NO MEDALS FOR THAT LINE ADOLF. So we are sitting beneath the massive old Jacaranda out the back. The last few flowers dropping away from its usual hazy purple shroud was now covered by the black cloak of the African night. Just two silver haired old men chewing the fat. Brothers. Boets, boeties, broers, brothers, bhutis or bro’s, all acceptable monikers for brother in our area. “Speak for yourself” my long suffering wife would shoot from the hip whenever she heard me speak of myself as an old man. Let me give you a breakdown of my interpretation of the different ages in a person’s life. The teen years comes to an end at nineteen because that is the last time that the word teen appears at a birthday party. Between twenty and thirty you are middle aged because thirty plus thirty is sixty and that makes thirty the middle age of a sixty year old person, which is close to that spot of bother in a person’s life where they start chopping trees in your forest. From forty on you are for all intents and purposes old men. Finish and klaar! I mean forty plus forty is eighty and not many men live to be eighty, so that immediately classifies you as having overtaken the middle aged part of your life and your ox wagon begins coasting downhill into the Valley of the Golden Years. We were staring into the dying embers of the fire in that comfortable and companionable silence where there was no need to speak when my brother cleared his throat. “Chris do you know why married men die before their wives do?” “Nope.” I replied in the dark of the night. “Because they have an urgent desire to do so,” he chortled. But wait, i have been sidetracked again and it started the moment i included my Madalief in this conversation. Women have that result on men. We are easily sidetracked when they are involved, and that applies to all men, whether you are in your teens or in your golden years. Christened Herman we call him Mannie, which is pronounced money, and ironically money is the one thing which he always seems to be in short supply of. Mannie is the diminutive form of the Afrikaans word mannetjie, which means little man. Do not be fooled though, he is by no means form or way a small man, that was just how our grandparents addressed him when he was little and the name stuck. Although as a family we often visited our relatives from upcountry this was the first time in eight years that he travelled down south to pay us a visit and thus time and place conspired to arrange the two of us around the remains of the fire under the darkened Jacaranda. Now and then a tiny molecule of dry wood gave up the ghost in a sharp crack, accompanied by a pinprick of light shooting into African night like a dying star in a far off galaxy. Carried aloft in the warm air currents hovering above the coals it quickly faded into nothingness in the darkness wrapped around us. “Chris get the lantern going, i am going inside to fetch something i want to show you.” With eyes accustomed to the dark he rose and aimed himself at the oblong of light spilling from the doorway of the house, a little way off. I pulled the lantern closer and pressed down on the arm which raised the gallery. I turned the wick up a smidgen and stuck a burning match to the wick. The paraffin in the wick jumped to life and in the sudden light the glowing coals disappeared, showing only the dead ash of a burned out fire. I lowered the gallery and turned the wick down till i had a satisfactory flame going in the glass casing. For a moment Mannie was silhouetted against the black framed light of the doorway and then he aimed himself at the glow of the lantern, making his way to me. He set down two things on the hard packed soil at our feet. The one was a hammer and the other a plastic butter container. “I think,” he started off, “that our country must surely rank in one of the top three as far as making ridiculous preparations before leaving your home for any length of time is concerned. “You see i cannot simply close the front door behind me and go. Extensive preparations must be made before Mr Yale clunks home behind me.” I smiled in the semi darkness. Mannie has his own way of saying things. “First i had to jack up the Hyundai bakkie to remove the back left wheel, which by the way was a hell of a job since i had not drawn up a new tyre for years and its basically riding on the tube at present.” Now here i must take time off to describe Mannie’s business. Since his children left the house and his wife left him he is running a little business that provides him with just enough to put food on the table and pay for his numerous stops at a string of coffee shops on his route. He buys fresh vegetables at the Pretoria market on a daily basis and then delivers it to a few carefully selected clients. His day starts early, which suits him well as he is an early riser. His first daily client is the huge restaurant at the centre of the market. This restaurant serves not only the huge