Category “English – Nonsense Novels”
VIP PROTECTION
By PG Jonker
During training as a National Serviceman in the army in Kimberley one of the modules in which we were supposed to receive training was VIP protection. By the time we reached that part of the course the instructors probably already had their 40-days party or something, but they were not in the mood. So we just got told we will never do VIP protection, so they’re not going to bother teaching us. End of VIP protection training.
Well, they were wrong.
Some of us were transferred to the SWATF (South West African Territorial Force) where we spent most of the next more than a year in Windhoek, Namibia. And it turned out that from time to time we had to do VIP protection.
On such occasions we were then heavy covert, each armed with a two way radio and a firearm. If you were fortunate, you got the Walther pistol with a holster. Less fortunate, and you got the standard army Star pistol, without a holster. Many a time I had to fish the Star out of my pants as my belt could not keep it in position. I mean, my belt could not even keep my pants in position due to me being a bit skinny.
Uzi
Their always used to be an Uzi sub machine gun as part of the outfit. This was a bit of an enigma. None of us had any training in how to handle the Uzi, but it was nevertheless fun being issued with one. It was a bit difficult to be covert with an Uzi in hand. However, the upside was that civilian onlookers greatly respected the bearer of the Uzi. It is indeed as Deon Maas writes in his book WhiteBoy in Africa: in Africa the guy with the gun is always right (except, says Deon, if you have American Dollars, then you are right).
The Uzi turned out to be a rather dangerous creature. Yes, I know, that is the intended nature of a fire arm, but this one was slightly more dangerous in untrained hands. After one of our VIP protection exercises Hugo was making the Uzi safe whilst explaining to us the reason for it being so dangerous. Apparently it had something to do with the fact that two moving parts were combined in one. As a living illustration the gun went off while he was in the process of making it safe.
A shocked silence followed. Hugo’s ash white face only returned to its normal colour once we established that nobody was hit. Hugo was indeed aiming away from us, but the offices had thin wooden and glass separation walls that would not have stopped a bullet. Eventually he found the bullet lodged in a thick file inside his steel cabinet.
By the time some of the permanent force officers came to make enquiries about the shot that they have heard we were all nicely composed again, and could convince them that someone just banged a plastic bag. Hugo positioned himself in front of the cabinet so that the bullet hole could not be seen without nearer inspection.
Radio procedures
I digress. Back to VIP protection. It was a bit like playing our own “Spy v Spy” (a-la the Mad comics). We each had a code name. Sadly, our friend nicknamed “Spy” could not use his nickname as his radio calling code, for obvious reasons.
My code name was “Wiele”. Rather exotic, don’t you think? Like in: “Wiele, Wiele, Wiele, this is Kaspaas, message, over.” To which Wiele will then do the “Wiele, send, over” thing.
Now the bigger the team was, the more difficult it became to remember each other’s code name. Hence the following activities over the two way radio one day:
“Jaco, Jaco, Jaco, come in”.
Silence.
“Jaco, Jaco, Jaco, where are you, come in.”
Silence.
“Now where is that bl***dy Jaco!”
Silence.
So it went on for a while until someone mustered the nerve to quip over the radio:
“Major, sir, yóú are Jaco”.
PGJ…
Some joys of camping – meeting people
By PG Jonker
One of the things with camping is that you meet interesting people. Admittedly, some of them you might prefer not to meet. Take for example the following experience from yesteryear.
Across the road from us we have a rather interesting family. They consist of the grandparents, the parents, four boys between the ages of 8 and 14 and an uncle of them with a big boep. It would be fair to say that the boys’ social skills are still in the developing phase.
Their first notable attempt to social interaction is to teach a sixteen-year old mentally retarded girl in the camp how to swear. They are very effective teachers and soon their endeavors pay off handsome dividends. Much to their surprise, however the girl’ father, who also happens to be a Reverend, is not as thrilled with the progress that the boys made.
