Way back in around 1962 Donald Coleman and I walked home from school. The Harrismith Kleinspan School.
It was about a mile and we set off around 1pm. When we got home we got the “Where have you been!?” treatment. Apparently it was 5pm already and getting dark and cold. Well, we wouldn’t have known and anyway, we’d had a lot to talk about and Donald had a box of matches, so we had stopped and made a little fire of plane tree leaves in the sandstone gutters of Stuart Street. These gutters used to channel water from Platberg to town according to Blanche Hawkins, local historian.
Fast forward to 2014 and 12yr old TomTom asked me if he could walk home from school today. It’s about 4km and school ends at 2pm. When I got home at 5pm he had just got in and Cecelia and Carla had been worried: “Where had he BEEN?!”
I knew where he’d been. His journey was double mine and he’d taken one less hour. Why, he’d almost hurried home! And no matches, so how could I complain? You have fun, my boy? I asked. He’d stopped en route to buy a pie, a packet of jelly tots and an energade drink.
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Feature pic: Me, Anne, Donald & Sheila in Platberg’s shadow
My garden is a wonderful tangle of KwaZulu indigenous growth gone wild. Interfered with only by my best man Tobias Gumede’s earnestly-felt desire to do something besides pulling weeds! He’s a GARDENER, so why does he get told: Do Nothing!?
Recently he trimmed the undergrowth near the birdbath and the spot where beautiful turquoise Araneus apricus spins her web each night and takes it down every morning.
I had to sit him down and remind him:
Tobias, my good man, remember when we listened to the yellow-bellied greenbul’s complaints (nickname Belly-aching Bulbul) and you told me how it was saying “Don’t shoot the birds, it’s Spring and they’re nesting?” And how you would teach the kids in Jozini not to shoot birds in that season – and how they did anyway!?
Yep, he remembers.
Well, its Summer, and remember: We don’t trim or cut anything till the season fades and we’re sure no birds or other creatures are nesting. And even then we do it with great circumspection? Lots of ‘easy-does-it’?
Oh Yes, He Does Remember and Sorry, He Forgot.
But he forgot again and as I was leaving he asked, Can You Buy Me A Rake? Um, what for, Tobias? Oh, Yes, He Forgot, We Don’t Rake. Right.
Well, I mention this because I have recently found out that unbeknown to me, I garden according to the ancient principle of wu wei. I mean, I always suspected my method was brilliant, but wu wei! That is brill. Its the Zen (or Tao? – or something . . ) art of “masterful inactivity.”
I love it: “The Art Of Masterful Inactivity”! Wu wei! I can do this!
I’m reading a book by Esther Woolfson who lives in Aberdeen in Scotland, called Field Notes from a Hidden City. The review of her book made me want to write about all the wonderful hidden creatures in my garden and generally in Westville, so I bought it with the express intention of plagiarising it. I’ve got to the part where she writes about wu wei and I’m right behind her.
“Less is more.” German architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe popularized this slogan among designers around the world in the 1950’s. And the wisdom of this aphorism goes way, way back to the time of the great Lao Tzu, ‘venerable master.’ The concept of Wu Wei became mainstream in China, where great leaders came to see the power of “non-doing.”
I read a lot about books and then occasionally I buy one and actually read the whole thing. Often the book review is better than the book. I bought Everyone Loves a Good Train Wreck by Eric G Wilson. Well, it was a very good review.
Back to plagiarism: I will write to Esther and tell her what I’m doing if I get the book done. My wu wei credentials are not confined to gardening, however, so she may be safe.
Here’s the manicured bit for soccer, rugby and biking, with refuges for creatures in front and behind. When the kids stop swimming the pool will be made more frog-friendly. Made? Well, ‘Allowed To Go’ frog-friendly . . . .
