Durban. We were very tired and we couldn't find anywhere else to sleep." Maybe we could go for vagrancy on a lesser plea? "Ja, but you were signalling out to sea," our interlocutor switched to English. None of us voiced "Oh Fuck" but all of us thought it. Instantly. It was my turn to speak: "My ouma gave me that torch along with some koeksusters[4]," I pleaded. "She was concerned for our safety," I continued, "and we hadn't tried it so we thought we'd test it before going to sleep," adding shamelessly, "ons is baie jammer luitenant[5]." "Just show me the torch," he demanded. I retrieved it from my kitbag and handed it to him. He and his deputy inspected it cursorily. "Ag, I believe you ous," our policeman conceded, the deputy nodding affirmatively behind him. "You look too innocent. Nat agter die ore[6]. Nice torch for camping but not for signalling Russian submarines onto Port Alfred beach ... " "Do you want us to move," we chorused, "maybe you could recommend somewhere for us to go Luitenant?" we chorused. "Ag no man, just make sure you're gone early tomorrow morning, we don't want the tourists finding a bunch of skollies[7] when they come down to sunbathe on our beach ... and it's Sersant[8] ... nou ja, did someone mention koeksusters ..." Left: Yours truly looking uber cool and not in the least hippyish at the turn of the decade - perhaps a bit of a poser in the Ray Bans. Right: I don't have my own picture of Smits but it hasn't changed very much since, due to strict planning restrictions. This one from the early 2000s lifted with the owner's permission[9] The next night we were happy to spread our sleeping bags on the sitting room floor of Paula's PE family home, before hastening on our journey to Cape Town. We would return via more or less the same route but Marshall had arranged our next digs in Smitswinkelbaai (Smits) and they were expecting us[10]. Smitswinkelbaai (Smits) Another 500 miles passed in a blur. Once again the resilience of youth meant we arrived that evening. I have to confess I hadn't been aware that Smits was quite so far out of Cape Town, my Shangri-La. Tried to conceal my disappointment. The setting was spectacular, the company stimulating (for that, read challenging with half the brainpower of Durban concentrated in the dozen or so intellectual heavyweights gathered there). The cabin was more of a rustic, sprawling bungalow with a lorra bunk beds. I seem to remember it was owned by the Keane family from Westville, friends of Mum's that I had met tangentially. Simon Draper was also there - he went on to achieve great things in the UK music industry but, at the time, was (or had recently been) a DJ on Radio Port Natal. There was a lot of kelp on the beach and 13 eggs for an omelette. I remember all the eggs being cracked into a bowl and the penultimate egg being so vrot[11] the yolk was black and the albumen green. Most of us went hungry that night and a shopping trip to Simonstown was planned for the next day. In the mean time the incumbents had assembled a bunch of musical instruments including some artfully dried kelp for the horn section, an old-fashioned broom handle and tea chest bass, a kazoo or two, a washboard and a battered guitar. We had a discordant concert before retiring. There was one female member of the cast named Louise, whose Dad was a lecturer at our university. Louise had her own quarters (maybe the Keanes did, too?) and the rest of us dossed down in the bunk area. The next morning I was all excited to be visiting the metropolis at last. A particular attraction for me was Table Mountain whose summit rose more than 1,000 metres from the sea and which could be accessed by what now seems a particularly rickety cable car. Turns out I could hitch a ride for the shopping expedition as far as Simonstown but there was no room for me in the Viva for the onward journey. I should make make my own way on the train if I wanted to visit the legislative capital of our country - check out the parliament, that kind of thing. I love trains and engaging like minded people and met a guy on the platform who told me I should listen to Iron Butterfly[12]. I can't remember where I met up with Louise and Simon in the city centre but am pretty sure we ended up in the cablecar together, "did" the summit of Table Mountain and ended up at Louise's aunt's apartment somewhere near the city. She was the Portuguese consul to Cape Town and fed us wine. After that I must've ended up back on the train because I definitely remember walking back to Smits from Simonstown. In the dark. On my own. I remember that because the journey took two hours and I was terrified, mostly because I was followed and being taunted by a troupe of baboons led by a fearsome cove much like the fella below. Left: Probably wouldn't pass today's safety standards but the 1970 cablecar certainly gave one a sense of being "up there". Right: This dominant male baboon was not to be trifled with, especially after dark in his own territory. All too soon we left