pgjonker.co.za

Evicting Farm Workers

By PG JONKER

[In Afrikaans op http://blogs.litnet.co.za/pgjonker/plaasuitsettings]

The removal of farm workers is always an emotional issue.  The kind of stuff election campaigns can be built on.

The developer paid many millions for the farm.  A further many millions will be spent on developing the farm in an upmarket residential area.  It’s a pity about the land that will be lost for agricultural purposes, but that’s progress, I’d say.

Now there is this little problem of the six families of farm workers whose houses are smack in the middle of where the development is to take place.  Obviously they can’t stay there.  But some of them have been there for a lifetime.  Said the one man who has been living on the farm for 55 years:  “Mister, I’m going nowhere before the bulldozers arrive.  And even when they arrive, I’m not going anywhere either.”  

Clearly a recipe for trouble.  That’s where my friend comes into the picture.  He is an attorney.  He does this kind of work.  Labour law, and the legal eviction of people.  [I notice, though, the contemporary politicians would always refer to even legal evictions as illegal evictions – it works nicely in election campaigns.]

A bit of a hassle.  Fortunately the developer kept money available to resolve the problem.  After all, court cases are expensive stuff.

My friend’s wife is also an attorney in his practice.  However, she would much rather have become a missionary than an attorney.  My friend too, sort of.  He is one of a rare breed of business people who does not measure his success to his income and turnover.  This is exactly the reason why he can sometimes be a bit of a pain in the butt.  After finalising a court case between two erstwhile friends (whose friendship went sour), he would not simply walk away and render his account like any other attorney.  No, then he will start working on the erstwhile friends to see what can be salvaged of the friendship.  Relentlessly.

So a new plan is forged.  Many meetings.  The developer is willing to increase the funding for the solution.  Some more meetings. 

My friend’s wife studies the 45 page document that had been compiled about the effect that the development (and removal) will have on the six families.  She goes out to meet them.  She tries to learn to know them  as well as she can, their styles, their preferences.  Then she tackles the internet, Google Earth, newspapers.  She visits real estate agents.  She goes back to the six families.  More discussions.   This goes on for weeks.  Eventually she identifies six houses in town, each choice based on how she got to know the six households. 

Then she takes five of the families and goes to show them the houses that she picked.  All her endeavours, and maybe above all, her heartfelt desire to match each family with a house taylor made for them, paid off.  Five happy families return to the farm that night.   The sixth family opted for another town.  One Sunday afternoon they drive out to meet an estate agent and to view houses.  Three vehicles full of excited spectators join the convoy.  They too find a house. 

It’s now a few weeks later.

The bulldozers will arrive soon.  There is no conflict, no disputes, only excitement and expectation.  About a new beginning, a new house, each head of the family to have his own title deed.  Even a free testamentary will has been thrown into the equation for each, just to round things off.  

That’s progress, I’d say.

PGJ…

Van kinders en al daai

Van kinders en al daai

Deur PG Jonker

Hierdie ding van kinders groot maak, Eisj!

My oudste is nou 18 jaar oud.  Die law  sê hy is nou ‘n grootmens,  maar ek het gedink hy moet maar nog ‘n bietjie groei.  Noudat hy ‘n bestuurderslisensie en toegang tot wiele het, het daar ‘n nuwe wêreld oopgegaan.

Toe hy jonger was het ons vreeslik mooi gekyk na wat hy op die TV kyk.  Hom probeer beskerm teen al die goed wat vir ons vertel is sleg is vir jong bloedjies in hul vormingsjare.  Na baie jare se indril van hierdie beginsels het ons ‘n mate van sukses bereik en het hy die beginsels mooi verstaan.  Tot ek op ‘n dag toe ek by die TV-kamer instap en hy vir my sê ek moenie nou kyk nie, ek gaan nie daarvan hou nie.  Intussen kyk hy rustig voort.

Ek dink dis min of meer toe wat ek begin opgee het op hierdie kinders grootmaak ding.    Miskien raak mens ook maar mak oor tyd.  Ek meen, as een van my kinders nou ‘n muntstuk sou insluk trek ek dit bloot net van sy sakgeld af ipv om hospitaal toe te jaag om sy maag te laat leegpomp.