workforce at the market but is also open to the public. They have a standing order for fourteen large cabbages a day for the preparation of coleslaw. Unbeknown to them there is a ‘slice and dice’ shop not even three hundred metres away from their front door. This little shop situated in a secluded building cuts and dices veggies for clients all across Pretoria. At half past five Mannie would buy fourteen cabbages on the market and drive them to the ‘slice and dice’ shop where they are finely shredded for coleslaw. Then he returns to the restaurant and delivers the bags of shreds to the restaurant at an inflated price. This is one of his carefully nurtured clients who provide a steady income from only six hundred meters of effort on his side. This little bit of effort on behalf of his ‘anchor client’ as he calls them leaves them results in three happy customers in the process. From there he would load the old workhorse with a carefully selected variety of veggies for the next, and final three clients of the day. This would bring him up to twelve o clock and his third coffee shop of the day. Clients have been carefully chosen to coincide with his route back home as well as the closest coffee shops along that route. You must not waste your profits on driving backwards and forwards to deliver goods and enjoy a good cup of Arabica in the process you see. At this, his final stop, he would have lunch and work through the three crossword puzzles in the newspapers of the day. This is also the stop where most of his friends would come in for a coffee and so they would sit and chew the fat into the afternoon. From here he would drive the short distance back to the plot where he rents a small flat. Now this program would be repeated for the rest of the week in more or less the same fashion, with varying clients on different days. Sticking to this carefully selected group of clients, produce and profit margins he is able to sail through a month, providing just enough to live on in a minimalist but satisfactorily way of life. I was a bit concerned about provisions for falling ill, knowing full well the exorbitant premiums asked by medical aids today and so i raised the point. He laughed heartily when replying. “No broer you need not worry. I have full medical aid and they pay hundred percent of all costs in treatment and medication. From a box of pain killers to a triple heart bypass, all fully covered!” “What! Who are they?” I exclaimed in surprise. “The Government ou broer, the Government. They pay everything in full; in fact i think you are contributing to my medical aid.” He sniggered. “So then finally i got the damn wheel off and rolled it to the landlord’s workshop where he locked it away safely. Whatever is left behind on ground level when you leave stands a good chance of being pilfered by the countless jobless youths sneaking around at night.” He took a long stick which was lying on the ground next to him and poked the remaining coals around. Here and there a coal or two shook off its shroud of ash for long enough to reveal the dull glow of life beneath. “Back at the Hyundai i had to battle to get the bloody battery removed before pushing it in a wheelbarrow to the cottage and then battling it upstairs into my bedroom before pushing it up and into the chimney, where i wedged it on a ledge.” It was my turn to mess around with the coals. He continued. “With that sorted i went to fetch dad’s sword.” I knew exactly which sword he was talking about. All three brothers inherited one from dad. My younger brother Ramsay had dad’s original military sword which was used by officers for ceremonial occasions. Dad also bought up two additional swords for Mannie and me. The sword was a throwback from the middle ages but in a modern army it had only a ceremonial place. One of the ugliest and most heart wrenching things to witness, my dad once told me, was to watch an officer being court martialed. Upon entering the courtroom, which could be any old room handy enough to fill with the tight lipped hard faced military types comprising the board, the officer would surrender his sword, which is then placed on the table between him and the Officer conducting the court martial. This splendid sword, which was made by the Wilkinson Sword Company of England, would be placed with the sharp tip pointing away from the door from which he entered. At the end of the hearing he would march out of the room whilst the court deliberated the facts and decided whether he should be found guilty or not. If pronounced guilty the sword is quickly removed and two deep notches are filed halfway down the blade to make the next step easier. It is then replaced but this time with the point facing the direction of the door. The officer is called back, and as he marches in his eyes would immediately dart to the sword, instantly knowing his fate. With the tip pointing at him he knows that he has been found guilty as charged. With his heart