the surrounds of Cape Town. A follow up visit was definitely on the cards. Next stop was to follow up an introduction Gorgs had been given to a family friend who bred racehorses somewhere near Oudtshoorn. We arrived in the mid-afternoon and were taken out to watch the foals racing each other, riderless, in a paddock. Evolutionary instinct at play. Unfortunately our host wasn't expecting us to sleep the night. After an awkward moment for Gorgs we were offered two single beds in an outside room. We could push them together and roll out our sleeping bags. I drew the short straw and got the middle slot ... And then to Plettenberg Bay where we slept on the beach again, a little out of town. It was pretty quiet then and during the day we sunned ourselves on the central Beacon Island Beach, no doubt because there was a gorgeous young blonde divorcée who inhabited some of that space with her toddler. It took us a while to pluck up the courage to talk to her and we were rewarded with an invitation to drinks with her parents in a posh gaff overlooking the sea. Our appearance was decidedly bohemian by that stage and we attempted to spruce ourselves up a bit. We didn't really succeed but our hosts were most charming and didn't let on. Last stop was back in Gqeberha where we were welcomed by the MacEwan family, Dr Ian, Mrs Zia and Deane and Angela. They were old friends of my family and Deane ended up becoming my brother-in-law a few years later. Deane took us surfing at a reef break, which was scary for Durban lads used to a sandy beach break to soften any mishaps. And then back to Durban, tanned and with significantly longer hair. Gorgs and Marshall's was enviably sun-bleached, too. I had dark hair. When we got back my Dad took one look at me and remarked on my appearance. I can't remember what he said but I do recall that it was not flattering. Coming soon: If it's a road trip it must be Cape Town RT#2. Subjects include curried milkshakes in Cape Town, the effects of a fried egg on styrofoam, a famous golfer's daughter and Simonstown again, this time staying locally at Boulders Beach ...
[Footnotes]
In the context of this memoir, rites of passage employed two parallel threads: Going Out; Avoiding parental control; Early stages of alcohol consumption. Oh, that's three. See what alcohol does! Actually there were more, including becoming a pseudo intellectual. Before sex was invented One of the wonderful aspects of being in the 40th year of a strong marriage is the trust that builds over time. I no longer feel the need to tiptoe around aspects of my earlier life as old friendships of mine have developed into new friends for my nuclear family[1]. So much so that when Shelley-ann (Shan), Kate and Garnet set about assembling dodgy anecdotes and pictures for a book to celebrate my 60th birthday Gillian came back with the headline above. I'll repeat the headline in the context of the anecdote in a later episode. Matric dances. In my previous instalment (below) I described how Hilton boys were no longer allowed one of their own. What is more, there existed a rule of thumb (I am at a loss as to whose thumb) that male teenagers were less intellectually mature than their female counterparts; it seemed that a 2-4 year gap was appropriate when dating the opposite sex. There were several ironies in this situation. One of them was that we were legally entitled to drink at 18 while our dates were breaking the law if they joined us. Consequentially, I was inviting young friends to my university balls before I'd ever been to a matric dance[2]. I had to wait for a girl in matric to invite me before that could happen. (Actually, I wasn't even 18 when I was launched into tertiary academia as an Oppidani student.) This meant I had to be delivered to social gatherings, with my date, by a parent. How humiliating was that for a callow youth out to impress? In retrospect, it was probably a Good Thing. Given that 17-year-olds were not really equipped for the kind of frivolity that involved taking part in a speed drinking competition involving a metre of Castle Lager and then returning a ballgown bedecked 15/16-year-old at the end of the night would have been a high-risk undertaking. Barbi came to stay (several times; I can't guarantee the pictures are contemporaneous). She would have been delighted to be transported in the Beach Buggy in her ball gown. It wasn't entirely practical (keep reading) ... It couldn't have got much worse for my first ball. I had invited Barbi. Barbi had invited me to her sister's[3] 21st earlier in the year. I had travelled from Durban (Durbs) to Pietermaritzburg on what was colloquially known as the Pullman, the bus that travelled the 80km between the two cities. Now Barbi had to get to Durbs and stay overnight. Then we needed to arrive at the Students' Union together. Dad was off somewhere in the family Valiant and Mum and I were left with our open-topped beach buggy. Barbi was totally relaxed with this but a subtropical monsoon intervened