 ‘n Groot mylpaal was natuurlik net om 18 jaar oud te raak.  Die oomblik toe dit gebeur toe was die cool ding om na ‘n pub toe te kan gaan, gevra te word vir jou ID, en dan soos mr Cool jou ID te kan uithaal wat inderdaad bevestig dat jy 18 jaar oud is.  Die feit dat jy moontlik  binne vra vir Rooibos tee is ontersaaklik.  Die magic is om toegelaat te word tot die pub.

Die nexte ding was om ‘n bestuurderslisensie te kry.  Dit was bietjie lastig gewees.  Die Verkeersdepartement en hy het bietjie van ‘n meningsverskil gehad oor sy bestuursvaardighede.  Ons trek toe later by die vierde probeerslag.  My senuwees was heeltemal op.  ‘n Uur-en-‘n-half later het ek nog niks van hom gehoor nie, en moes ek toe aanvaar dit was weer so.  Uiteindelik bel hy my met ‘n swaar stem en se:  “Ek het nie ….. gedop nie.” 

Met wiele en ‘n lisensie kom natuurlik mobiliteit.  Nou een aand sê hy my hy gaan gou na ‘n pel toe. 

“Dis kwart-oor-tien,” protesteer ek. 

“Ja, pa-hulle moet seker al gaan slaap,” reken hy.

Volgende jaar moet hy gaan swot.  Een moontlikheid was varsity & koshuisverblyf.  My vrou was baie opgewonde oor die vooruitsig dat hy ‘n slaggie uit die huis uit kan kom.  Net om ‘n maand later te wonder of ons nie maar Stellenbosch toe moet trek nie.  ??!  Intussen het my seun ons ingelig dat hy dit nie aan ons gaan doen nie.  Hy bly sommer in die huis en swot uit die huis uit.  Maar eers moet hy matriek deurkom EN toelating kry tot ‘n bekostigbare studie-plek.  Nou verstaan ek daar is ‘n kwota stelsel van toepassing op toelating.  Ons hoop maar vir die beste en hou die tantrums daaroor vir later – hopelik is dit nie nodig nie.

Intussen het ek nou op ‘n baie gesaghebbend bron afgekom oor tieners in die huis.  Die strokieskarakter ZITS in Die Burger is waarskynlik die getrouste uitbeelding van ‘n tiener in die huis wat ek nog gesien het.  Dankie tog vir goeie handleidings.

Maar daar is nog twee wat in sy voetspore moet volg.  Die jongste van die drie is 8 jaar oud.  Maar oor hy ‘n sussie van 15 jaar en ‘n boetjie van 18 jaar oud het dink hy al klaar hy is ‘n  tiener.  Ja, ja, ek weet, daar is nogals bietjie van ‘n groot gaping tussen my oudste en my jongste.  My vrou sê ons het dit so beplan….

PGJ…

SANDSTORIES

Deur PG Jonker

[Ook op http://blogs.litnet.co.za/pgjonker/Hello-world]

My vrou lig my een Saterdagoggend in dis tyd om die speelskooltjie wat van die huis af bedryf word se sandput aan te vul.  Dis ‘n periodieke gebeurlikheid.  Ek wonder natuurlik altyd waarheen die ou sand is.  Ek meen, die kleingoed kan tog nie die sand opeet nie?  Of dan weer, dalk kan hulle.

Normaalweg kry ek sommer vir my ‘n paar los sakke sand.  Dan is dit heel eenvoudig.  Ek stoot die bakkie agteruit in my jaart in tot sover ek kan kom, tel die 10 vyftig-kilogram sakke op (een op ‘n slag, anders is die pret te gou oor) en gaan gooi dit in die sandput..

Aangesien ek hierdie keer ‘n paar dae verlof tot my beskikking het besluit ek toe op ‘n bakkie-vrag sand ipv die sakke-sand ding.  Dis eintlik heel eenvoudig.  Ek trek daar by die bou-plek in met die bakkie, hulle gooi hom gelyk vol sand teen ‘n fraksie van die prys van 10 sakke sand, en daar gaan ek.      

By die huis dink die kinders natuurlik hierdie mobiele sandput is ‘n cool ding.  Hule is dadelik agter in die bakkie in en speel op die sand, terwyl ek nou maar so stuk stuk die sand onder hulle weg werk.

Sedert die vorige keer se sand-aanvul oefening het daar ‘n trekkerbuiteband bygekom as ‘n anneks tot die sandput. Dus moet die trekkerband eers vol sand gegooi word.  Maar ek sien darem nie kans om weer daai vragte met ‘n graaf uit die kruiwa te skep nie.  Dus besluit ek om ‘n ‘ramp’ te bou om tot bo-op die trekkerband te ry.