– that chlorine-poisoned water needs to go greener –
So how did I know the beautiful little turquoise orb spider I found in my garden was Araneus apricus? I went to my saucers. This one is seldom in her cups, ‘cept when she’s making beautiful ceramic ones: My favourite entomologist and arachnologist Tanza said:
Hi Pete – I think she is Araneus apricus, a little orb spider. Most are nocturnal, spinning their webs in the early evening and then removing them in the morning. Maybe she got out of bed late . . . ; It is probably a “she” as the males are often (but not always) smaller.- Tanz
I first met Tanza when she was working with social spiders on the Hella Hella bridge over the Umkomaas river. Hundreds of them obligingly spun webs between the aluminium railings, allowing Tanza to mark and measure at leisure. Usually they’d be in tangled bushes!
They’re fascinating. For one thing, like me they can balloon off and fly away!
~~oo0oo~~
TanzaCrouch’s 9 research works with 278 citations and 2,858 reads, including: The influence of group size on dispersal in the social spider Stegodyphus mimosarum (Araneae, Eresidae) – researchgate.net
Tom delivers a hot-off-the-grill rare steak, a breadroll and a lovely green salad with blue cheese dressing to me at my desk.
Plonking it in front of me he announces decisively: The kids have booked the lounge for tonight, Dad.
Have they paid a deposit? I ask.
Here it is, he says, planting a fond kiss on my cheek.
I’ll accept that in full payment, I say.
I was going to watch the Sharks’ game, but I’ll happily miss it.
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The pic is a different day, same year. His mate is Francois. Both of their Dads are named Peter Swanepoel.
The Dundee (pronounced DinDear locally) athletic club and the Dundee Hysterical Society run a 21km foot race called the Isandlwana 21 or The Fugitives’ Trail half marathon every January on the closest Sunday to the 22nd which is when the homeland-defending Zooloos routed the wickedly-invading Poms in 1879 and gave them a well-deserved smack on the snoot. After this thrashing Mrs Queen Vic dished out her Crosses by the dozen like smarties to cover up their embarrassment. A fig leaf for the Empire’s nakedness, I say. ‘Have one of her crosses, mate, just don’t tell her what actually happened, mKay?’
The race starts on a hill overlooking the Isandlwana mountain and ends at Rorke’s Drift.
I went to run it one year and it was very special: Half the club members manning the water tables dressed as Zulus in full regalia, and half dressed as pith-helmeted, redcoated Poms. Some of the former were pale and some of the latter dark, to add to the hilarity. I was appropriately dressed in my Savages Club black n white vest with my number 482 on show. This was quite a while ago, shortly after the actual battle, I spose. When I joined Westville Club in the 21st century I was given number 8754357808F. I don’t think they valued me like Savages did.
The oke who started the race looked like a drunken Pommy colonel, his nose as red as his jacket. He had no gun, no whistle nor no trumpet. He had a moustache, and he rambled on about who had done what to whom in 1879 – a potted history in which I think he underplayed the extent of the well-deserved smack on the snoot. And then, when the ‘off’ time arrived, he shouted:
“THE ZULUS ARE AFTER YOU!! RUN!
‘Course, in my specific case, all the Zooloos running that day were well ahead of me. Nevertheless, just like Mrs Queen Vic, the DinDear athletic club dished out Victoria Crosses liberally that day, even to slow coaches.
~~~oo0oo~~~
The race result was something like this photo above.
We crossed the Buffalo river at Rorke’s Drift and finished at the famous mission of the same name:
I think the finishers medal is rather special – a cross between a Victoria Cross and a Zulu shield:
Glen’s Mom died. She had been a bit spaced out the last few years, Alzheimers-like, but physically better than Denis. However, as can happen, she has gone before him. He too is not 100% with-it in his mind. He is also frail, in a wheelchair and couldn’t attend the memorial service at Selborne. The family had a gathering for him at La Domaine in Hillcrest where he and Faye have been for the last decade or so.
Glen & family flew out, and his three sisters and brother were there, all married with kids. The service was held in the Umzinto church that Faye was baptised in 82yrs ago, and that they had been married in, about sixty years ago. Denis had it moved brick-by-brick and tile-by tile and stained glass windows and wooden pews, pulpit ‘n all to Selborne about 12yrs ago for their 50th wedding anniversary and they had repeated their vows in it. ‘Mazing! Denis always had such a shrewd and imaginative eye: Selborne needed a chapel for weddings, he’d have had to build one, and this was just so much better than a new building with no history!