and we had to borrow a neighbour's VW Beetle. Helping one's date, complete with long dress, out of the Beetle and into the rain while Mum revved the engine frantically to prevent it from stalling was not quite the entrance I had hoped to make at my first big uni function. Actually, I needn't have worried. We had to dance under umbrellas as the union roof leaked so comprehensively that it merely sieved the downpour into a persistent drizzle. Also, Barbi thought it was a hoot and accepted future invitations to join my family in Durban. To top it all, our benefactor who had loaned us the Beetle was an architect who had designed some of the buildings on campus. I'm not sure of the exact chronology of some of these anecdotes but I do recall having a fairly strong stomach when it came to regurgitating the excesses of alcohol consumption. Perhaps it would've been better if I had had a bit more experience in the matter. It all started when a couple of us were at an obligatory army camp a way down the South Coast from Durban. We weren't allowed our own cars down there. It would've been too much temptation. I'm not sure I had my own car yet, anyway. We were allowed weekend visitors for a few hours on rest days, though. We weren't expecting any, however, when we heard the stuttering of the high-lift cam of what our attuned ears identified as a hotted up Mini Cooper S making heavy weather of the dirt road to the camp. Gradually our mate, Phorsh[4], came into view from around the bend. He had just restored his steed and was running it in[5]. It had seemed a good idea at the time to show it off to his two mates, Gorgs and me, at the camp. I think he was already regretting it when we bounded over to greet him. We did a round of high 5s or whatever it was we did in those days. Gorgs looked at me and I looked at him. We were of one mind. Phorsh saw the exchange and started looking nervous. He was right to be. "Seeing as you're here, Phorsh, old bean," one of us insinuated, having made all the appropriate admiring exclamations, "would you be able to take us back to Durbs?" "But you don't have a pass to get out," he correctly pointed out, looking relieved. "I'm sure we could come up with something," one of us retorted "But the Cooper S barely got over the bumps in the road. And it's running in." There were two of us and one of him, I'm ashamed to say, and he did capitulate gracefully. Now we had to concoct a story for Phorsh to deliver to the Staff Sergeant who was in charge of the camp at weekends. We came up with a preposterous lie on the basis that it would be more likely to succeed. "Staff," I blurted as the three of us crashed through the entrance to the adjutant's tent. He looked up, a bit surprised to see two rookies in khaki overalls accompanied by a civilian in teeshirt and jeans. Sensing we had Staff marginally on the back foot, Gorgs took the baton: "We've been robbed. Our mate has driven all the way from Durban to give us the news. The 3 of us share a flat, you see, and the insurance need all of us to provide an inventory." Luckily Phorsh did have a flat of his own and was able to provide an address. We'd won Staff over and checking the address would be too much of a hassle on a late Saturday afternoon. "Just be back by midday tomorrow," he conceded signing the paperwork. As the Mini grounded on the umteenth bump under the weight of three tall young men we could hear Phorsh muttering under his breath. "Don't worry, old buddy," Gorgs said, sensing we'd already used up all our chips, "come to my folks' place and we'll find a more suitable lift back in the morning. That was only the start of things in a most eventful day. It turned out when we arrived at Gorgs' house that we'd all been invited to a party at a friend's house nearby. Bring your own booze. Where was I going to get the required libation. Turned out there was an off-licence en route and they sold Tassenberg in what we referred to demijohns. They contained half a gallon of wine and had a convenient finger loop on the neck so they could be conveniently flung over one's shoulder. Convenient AND stylish. Actually rather more dorkish than stylish, especially when you took into account the purple residue 60s Tassies (as it was affectionately known) left on your teeth for days to come. I don't remember that much about the proceedings except that our party host lived with his parents and they had a large house containing a nursery school. I found this out when I first needed a lavatory and was directed through a door into a toilet facility with seemingly endless rows of tiny white bowls. At that stage the Tassies was only working on my bladder so the mini flushers were perfectly adequate for a male person on his knees. The large house had also been recently refitted with pale carpets. A fact I discovered when the Tassies insisted on returning from whence it had entered. I cringe to this day when I remember the first time I barfed from alcohol use. What a place to learn. I don't remember anything