Weet jy hoe breed is so ‘n trekkerband? Vreeslik breed. Dus, indien die trekkerband op sy sy lê dan is breedte  natuurlik eweredig aan hoogte.  Welke hoogte baasgeraak moet word met die kruiwavrag. Eers het ek 2 planke met ‘n tou aan mekaar vasgemaak.  Maar dis so ‘n simpel nylon tou waarvan jy nie die knope styf genoeg getrek kan kry nie. So dis so goed soos daar is nie ‘n tou aan nie.

Nietemin, Supervan besluit om die ramp maar in elk geval so aan te durf.

Ek kry my eerste kruiwa-vrag vol sand en [hardloop] [draf] [stap] wankel na die buiteband toe. Mens moet natuurlik spoed hê om die ramp uit te hardloop met die kruiwa. Maar deesdae staan daai hele jaart vol klimrame en al daai. So jy kan nie spoed kry nie.  So eers navigeer ek tussen al die speelrame deur tot by die onderpunt van my ramp.  Maar nou is daar nie meer spasie oor om spoed te kry nie. Ek het in elk geval intussen my bedenkinge gekry oor die spoed-ding. Kan jy jou voorstel ek hardloop met ‘n spoed die ramp uit, die planke beweeg weg van mekaar af en ek en kruiwa val tussen die planke deur – jy kry die prentjie.

Nou ja toe, met brute krag beur ek toe maar die ramp uit.  Eintlik, al wat ek moet doen is om bo te kom. Die res is veronderstel om so half vanself te gebeur.  Jy druk mos maar die kruiwa se punt iewers vas, tip hom oor en swaartekrag doen die res. So daar gaan ons. Kom bo. Met momentum. Ek kan nie meer die formule van momentum onthou nie, maar massa was een van die veranderlikes. So hou nou in gedagte die 75kg sand plus die kruiwa se seker 20kg en my gewig agterna. Bo gekom is daar niks om die ding teen te stop om hom te tip nie. En ja, weliswaar gebeur die res so half vanself. Die kruiwa foeter bo van die planke af kop eerste binne-in die trekkerband in. Ek kry myself darem gestut teen die kruiwa se handvatsels voordat ek agterna kan val. Gelukkig is daar mos in elk geval nie eintlik plek vir my én die kruiwa gelyk in die trekkerband nie.  Nou is die kruiwa darem mooi geposisioneer om die sand uit te kry. Hy staan dan nou met sy bene in die lug.

Nou, kom ek agter, is die probleem om die oefening in reverse te doen. Ek wil weer die kruiwa terughê om nog ‘n vrag sand mee te gaan haal. Maar hy sit nou vas onder die sand. En om hom daar uit te kry moet ek hom nou teen swaartekrag en met geweld daar uit trek.  Miskien moet ek nou eers daai detail los. Voldoende om te sê ek het dit moeilik gevind om die kruiwa weer uit die trekkerband uit te kry. Maar met geweld kan mens ‘n viool teen ‘n boom ook stukkend slaan, het oom Koos Spamer altyd gesê.  So mettertyd het ek darem weer die kruiwa daar uit.

Intussen speel die kinders vrolik in die mobiele sandput agter in die bakkie. Dit laat my toe nogal dink aan my pel Spy wat altyd gesê het hy haat vriendelike mense, want hy is depressief.   Voldoende om te sê dat die  kinders op daardie stadium heelwat vroliker was as ek.  En toe het ek nog nie eens geweet dat daar nog 13 sulke ritte voorlê nie.

PGJ…

Buying Cars

By PG Jonker

Some people buy cars regularly.  They say if they don’t they fall behind too much in how much a new car will set them back.   I also buy cars regularly.  I trade my cars when they are 18 years old. 

I also read the CAR magazine regularly.  OK, this is now more regularly than buying a vehicle; more like in once a month.  Well, actually a few times in that month.  At some stage I lost interest and suspended my subscription; the prices of new cars were (still are) simply too much to generate much enthusiasm for a new car.  However, it was a bit like trying to stop drinking coffee.  I get enormous headaches that force me back to the black stuff soon.  It was a bit of the same with my CAR magazine.  So I decided to surprise my wife with a fresh subscription to CAR-magazine for her.  Just as a token of appreciation for that tea set she bought me for my previous birthday (that was after I bought her an electric drill for hers).