My shadow – and that of the motley crew I knew from Umzinto cricket days (when in absolute desperation they would ask me to be the tenth man, unable to find eleven, and I would make a duck, drop a catch and do very well at lunch and in the bar afterwards) – didn’t darken the door. We politely allowed it to fill up and stood outside under the trees. Anticipating this, they had placed speakers outside so we could hear what was going on inside, and a marquee with chairs for old bullets. Heard all the hymns (or both of them) in stereo as the insiders and the outsiders sang at different speeds. And in different keys. All Things Bright & Beautiful and Awesome Wonder.
Glen, Jane, Denise & Sharron spoke, as did a few of the grandkids. They did really well. Hats off to them! A friend of Faye’s told a lovely story of how she would do anything for Denis, but drew the line when he went through a brief spell of supporting the National Party. He asked her for a cake for their meeting and she told him he could bake his own bloody National Party cake! I can imagine Denis himself telling that story with great delight!
Saw a number of old Highflats, Dumisa, Umzinto, Durban, Tegwaan gang and Umdoni/Pennington district faces that I recognised. We all looked the same, but as though someone had stuck a bicycle pump in our rings and pumped us up a bit. I even got a few of the names right. Ali was an exception to the pump rule: She’s still as slim as ever. There were a few others who hadn’t expanded, too. I told them I was worried about them.
I remember Faye as a wonderfully warm and welcoming person with a mischievous smile and a wicked sense of humour. Playing tennis. Organising. Hosting. Driving a Citroën. At speed.
~~~oo0oo~~~
Postscript:
Faye & Denis Barker fostered or adopted a third daughter Sharron Baker, from the Ethelbert Children’s Home yonks ago. I met her when she was studying nursing and I was in the weermag. Met her again here at Faye’s funeral. She has two daughters – also adopted from the ECH! The younger one, I’d guess around 17, was there with her.
~~~oo0oo~~~
Correspondence followed:
Me: Faye & Denis Barker adopted a third daughter, Sharon, from the Ethelbert Children’s Home yonks ago. I’m not sure of the details or the arrangement, as she kept her surname Baker – close enough! Taciturn Barks didn’t speak about her much, but I met her when she was studying nursing and I was in the weermag. Met her again at Faye’s funeral. She has two daughters – also adopted from the ECH! The younger one (I’d guess around 17) was there with her.
Dave Hill: Special people the Barkers. I remember so well being deposited at Kearsney from Kitwe in 1967. 12 years old and I didn’t know anyone. My dad introduced me to Denis, they were in the same class, and Glen. Every long weekend, half term etc I went to Umzinto where we played on the farm and Denis taught me to water ski on Ifafa lagoon, can you believe that? I’m talking about the lagoon! They knew how hard it was for me and looked after me whilst I found my feet. I’ve never forgotten that. Years later I drilled the first boreholes at Selborne for Denis and over the years have returned there to drill others. Denis always made a fuss of me at the Selborne Farmers Classic which I have played for years, sadly now played at Mndoni due to politics that Denis was embroiled in at some point with the Germans. We have kept in touch for years via email which he hasn’t been able to do for years now, and he proudly sent me a signed copy of his book “Zulus at Bay”. All of us cant believe that he has outlived Faye and Glen told me yesterday how frail he is and how he needs 24/7 care. Luckily they can afford it. Funny how the world goes round.
Dave Simpson: Hi David and Pete, Thanks for these amazing stories of two wonderful people, but of course none of it comes as a surprise as we know they have hearts of gold. Pete thanks for explaining the mystery of the third daughter. Thanks also for Glen’s telephone number. I managed to get hold of him yesterday – no need to guess where he was – playing the 18th at Durban Country Club with Robert. He does return home today. David, Selborne in all its forms, the stud and then the golf development, was certainly a labour of love for Denis. Although I did not get to know the full story, the Kraut at Selborne must be an asshole of extreme proportions. He was undoubtedly a source of great anguish for Denis. Hopefully this is all in the past for him.