clamped in a cold and hard steel vice he would come to attention to listen to the charges against him before hearing the words ‘guilty as charged’. Still at attention the Officer in charge would take a pair of scissors and methodically begin cutting away at all his insignia. Epaulettes, rank, medals, buttons, shoulder flashes and name, are all cut off and allowed to fall to the ground. At last the Officer in charge would turn around to pick up the sword from the table. Turning back to face the disgraced soldier he would hold the sword by its handle and business end. With a quick sharp movement he would snap the sword in half over his raised knee. The previously resplendent looking Officer is then drummed out of the court room. With the sound of the drummers beat ringing in his ears he walks out of the building with his uniform in tatters and in full view of the soldiers he had previously commanded. In this fashion he gets drummed right out of the camp. Dad said he once saw hardened old soldiers crying during this, the most degrading and humiliating of all military procedures. My dad’s voice vanished as Mannie’s yanked me back into the present. “Now the thing is they only break into the ground floor of the plots for some unknown reason but there’s always a first time. So i took the sword upstairs and lifting my couch i stuffed it deep into the spiral springs which give you such a comfy seat.” He grabbed the stick and poked the coals around for a bit before leaning back and lighting a cigarette. The tip was glowing viciously, outranking the coals from the fire as he sucked to inhale and i waited. I had no need to wait patiently as patience comes with the territory. “Everything that is of value to me, have no value to the rather unsophisticated thieves in our neck of the woods. Persian carpets looks like tatty old rags to them, so no go there. Big old fashioned box television set, sorry not interested. Then maybe i can interest you in the paintings on the wall sir? Nope, my clients don’t want to buy that, thank you very much. Then this magnificent sword perhaps? Now we are talking! Scrap metal will grab that up chop-chop and if they are not interested then i can use it for self defence.” I sat smiling as i listened in the glow of the lantern. “And so we get to my hammer and butter container.” He picked up the sleek looking steel hammer and turned it in his hands before handing it to me. “This ou broer, is a vintage Estwing steel hammer.” I looked at it as i turned it in my hands. It was simply the sleekest looking hammer i had ever seen, and obviously very old. The whole thing was engineered from one solid piece of steel and the handle was especially beautiful. Leather rings of different colours were slid over the back until it formed a solid comfortable handle which was stained a darker colour with years of sweat from workman’s hands. Instead of a round neck like modern tools it had a sleek thin neck which looked very aerodynamic in its shape. The head, neck and handle were all one solid piece. “These hammers were guaranteed to be unbreakable and if by any chance it should break then Estwing would replace it free of charge. Chris i have been carrying this gem around for years and there was no way on earth that i would leave it to some sod to steal and sell it for scrap metal.” I certainly understood my brother’s affection for something so every day in appearance. I myself have collected a few things over the years that i will never part with. Some with considerable monetary value and others with very little but sentiment has always played a great role in my life. “And so my hammer travelled down with me. Have a peek in the butter container.” I picked up the plastic container and weighed it up and down in my hand. It was quite heavy for such a small container and obviously did not contain a lick of butter in it. Carefully i pried the lid open and immediately felt like kicking myself. How could i have forgotten about his passion for laying his hands on medals from any and all the wars he could find? Almost reverently i took them out one by one, laying them on the small yellowwood bankie, or miniature bench that is such a favourite with collectors. He lifted the lamp from the ground so that the circle of light fell fully on his collection. Dads bar with all his medals were laying on top. Long Service Medal, Southern Cross, Service Medal and others which names i have long forgotten. Then i removed a new one which was instantly recognisable. It was the American Purple Heart for bravery. A very thin and stylized Gothic cross he identified as the Cross of Honour for Nazi Women who had given Germany more than three sons during the Second World War. It was their contribution to the Nazi war effort. The Iron Cross with Oak Leaves and Crossed Swords were there and so were various medals from the Anglo Boer War. Most were displayed with their colourful ribbons attached and i marvelled at the beautiful