In any event, I found that if I hold on to my CARS (the magazine, that is) long enough,  it becomes more and more relevant.  For instance, I still revisit my 1984 CARs for the road test of the Range Rover of yore. Or more recently when we had to start shopping for wheels.  This was somewhat out of sync with my usual pattern, as my bakkie is now only 12 years old and still has at least 6 years to go.  But then again, I did not sell my bakkie.  The newly acquired wheels were to become an ad on to the existing fleet of two vehicles.  That’s what happens when (a) your son finishes school; (b) enrol at the Tek; (c) passes his driver’s license after the third attempt, and most importantly (d) your wife tell’s you to go out and buy a car.

Now this is actually great fun.  I really enjoy searching for a car.   I just don’t like going out to actually buy one.  The thing is it stretches my nerves and my budget to the utmost (the two seems to have an umbilical cord connecting them), resulting in panic attacks that last for a few weeks.   So I need to safeguard myself by, amongst other things,  not doing a private deal.

Top of the list, Plan A, was a first generation Kia Sportage (1999 – 2003).  A leisure vehicle that can carry 5 plus luggage, and can serve as a back-up to tow the caravan.  Yes, I do realise that speed would not have even entered the equation.   However, the Sportages I could find that were in close enough proximity to warrant to go and have a look were all hugely overpriced.  And those that I could find at dealers touched the 200 000km’s. 

So I scaled down to plan B.  Daihatsu Terios, first generation.  There are very few of these around.  I found two at one dealer, but by the time I showed some interest, they were both sold.  At the same time I also started looking at a Fiat Panda, but discarded this option as being too small (although the Panda is wider than the Terios).

By this time a few weeks have passed, and my wife was beginning to suspect that I was just playing around to rather not buy the car.  She was not entirely wrong.  Eventually we fell back to plan C:  A non-SUV, hatchback, that can sort-of serve as a back-up family car, but not required to tow the caravan.  I also eventually found an online data basis that seemed to cater more for dealers than private sellers.

Now, used car sales people are very often the butt of ugly jokes.  Just like people always seem to think that lawyers are a bunch of skelms, which, of course, is absolutely not true.  Trust me, I know.

Anyway, it reached the point where I reminded my wife of that Mercedes we started saving for in 2002.  I told her I think we can now buy a Mercedes.  She was very excited about the idea of a new Mercedes, but I had to break the news to her that I meant that we can now buy the 2002 Mercedes that we started saving for in 2002.

Enter Concorde Cars’ Angie and Gavin Alford and a sexy 2002 Mercedes A160 with 87000 km’s on the clock.  And believe you me; all three of them were very nice.  As a result we now have a brand new second hand A160 (of which I incidentally still have the CAR road test because of me hanging on to my old CAR magazines.)  

Now I do have a bit of a resistance to bling.  However, I overcame that by deciding that this particular three-pointed star cannot count for bling.  Amongst other things for the following reasons:  (a)  it is shorter than a Fiat Uno (I kid you not); (b) it is 8 years old; and (c) it costs less than a late model CitiGolf.

After a week the A160 went back for a lube service and the niggles list that I put together.  I don’t usually consider myself to be a demanding customer, but I thought it incumbent upon me to be as critical and thorough in my estimation of the car so that all problems might be sorted out.  I must admit, I was somewhat embarrassed handing over the list to Gavin & Angie.  In my defence I should ad that I was at pains to differentiate between repairs I considered that had to be done, and the rest of the list, which I preferred to call “observations”, with the innuendo that those niggles are not expected to be repaired.

Well, lo and behold, the car came back with even the “observations” attended to.  Gavin clearly did more than just walk the extra mile.

I’m telling you, used car sales people are just misunderstood.  Just like lawyers.

PGJ…

Meeting People

By PG Jonker

The thing about leasure travel is not only the travel.  You tend to meet interesting people too.  Like the ladies I met at the Municipal Dump the other day.

OK, you may reason that driving down to the municipal dump does not count for leisure driving.  However, if you have been the one who sawed and pruned the trees yourself, and loaded the stuff on the bakkie yourself, then by the time the bakkie is loaded to capacity it is an absolute feeling of leasure to sit back in the driver’s seat, relax, and drive down to the dump.  Therefore, I submit, driving down to the dump does count for leisure driving.  But I digress.

