Groot Marico tale

Members own writings, photography, music, art, poetry, prose.
Show off your own stuff, share the pleasure, suffer the critics.
Post Reply
User avatar
MajGenl.Meade
Posts: 20702
Joined: Sun Apr 25, 2010 8:51 am
Location: Groot Brakrivier
Contact:

Groot Marico tale

Post by MajGenl.Meade »

WEEKEND

I see that Jori Potgieter has gone to Johannesburg – said Oom Willie - to meet his pretty wife who never came back from her mother’s funeral. He is going because he now thinks two years has been long enough for just waiting. I asked, had she agreed to this meeting? No, but the first time they met in Jozi was by accident before they got married. So, he demanded, why should that not happen again?

Any one of us could answer such a question. It would be better to wait until he found out where she is. Then they might collide on purpose. But a clever wife would not blunder into the same kraal twice. Especially a pretty one such as Rachela. But even a useless plan is better than no plan at all, I told Jori Potgieter. He was pleased at the compliment. And so, he has gone.

I myself have never lost a wife in Johannesburg. Although it is true that one time in the city when she was to follow my Mercedes home in her own car she drove much too slowly and left herself behind. It was in a strange surrounding she did not know, and my cell phone was not working. It is unreliable so I switch it off to save the battery. She slept the night in her locked car and waited for my phone to work again. That was on the next day and I was surprised she was not home helping with the sheeps, but instead was calling me from so far away.

Now, there are phones smarter than me which can make plans and maps both, but we do not have that kind. I told her to come home, my chicken. If she did not know where she was, it was not fair to think I would know. She told me things I never thought to hear, and she found her way without my advice. Not losing a wife to Johannesburg is still one hundred percent for me. But she once almost lost me, and it was this way.

If you look at our bookshelf, you will find many books and most are not mine but Marita’s. I have there only three books. It was four, but my Marita insisted to return one to the library. Such a large fine had mounted up she refused to pay and told them to apply to me for the money. She even gave them my cell phone number.

As you know that phone is not reliable, and so they have not been able collect the debt. They closed the main library three years ago and it has not opened since. Perhaps it was for lack of funds. It was said they are repairing and improving the building but so far, they have only improved the number of people unable to borrow books.

It is the other three books that I speak of now. One is the Bible and so is another one, but in English. The third book is of short stories by H.C. Bosman who you all know is South Africa’s most famous author. Because it is a slim paperback, I can hold it with great comfort when lying in bed. In the very first story where someone falls asleep the writing is so good that I fall asleep too.

I have read the start of this one so many times that I have it by heart but may never finish the rest of In die Withaak se Skadu. I want to read about the leopard. But until that first tale is planted in my mind, ripe and harvested like my mealies, it would not be right to move on to the next story. So, you can imagine how happy I was to learn of a group who have already completed all this agricultural work.

Up in North West, these people organize a Herman Charles Bosman weekend every October. Right there in Groot Marico they make plays out of Bosman; they have mampoer; there is music. Best of all, they read the stories out loud all the way to the end. I think these people are not as sensitive as me to good writing. This, I say to Marita, is a journey we should make. She did not think so, which is why I went there alone and how she almost lost me even though she says that unlike Rachela, I am not either clever or pretty.

It was on a Friday that I left the farm to drive to Groot Marico in the excellent Mercedes of mine, that had been my father’s car before he died. That car is also not pretty or clever but works well at speed across my fields and on the roads, dirt and tar. It is only not so good when my Marita is sitting next to me and tells my Mercedes that it is dirty and wrong and not working.

It is well she stayed home because in less than the five hours needed to reach Groot Marico the Mercedes would believe her and would not get there at all. With just me and the open road all would be well, and so it was for the first few kilometres until just past Glen. I had forgotten the R30 now is a toll road and it seems wrong to pay today for what was already built many years ago. Thinking of this injustice kept me busy until I reached the first road works.