Tim Elliott told me an interesting tale at the funeral: He went to play squash at Westville and his partner didn’t pitch. Glen was there and his partner was a no-show, too, so they played a game. Upshot was they ended up sharing a ‘digs’ in the top half of a rented double-story house in Windmill road near Musgrave centre. Then Tim got married to Sue and kicked Glen out, taking over the digs for his newly-married home. What you call: Nuptial bed? Later the newly-weds went on a weekend to Tendele in the ‘Berg and Tim invited bachelor Glen along (not to Sue’s great delight). On the way they stopped at Notties for a beer which turned into enough beers so that when they told the barman they were on their way to Tendele in Royal Natal National Park he said “Sorry for you, the gate closes at 6pm”. So they had to overnight at Notties unplanned. Enough beers emboldened Glen to say hello to a spunky-looking chick in the pub he might not have been in, with a mate he might not have met. And she turned out to be Ali the Kiwi!! He’s a mighty lucky man, young Glen – Ali is a star!!
Me again: I water ski’d once with Barks at Ifafa lagoon and remember it as a wide deep lagoon. I hear it has silted up? I tried to go there a couple weeks ago while staying at Happy Wanderers, but a resort now has the whole riverfront, there’s a big gate blocking the road. The weeds were so high I couldn’t get a good look at the river from the road. Denis gave me a signed copy of his other book: Umzinto Cricket the first 100 years.
Another memory: Selborne was Vernon Crookes’ place (Glen always referred to him as “Vernon the Villain” – I spose there was a story behind that!). Glen took me to Linton Hall once, Sir Frank Reynolds, rival sugar baron’s home across the road from Selborne. The daughter Jane was there at the time. She lived half the year in this huge castle-like place, and the other half in Scotland. She showed us around the house, up the tower, into the bedrooms, the huge lounge with elk antlers over the fireplace, the big old empty kitchen with a steel table in the middle (no fitted cupboards). It looked sad and run down and uninhabited. It obviously spoke of great wealth, but she didn’t seem to able to rustle up a drink easily – maybe the butler was off-duty? (not that she wasn’t friendly and accommodating, just it didn’t seem like a home, I guess). I’m sure the change to boutique hotel changed that – for good and bad.
On 29 January 2014 I wrote to “Glen & Ali Barker” aliglenb@bigpond.net.au I said Glen, Here are some of the stories that have been doing the rounds. Correct us where we have gone wrong!! Cheers P
And Glen responded – SIX YEARS later! On 2020/05/31 Glen Barker wrote: Hi Pete, Just going through old correspondence. Slight correction. Sharron was never adopted but spent a Christmas with us aged about eleven or twelve, then following Christmas, then every school holiday and so became part of the family. Her elder sister we met after she left school. She became an SAA air hostess and married pilot Tim Thane who got a post with Singapore Airlines then Cathay where he’s still an instructor in Hong Kong. Their two boys went to Kearsney and my folk were the “grandparents”. Sharron married Dave Coetzee and they adopted Tarryn who went to the UK and now is in Sydney so we see a lot of her, and Terry who is now married to DA leader John Steenhuisen. They have a four year old daughter. Saw them at both folks’ funerals and Emma’s (Jane’s daughter) wedding in 2016. Sharron and Dave have recently moved to the UK. Chow, Glen.
Me: Ah, OK. Very interesting bunch! Your folks then, “adopted” them, which is what I actually meant. I knew they weren’t Barkers. I have “adopted” many kids over the years – and even adopted two! My current crop are four little girls aged 3 to 8 who worship Jessie!
Hey, I went haring round on my bike on Sunday – first time in a long time! A friend took the kids on the 10km fun ride, so I had no-one to shepherd and could indulge meself.
This was just like the old days. Single track, through pine forests, up and down rocky paths, across streams and along game trails. Flat-out downhill, bones shaking apart and quite often thinking Oh, sh*t, now I’ve gone a bridge too far and I’m going to see my arse!” But I only fell once and then in slow motion down a very steep rocky path when my front wheel jammed against a rock and I slowly went over the handle-bars to land safely in the grass.
On some of the tight turns they had banked the corners, so you could hit them leaning right down and squeeze your back brake and skid round and jerk upright just in time for the next corner. Lekk-aah!