On this sunny winter Saturday I offloaded my stuff at the dump.  Hard rains caused the only exit to be a two track spoor in the mud.  While traversing the spoor I noticed three girls in the early twenties standing nearby, very nicely dressed.  Very nicely, to be precise.  

Now I did not find it strange to see these girls there.  The neighbourhood where they presumably hail from is right adjacent to the dump, with a gate between the dump and the houses. 

So when I passed them close by and the one wondered ‘How about a lift?‘ I thought I can just as well prolong the agony of another cession in the garden and take them to town, which is only about a kilometer away.

 “Where to,” I asked.

“Where are yóú going,” asked the more confident one of the three.

“I’m going home, where do you want to go to?” I enquired again.

“Is you wife at home?”  she asked.

Now somehow this discussion wasn’t going exactly the way I expected.   Suspecting that my pure intentions might have been slightly misunderstood, I put my bakkie in gear and drove off.  I kept watching the three in my rear view mirror, trying to figure out what has just happened.

At home I told my wife.  She just shook her head and told me, “You really know nothing, huh?”

Not too long after that on a proper tour [more extended than the Saturday jol down to the dump] I pulled in at a petrol station in Katima Mulilo after dropping the rest of the family off at a shop. 

While waiting for the pump attendant this very nice young girl walked past.  She smiled at me, I smiled back.  I mean, that’s mos the right thing to do.  Her smile broadened, she hesitated and give me a little wave.  It was not quite a normal wave, so I was not sure how to take this local friendliness further.

 Just then I was interrupted by the pump attendant, and I had to attend to the task at hand.  OK, you may think there should not be much of a task at hand, but it did take 5 of us an inordinate long time to get the oil cap off the 3.4 V6 engine of my bakkie.  The young girl, in the meantime, went along her merry way.

When I picked put the family at the shop afterwards, I told my wife about this really friendly local girl.

Sayeth my wife:  “You really know nothing, huh?”

Now I ask you…..

PGJ…

My Dog is an Alien

By PG Jonker

I think our second hand bull dog is an alien.

Zoë is a bitch.  Somehow it feels so uncalled for to refer to her as such.  But I mean, she is a female dog, mos. 

Zoë likes electrical storms, unlike any other dog I know.   She also took a fancy in aeroplanes.  Airliners, more in particular.  The police chopper that comes around occasionally simply does not do it for her.  But man, if BA, SAA, Kulula or OnTime comes flying overhead, she is out in a flash.  She zig-zags my erf, whilst barking at the airliners to indicate my erf to be forbinned property for any commercial airliner.  She has been very effective with this up to now.  Not a single one of those airliners has tried to land there. 

Actually I suspect that Zoë is dearly trying to catch one of those airliners.  She has not been succesful yet, but just give it time.  She is, in the meantime, training herself by chasing the doves away that eat her food.  Lately I have noticed that she seems to have given up on the doves.  They now go about eating her food at their leisure with Zoë snoring two meters away.  My wife reckons the doves should start barking soon, so maybe it’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.

Zoë has this strange habit of storming and barking at something that gives her a fright.  Like, for instance, a 75kg Boerboel dog name Bella.  Bella was in a foul mood and did not take kindly to Zoë’s style.  The next thing Zoë found herself being swung around in the Boerboel’s mouth, about a meter from the ground.  Bella has since passed away, although not due to any endeavours by Zoë.

The same exercise more or less repeated itself when Zoë met the Bella’s replacement.  Poena is a more docile version of the Boerboel that he replaced.  Instead of swinging Zoë around in his mouth, he simply penned Zoë to the ground with his one paw, looking rather bemused.  Poena’s less aggressive response might be due to the fact that he was only 15 months old, and weighed a mere 55kg’s at that time.  It might also be that, due to the peculiar build of bulldogs in general, and Zoë in particular, he could not figure out which part of her could be classified as “neck” for purposes of taking a wee bite.

The other day my wife arrived at home with an ostrich bone for Zoë.   She grabbed the bone and made off with it (Zoë, not my wife).  It was a peculiar sight.  The bone was probably twice her size, but she was careful not to drag it on the ground.  Picture that.   She took it to the far corner of of the garden.  Munching away on the bone, she kept watching the house suspiciously as if expecting one of us to contend ownership of the bone.  What were your thinking, bitch…..?