between being ushered out of the door and arriving back at camp. To this day, however, I do know my hosts were extremely gracious about the travesty and mayhem. In fact it was only a few years ago that Alan invited me to stay at his own house and we shared a mightily fine bottle of red with succulent steak to prepare us for a bike race the next day. Right. I've demanded your attention for too long and sex hasn't come anywhere near being invented yet. Not that I'd tell you if it was when we pass that point in my narrative, which is supposed to be about unreliable tasting notes. Tassies was cheap and fulfilled a purpose and we'll leave it at that. Back to matric dances So it was that, while my cohort was too impecunious to become too lush, I was reasonably seasoned in the art of drinking at social occasions by the time I came to be invited to matric dances. I'm not claiming to have had many invitations but I do have some very short tasting notes to share. I had become accustomed to beer and the occasional cane spirit and bitter lemon but these were not too likely to be welcomed in schools. Particularly those schools in the Protestant or state sector. I did find, however that convent dances were altogether more family friendly affairs. Mum and Dad came too (not mine, obviously - the person's inviting me to the dance). To encourage a more congenial atmosphere parents were allowed a glass or two of wine. If a small sip found its way past a student's lips, blind eyes were turned. Perfect. Happily my cousin Jane was by now installed in one of these convents and found it a tad more accepting of her happy go lucky outlook on life. I did attend one or two convent dances but the one I remember the most was the final year for the lovely (myself not included) people above. I was Louise's date for the night. Sadly I am now out of touch with her but remain friends with Gillian and would unquestionably still be having laughs, and wine and vodka, with Jane were she still alive. Shan liked the picture of me at the somewhat psychedelic dance with Louise and her mum, Shirley, and had pinned it on our cork-board. S-a also went to a convent and remembers hip flasks at her matric event. Coming next: Before sex was invented part two, bit about the buggy and getting my own car Endnotes:
[1] More of of this will emerge over this and future blogs. For e.g. Carmela and both of her lovely daughters have visited us in the UK and Kate has been out to stay with them in Sydney. Viv has hosted us on more than one occasion as you will already have read in the Classic Blog part of my Roaminations. Gillian has visited us in Oxfordshire ... more of this in the opening part of this episode. [2] The Fleur-de-Lys private party did not count [3] The same sister who was mentioned in the the 6th instalment of my Karoo Pub Crawl (in Classic Blogs) as having been a friend of the artist, Helen Martins. Actually there are two points of coincidence between the two ... perhaps you'll be able to spot the next one, too. [4] Shan's cousin [5] New and rebuilt cars had to be "run in" gently for about 1,000 miles in those days. It allowed the moving parts to bed in and loosen up a bit. The transition from observer to participant There is a rubicon that enthusiastic sub-teens have to cross. They can feel it coming with a sense of bewilderment and often with some reluctance. I'm not telling anyone anything new and I was no different. Sort of jumped from happy-go-lucky to hormones to pretentious git and then hopefully back to reasonable human again. These are the rites of passage. My own Dad[1] summed it up as follows: "When I was 10, my Dad knew everything. By the time I was 16, he knew nothing. A decade later he ended up knowing quite a lot." Corny it is but we've all been there. It's not a comfortable time in the second decade of a young life. Romantic notions/admirations/relationships are perceived differently as are mind-altering substances and the differing levels of sophistication thereof. The responses vary according to individual. I don't wish to kick off a nature versus nurture storm here[2] so I'll keep my own counsel. Suffice to say that shit happens to everyone and this is a personal account only. Throughout my childhood and pre-teens we lived in Durban, which is on the coast and not too far South of the Tropic of Capricorn to prevent an often oppressive humidity. In my pre-teens I had developed chronic bronchitis, a pretty naff thing to have. The family GP was adamant. "You need to send Mark to a secondary school where there's a drier climate," he insisted. This meant going to boarding school, which was not such a downer as one might imagine. Firstly, it would've been an adventure but the predominant reason was that I had, at the time, a boy-crush on my rakish older cousin Donny[3] who was a boarder at Maritzburg College. Sadly, living in Donny's disreputable[4] shadow was not to be. Thanks to zoning laws for state schools, I was supposed to go to a school in Durban North. It