A COCKPIT IN A PEPPER TREE

It all began one night under the giant pepper tree at the orphanage.

Lillian was ten years old. Bart was older, maybe twelve. Lillian was sobbing, little searing – hot sobs of sadness under the pepper tree. She was sorely missing her mum. Her mum had been, that day, to the orphanage on one of her “once-every-three-months” visits.

She had only stayed a couple of hours. She had bought Lillian some sweets. She had given her a “tickey” pocket money. It was all she could afford. She had promised she would visit Lillian again…not next Sunday, nor the next, nor the next, nor the n-e-x-t, but the next. It seemed so far, far away. It could well have been a million years from then.

Lillian did not want to lie in bed that night and try to smother her sobs beneath the blankets, and let all the other girls in the dormitory hear her, so she waited ‘till she knew the sister in charge was fast asleep and all the girls were lost in dreamland, before slipping out of bed, into her clothes, out of the “dorm”, down to the playing fields… to the pepper tree. She had never been to the pepper tree at night before. She felt a little twinge of fear in her stomach. She loved the pepper tree. It was her playground.

She found comfort and peace under its huge, gnarled branches. It was like a great big friend. She could be open, honest and simply herself with the pepper tree. She could laugh and scream, even weep to her heart’s content… without fear or ridicule. Without shame. Suddenly she heard a rustling in the branches.

(But there is no wind tonight?)

The snapping of a branch.

(What is it?)

She sat still, dead still, clutching her knees tightly to her chest, too scared to move, or look up, too frightened even to breathe.

Then there was a crash and a yelp, and first a split-second of a shadow, then a form thumped down heavily beside her. She shot to her feet. She tried to scream, but no sound emerged. She froze.

“Don’t scream, don’t scream… Sssshh… It’s okay… It’s only me… Bart Nel.”

It took her a short while to come to her senses. She gasped with relief.

Bart Nel! What was he doing in her pepper tree, and at this time of night.

“Bart Nel, what are you doing here?” She admonished angrily. “And in my pepper tree?”

“Your pepper tree?” he retorted with a half-sneer. He stood tall and formidable in front of her.

He swayed from side to side, his hands deep in his pockets.

“Yes, mine!” she answered cheekily. She had to look up to look into his face. By now her eyes had become accustomed to the dark and with the help of the faint light of the half-moon, she could make out his features

Although Lillian had been at the orphanage close on a year, she never really paid attention to Bart Nel. Besides, everyone knew that Tracy Grobbelaar fancied him and she was in charge of Lillian's “dorm”. She was also much bigger than Lillian, and older. And, what was more, she was a bully. Lillian was scared of Tracy Grobbelaar, just like all the other girls were, and would not have dared to even smile at Bart in case it got back to her. Bart was very handsome though, she noted.

“What are you doing here, this time of night and all?” he asked. “Waiting for somebody? I bet its Sidney Clack and he’s not coming,” he teased. “To think we all thought you were just a quiet little mouse,” he added.

“I’m… I’m not doing anything wrong,” Lillian sniffled. “I just wanted to be alone.”

He looked into her eyes and in a comforting voice: “Don’t cry,” he said, “Don’t cry.” And with his hand he wiped away some tears.

“Did you also see your mum today?” she enquired sheepishly.

He did not answer. He just frowned. Lillian thought it was quite a sad frown.

“What are you doing up in the tree, Bart, and how come you fell down?”

He dragged his bare foot over the sand, from left to right and back, in a half moon. He was clearly embarrassed. He sighed a deep-down sigh. He hesitated, then he said with a touch of anger, “Oh, you’ll never understand.”

“Understand what? Please tell me Bart, please tell me,” she begged, tugging at his shirtsleeves.

“I’ll let you into my secret, if only because you’re sad, and if you promise to tell no-one. You see, I like to climb right up to the top of the pepper tree. That way I can look out over the walls and see the lights of the city and far beyond. That way I can be free … I just travel… and travel and go anywhere I please. The pepper tree is my airplane. My cockpit’s r-i-g-h-t at the top.”

“Where do you travel to, Bart?” she asked unbelievingly.

“Oh, all over,” he replied casually.