PGJ…

S%^&t-stories

[Also in English @ https://pgjonker.co.za/?p=623]

Semper in excretum, sed alta variet

Deur PG Jonker

Frikkie huur ‘n huis op ‘n plaas.  Ons gaan kuier vir hulle.  Onder andere werk ons aan ‘n toer Richtersveld toe.  Ek het talle navrae gedoen, maar die advies is deurgaans dat mens ‘n viertrekvoertuig nodig het daarvoor.  Ná ons uitstappie Epupa valle toe met my Venture het ek gereken ek moet dalk maar vir my ‘n viertrek voertuig aanskaf as ek sulke tipe vakansies wil gaan hou.  Ek is te ‘n senuweeagtige reisiger om effens rowwe paaie te ry met ‘n gewone voertuig.  Die viertrek funksionaliteit moet opmaak vir my gebrek aan vernuf en selfvertroue.

Agter een van Frikkie se buite-geboue staan ‘n Mahindra stasiewa.  ‘n Oue.  Dit lyk meer soos iets wat in die Angola oorlog buitemaak is.  Dalk was dit, ek kan nie onthou nie.  Frikkie het aangebied dat ek met die Mahindra Richtersveld toe kan gaan.  Sy se voorstel dat hy my ‘n drie dae voorsprong sal gee laat my tog ‘n paar bedenkinge oor die voorstel hê.

‘n Probleem van ‘n heel ander aard verg egter hierdie naweek aandag.  Die sanitasie op ‘n plaas werk natuurlik anders as dié in die dorp met dié dat daar nie ‘n aansluiting met die plaaslike munisipaliteit se dreineringswerke is nie.  Dus moet jy jou eie put hê.  Ek meen nou nie soos in ‘n longdrop nie.  Daar is properse spoeltoilette, dis net, dit loop in ‘n mensgeboude put in en so aan. 

Ieder geval, Saterdagmiddag kom ons agter die drein is verstop.  Frikkie is ‘n handige ou met baie planne in sy mou.  Hy het ‘n klompie van hierdie planne geprobeer, maar ten spyte daarvan het die porseleintoestel verstop gebly. 

Frikkie reken toe al genade nou is om te gaan loer wat in daardie put aangaan.  Hy gaan loer toe daar.  En kom rapporteer dat hy nou weet hoe om die probleem op te los.  Dis baie eenvoudig.  Ons moet net die put leegmaak.  Dit klink vir my na ‘n heel logiese plan.  So hoe gaan jy dit doen, wonder ek toe.  Met ‘n kruiwa en ‘n graaf, is die antwoord. 

Eisj!  Of eintlik, Seisj!

Frikkie trek sy waterstewels aan en klim in die put.  Kniediep in die poef.  Letterlik.  Ek beman die kruiwa.  Frikkie skep.  Dit raak later uitputtend om my lippe so vreeslik styf toegepers te hou, so ek staan maar later ‘n entjie weg.  Wanneer die kruiwa vol is dan ry ek hom weg na die verste hoek van die erf toe waar ek die inhoud leegmaak en die kruiwa terugbring.  So op die manier het ons toe heeltemal ‘n prettige namiddag.  Voor sononder toe werk al die sanitêre toestelle op die werf weer soos dit moet. 

Ja-nee, jy kan maar sê en en Frikkie is al saam deur diep dinge.  My eetlus was net so bietjie gedemp van hierdie oefening.

PGJ…

S%&t Stories

[Also in Afrikaans @ https://pgjonker.co.za/?p=620]

Semper in excretum, sed alta variet 

By PG Jonker

Frikkie rented a house on a farm.  In the run up to our Richtersveld tour we paid them a few visits to plan the trip. 

First on the agenda was the fact that I did not have a four-wheel-drive vehicle which, I was advised, was a requirement for the trip.  In any event, after travelling to Epupa falls in Namibia with my Toyota Venture I have decided that I’m too nervous a traveller – if the going gets tough, I’d rather be in a four wheel drive vehicle.  Hopefully the vehicle would make up for my lack in confidence. 

On the farm there is an old Mahindra station wagon.  I’ve never seen one like that before; it looked pretty much like one of those unknown vehicles taken in Angola during the war.  Maybe it was, I can’t remember.  Frikkie suggested that I take this vehicle on loan.  It sounded like a splendid plan, until Frikkie suggested he give me a head start of three days.   