The trail started near the Umtamvuna river and the high point was on the cliff-edge overlooking the gorge in the wildlife reserve with the white-water rapids far below – stunning! (see feature pic – not mine).
Uphills, though “r not us.” I get off and push and enjoy the scenery. Everyone granny-gears their way past me, then I whizz past many of them on the downhills.
Gravity likes me. ~~oo0oo~~
Gayle, who had accompanied the kids gave this report: At the top of the first long climb, not 2km into their 10km ride Tom turned to her and asked:
Gayle, how much did it cost to enter this? Twenty Rand Tom, she replied.
Well, I think I’ve had my Twenty Rands’ worth, he puffed.
Gayle managed to get him to the finish.
– Tom of the NY Yankees into his stride through the bananas – aged six, 2008 –
The next year we did it again, the kids old hands by now:
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERATom puffed to Gayle after the first hill: How much did this cost? “R20” Well, I think I’ve had my R20 worth!
Aitch and I took Jess & Tom up Table Mountain in Cape Town. We took the cable car up, and Aitch took it down as well.
Here the kids are – about to walk down Platteklip Gorge.
They bounded down like rock rabbits. I felt my knees wobbling about halfway down, so I sat down ‘to examine some interesting little flowers’. Was stiff for three days after!
Cousin Robbie gets married to Sarah, and after the wedding – maybe it was all that “giving away” talk in church? – TomTom has a sudden thought: Dad, will Robbie still be our cousin now?
Yes, boy, and in fact you now have another cousin: Sarah. YAY!!
Mohamed came to play, then ended up staying the night.
Mom Rookaya, in answer to my query, said “just not pork” so I thought I had meals under control.
Supper I pick up a packet of pasta and say “Here’s yours, you guys. Cook it yourself” to the two nine year olds.
NO DAD! THAT’S HARAM! says my TomTom.
What? HARAM. You can’t give that to Mohamed!
Oh. I look at the packet: Cheese and bacon Carbonara. Oh, OK.
(Phew! You saved my bacon, boetie, I think. And who woulda thought TomTom would know these things, I think).
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Later we go down to Vetch’s beach where they reflect on things . .
Every year Trish got a professional photographer to the kids’ parties. Me, I’m scrooge. I’ll take the pictures. I can do this! So at the kids’ uShaka Waterworld party I tried to photograph everyone. But I didn’t get one of lovely young Hannah, and she left early.
I told Tom.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, “She’s a brownie/blondie hair kinda person.”
Oh. That’s obviously okay then.
Tom with friends whose pics DID matter . .
~~oo0oo~~
Another brilliant, money-scrooging decision was not to have two separate parties, as Aitch used to. Turns out joining fourteen year-old girls with ten year-old boys was not a clever idea! These below do not blend well with those above. Who would’ve known?! I rushed around searching for bodies all day. Never again!
Jess was 12 and Tom was 8 and even though they would (sort of) believe me when I would say: “Err on the side of spoiling your Mom n Dad, and listening toyour Mom n Dadif you want Xmas gifts”, they felt they would hedge their bets and write to Santa as well.
Off they toddled up the road to the PnP centre with their aunt Janet, visiting from Botswana, to post their petitions in the big red letter box.
Jess had given me a copy of hers. It said “Please may I have . . “ before each and every separate request. Extreme politeness was evident.
Tom’s envelope was addressed to Father C. Jess thought it would be better to address hers to Santa C – more formal. Janet had helped with the spelling.
All together now they shoved them through the slot and turned to go. After two paces, Tom swung round, looked hard at the slot and said sternly: “Read them, OK?”
Got back from the Brauers’ palatial new home in the ritzy suburb of Gramadoelas in Tshwane – that ancient seat of my forebears the Tshwanepoels (we have landclaim rights there) – landed at Kinshasa Airport and set off to my car. OK, bakkie. It’s waiting for me in 1A in the parking garage proper. (King Shaka airport, really). Usually I park under shade cloth, but I thought what the hell, I was a bit late so I took a shorter route; the undercover is closer to the boarding gates.
Okaaay, I’m sure it’s here. I’ll check again.
