VLIEëRS (Kites)

Vlieërs is the Afrikaans term for Kites and I devoted a great deal of my youth to making and flying kites.  No two kites that I made were ever identical in performance and I was fascinated by the diversity of personalities they displayed.  Some were aggressive in flight while others were completely docile.  Some took their role very seriously while others were playful.  However they behaved, the basic construction materials were always the same and consisted of bamboo strips, tissue paper, strong cotton and glue.

On the day described below, my friends and I wanted to make a few kites but had no bamboo and no money to buy some from the farmer who sold it to us for a penny a length.  After some discussion, the solution seemed obvious – we would simply help ourselves to a few lengths.  All we had to do was not get caught.  That part of the plan didn’t work too well and I had to take a hiding stoically since I couldn’t tell my parents what had happened.  To confess my crime would doubtless have generated another hiding – this time from my father.

VLIEëRS

Op ʼn dag wil ons toe vlieërs maak
Maar bamboes het ons nie
Die ou boer by Langlaagte het
Maar hy vra daarvoor ʼn pennie
 
G’n een het geld, wat sal ons maak
Maar wag! Louis het ʼn plan
Daar is gevaar maar ons is jonk
Kom ons gaan steel daarvan
 
So gesê so gedaan
En kort kort is ons daar
Stilletjies kap ons bamboes af
Niemand moet ons gewaar
 
Skielik skreeu ʼn stem hardop
“Haai wat maak jul daar?”
Dit is die boer, hy’t ons gesien
Vandag kry ons pakslae
 
Die oubaas en twee outas
Kom vinnig aangedraf
En voor hul hol vier honde
Met skrikwekkende geblaf
 
Elkeen laat sy bamboes val
En kies ʼn wegkom pad
Ons spat in alle rigtings uit
En vrees gee bene vaart
 
Ek hardloop deur die bloekombos
Maar struikel oor ʼn tak
Ek val my stom, my wind is uit
Meteens is ek betrap
 
Die outas hou my stewig vas
Ek pleit en tjank en ruk
Dit help my niks, pak gaan ek kry
Hul maak my vooroor buk
 
Die oubaas slaan my pienk en pers
Met sy renostervel sambok
Die pyn is erg my boude brand
Ek soebat “Hou tog op!”
 
Skielik word ek los gelaat
Dit is my wegkom kans
Hul gryp na my maar ek is weg
So vinnig soos ʼn haas
 
By die huis gaan dit maar ewe swaar
Want Ma wil weet hoekom
Ek nie wil sit, bly liewers staan
“Wat’s fout, toe sê nou jong?”
 
“Ek het perd gery en afgeval
Op sitvlak hard beland”
Of sy my glo kan ek nie sê
En ek’s vroeg bed toe die aand
 
 

Pizza Night

According to Jean Paul Sartre “The poor don’t know that their function in life is to exercise our generosity”.  Perhaps that is true but the lady in the next poem knew nothing of Sartre or of his words yet she succeeded in exercising my generosity.

Pizza Night

Friday night is pizza night and this night it’s my turn to buy
Two quatros in hand as I reach the car a woman catches my eye
Her sandals are all but worn through and the babe on her back makes no cry
She’s tired but worse she is broken and instinct alone makes her try
To sell one more cheap little tray cloth so they might eat rather than die
I have no need of her offering but I reach for my purse with a sigh
And buy not one but two bits of lace, thinking “But for God’s grace there go I”

Die Skoenlappers (The Cobblers)

In my youth, neither money nor goods were in plentiful supply and the culture of the day was one of “repair” rather than “replace” as is the modern approach.  This repair philosophy applied to almost everything, not least of all to shoes.  At that time, both the uppers and the soles of shoes were generally made from genuine leather and with reasonable care they would last for many years and be handed down to younger siblings or cousins as you outgrew them.  Along the way they might have several sets of heels and be “half soled and heeled” at least once and possibly more.  There existed specialist shoe repair businesses to whom you took your worn shoes and other leather goods for expert attention and our local “shoemaker” business was operated by a Mister Johannes Wolmarans together with his partner a Mister Gerhardus Nel from premises in Central Avenue, Mayfair.

