Take a Long Walk off a Short Pier

I was a bit too young to fully understand what had just happened. All I remember is Duran’s dad hoping on top of the couch and jumping around in a frenzy while the house shook on its foundations. “We won! We Won!” he was shouting as he picked Duran and I up on his shoulders still with our lumo-lace up roller skates dangling from our chicken legs.

Duran was, as far back as I can remember, my first Best Friend. I cannot recall how we met or where it all started but it was probably whilst eating dirt together at Pikkevoutas Kindergarten. I do, however, recall a few events that he and I got up to:

We set the veld on fire: There is a water reservoir facility close to my house with huge storage tanks and high towers. It was towards the end of winter and we had made a fort out of intertwined veld grass. The fort, in the shape of a U was nestled in the corner of this water facility which gave us excellent access to the towers, tanks and tunnels. In our fort we stored everything an 8 year old boy needs to survive: A lighter, a can of deodorant, pellet guns, ammunition, ninja stars made from old tomatoe boxes and a knife. The biggest one you could find from the kitchen. We used this fort to make Chlorine bombs and try out other anarchist cook-book type recipes. We buried 2 liter coke bottles filled with milk and HTH. There was one using brake fluid and quite a number that were charged from the black powder we would pour out of massive fire crackers. We blew a lot of things up. My sisters Barbie dolls resembled something from the Chucky series…all burnt up and full of copper bb pellets. 

So you would imagine one of these explosives did the trick? Nope. It was the deodorant. The day we found out that you can light what comes out of that can – just like Rambo would – was a big day for us…and yes, we accidentally set the veld on fire. The fire raged on all the way down the road to Dam Motors. This was way before Saveways Crescent Center had even been built. That entire area just went to a crisp. Worst news is that our fort burnt as well. Sad day.

We pissed in the Drinking Water: The main reservoir tower had an old rusty lock on the door which we easily dispatched of with the butt of my Daisy. Inside that tower is a staircase and at the top of that staircase is a small man-hole type hatch. It leads you into this chamber, pluming with all sorts of gasses that take your breath away as the water is being boiled. Or something. Carry on up a rusty cat ladder and you end up on the cone-shaped roof of this structure, easily 30m up. On top there was a bunch of antenna, reception transceivers and the most perfect spot to shoot the postman. We would snipe that poor guy as he walked door to door. We got pretty good at one stage hitting him on every third or so shot – which for a Daisy pellet gun from elevation and 70m is quite something. Just aim it above his head and allow the pellet to clout him. Good fun. 

Boys being boys, we couldn’t go back past the reservoir tank without including some of our personally brewed admixture. It never once occurred to me then, that I was pissing in the water that I actually drink. Turns out some hobo-murderer also threw a dead dude into that water at one stage. We were all wondering what this reconstituted tissue paper looking stuff was in our drinking water. Yummeh.

We would endanger ourselves to no end. I remember climbing inside those massive tanks. We had to squeeze, on our bellies, through a pipe which lead into this dry holding tank. Not knowing that at any moment the gates could automatically open and the chamber would flood with water. We would climb down into the crypt-style treatment tanks to hunt for frogs. I remember the little u-bar steel type staircase and the one day three of those broke off on the way down. I had to lift Duran up onto my shoulders so he could pull himself up onto the middle step. He, then hanging onto the roof slab opening, was my ladder to get out and I hoisted him out at the end. Nobody would have found us in there.

We used to head down De Heuwel hill with our roller skates and travel so fast we would overtake cars, slalom style, on the way down. On coming traffic and all. The little rubber breaks on the boots were not strong enough to stop us so we just had to hang on and head for it. All the way down the road, around the sharp left hand bend and then lose momentum on the uphill there.

I remember him falling off the roof. I remember smacking a golf ball into his face busting the top of his eye open. I remember acting like were James Bond(s) running about the back yard and diving into the fish pond for cover. Our imagination and affinity for trouble was boundless. We used to cycle to Klipfontein Dam and wonder why the guys were collecting tyres and then why were those tyres always burnt? The cops used to show up and clean up the mess which only now, looking back, do I realise what was actually happening.

Anyway, what lead me onto thinking about Duran was that memory of his Dad. 24^th June 1995. I was 10 years old and it was the first night I was going to sleep over at Duran’s house without my Mommy and Daddy. Rugby World Cup Final. A momentous day in Saffa culture. I wish I could say I remember the Boks winning. I wish I could explain the warmth and love that I felt for South Africa that day. I wish i could describe to you how the tears flooded my eyes with overwhelming pride as Dada Madiba walked into a packed Ellis Park and received a unanimous standing ovation. The hand shake between Warriors. I wish I could tell you about all the drama that lead up to that moment, about all the pent up fear in all of us – scared of what the future holds. Mostly, I wish I could tell you it meant something to me.

But I can’t. I was just too young. I know now what it meant for my people and I can understand the level of emotion surrounding the situation as the history books and camp fires have taught me this. Maybe that’s where some of us are still getting it wrong? Maybe we were not washed clean, from our souls to our spirit, by the power of that moment? I, and the rest of the 80’s babies have just the wrong mix of physically experiencing Apartheid and actually understanding the strength this nation had to overcome it. Maybe that’s why some of us at my age still hold a bit of hatred? I can understand a salty old man keeping his racism but a person born when I was born?

Culturally we are all different. It is these differences in upbringing that is often blurred for racism. We are different. We are not all going to get along. There are many things that Zulu’s do that Xhosa’s dislike. Even more things that Afrikaners do that the English don’t agree with. Its just culture and how we deal with culture is circumstantial to upbringing and temperament. It is natural. It is what makes this country so unique and it is that uniqueness that demands our maturity. Look, you are your own person but if you are my age and you still see Colour instead of Culture...then you may want to take a long walk off a short pier.

Today is 20 years. Celebrate it.