designs. In the dull light of the lantern it was not difficult to imagine them pinned to the proud chests of the gallant men who fought in the Great Wars of our time. “This old boet always travels with me. I just don’t trust hiding them away whenever i leave for any length of time. Remember Idi Amin? He had his chest filled with medals enough to challenge those of George Patton. Now imagine some bloody ruffian walking around and about town with a Purple Cross. Nooo boetie these babies go where i go.” And that just about sums up my brother. A man who travels around with a forty year old hammer and a plastic container filled with medals! This does not make him a man that i would snigger at into my fist when his back is turned to me. Oh no, it just makes him fit right in with Ramsay and i because we are the last ones who could ever point a finger at odd behaviour. All three of us have our own idiosyncratic ways; ways which the rest of the world seem to find far out to the extreme. Take me for example. I have a piece of ground behind my garage which i refused to mow since almost twenty years ago. When Madalief enquired about my reluctance to mow the lawn there i told her that i am leaving it alone so that a unique eco system can develop there. A place where weeds can grow, spiders can find a home and whatever else would take root on undeveloped ground. On the rest of our erf we planted trees, shrubs and flowers to conform to society. Little did i know that twenty five years later we would have our own personal little jungle behind the garage. Amongst the foliage i cleared an area big enough to pitch our original five man tent we bought when we started camping so many moons ago. Today i have developed it into a restful campsite beneath the gigantic Persian Lilac tree and the Cape Oak. All around the tent mulberry trees, giant strelitzia and lianas are growing in a wild profusion of foliage. It is here that we sometimes sleep during the hot summer nights with the two dogs lying outside the tent. Using dead, or chopped off branches from the trees on our property, i wove a thick wall hiding the only open and visible spot of vibracrete wall. There is nothing i enjoy more than sitting outside that tent at our campfire and listening to the hundreds of birds coming in for a landing and starting their roosting sounds in the canopy above our heads. Waking in the morning with the dappled sunlight slanting through the leaves and the bird calls in our ears is like heaven. On occasion i have been asked ‘but is it safe’ and in reply i always say; nowhere is safe anymore and it is probably safer out the back than in the house. Beneath the giant Jacaranda adjacent to the bush camp i built an impenetrable circular wall of logs branches, and here we have our own kraal or corral where we entertain mostly ourselves but on occasion friends as well. With a dirt floor all round i can build huge fires and rake coals wherever i prefer to braai. Real down to earth basic living is what we prefer. This is a characteristic which we can trace back to all eight Joynt brothers on my father’s side. Whenever the sheep gathered together in a flock and started moving in one direction the Joynt’s would peel off and neuk into the opposite direction. They never possessed the herd mentality and neither did the three of us. This made life more difficult in certain ways, as one had to conform to society in modern day living. Certain things like the taxman just did not go away. Dress codes had to be adhered to in certain professions and a host of other similar irritating little modern day contrivances tend to cramp our style. Nonetheless we strive to live our lives in as uncomplicated a way as possible. The Hadida unceremoniously dumped a huge splatter right next to the lantern and we decided to turn in for the night. I gathered the medals together and went in to say good night to Madalief and the kids who were all home for the holidays. I decided to sleep outside in the tent and they locked the backdoor behind me. With a cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes i sat on my stretcher and typed a few pages before turning the solar light off and crawling beneath my opened sleeping bag. The next day was a public holiday and Mannie woke me early with a mug of coffee. We chatted a while and then went in for breakfast. No one else can make flap jacks like Madalief does and we feasted on flap jacks before the two of us took the 1974 Beetle that i inherited from my mother and went in search of any open second hand shops to see if there were anything worthwhile buying. The shops delivered nothing but that did not take anything away from the pleasure of browsing through piles of junk and spotting a gem or two in between. The lovely old book shop in the Quigley did however cough up a little book on one of the Luftwaffe’s ace fighter pilots and a number of Lawrence Green books about the early Cape and his travels through South