was decided to send me to Hilton College. It would knock a chunk out of Dad's annual budget but it was at an altitude of 1100M. Ironically, when Dad developed chronic emphysema in his latter years he was living at 1400M and was advised to move to the coast to help his breathing. He died in Durban in 2001. Pause for vignette #1 Mum got a bit more lively in the early 60s. Cath had arrived in 1958, making us quorate and, when she was old enough to go to nursery school, Mum wanted to go back to work. However, there weren't too many jobs going at the time for anthropologists so she decided to do a post-grad UED[4a] instead. This was cool and her stint as a student teacher was even cooler. Then she got a job as a class teacher at Northlands Girls High in '64. Cousin Jane was there to keep an eye on her. This photo is of the class, I believe. I'm sure someone will correct me if I got any of the details wrong. And now, resume. I am dispatched to Hilton. As far as the rites are concerned, we learned to make pineapple cider during our first year in the boarding establishment ... a beverage that recently saw pineapple prices go through the roof when the recent C-19 lockdown banned the sale of conventional alcohol. We also learned what matric dances[5] were for. At that time it was still normal practice to beat education into a 13-year-old and to practise child-slavery in the form of "fagging[6]". I remember the last matric dance in my time at the college. A few of us were sent off to decorate the school hall armed with blankets and cushions. Ours was not to question why but it turned out that we were required to build rows of boudoirs around the perimeter of the venue where the seniors could entertain their dates in comfort. I wouldn't stake my life's reputation on it but, in retrospect, it wouldn't be a shock to learn that hidden hip flasks were involved. I only mention the hip flasks in preparation for a convent vs college debate when comparing invitations to these events 4 years later. Even we "new pups/poops" were not convinced when it was announced in assembly that Pietermaritzburg and district head teachers had got together and decided that it would be more sociable to cease matric dances indefinitely and substitute more frequent social gatherings. Of course, the socials never happened. Oops! Vignette #2 coming up. Please pause. When you are a 13-year-old boy starting out life at a robust boarding school, anything can damage one's street cred. In one's own eyes, anyway, but I'll ask those reading this to be the judge: "Your Mum's going to have another baby," one of my more precocious classmates told me after my family had departed ,following a rare visit to the school. We were only allowed to see our parents twice a term. You're talking crap," I retorted, not unreasonably. It was the first I'd heard of it. "Remember who told you first," my tormentor replied. So the next time my family visited me, I studied Mum closely. Yep. Sure enough it was true. I demanded and got a confession. A new sibling would be arriving in July. And so it came about that Paul entered our lives on the 5th of July 1965. We were all smitten. I think my body language in the first frame is sufficient evidence, even though Paul looks rather wary. Lots more about Paul and his impact on the Stellenbosch wine lake in later blogs ... End of Vignette #2 Hopefully you'll remember that, before I so rudely interrupted with family vignettery, I was rabbiting on about the demise of matric dances and their substitute entertainment's failure to materialise. Bizarrely, though, we had an annual party, named the Fleur-de-lys which happened in the first week of our year-end holidays. Anyone associated with the school could go, our prefect assured me, his recently-turned-14 slave. It was to be held in a Durban nightclub with a band led by a Springbok Radio hit parade singer of the day, Jody Wayne. I never believed Mum and Dad would allow me to go but Mum even set me up with a partner ... a friend's[7] daughter. I coerced my schoolmate, Andrew R, to provide moral support and he brought his older sister. This was very cool because she knew how to order a round in a nightclub and we didn't, even though we were only allowed soft drinks. Jody Wayne! My date thought he was the drawcard. The rest of us were already into the Stones ... say no more. Earlier Portuguese aniseed liqueur notwithstanding, young teens in our family were pretty naïve when it came to alcohol. Some of my friends were gagging to earn their spurs but, to start with, I didn't really like the taste of Castle Lager. I felt drawn to it by peer pressure. I didn't wish to appear inexperienced and naff. So I asked Dad how many Castles it would take to get me pissed. Big mistake No1. "Two," he advised That took place in one of the holidays from boarding school during which a bunch of my friends had gone on a school trip to Zimbabwe (then known as Rhodesia). On our return to school we always gathered around after supper to exchange holiday exploits. There were some pretty wild stories from the Zimbabwean tourists. Braggadocio reigned supreme. "That 10th Castle finished me," someone commented with faux-ruefulness. "You're talking crap," I responded, feeling a bit left out. "Ten Castles is impossible." "How would you know?" came the challenge. "My Da-a ... ," it was too late; my interlocutor knew what was coming. Big mistake No2. Coming next week; Rites of Passage 2: More about matric dances - RC vs. Calvinist; Coming to terms with Booze; parties; discovering the opposite sex Endnotes:
[1] I use "Dad" here because he said it but I'm pretty sure Mum shared the same view. [2] My life's partner is a counsellor and has strong views on the matter. [3] Donny was probably blissfully unaware of this when I used to stay at their farm at Mid Illovo. The main reason for lionising my cousin was that he was allowed to drive the tractor and could speak fluent Zulu. He also led me to believe he had once shot two guinea fowl with one pellet from his air rifle. He shared a name with his Uncle Donavon, who was killed in WW2. [4] Donny's being cast as a mischievous rake was purely a figment of my imagination. The last time I saw Donny was at my brother's funeral (at Hilton) in 1988. [4a] University Education Diploma (UED) [5] The American term, prom, seems to be more widely used nowadays. [6] In the original meaning of the word where prefects were entitled to a personal servant in the form of a junior boy who did all their dirty work for free. [7] I seem to recall the friend was one of those Mum made during her teacher training. There were a few mature students on the course with her and they tended to stick together and remained friends thereafter. A little more sophistication[1]. [Including endnotes at the end of this article] Mum and Dad started to develop a wider circle of friends. They started going to coffee bars and art galleries. Painted the walls grey and the ceiling yellow. Mum started seeking out and restoring antiques. The coffee bars had an intriguing Portuguese influence. Had it not been for Apartheid, this sophistication may well have emerged earlier. Asian and African culture was separated from urban and suburban nightlife. The custom in restaurants, bars and nightclubs was exclusively Whites Only[2]. Actually, in 1960s Durban, privileged white society was largely dominated by WASPs[3] of English descent. The pinnacle for WASPs were the Old Durban Families (ODFs). Ergo, you could still have a white skin and be discriminated against. Even geographically within the city. There are plenty of scholarly tomes that describe the politics in intimate details; I am merely skating over it here to highlight the insularity and lack of imagination in the society most of my parents' circle existed in.[4] Last outpost of the British Empire. At the top of the Berea with some wannabe ODFs out for a visit.[4] Suddenly they seemed to discover that there was a Portuguese colony to the North. Latin sophistication at last[5]. The vanguard[6] was probably made up of the fishermen who travelled to Mocambique for the then abundance of sea creatures to catch and eat. There were other forbidden delights, too, that our Calvinistic government of the time would not tolerate. At this point, I’ll "take the 5th" as my American friends are wont to say. The effect on my siblings and me was a growing awareness of coffee drinking and vinho verde in ornate bottles at adult dinner parties. The breaching of these boundaries also encouraged ODF members to look outwards in the opposite direction, i.e. the Western Cape. While Cape Town was three times further away than Lourenço Marques[7] (LM), the heart of South Africa’s winemaking lay 1,000 miles by road to the West. This had started shortly after 1659. Some of Durban’s wealthiest aesthetes had been stealthily stocking their cellars from the Stellenbosch area for some time. For a while, though, LM remained the biggest pull for the arty/trendy set. My Mum and Dad went increasingly frequently to LM for dinners we could only dream about. Langoustines, prawns and crayfish, prepared in exotic Latin styles beyond our imagination. A favourite seemed to us to be piri piri, although it was difficult for us to understand why at the time. Something that blazed the shit out of your tongue? Why ruin a perfectly decent piece of chicken with this satanic sauce? Three of the hotels I remember my parents mentioning were the Polana, Cardoso and the Girassol. One was considered "too ostentatious". I can't remember which one it was but all three still exist and readers can check for themselves. I stole the not so fuzzy photos of the Cardoso and the view from the Girassol from Booking.com Dad was particularly keen on piri piri but then he had had Indian clients who brought him hot curries that brought tears to our eyes if we went anywhere near them. Piri piri flavoured food items started finding their way back to our house from Mocambique. We were particularly taken with the