“How can you go all over when you’re sitting in a tree?”

“You won’t understand,” he said, “besides, you won’t even believe me.”

“I will, I will, please tell me”.

“ I go with my mind,” he said, “I imagine, I think, I dream.”

“You’re a silly Billy, Bart. Just like Sandy Visser. She’s always day dreaming. She even thinks she’s a princess.”

“No,” said Bart. His voice turned dead serious. “It’s not just day-dreaming. Come. Come with me.”

He was like a cat, agile and sure footed, as he led the way up the tree, up to a nook in the upper branches that was smooth and shaped like a comfortable arm-chair.

He sat Lillian down beside him and took her hand in his.

“Close your eyes,” he said. “Now imagine you’re in an airplane and you’re going to take off… where shall we go?” he added gently.

She thought to herself that Bart was too old to be playing such childish games as these. Besides, how would she know what it was like to be in an airplane? She half-opened her eyes and peeped at him. His eyes were shut tight. His face was transfixed in a smile. The most beautiful, the most serene smile she had ever seen in her life. The light of the half-moon seemed to cast a glow, like a halo, around his head.

She stopped her inner chuckling. Bart was not fooling around. He was serious. She closed her eyes again. “I’ll go along with this,” she thought to herself.

“Where would you like to go?” he repeated gently. She couldn’t think of anywhere in particular. She had never traveled anywhere at all, let alone in this manner. And in the cockpit of a pepper tree! “Bethlehem,” she whispered without even thinking. “Yes, Bethlehem,” she repeated. She had learnt all about Bethlehem from the nuns.

“I’ve been there before,” he said nonchalantly.

“I’ll take you. Sit tight. Keep your eyes closed. Don’t think of anything. Just listen to my voice and imagine everything I say is true. Think with your tummy… we’re going to take off shortly, high into the sky, above the walls, above the rooftops, above the chimneys, way above the clouds…”

He began to make low grunting noises, like an engine starting up. First in fits and starts, quietly, then louder and louder, faster and faster… up, up and away… Then he started talking in a soft, soothing voice that sounded so close, so loud in her ears; and yet, at the same time, so far, far away.

Words that were …star nouns…and sun verbs…in moonbeam phrases…describing this and that and a million landmarks along the way…a voice that built into many voices… like a choir of angels. And then, her mind became a huge white canvas…and he began to draw, lovingly painting in all the colours of the rainbow and colours she had never seen or dreamed possible.

There appeared vast stretches of desert and deep canyons, and men and women in flowing robes… and camels, and Roman soldiers with gleaming swords and studded shields. He pointed out three bright stars on the horizon and three kings on camels following the stars. He led her into a little village with houses built of mud, and he ushered her into a stable. There was a baby lying on a bed of straw, bathed in a most incredibly powerful light. There was a cow and a donkey, there were lambs and chickens… and there appeared next to the baby the most beautiful lady in the whole wide world. The lady lifted the baby from his bed of straw. She floated towards Lillian and held the baby out to her.

“Hold him,” she said.

Lillian reached out her arms.

Then there was nothing. Just an empty canvas. An empty silence. And a feeling of peace, of joy and tranquility she could not describe. She opened her eyes. She felt the warmth of Bart’s hands. His eyes were still closed. His face pointing to the moon, bathed in its light.

“Bart,” she whispered, “Bart.” She squeezed his hand. He opened his eyes and turned to her. They were millions of miles away. “Bart!” she cried. “It was beautiful, so beautiful in Bethlehem.”

He smiled knowingly.

The next day at tea break Lillian looked out for Bart. The boys and girls were kept in different sections of the school yard, separated by a boundary line made up of painted white stones. The boys and girls were not allowed to cross this line, not even allowed to talk to each other. She spotted Bart. He was playing football. She had to pass him her note. She simply had to. She shouted, “Bart!” Once then twice. He heard and saw her. He grabbed the football from the hands of a boy near him and kicked it in her direction, over the boundary line. She ran for the ball. She picked it up and passed it to him. Along with her note.

“Bart, please can I meet you at the pepper tree tonight? Please can we go somewhere far, far away?”