Up and down all the rows, including the ones I knew I wasn’t in. Nothing. Try level 0, one down (even though I KNOW I was in 1A, I memorised it and said to myself “Remember 1A: You can’t get better than that: 1st class and an ‘A’ result”). Nope. Try level 2, one up. Nope.
So eventually I had to go to security. To report my car missing, ask where the SAPS was to report the theft, open up a ‘missing car case’ and ask if they had CCTV cameras. Already I was imagining it on a lowbed trailer on its way to – I dunno, Monaco? Paris? where bakkies like mine are highly desired.
‘No’, said the perky 21yr old at the parking office with a smile, ‘You can’t have lost your car, where did you leave it?’ ‘1A’ I said, my spirits lifting as she said it with such absolute certainty! I thought ‘They don’t have cars stolen here. I can see that just by her demeanour!’
‘Try -1A’ she said. “MINUS ONE AY” is how it sounded.
‘There’s a -1A?’ I asked, ‘Yes’ she burbled brightly, ‘Two levels down from 1A’.
Every garden should have a resident gnome. Especially if a friend of yours edited the well-known magazine Garden n Gnome. Or was that Garden n Home, Lesley?
My gnome lives in a ‘hanging’ pot on the cottage wall and yesterday morning having breakfast I glanced up and spotted him. Next to him was a packet. One of those paper sacks fancy shops use to put gifts in. String handles and a tag you can write happy birthday on.
Ah, I thought, Annerien has left us a gift as a thank-you for staying in the cottage.
Inside was a green box with Mr NWH Humphrey on it. And Oakleigh Funeral Home.
I found Neil!
I had lost his ashes, forgetting I had put them in such a clever place where the gnome could look after him.
Luckily Janet had said she’s not up to it yet, when I suggested she gooi his ashes where Bella is buried and where we – well, some of us – OK, me – had put Aitch’s ashes. So I didn’t have to confess at the time that I’d lost Neil. I just mumbled vaguely that I had put him “somewhere, I think in the garage.”
Now he can stay right there in the gnome hanging pot till Janet gets back from Maun. And when she’s ready she can go down the special path Tobias cut to the site where, in the middle of me clearing my throat to say “OK, we’re going to put Mom’s ashes here” the kids stomped their feet, slapped their knees, jumped up & down, shouted ANTS! and ran off, leaving me to bury the box on my own.
~~oo0oo~~
Later: Janet did come back and chose to scatter Neil’s ashes where Aitch’s are. Along with Aitch’s favourite mutt Bella, a hamster and a gerbil. Tobias helped her by cutting open the path and steps down to the site, which disappear every summer in the undergrowth.
~~oo0oo~~
Even later, Trish and Janet’s Mom Iona’s ashes joined the gang under the copse of trees down the bank in our front yard.
Walking around in a campsite which shall remain nameless (I don’t want anyone to disturb him), I heard a host of birds kicking up a big fuss. I couldn’t see anything, so lay down on my back and searched the whole tree with my binocs. Then a toppie revealed him by flying right at his head and slapping his face with its wings! A big beautiful black mamba, who just quietly took the birds’ abuse. Maybe wrote down her name . . ?
I carefully marked the spot where I’d lain on the dirt road to spot him, so I could find the snake again – I know how snakes can ‘disappear’ – and went back to our chalet nearby and called friends Jon n Dizzi to come and look. I got them to X Marks The Spot . . . and I could not find him! I searched thoroughly, but no go.
We assumed he had moved off, but after my friends left I lay down again and searched the branches again. He was in almost the same position! He’d hardly moved. How the heck had we missed him? The incredible camouflage power of ‘not moving!’
Then while lying on my back on the mowed lawn I spotted a butterfly land on a blade of grass and twist its abdomen, wriggle, then fly off. I went to look and found a neat single spherical egg laid on the under-surface of the green blade of grass. Beautiful. A greenish-yellow colour, I think. I thought I took a photo of the egg but I can’t find it.
– the snake and the butterfly were near here –– Dizzi spotted butterflies against those far-off cliffs! – some will now recognise the place! –Walking along next to “The Approaches”