On a later occasion the boys are left to their own devices with the rest of the outfit going on an angling expedition. The boys hang around their tent, being bored. In an endeavor to be sociable they eventually start shouting obscenities to passersby. Eventually one of the campers walks over to reprimand them, unfortunately limited to a verbal reprimand. I thought a more decisive action would have been medically indicated under circumstances.
Not too much later I had to shed my own impartial observance and trundle over to the boys’ site to have a word with the grown-ups after the boys started bullying my 10-year old son. I have to admit in shame that the discussion took place in much more amicable fashion than how I intended it to go. I bumped into the grandma who solemnly undertook to look into the disciplinary matters.
From my vantage point I observe an irate mother visiting the outfit the next day demanding the return of a toy cell phone that went amiss. Four angel faces deny any knowledge, and the mother leaves with the matter unresolved. To my pleasure, however, I observe a security official attending to the outfit the next morning to have a word with the parents. I’m not convinced that the visit bore any fruit, as one of the boys shortly thereafter winds a girl with a hook punch from behind. “Just playing!” he protests, deeply hurt, when taken to task about it.
On another occasion the uncle with the boep is left in charge of the outfit. Following a slight difference of opinion between the boys and the uncle, one of the boys takes a well aimed shot at the uncle first with a shoe, followed by a pebble. Uncle does not take kindly to this. He waddles out of his camping chair and purposefully takes off his belt. By that time, however, all the boys have removed themselves to a safe distance. When the parents eventually arrive, however, some blows with a belt did find its target. I’m pretty much in favour of proper discipline, but even to me it sounded more like assault than discipline.
In a happy turn of events my children’s much older cousin joins our outfit for a few days. Shortly thereafter a misunderstanding ensues between cousin and the boys from the outfit across the road. Cousin quickly establishes himself as reigning alpha male and rearranges the pecking order. Now, at last, the kids on this side of the road can go about their business unescorted.
Under this new reign things improve so dramatically that, when I on occasion make enquiries at the outfit across the street about a missing tennis ball, one of the boys jumps up, run out to the shop just outside the gate of the campsite, and buy me a brand new tennis ball.
Sometimes kids really make it difficult for you to stay angry with them.
PGJ…
Leisure Wheel
[By PG Jonker]
It was one of those hectic days at home. To restore a measure of calm at home I got sent off to the library with Anita, 9 years old, and Chris-Jan, 2 years old. My wife reckoned it would be a lot better for her sanity if we rather go and disrupt the library than our home. Not that she had any gripe with the library though. Unlike the occasion when the chaps at the Home Affairs ticked her off slightly. So when we then all had to attend to the Home Affairs office all at the same time she gave permission (no, rather instructed) the kids to have a good time and to run around as much as they want. They duly complied. But I digress.
The library is closed. Some improvisation is required, thus. Fortunately there is a nice lawn in front of the library with a play park. Deserted, so we have it all for ourselves. Anita aims straight for the big horizontal wheel. One of those instruments designed to make you nauseous by just looking at it.
I am the energy source, tasked to make the thing go around. Chris-Jan is very suspicious, and resists all forms of enticement to make him join the fun. “Don’ wanna get up,” sayeth Chris-Jan.
It takes a while to overcome some stubborn inertia, but in due time I have the wheel spinning rather nicely, with Anita relaxing on board. As things progress Chris-Jan starts to develop some interest in the action. At first limited to watching intently, but later inching nearer.
Eventually “Don’ wanna get up” becomes “Wanna get up.”
OK, first things need to come back to a standstill. I mount Chris-Jan spread-legged across the double bar of the wheel. He now sits on the outer edge of this wheel, facing the direction in which he will be moving.
Obviously we need to tone down a bit on the speed now. The wheel is about a meter above the ground, which is rather high for a two-year old. I can now also relax, as the pace is now a lot more leisurely than before. Anita simply has to make do with the more sedate pace.
Chris-Jan gets the hang of things rather quickly. His little hands have the bars in a tight grip. As speed increases slightly he leans into the turn like on a motorbike. A real pro, ek sê.
