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TRUST ME ON THE SUNSCREEN

The so-called “sunscreen speech” was written by Mary Schmich, and published in the Chicago Tribune as a column in 1997.  Somehow this speech erroneously became attributed to Kurt Vonnegut.  It has also been set into a music single by Baz Luhrmann, titled “Everybody is free (to wear sunscreen).”  Anyway, with the upcoming summer, and with our academic year coming to an end soon,  I thought this to be a good read:

Ladies and gentlemen of the class of ’97:

Wear sunscreen:

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they’ve faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.

Don’t worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blind side you at 4 pm on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Sing.

Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts. Don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don’t waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind. The race is long and, in the end, it’s only with yourself.

Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t know.

Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You’ll miss them when they’re gone.

Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll have children, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll divorce at 40, maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th anniversary. Whatever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else’s.

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don’t be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own.

Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.

Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them.

Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents. You never know when they’ll be gone for good.

Be nice to your siblings. They’re your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.

Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.

Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you’ll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble, and children respected their elders. Respect your elders. Don’t expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you’ll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.

Don’t mess too much with your hair or by the time you’re 40 it will look 85.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it’s worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen.…

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…

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 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…

Uncle Gert

[Also in Afrikaans @ https://pgjonker.co.za/?p=551]

By PG Jonker

Uncle Gert Smit used to drive the lorry at Suid-Oranje Fisheries at St Helena Bay on the Cape West Coast.  Nice and slowly, patiently, seldom in a hurry.   The job was cut out for him.

In 1970 about the factory acquired a new MAN lorry – a horse and trailer.  The truck became Uncle Gert’s baby.  He was the designated driver, and him alone.  For decades.  He cared for the truck like a baby, never driving faster than 80km/h, and the truck was always kept in tip-top condition.  Uncle Gert looked after his stuff nicely.

One day Uncle Gert had to do a trip to Luderitz, Namibia.  It is a long way to Luderitz, some 1500 km’s.  So Uncle Gert was instructed to take a co-driver along to assist with the driving on the long road.  Uncle Gert was not too keen on taking someone along,  he could manage, but he duly obliged.  The designated assistant driver was quite happy to go along.  It was a good excuse to get away from the factory, and at last an opportunity to drive the MAN truck.

They departed very early one morning from St. Helena Bay.  Uncle Gert was behind the wheel, and off they went at 80km/h.  Now, at 80km/h it takes a while to get anywhere.  More in particular, it takes a while and a bit to travel some 1500km’s at that speed. 

But Uncle Gert was in no hurry.  Also, he did not stop too often.  The truck had huge diesel tanks, so only bladder capacity, and maybe hunger, might have caused Uncle Gert into a brief stop.  Uncle Gert also did not get tired of driving.  So by the time they reached Luderitz, the co-driver was tired of waiting for his turn, but it was not happening.  Uncle Gert drove the full distance.

The co-driver found some consolation in the fact that Luderitz offers nice views, and at least they will be sleeping in a nice guest house there.   

Well, not so.  With the cargo unloaded an hour later, Uncle Gert got in the truck.  “I’m in a hurry, let’s go.”

“How does uncle mean now?”

“We’re not sleeping over, we’re going home.”

And off the truck went, all the way back to St Helena Bay.  Once again with Uncle Gert behind the wheel all the way, at 80km/h.

Uncle Gert later reached retirement age, but he only retired some years later.  After his wife passed away Uncle Gert stayed on in their house, on his own.  That was until one fateful night in August 2010 when burglars came to relieve Uncle Gert of some of his modest earthly possessions.  Uncle Gert did not survive the attack.  He was 88 years old. 

Rest in peace, Uncle Gert.  Our hearts are sore that you had to go like this.

PGJ…

Writing Exams

By PG Jonker

Not too long ago I had the dubious privilege of having to write a few exams.  For this purpose I flew up to Gauteng to sit the exams in Pretoria, whilst staying with brother Johnie.

The day of the second exam started off pretty promising – we woke up without having been burgled.  That nogals counts for something in Gauteng, I thought.  

As I had a positive experience with the first exam I reckoned today should be even better.  I mean, statistically the previous paper had only a 50% success rate, as opposed to today’s exam’s with a statistical 80% success rate.  Meaning that, statistically, I had a much better chance of doing well in today’s exam.

I drove into downtown Pretoria with Johnie’s Subaru with what appeared to be the whole of Pretoria’s mini-taxi drivers having conspired to bump into me.  Having successfully dodged all of them, though, I eventually got to downtown Pretoria, with the map on my lap, that is.

That was the good part of the day.

I started with the easy part of the paper first.  However, somehow I could not remember, or think up, the answers.  Fortunately, of course, my motto of “do your best and crib the rest” applied splendidly, as it was an open book exam.

However, it soon dawned upon me that, even with the assistance of my books, I could not find the answers and that I will be sitting this exam again on the next occasion.  I was not thrilled.  No offence meant towards those offering the course, but it really ain’t fun, you know?

To make matter worse, as I bravely proceeded, I gradually started overheating, sweating profusely.  To the extent that I later realized that I was not feeling well and that I was a candidate for fainting (“passing out” just sound so much more masculine, don’t you think?)  It must have been something I ate.   To prevent extreme embarrassment (in other words, limiting the experience to embarrassment ordinary), I got off my chair and knelt down in the isle, with my head resting on my hands.  Trying my best to remain conscious. 