Africa in the nineteen forties. A morning well spent ended in a relaxed day of reading, eating and chatting. As always the three of us revelled in swopping stories, interesting facts and impromptu quizzes around the kitchen table. All too soon Christmas of 2014 was over and Mannie’s ten day visit had drawn to an end. The following day, his last, was spent in rushing to a staff lunch where i said a quick hallo to old staff members from all over the world and South Africa who came together to reminisce about the old times. From there it was a dash to China Town so that Mannie could buy a powerful laser light which he intended using as a weapon if ever he was tackled in the dead of night. The beam is extremely strong and to hell with the thieves’ eyes he reckons. If they do not like it in their eyes they must make a quick exit from his premises. From China Town we dashed to the kids so that he could say goodbye to them and the little one. Then it was back home to pack his bags into the Volla and head for the station. Right at the Tapson stop, before turning left into Queen Street the Beetle stuttered and died on me. Not wanting cars to pile up behind me i switched off and dashed into the pouring rain to open the engine compartment and see what is wrong. I yanked open the hood and was met with a raging wall of fire. All the extra oxygen from the opened hood fuelled the fire instantly and the blaze instantly turned into a leaping inferno. Inside the car Mannie and Madalief were oblivious to the fact that they were perched on top of a fast ticking time bomb. It took me a second of incredulous staring into the flames before i started peeling the leather jacket from my body. The small aerosol fire extinguisher, languishing in the cubby hole, clean out of mind. Mannie gave me the jacket on the first day of his stay, a lovely old jacket which he bought at his favourite men’s outfitters, the Pretoria Hospice shop. I was about to throw the jacket over the burning engine to smother the flames when the pump attendants at the BP garage on the left and the ones from the Caltex garage on the right rushed right in with buckets of water which they dumped over the blaze in a united effort. With the second wave of attendants’ hot on their heels the fire was extinguished almost within seconds. My jacket was spared and would live to see another day but could the same be said of the blackened engine still shedding water like a wet mutt in front of me? I am no mechanic so i did what all men who hardly have any knowledge about engines do. I poked around all over the thing like a vegetarian does when faced with a plate of real food. The spring on the carburettor had expanded to twice its length due to the heat and a tiny piece of rubber tubing worth five Rand was no longer connected to its proper place on the carburettor! THERE WAS THE BLOODY CULPRIT! I could hardly believe my eyes. The rubber hose ended in a small metal pipe which just pushed into its proper place on the carburettor. The only clamp was the one connecting the little pipe to the hose but as for the metal pipe, there was no friction between it and its metal receptacle. In other words nothing kept it in place but a mechanics spit and a prayer. I compressed the spring between my hands as best i could and reattached it to its anchor points then pushed the fuel line back into the carburettor and closed the hood. The motor, fired in the correct sense of the word this time, immediately and i drove it out of the way and onto the pavement before shutting it down. By this time Edelweiss arrived with her Polo and eventually we had Mannie on his bus in time and waved him a fond goodbye. This ending was typical to the Joynt way of things. Our informal slogan is ‘nothing is ever plain sailing with the Joynt’s’ and once again it proved to be that way. Our formal maxim or motto on the family crest is ‘I Hope’ and that goes a long way to help us realise that all is not lost and better times will swing past again. Later that evening Gary and i returned to the car to tow it home which was a good call all round because having a look at the engine once more i was searching for the infernal spring when my hand touched the loom of cabling running to the generator and it sent blue sparks running all over it and the plastic covering melted away amidst the awful smell of burning plastic. I have taken out batteries on a number of times to have them replaced or charged, but never before in my life did i whip out a battery faster than this time. With the battery inside the car beneath the back seat i tackled it with a pair of pliers and seconds later it was standing on the sidewalk as if it was an unexploded device. A most enjoyable holiday was coming to an end and i awarded full marks to the Volla in all other respects but no medals for the design of that infernal fuel line Adolf!
Posted on: Fri, 16 Jan 2015 11:10:42 +0000
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