We all have been stopped by many road repairs in our lives. The red flag is waved by the workers admiring our approach at 120kph past the signs that say 60. We wave back. Ahead, one side of the road is closed, and we know that SANRAL has learned much over the years. A red light and a white line never yet stopped anyone, let alone a taxi. No, these days the road crew drag a heavy barrier in the way to show they are serious about the stopping. Always this is next to a sign that warns us to “Expect delay +/- ten minutes”.
You must have come to a small road work where you can see ahead to the other end where there is no traffic halted to wait. But before you can drive through, blink goes the red light and scrape goes the barrier and the worker looks hard at the sign, so you must read it too. It says to expect the delay for ten minutes and they don’t want to disappoint you, plus or minus. But you know in exactly ten minutes, you will be allowed to take the empty road ahead.

Sometimes, this system is challenged when one car arrives at each end at the same time. Who then will be disappointed by not having to wait ten minutes? The workers pick up their walkie-talkies and argue it out. Both cars must wait. One driver can wait for nine minutes then is released to speed around the construction; the other driver stays in place for one minute past the ten for his freedom. This makes exactly twenty minutes for two cars. There are many pluses and minuses in the new South Africa.

Now, on the R30 it was a genuine need for ten minutes wait for traffic coming through. But after two or three of these repair stops and the reminder that my toll is paying for me to stand still, I was not in the best of moods when turning onto the N4, almost at the end of the trek. The long line of cars and bakkies crawling slowly toward the single operating toll booth was a bad thing. When I saw the next toll was to be 75 Rands, I had too long to wait to keep just in shock. Instead, I moved on to argue.

“What is this seventy-five Rands for?” I demanded of the collector. Yes, he says, it is the toll for the next section, a very long way. But I only need to travel two kilometres to Groot Marico; not the very long way. Is there a discount? No, because you also have been driving on this road already to get to this booth, neh? But that also was only two kilometres from the short way to the R30. Yes, but that way avoids the first toll booth and you have not paid for this piece of road you are now on. But I didn’t drive on the piece of road from that toll booth to the piece of road I am now driving on, except I am instead standing still. Yes, seventy-five Rands, please. It was a good discussion but from behind me there came indications that my fellow travellers did not appreciate either justice or logic. Will you be here on Sunday, I asked before paying and felt cheated twice over. It would be another seventy-five Rands to go home and my collector would not be there to continue the debate. I might have to drive to Johannesburg to get the full value of such excessive tolls. Meantime, I had driven right past my hotel by the side of the N4 and must make a circle back to my hotel.

This was a most satisfactory place for me to stay. A group of thatch-roof chalets, quite large perched on the hill right above the petrol garage, a restaurant, an Indian shop, and a bottle store. I saw an ABSA ATM and a swimming pool and Krazy golf. Well, and so the pool was a half-metre of very green swamp liquid and the little golf place a bit hidden by bird droppings and a strong suspicion that asking for putter and golf ball would be like wishing for honest government. That is, a thing so far in the past that no one remembered it. I switched on the TV to see some rugby. It did not work, even up so high on a special shelf on the wall which should keep it from being damaged by disappointed golfers and swimmers.

“Ach, I will fetch the man to fix it,” said the owner as she pressed the remote button over and again. When he came, the man did fix it. You see, he said, this is the DSTV remote only for the box. The TV remote has been stolen. You move this furniture and climb up on it to turn the TV on and off, like so. Remember, don’t use the remote or the box will stop working again.

They left me. I tried to change the channel on the remote to rugby. The DSTV box turned off, leaving the television to shine brightly in blue. I climbed up on the furniture and hit the switch. Reading would be better than TV anyway. I lay upon the bed and read my Bosman story about the leopard all the way to where it says, “So I lay on my back, with my hat tilted over my face, and my legs crossed, and when I closed my eyes slightly . . .”

Next I knew it was time for the evening programme at the Bosman Cultural Centre which I must now find. They had told me there were only three streets in Groot Marico, but I think there are five perhaps. At least, I found four wrong ones before seeing that the big white signs saying BOSMAN with an arrow would get me to the right place. They did.

It was a place all right. There was an NGK with pleasant grassy areas and a sizable outbuilding for events, but we would not go in those until next day. Tonight, we gathered beneath a huge red tent roof held up by long poles, swaying and bulging in the fresh night wind. There was a stage and a cash bar to the front and over to the right were open fires with large pots of pap and heaps of boerewors. The wonderful smells floated under the tent roof and curled around the many tables and chairs rapidly filling with people just like me who wanted to hear the end of a Bosman story at last.