Those in attendance seemed to understood this as a simple gesture of humbleness and merrily proceeded, minding their own business. 

After a whille I felt better.  So I got up, but decided to go outside for a while to get some fresh air.  Halfway there, however, I realised that lying down would now really be a nice thing to do.  It also appeared to be medically indicated.  So I lied down.  You should try this when you do an exam again.  It is very refreshing. 

By then the invigilator was very concerned.  I assured him that I was all right – this is how I normally write exams, and that I was actually having a great time.  So I encouraged him to proceed invigilating.  Something which he reluctantly returned to. 

After a few minutes I felt much better, went back to my chair, and finished the exam.  The invigilator, however, was not convinced by my swift recovery, and kept  invigilating vigorously and in concerned fashion in my close proximity.  He even brought me water –  to drink, that was,  I mean by that time I was sufficiently cooled down to function normally again.

Having then rushed through the rest of the paper I eventually found most of the answers that I could not find two hours earlier.

Back at Johnie’s place (have you ever noticed how difficult it is navigating with a map on your lap in the dark in peak-hour traffic?) I sheepishly told my sister-in-law of my ordeal.  She responded promptly by giving me 2 teaspoons of ginger brandy in a glass of ginger ale.  These 2 teaspoons more or less equalled my alcohol consumption for 6 months. 

So considering myself slightly loaded, I went to bed to sleep it off.

There should be rules against exams, really.

PGJ…

White Horse

By PG Jonker

As people grow older they seem to develop a need to see what happened to the folks that were at school with them.  So it became time to attend the reunion of the class of 1981 of Vredenburg High School.  That was not my class, but my wife’s.

As is incumbent upon South Africans, we kicked of with a braai the Friday evening, at a semi-outdoor establishment, Vlakvarkgat, on the West Coast road outside Langebaan.  A lot of laughter and backslapping abound.  Now 1981 had been a while ago.  So, although everyone in attendance still knew who they were, some urgent and discrete enquiries were occasionally required to remember what that good buddy of yours’ name was,  before you could do the jovial back slapping thing.  

At one stage a horse walked into the bar.  I kid you not!  I checked my non-alcoholic beverage, but could smell no alcohol in it.  I checked the other patrons to see their response, but no-one responded with any measure of surprise. In fact, it is as if it is the most normal thing under the sun for a horse to walk into the bar. 

So now I’m thinking, maybe they do not see the horse (in which event I think I’m a bit in trouble), alternatively, for them it is a run of the mill kind of thing for horses to do around here.  Come to think of it, does the Whiskey bottle not sport a white horse?  So maybe it’s just me.

But I decided to check this out.  So I walked up to the horse and politely enquire: “Howzit, horse?”  The horse responded by nudging her mouth into my hands, looking for something to eat, (sugar, more in particular, I later realised).  Clearly the horse thought nothing of being chatted up by a human.  Just for the records I took a picture of the horse.

I did wonder afterwards whether my fly might have been open, or why the horse seemed to be laughing like that.

PGJ…

Making the best of burnt valves

By PG Jonker

Shortly after acquiring my brand new second hand Mazda Magnum DC I had to have a burnt valve repaired at 120 000km’s.  It is on the old Essex 3-liter engine that mutated into a 3.4 litre engine for service in these bakkies. 

Rather unhappy with this turn of events I made enquiries to find out more about this.  Those in the know were reluctant to speak, but from my enquiries I could gather that the burning of the #3 valve was a known problem on these engines.   I was also told that the problem became known to Ford’s engineers, and that they had it fixed.  As a subtle indicator to those in the know, the tappet covers of the fixed models were made silver instead of the standard black that I had on my bakkie.

[By the way, I would love to hear from some of you techo-fundis out there if anyone has any knowledge about this problem.]

Well, there is not much to do about this but to repair the valve, and hoping for the best.  My thinking was that I would just factor into my motoring budget to have a burnt #3 valve repaired every 120 000km.  This problem has caused me to come to an arrangement with Theuns, my mechanic, to start every service with a pressure test to check the valves. 

Much to my dismay I got a call from Theuns on the day that the bakkie went in for its 180 000 km’s service.  There is again a burnt valve.  To add insult to injury it turned out to be the #1 valve this time.  Now this is a bit of a problem.  I could convince myself that it is OK to repair a #3 valve every 120 000 (or even every 60 000km’s), but if the problem is not confined to one specific cylinder, it means that I have 12 valves that could randomly get burnt.  Eisj!

Once again I tried to console myself that some of my friends on some well known brands pay for each service what it cost me every time I had to have a valve repaired.  I had the valve duly repaired.  This time I hope that the engine rebuilders would have opted for the hardened valve seats that should alleviate the problem of the burning valves, I am told.

I have, though, decided to make the best of the 12 valves that were replaced with the last reparation (which was 75 000km’s ago, I might add).  These 12 valves now have a special place in my camping armaments.  I use them to nail my groundsheets to the ground.  And I can’t tell you how much pleasure it gives me to hammer away on especially the burnt valve every time I go camping!

PGJ…