vast tins of piri piri coated cashews but rather relieved at being verboten from eating them. There was also the small bottle of bird’s eye chili seeds marinating in olive oil, a drop of which was reputed to render a plate of rice so fiery as to be inedible to all but the bravest of hearts. Bizarrely, our first appreciation of things Portuguese was the aniseed liqueur with a crystal tree seemingly growing inside the bottle. Presbyterian Molla didn’t seem to notice her grandchildren being allowed the occasional sip of the “divil’s juice”. I even recall the brand, Progresso, with its aeroplane label. Was it the tree in the bottle, the label or the licorice taste that got us going? I’ll never know. Perhaps an early sense of participating in an illegal substance? Apart from Dad’s malaria, the other brand that came back from LM fishing trips was the Havana packet of 25 “cigarros” that my Uncle Graham used to chain smoke. Literally lit one from the other in a continuous chain. Seen here with my beloved Cousin Jane, a committed smoker until her premature death last year. Cooling their parched throats with what may or may not be Portuguese beer. Back to chili-based food, Durban Curries and Piri Piri have long since been amongst my favourites. Imagine, then, after a drought of the latter, looking forward to the real deal on my first trip to the Algarve. Nowhere on any menu. Aghast, we consulted locals who looked back at us blankly. Eventually a light appeared: “Ah, você quer dizer galinha africana.” We were directed up a narrow alley and sure enough … This was about 25 years ago and we and our friends, Debbie and Jack, washed it down with plenty of Portuguese wine. Sufficient for the proprietor to give us a couple of bottles of his own red. No label, just his face was painted on the glass. We brought our bottle home, thinking it a novelty. It stayed on the wine rack for more than a decade until we persuaded D&J to reminisce … we could, after all, resort to something else if it was vrot[8]. We were amazed to find it had aged brilliantly. Just goes to show, never judge a bottle by the face on the glass. Philistine that I am, I don’t even have a fuzzy photo of this memorable bottle. Returning to 60s Durbs, prawns and crayfish became the de facto thing to eat at sophisticated adult dinner parties. Sometimes grilled in a herby baste but more often in piri piri. Curry came later. The aforementioned galinha africana was also a favourite. So no need for red wine. Vinho Verde continued to slake adult throats but Drostein took a back seat. And then came TJ39[9] and Riesling. Weren’t we the wine connoisseurs now. Actually still only my parents, I was merely observing trends ... Mum gets trendy and I am tolerated with a filthy fag hanging from my mouth. Jane's smile lights up both pictures. Rosemary, Sue, Paul and Cath complete the picture. Coming soon: Could red wine enter the mix? Durban Poison? League of Empire Loyalists? Maybe I first need to appease the real photographers among my friends to ensure they continue to stay that way. Endnotes:
[1] I am not for one moment suggesting sophistry ... this was to become my role ... [2] Net Blanke if one spoke Afrikaans. [3] White Anglo Saxon Protestants [4] Perhaps a later blog on French, Italian, Jewish and other enclaves but I was certainly exposed to very little cross-pollination, even though my parents were considered progressive; practically "commies" to some. [5] Ironically both Natal and the Berea were Portuguese names. The former for what is now the N bit of Kwa Zulu Natal (KZN) and the latter for the hill overlooking the Indian Ocean and the sheltered bay where Vasco da Gama did some fishing on Christmas Day in 1497) WASPs only started arriving in droves more than 300 years later. This picture has been borrowed from the Drisa Archive. [6] This is a totally verkramp(narrow) vision of the "vanguard" as it applied to Durban white people. For more details read, inter alia, The Night Trains by Professor Charles Van Onselen and The Number by Jonny Steinberg. [7] now Maputo [8] Rotten ... vrot is more expressive. [9] Twee Jonge Gezellen Clone Nr. 39 I can’t really remember when wine didn’t feature in my life, even if by proxy only. I may have delegated the proxy to my parents during my first decade. I’m not saying either of my parents was a big boozer but they liked to be sociable and they had definite ideas.This wasn’t too difficult as far as drink was concerned as there didn’t seem too much choice in South Africa in those days. Our “liquor cabinet” contained a bottle each of whisky and medium sherry. That was about it. My gran, Molla, would have disapproved terminally if it had contained gin. That was “mother’s ruin” and my own Mum was rather undeservedly regarded with deep suspicion from that quarter. Apart from the liquor cabinet, there was wine and beer. As we lived in subtropical Durban, this had to be kept in the fridge. I don’t recall any red wine being about in the early days. In my parents’ view, only