I went up on to the stage because I could see we must register there and get our tokens for Saturday and Sunday. Mine was a tin cup with a blue ribbon. Everyone had tin cups with different colours of ribbon, but we did not need these to buy the Bosman books set out on a long table. I did not know there could be so many.

Turning some of the pages, I could see that a story about the Mafeking road was in at least four different books. Now in the case of stories, it seems you can pay more than once and get the same road over and over. This is not like the N4 where you pay twice for nothing much at all. This needed some considerable thought, and my thought was that a man does his best thinking with a beer and perhaps a bottle of wine.
Waiting at the bar, I met a man from Holland. I was impressed that his Dutch was adapted well to Afrikaans as he had been to South Africa many times before and learned such refinements. He was wearing motorcycle clothing and came with important cameras attached. He worked, said Jan, as a reporter for motorcycle magazines and was on another trip to write a story and being a Bosman fan, he took the chance to come here. We bought each other a beer and then a bottle or two of wine to share with whoever was at our table.

Jan showed me three Bosman books he had just purchased. I asked about the books and the same stories in so many. Did he not feel cheated? He leafed through them and saw my point. Yes, but surely, he said, you might purchase a CD by your favourite musician who is . . . Four Jacks and a Jill, I said. Then, said my friend, might you not purchase another CD of a Jack and Jill concert – live music that had many of the same songs as your first CD? Yes, but they would be sung differently with some dancing and these Bosman stories are the same, neh?

For a moment, he looked like those people in the line behind me at the toll plaza. Aha! said Jan. But do you have more than one Bible at home? Yes, I agreed, I have two. But those, he said triumphantly, are also identical; the stories are the same, but you bought more than just one. And he knocked over a glass of red wine. There was a panic until I saw it was his glass. But one Bible, I replied, is in Afrikaans and the other in English – different, like the CDs you spoke of. Let us get dinner, he replied, giving up too easily for my liking, and so we did.

Jan knew a lot about Herman Charles Bosman, but I forget most of what he told me. Only I remember how he laughed at some signs which said the death of Bosman’s stepbrother was “an incident” and “a tragic event”. The court, said Jan, called it “murder” and sentenced Bosman to hang for the one bullet he fired, except later the sentence was commuted to life. And he only served four years.

Now it is dark and on the stage a lady comes to speak about how much fun they have making this Bosman Weekend. She introduces some of the people who will be leading events tomorrow and Sunday. Then tonight there will be a performance in a few minutes and we must enjoy it and then go to our beds. She was replaced by two young men.

These students had invented a performance of Bosman’s story, Die Rooinek. This was not a reading you understand, but their interpretation of the story, the details of which I did not know then and I still do not know. They ran about a lot. It was a warm night for beer and wine. Fight as I might, they were doing Bosman so well that my head was nodding already in the first scene. And it nodded itself into a long pause in the puddle of wine on the table.

I woke up with a shock as Jan pulled my head up from where red wine had stuck my hair and face to the table. I was sure that my skin and hair was torn off. My Dutch friend asked didn’t I think the students had done an excellent job of the Rooinek and now he had awoken me, should he take me to my hotel on his motorbike? Did I know I had finished my bottle of wine and then another and should not drive?

No doubt he was right. But I had not drunk enough to overcome my doubts of that motorcycle and a Dutchman who’d matched me glass for glass. We said goodnight and I found my car after walking past it only three times, which might have been better had I not found it at all and taken a chance on the Dutcher. For despite my careful observation of all rules of traffic, I became lost again and then very tired indeed. My Mercedes is comfortable and easy to sleep in, but better not while moving. So, I stopped the car near a railway track and an FNB machine there with a bright light. I shaded my eyes with my Bosman book and lay back to think some more about a withaak.

A strange thing happened. There was a crash of thunder and my Mercedes jumped sideways, and I saw it was near dawn and smoke curled up and all around. There were flames close by and I was glad it was only a dream for the smoke looked like a man walking toward me, carrying a large gun. I wanted to laugh. But then suddenly I knew. It was a man all right. Not a dream but a man. Behind him, the FNB ATM had gone. Well, I could still see it, but it was not automatic anymore and its work of telling was at an end.