But a problem of a totally different nature arose this weekend that required attention.  The sanitation on the farm works a bit different than in town.  You don’t have a connection to the local sewerage works; you need to create your own.  Not like a long drop, I mean.  It is a proper flushing toilet and so on, only you need your own pit. 

In any event, on Saturday afternoon it became evident that Frikkie had too many guests.  The sanitation system could not cope with this influx of … huh… well, visitors.  But Frikkie is a man with a plan for all occasions.  He tried a few of those, but none seemed to work.  The porcelain coach remained out of action. 

All that was left was for Frikkie to go check out the pit.  Which he duly did.  He came back and reported that he can see what the problem is, and that it is simple to fix.  Simple.  We just need to empty the pit.  OK, that sounded quite logic.  “So how do we do that?” I enquired.  With a wheelbarrow and spade, is the answer. 

Eisj!  Or more accurately, Seisj!

Frikkie donned his water boots and got into the pit.  Up to his knees in the…. well… stuff, you know?  I’m the driver of the wheelbarrow.  Frikkie does the uploading of the stuff into the wheelbarrow.  So as soon as we have a full wheelbarrow, I trundle off to the corner of the yard to dump the proceeds there. 

So, we actually started having some fun in the process.  Later I took up station a distance away while Frikkie did the loading, because my lips started cramping from keeping it pursed together.  By sun down everything worked again the way it should.  

Ja, it’s safe to say the Frikkie and I have been through some deep things together.

PGJ…

The Professional Objector – Comment

By Johnie Jonker

Judging by a number of reader responses on articles and letters published in Leisure Wheels – and other magazines – a subspecies of humanis objectus appears to have evolved over time.

The content of their opinion differs from that of regular readers – humanis commentus – in that it would highlight some negative aspect – often mistakenly – in the name of safety, environmental issues, etc.

Recent examples are comments on a) two ecstatic young boys sitting behind the bullbar of a Defender riding through water, b) someone camping under “holy” Baobabs and c) for me on a more personal level, “allowing” passengers to ride in the boot of a car seated on a camping chair.

Of course some comments are perfectly valid and in agreement with the opinion of the vast majority of readers, e.g. issues related to littering and taking more than photographs.

But there are cases where, regardless the instigative source of the comment, the moral high ground is invariably taken with a distorted sense of righteousness, and the action categorized in accordance with the reader’s own (generally conservative) frame of reference.

A few years back my wife was reversing out of the garage when two armed thugs attempted to hijack her car. During the ensuing struggle for her handbag she let go of the brakes.  This caused the two open front doors to act as an anchor as it hit the gate, resulting in the doors being bent back next to the fenders.  The hijackers then lost interest (can you believe it!) in the car and settled for the handbag only.  Apart from the damage to the car and my wife being shaken up emotionally, no harm was done, although it could have ended in tragedy. But it did not end in tragedy.  This is my first point.

My second point: When my son was a toddler, playing on the lawn where I was gardening, he showed me a bee that was crawling through the grass. I explained to him what bees do when threatened and that it was best to leave it alone. At that stage we did not know whether he may be allergic to stings or not.  But if he was, I had a car in good condition and also knew where the hospital was, so I could take him there. Well, ten minutes later all the above came together.

This could be regarded as irresponsible on my part, but here’s the outcome: We now knew of his allergy and could have the rogue bee-hive – which had taken up residence in a birdhouse in one of the trees – removed.   Also, we could put Jacobus on a desensitization program. This was done successfully, with the additional benefit that he has not gone near a bee since.

Other than the insurance company who classified the first event as an accident, most people – including the objectors – would recognize it as a crime. One could therefore question the relevance of the two incidents to each other. However, if you stand back somewhat, you will notice that both happened to people that are dear to me.

Hence, what I am advocating is that supervised risk management generally has a far better outcome than random events which you cannot predict or control. Put differently, allow the head bumps – prevent the skull cracking.

Perhaps, if one could therefore gain a holistic perspective and see the bigger picture, it may be possible to live (and let live) a little (more).

Thank you, I feel much better now.

 JJJ…

Kashmir – Part 1

By Johnie Jonker

Shambala

Shambala is the title of a song we used to listen to on the school bus during the mid-seventies.  It was originally performed by BW Stevenson (who sadly died whilst undergoing heart surgery at the age of 38) and later covered  by Three Dog Night.