sherry could be sweet. If you were South African in those days you were either a Castle or a Lion family as far as beer was concerned. This was fairly simple because Castle only had lager. Lion also had what was loosely be described as ale. At the bottom of our hill we were lucky enough to have the Roadhouse Hotel on the corner of the exotically-named Sea Cow Lake road. As its location suggests, it was an out of town venue. It was a popular dancing destination, a little more salubrious than the Smugglers Inn (Smuggies) and the Cosmo Club. The hotel also had an off-licence and that was next door to the dry cleaners. I was allowed to accompany Mum down the hill in the family Morris Minor to drop off/collect dry cleaning and visit the offie to replenish stocks. The list was simple. Whisky and sherry if the drinks cabinet had been depleted but always Castle and dry white wine in a half-gallon demijohn. If a dinner party was in the planning and a guest was a known consumer of Lion Ale, some of those went in, too. All this was being noted and processed by my child-brain. I liked to learn about things that adults did. However, although my parents erred on the “liberal” side of the political spectrum, children and black house servants were to be seen but not heard. My siblings and I looked up to the black servants but they had fewer freedoms than we did. Any form of alcohol was verboten for them as it was for us. We weren’t to be trusted, apparently. It was the law of the land as far as the black adults were concerned. They were always trusted to look after the children, however, when white parents went off dancing or to dinner parties and generally having a piss up. Our house was seldom locked up at night but the liquor cabinet was. Ok, ok, this was supposed to be about wine, not politics. Finally, in today’s world, South Africa celebrates black sommeliers with an authoritative voice. Back to the drahwahtwarn … I am 99.999% certain our original tipple in the demijohns was called Drostein (pronounced “dross steen”). The pronunciation is important for reasons I hope will become obvious later. Back to the actual wine, I have tried to verify that there was a dry white in the 50s/60s called Drostein and no-one, not a soul will own up to having any knowledge of it. Aurally or orally. I have put out feelers to people old or knowledgeable enough (or both) and not a whisper has come back. If I hear anything at all, I’ll have to write another blog dedicated to this ghost of a wine. Why is Drostein important to me? Firstly, the nose stays with me to this day; not necessarily in a pleasant way. My Mum was notoriously unlucky with cars. Things happened to them. Often not wholly Mum’s fault. As children, my sister, Sue, and I were beside ourselves when we were called upon to push start the 10-year-old Minor so Mum could crash start it, usually outside one or the other’s school or in the middle of “town”. Seemingly always with an audience containing far too many of our peer group. Mum, finally got her own car, a slightly newer Hillman Minx with a column shift and a faulty bendix. This needs to get a tad technical here. The bendix was the device that engaged the starter motor to turn over the engine in order to get it going after which it would, in theory, disengage. If it didn’t engage properly when Mum was trying to start it it made a VERY LOUD grinding screeching noise, usually for a similar audience as the Minor had had. This time, though, the remedy was for Sue and me to get out of the car and rock it as violently as possible while Mum tried the starter again. At this stage we were a bit older and our spectators would be in their early teens. Nuff said. Finally Mum got a nearly new VW Beetle, which she loved. For a bit. Following a weekly trip to the Roadhouse Off-licence in Durban midsummer, Mum parked in our driveway. I can’t recall why we left the booze in the car but we did. She took the precaution of parking in the shade of a large indigenous Trichilia emetica. These are BIG TREES with FAT branches. Well, this tree vomited its biggest branch onto Mum’s Beetle, crushing its roof and a demijohn of Drostein. It was a hot subtropical day. Nothing would remove the smell. For years. I suppose there could have been a bit more cred emerging from your Mum’s car smelling as if you were pissed but I don’t remember it that way. Secondly, I believe, while spelled Drostein, it was actually a dry Steen, hence the pronunciation. Steen was the name South Africans adopted for Chenin Blanc when it first appeared in the winelands. Today Cape wine producers have reverted to Chenin but this is another story leading to fantabufriginlistic wines stemming from old vines … a triumph for taste and conservation. More of this coming soon in a future blog. Coming next: Suddenly, Durban embraces Portuguese sophistication. Coffee shops, wine, piri piri, LM prawns, Lourenço Marques (now Maputo). Could red wine enter the mix? |
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