The man walked right up to the window of my Mercedes and tapped the glass with his gun. I opened the window. He put his face up to mine and sniffed. In this moment, you know in advance you are dead and only waiting for events to catch up. He touched my face and hair with his finger, scraping a little at the red wine stain. I did not shake or quiver, because I was a statue ready to be placed by a grave. He shook his head. Then he turned and walked away, back through the thinning smoke, to where I could see his friends scrambling to load the shattered ATM into a white Land Cruiser.

And that is how my wife almost lost me, far from home. I don’t know why he did not shoot me, that man. I was a witness and never will forget his face, the only bank robber I ever met. Mostly, my friends back home do not believe there was a man. Oh, the ATM was on the news so that was a fact. I showed scrapes and dents on my Mercedes from the explosion, but among so many others, who was to say when they came?

In Groot Marico I knew that the festival was over for me. I got my bags from the hotel and started for home in the early morning along the N4, ready to argue with the new toll collector. But I did not get to argue in the end. The road was well-policed, sirens and cars all along the way. At the toll station, fire trucks were scattered about and the station itself was damaged. Impatient police waved drivers through, toll-free and I felt pleased and a little disappointed. Then, a short distance beyond, I saw a car upside down and a great cloud of smoke. Flaming rubber from the tyres still dripped onto the road. It was barely recognizable as a white Toyota Land Cruiser.
Last edited by MajGenl.Meade on Fri Apr 16, 2021 12:53 pm, edited 1 time in total.
For Christianity, by identifying truth with faith, must teach-and, properly understood, does teach-that any interference with the truth is immoral. A Christian with faith has nothing to fear from the facts

User avatar
Gob
Posts: 33642
Joined: Tue Apr 06, 2010 8:40 am

Re: Groot Marico tale

Post by Gob »

Wow! What a tale!!
“If you trust in yourself, and believe in your dreams, and follow your star. . . you'll still get beaten by people who spent their time working hard and learning things and weren't so lazy.”

ex-khobar Andy
Posts: 5418
Joined: Sat Dec 19, 2015 4:16 am
Location: Louisville KY as of July 2018

Re: Groot Marico tale

Post by ex-khobar Andy »

I read some of Bosman's short stories many years ago. Unusually for a white South African of Afrikaaner heritage during his time (he died in 1951) he was willing to explore the notion that blacks and whites were the same.

MGMcAnick
Posts: 1342
Joined: Mon Sep 28, 2015 10:01 pm
Location: 12 NM from ICT @ 010º

Re: Groot Marico tale

Post by MGMcAnick »

Couple of questions MGM: How long ago was that? What model/series Mercedes did you inherit from your father?
As the resident car guy, I'm curious.
A friend of Doc's, one of only two B-29 bombers still flying.

User avatar
MajGenl.Meade
Posts: 20702
Joined: Sun Apr 25, 2010 8:51 am
Location: Groot Brakrivier
Contact:

Re: Groot Marico tale

Post by MajGenl.Meade »

Not me. Oom Willie. It was a 230-4 that Willie drove. The first time I was in it with him we went full tilt over his fields and hills looking for bok and I was terrified he'd hit a rock, a ravine or just a tree.

I doubt he ever went to Groot Marico and certainly not to the Bosman fest. I did and met Jan with whom I spent much time and wine. It's a story - but it's true the FNB ATM in Groot Marico had been blown up and taken away the year I was there. The hotel (rather, a B&B) is more horrible than I described it but there's nothing said that's not true. It is a re-casting of Bosman's In the Withaak's Shade with a bank robber as the leopard.

I have respect for Bosman's stories, particularly those 'narrated' by Oom Schalk Lourens, and wanted to use Willie's unique voice in a similar though much paler fashion. Willie is the source of many a story, sometimes merely by a one line comment, but most often by relating events of his life. One of his was about Marita's reaction when she got lost in Johannesburg and he arrived at the farm without her - his story was mostly about rounding up sheep after she got back, angry and vengeful. I couldn't write it because we'd had too much joyous mampour and I can't remember the details.

If I ever publish, my African stories will need some judicious editing because places and people are too easily identified.

For true genius, here is Bosman's leopard tale .
For Christianity, by identifying truth with faith, must teach-and, properly understood, does teach-that any interference with the truth is immoral. A Christian with faith has nothing to fear from the facts

Post Reply