I never knew where/what this Shambala place was, and whether it really existed or was merely a substance-induced state-of-mind, but it sounded like a happy environment, with the lyrics going: “Everyone is happy, everyone is kind, on the road to Shambala”.

Only when I got to Kashmir I understood the words, where it was explained to me that “Shamba” means paradise and “La” means pass, in the local language. So literally, “Paradise Road”. And it was indeed.

The Journey

Leh is easily reached from Delhi by plane. What is difficult is getting the weather to be sufficiently clear at the destination on any of the four days per week that a single flight is available. This is necessary in order to miss the Himalayas – which surrounds the basin where the airport is situated –  during landing. The ability to land purely depends on the visibility the pilot has, as the plane descends into the Indus River valley, makes a u-turn between the mountain ridges and then returns for the final approach and landing, always uphill.

The second difficulty is finding an airworthy Boeing 737 in Delhi. Let me explain a bit about these clapped-out planes, operated by Indian Airlines. As you board, you notice repairs that had been done to the fuselage. You notice this because the paintwork has been touched-up with a brush rather than a spray-gun. Once inside you notice bits of trim missing, and you wonder what other – more important bits – are perhaps also missing.

Due to poor destination visibility, the flight had been cancelled the previous day, and we were put up in a hotel for the night. Early the following morning we boarded a taxi – no need for air-conditioning this time of the day – to try again. The procedure is simple: Arrive at the airport before dawn, hang around in the departures lounge until – if at all – it is announced that the flight is on. This could take a number of attempts, but this day was fine.

We first boarded the wrong flight. How this could happen with 5 people checking our boarding passes and how they knew it was the two white guys amongst the 118 Indian passengers that were on the wrong flight, I will never know, but when the air hostess started beckoning from the door just prior to take-off, we somehow knew she was talking to us.

So off we went, boarding the correct plane this time. Shortly after take off, one could sense the engines being throttled back and we levelled off, made a wide turn and landed again. It turns out that a bird was ingested by the starboard engine during take-off, and it was decided to return to Delhi and check for damage. The aircraft being quite low to the ground, the technician hopped into the front of the engine intake and started visually inspecting the turbine blades for damage. In the meantime us passengers had disembarked and were also standing in front of the engine to see an expert at work. Now I do not know much about turbine engines, but judging by the chips at the tips of MANY of the turbine blades, a number of birds had been through there previously. This extra bird was therefore merely a formality, and the technician declared that it was safe to fly – mind you, he was not on the passenger list – and we again took off after boarding.

Around half-an-hour into the flight the Himalaya Mountains start passing underneath. Having flown over the Alps between Germany and Italy, I thought that if ever I was a commercial pilot operating in Europe, this would be my preferred route, as it was indescribably beautiful. It just looks so right and impossible to become boring, even as a daily commute. The Himalayas just takes this sensation one level higher.

We landed uneventfully – after doing the obligatory zig-zag down/up the Indus River and skirting an annoying little koppie that obscured vision to the runway – at Leh, which is 150 km from the – at the time – India/Pakistan flashpoint, Kargil. Both towns are located in the province of Ladakh, one of three provinces in the state of Jammu and Kashmir, of which 1/3 belongs to Pakistan, and the larger part to India, as allocated by the British. Refer to the maps.

Out on the apron, I expected security to be quite strict and assumed that photography would not be allowed. My suspicions were confirmed when I raised the camera to my face and saw the security officer approaching through the 24mm lens. It was explained to me that photography was prohibited; I apologised and duly put the camera back into the bag. Thankfully, I had preset the focus to the hyper focal distance prior to getting off the plane, so by the time the security officer reached me, I had already taken the photo.

Had I realized the full extent of the security situation, I possibly would not have pulled this stunt. I only learnt this during my departing flight, though.

Acclimatising to the altitude

Being at an altitude of 10500 ft ASL, meant that the air pressure is only 68% of that experienced at sea level. The hotel manager, owner and base commander all duly issued warnings to the effect of resting for two days to acclimatise, and were genuinely alarmed that we ignored this on our day of arrival and walked from the village where the hotel was situated, to town. The only physical ill effect that we could detect was a bit of wheezing after walking the 2.5 km uphill. Apparently the after effects of this folly could still hit us a week or so later after our return home. We are currently waiting patiently. Possibly in our favour was that we arrived there from reef altitude, so we only experienced half the pressure drop the locals did, as Delhi (although far inland) is practically at sea level.…