With Chris-Jan getting the hang of things I start to increase the speed slightly. Soon he enjoys it even more than his older sister. As his balance seems very well, and he is holding tightly on, I increase the speed. And the faster it goes, the more Chris-Jan enjoys it. Well, eventually everyone is enjoying this leisure wheel.
OK, it was probably bound to happen some or other time. As the centrifugal force increased, eventually it reached the point where it overcame the hold of two-year old hands, and woeps! off the wheel Chris-Jan goes. He hits the ground with a rather hefty force.
An immediate and loud protest follows. If it was not for the fact that also his mouth was full of sand the volume of the protest would have been exponentially higher. It takes me a while to get the sand out of most of the orifices, between the tears and the saliva. Fortunately no injuries. The sobs eventually become quiet. Not that this is any indication of an improved mood on his side.
Eventually Chris-Jan is sufficiently composed to turn his wrath on the object of his discontent, which is obviously the wheel, not me. So he turns to the wheel, points it out to me and instruct me: “Hit him, daddy, hit him.”
So I hit him. The wheel now, I mean.
PGJ…
Entrepreneurial Potholes
[Johnie Jonker’s winning letter in Leisure Wheels, June 2010]
The May issue of LW requests readers to submit solutions to the pothole problem we have on our roads. I have no answer as yet, but rather a related problem, which may be even worse in the long-term than the original one.
Travelling between Jozini and Kosi Bay during March 2008 on a dreadful road – where at places only the east-bound half still had a strip of tar – we encountered the following on our way to Ponta do Ouro:
On a section where both road lanes were still tarred but showing rapid signs of decay in the form of substantial potholes, we approached an industrious group of pikanins seemingly repairing a pothole by filling it with soil from the side of the road.
Perhaps the word “approached” is a bit strong, as one moment the road was empty and the next, there was this little guy, barely a head taller than the spade handle – and equally thin – carrying soil across the road towards the pothole.
When he “noticed” us, he stood by the side of the road waiting patiently. However, when I did not slow down sufficiently to his liking and he realised I might not stop and reward him for his initiative, he stepped into the road with INTENT, the spade aggressively held out before him to the extent that I was wondering whether he was actually going to take a swipe at the car and having to take evasive action.
OK, so other than not responding well to threats, why did I not stop and reward him? If not for his efforts, however temporary they may be, then at least for his entrepeneurship or cuteness.
Should you have travelled that road in the condition it was in at the time, you would have noticed in your rear-view mirror – as soon as you had passed the pothole – the following:
More spade-bearing “contractors” appearing out of the bushes, starting to frantically remove the soil from the pothole, dumping it next to the side of the road again, thereby restoring the pothole to original condition. Then disappearing into the bushes, waiting to ply their racket to the next ignorant passer-by.
So in addition to the physical problem – potholes – we now also have a social problem. In pretty much the same way that wild animals, when becoming accustomed to being fed by sympathetic tourists, become aggressive when denied the treat. Many people can attest to the “gangster” behaviour of the baboons between Miller’s Point around to Cape Point, which has the same origins as those above.
Therefore, howEVER the potholes are fixed, it better be SOON.
JJJ
…
How Crazy Are You?
By Johnie Jonker
During a working visit to India a few years back, a colleague and I found ourselves in Bangalore, visiting the Indian counterpart to our own Denel, whom we were working for at the time. The purpose of our visit was to assist in the testing of electronic equipment.
We reported at the facility the morning after our arrival from Delhi, and started working straight away. This being Thursday, there was a lot to be done, but as Saturday was a normal working day in India, we envisaged that three days should be sufficient. Little did we know that, even though the work may be finished, our hosts are a tenacious lot, and that as they now have us there, are going to try to “detain” us for as long as decently possible in order to squeeze as much information out of us as they could.
The first signs of this became apparent when, seeing as we did not mind working on the Saturday, perhaps we did not mind working on a Sunday either? Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. As we Sefricans are a pleasant lot, always trying to please, we complied.