I loved going to their shop to watch the sewing machines and the grinding and buffing wheels that were driven by flat canvass drive belts powered by a shaft which ran the length of one wall.  I also enjoyed inspecting the variety and diversity of items brought in for repair.  From shoes of every size and description through leather briefcases and school bags to saddles and bridles, they all received the expert attention of the repairers.

Sadly this business and many like it is no more.  It was overtaken by progress in the form of artificial materials, the ‘throwaway’ society and fashion trends that dictate change often well before the product has reached the end of its useful life.

Here is my tribute to the shoemakers.

Die Skoenlappers

 Die Ooms Johannes Wolmarans en Gerhardus Nel
Was in Sentraal Laan bedrywig met skoene herstel
Skoenreparasie was vanmelewe ʼn waardige professie
Want wegsmyt van stukkendes was buite die kwessie
 
Egte leerskoene is deurgaans duursaam en sterk
Maar lewensverwagting word wel deur misbruik beperk
Om klippe en blikke te skop en in poele te baljaar
Beteken kort voor lank is duur trappers so te sê klaar
 
Maar als is nie verlore daar’s tog hulp byderhand
Die plaaslike skoenlappers bied wel kundige bystand
Slegs tiensjielings en ʼn sikspens koop half sole en hakke
En gepoets lyk die ou skoeisel weer vanuit boonste rakke
 
En hul dienste beloop meer as net skoenedrag voorwaar
Omtrent enige leer artikel word wel vir reparasie aanvaar
Van ʼn voetbal of ʼn skoolsak tot ʼn leer baadjie of ʼn saal
As dit van gelooide vel gemaak is geld daar geen bepaal
 
Die aroma van die plek lê nog altyd sterk in my neus
En in my kop maal die ritme van hamerslagte op lees
Asook die gons van poetswiele getol deur seilbande
Begelei deur naaimasjiene onder vaardige hande
 
Nou is die winkel gesloop, die saak verban tot die verlede
ʼn Kantoorgebou op sy plek, veel meer geskik vir die hede
Mens en masjien is tot die laaste lank daarmee heen
Nes die verlies van my jeug wat my somtyds laat ween
 

Edlaw Mansions

I was born in a nursing home in the Southern suburbs of Johannesburg.  Why I got this special treatment at a time when home birthing was the norm, I never did find out.  When my mother and I got to go home it was to a two storey block of flats on Central Avenue which is the main road through Mayfair.  The flats were tiny two bedroom, one bathroom affairs and number 3 was to be my first home.

Edlaw Mansions

My first permanent abode (after the womb, I must stress)
Was number three Edlaw Mansions, Central Avenue no less
Sadly not Illovo nor Athol nor even Eastleigh my dear
But Mayfair, near Fordsburg, the wrong trackside I fear
 
And “Mansions” was poetic licence misused to excess
So grand a title far removed from reality, I guess
Yet its two bedroom flats served for many a year
As refuge and haven for all who lived there
 
A veritable potpourri of people used this address
All forced there by hard times, by financial distress
And things were seldom as they might outward appear
With any signs of prosperity just a fragile veneer
 
In the absence of affluence one could sense nonetheless
The unmistakable presence of class consciousness
And while the language division was painfully clear
Politeness and civility is what you’d publicly hear
 
Those on their way up might try hard to impress
With a new woollen suit or a smart winter dress
And those of less fortune would pretend to good cheer
Then blow their last shilling on two bottles of beer
 
Gone now the mansions, in the name of progress
But neither absence nor time can serve to repress
The memory of those who arrived in joy or in tear
To find warmth in her shelter, to be held by her near