We had originally planned on finalising the visit with a wrap-up meeting early the next morning, returning home on Wednesday, using the Tuesday – which was a public holiday – to spend as a day of rest.
This public holiday turned out to be Ghandi Day. Let me explain: This day commemorates Ghandi’s birthday – 2 October – and is right up there with any religious holiday in terms of sacredness. So obviously we would have the day off for some sight-seeing. Not so.
Off we trundle – AGAIN – to Bharat Electronics on the Tuesday morning – six of us in the Ambassador taxi. Let me explain again: In spite of having such a classy name, the Hindustan Ambassador is the staple taxi in India. It has been in production since 1958 (in India) with few modifications or changes and is based on the Morris Oxford III, produced in the United Kingdom from 1956 to 1959. They are severely underpowered – how much, we only learnt later, during a subsequent visit to Dehra Dun in the northern part of India.
En route to the nearby ski resort – no, really – of Mussoori, we asked the taxi driver whether he could turn on the air conditioning, as being summer at the time, it was blerrie humid. His response was that we can choose – either the air conditioning on; OR we drive. But not both. Anyway, I digress.
So we arrive at the entrance of the deserted – except for the security guards – company premises. Our local representative starts explaining our mission in one of the local languages. This is dragging on a bit, and although us two Sefrican boykies do not understand anything being said, we can sense the tone. It is now getting somewhat uncomfortable in the taxi, as these vehicles are not really designed to accommodate four adults on the back seat.
Eventually we are let through, and I ask Arun what he had to tell the guard to allow us in, as it sounded as if quite a bit of convincing was required on his part. Arun then explained that he had to tell the guard the same story four times, as to him – the guard – it was totally incomprehensible that anyone that has a National Holiday – especially THIS one – would choose to come to work rather than lazing about at home.
His parting words to Arun was: “You are not crazy, you are SUPERcrazy!”
JJJ
Well folks, this being my maiden post, perhaps I should explain a few things. I will try my utmost to ensure that I do not write anything of a humorous nature. For that content, read my boet’s blog. So please bear with me if something funny does slip through.
Contributions will mostly be of a travelogue nature, anecdotally relating incidents, supported by pictures. This may relate to events regarding the preparation, journey or destination.
Although the stories will all (mostly) be true, some of it you – like the security guard – may find hard to believe. Don’t worry too much if it sounds farfetched – just be entertained!
JJJ
…
AIRPORT STORY
[Also in Afrikaans @ https://pgjonker.co.za/?p=109]
[Published as a letter in By 15/3/2008]
One fine Saturday morning I find myself at Cape Town Airport. For the second time that day. My brother-in-law is flying out to Dublin.
Earlier the morning we have been to the airport to try to get a seat for Bro’-in-law that could accommodate his long legs. However, the counters were still closed. So now we are back again.
The seats in economy class with the ample legroom had been taken already. Bro’-in-law, however, convinces the ground personnel that he has endless trouble with his knees after both knees had been broken in an altercation with three Martians from outer space. In return for his innovative endeavours in this regard they move him to the seat at the emergency exit where he can swing his legs.
Bro’-in-law goes for a walk-about. I make myself comfortable on the luggage trolley along with the last remaining pieces of his luggage. It is a hot day. I take my spectacles off to wipe the sweat off my brow and sit with my head in my hands for a moment.
At one stage I look up and, through the haze of looking without my spec’s, I see a Black man walking purposefully in my direction (it’s probably only in the South African context that the ethnicity is relevant). I put my spectacles on and look again. Yes indeed, there is no-one near me, and this guy is clearly heading straight at me.
I thought oeps! maybe I’m not supposed to sit on the trolley. So I struggle to get of the trolley, but I’m a bit wedged in between the luggage. And in any case, the trolley is very low, it is difficult getting up quickly. By the time I eventually have myself half way on my feet the guy is on me. Before I can do anything he grabs me with his one hand across my shoulder, with the other hand coming around. And he gives me a bear hug, saying: “My friend, don’t cry, don’t cry, everything is going to be all right, you just see.”
Later he let go with his one hand, but keep me in a firm grip with his other arm.
Bro’-in-law returns and I explain to the porter no, I’m OK, that’s the guy that is leaving. Upon which he starts comforting us both.
“Don’t you worry, it will be better soon, everything will be OK”.
And off he goes to proceed with his business for the day.
PG JONKER…
A DAY AT THE COURT
[Storie also in Afrikaans @ https://pgjonker.co.za/?p=41]
A DAY AT THE COURT
I recently had the privilege (?) to visit the court. Bellvile Magistrates’ Court. And no, I was not the Accused or the Defendant in any matter. I was there strictly as a bona fide attendant to honourable proceedings, as is indicated for an upstanding citizen.
From early in the morning a queue forms outside the single entrance. First you need to go through the security scanner. All AK47’s, knifes, daggers and objects of similar ilk need to be handed in to the folks in charge of security.
Not everyone, though, follows this rather cumbersome process of getting into the building. Attorneys, for instances, just visibly display their robes (well, you can’t really hide it, can you) and walk right up to the front of the queue. Their clients follow suit, and everybody seems to consider this acceptable.
I did consider this course of action, and would have been able to do so without any problems. However, it felt rather embarrassing to sommer skip the queue. So I fell in at the back of the queue in the conventional way.
There are lots of people. There are also lots of vehicles, and many of them of the type you will find on the “Pimp my Ride” programmes on TV. But these are the before-versions driving around. Clapped out cars with torn seats and mag wheels. Custom made chrome grills. Zooped up cars, wrinkled cars, lower suspensions, spoilers, fur on the dashboard, you name it. Some vehicles display a combination of, or even all of, the above.
Across the road I notice five gentlemen. Groot Menere, you understand what I’m saying, nuh? Dressed in very neat denims, jackets with brand names, headgear. No, not baseball caps. Larny hats, ek sê. Golden rings, bracelets, golden chains. They lazily check out the queue this side of the road, rather defiant. They’re clearly not the type to be stared down.
The pute-pe-pute-pe-pute of a Harley-Davidson becomes audible in the distance. The sound becomes louder, and the Harley turns up in the road. The Harley aims in the direction of the Groot Menere. They respectfully stand aside for the Harley to be driven up the side walk unceremoniously. Mr Harley parks his Davidson. He slowly dismounts, does not take off his helmet, and also scrutinises the queue. Then he starts walking across the road to join the queue. It looks like someone form a Wild West movie the way he walks. Must be the width of the motorbike’s seat that widened his gait. The Groot Menere checks out his bike. Respectfully.
Then they also walk across the road to join the queue. However, they do not join the queue at the back. They fall in at the front. Someone should actually take them to task about this rather rude approach to an otherwise orderly queue. However, nobody protests. Neither do I, but I’m not in a hurry, mos.
I then get informed that the matter for which I am there has been postponed, so I decide to run an errand to the office of Home Affairs just across the street. I have an ID document that needs to be picked up. At Home Affairs I am in front of the queue. There is no queue. I feel slightly embarrassed. I mean, going to Home Affairs and not having to join a queue seems contrary to standard procedure.
I announce myself to the gentleman behind the counter. He types something on his PC and the next thing I get a sms informing me that my ID document is ready for collection at Home Affairs. How cool is that, huh? Exactly one-and-a-half minute later I walk out of Home Affairs’ office with my new ID.
Back at the Magistrates’ Office I join the queue again. Eventually I do get inside the building. I go visit the Gents. Vonkiespat and Ugly Pops had been there before me, the graffiti tells me.
Outside a nervous looking gentleman asks me for directions. He shows me a crumpled document which indicates that he needs to explain to the magistrate why he should not be committed to jail for contempt of court.
I’m telling you, there’s always someone who is worse off than yourself.
PGJ…