Bart came that night to the pepper tree. And the next night. And many nights after, whenever it was possible to meet. He took her all over the world, even to the moon…and beyond. They even played hopscotch with the stars… and he also took her deep into the galaxies of his own mind, and into the spinning worlds of his soul.

She grew to love Bart very much. Even more, much more, than her friend, the pepper tree. More than her mum. Bart became her best friend in the whole world.

Then one night Bart did not come to the pepper tree as planned. She could not understand why. She looked out for him all the next day. He was nowhere to be found. Nobody knew a thing. Although she saw that Tracy Grobbelaar’s eyes were red and Tracy Grobbelaar was keeping to herself and would not say a thing. Lillian could feel the panic welling up inside of her.

Lillian heard a few days later that Bart had been taken away. They had sent him to another school for bigger boys. They didn’t even let him say goodbye or anything.

Although she was hurt and sore inside, there was one thing she felt for sure: somehow she knew, in her heart of hearts, that there was nothing, no time nor distance, no force in heaven or on earth, that could keep them apart forever. Theirs was a divine connection.

The days, the months, and then the years flew past.

Lillian had butterflies in her stomach as her flight took off. She was going on her first ever trip abroad.

As she nestled her head back into the headrest, she felt an eerie feeling – she didn’t know how to describe it, it was not excitement, not even nausea – gnawing at the walls of her stomach. She closed her eyes.

She heard the faint drone of the aircraft, like a wind whistle.

She fell into a sort of trance. She felt a jolt and a lift and the creeping sensation of a bird in flight… she saw moons and stars, she felt herself tumbling, tumbling… she saw the earth from the skies… a vast desert… and camels…and a little town with mud houses, and a stable… and inside… a cow and a donkey, some sheep and chickens… and a little baby, swathed in the most incredibly powerful light, laying atop a bed of straw.

Then a voice penetrated her mind. Faint and far away at first.

“Lillian Martins?”

The voice drew nearer. Louder and louder it grew.

“Miss Lillian Martins. Miss Lillian Martins.”

Lillian opened her eyes. She was looking into the smiling face of an air hostess.

“Yes?” she asked sleepily.

“Captain Bart Nel has requested the pleasure of your company in the cockpit.”

Published by National Magazines 1994

I remember sitting at a very large wooden desk, being interviewed for a job by a beautiful, green -eyed, blonde, the head-honcho of an ad agency looking for a writer to handle a new account she and her bunch had just pitched for and won.

She struck me at first as a tough bitch - the introduction was sterile and almost unfriendly - but redeemed herself , a little later.

I had suddenly stood up and walked across the room to study a large picture hanging on the wall to the right of me, which had caught my attention.

I stood before the picture, it must have been 4 x 3 meters in size at least; a sort of collage of maps and other obscure pictures and little portraits mounted in an impressive frame.

I was completely - and unintentionally - ignoring her.

I turned to look at her. She was smiling.

“Do you like that picture?”

“I think it's interesting”

“If you go down the passage, right at the end is a little room, you can't miss it, just open and enter and you'll see a few more interesting pictures”

Her smile now beamed at me with a little glee in it.

It was her redemption.

I nodded and found myself opening the door to this little room at the end of the passage.

I felt queasy as I stepped in.

Immediately, I noticed two large portraits hanging about a meter apart on the wall facing me as I opened the door. To the left of them - that is, my left from my standing position - on the adjoining wall, I noticed one other.

I took them in, in one swift glance.

The one on the right was a portrait of Christopher Columbus.

A dark, stern portrait of the man who had discovered the Americas, with arms crossed, hands clasping his shoulders, and a frightening scowl - almost a growl - on his face, against an embattled background of smoke and fire, ships and dismembered sailors. I could faintly hear the screams of the sailors and the terrifying din of cannons.

I wanted to study the painting to see whether it had been done in oils or acrylic.

I stepped within touching distance of the portrait, when, out of nowhere, Christopher Columbus threw a backhand that brushed my cheek.

Startled, I stepped back - a very large step - and stared at him in horror; his face now redder and blazing with anger.

I remember exclaiming “fucking arsehole”, as I moved across to the other picture, keeping my eyes on him; not taking any chances.

Like, what if he steps right out of the frame and takes me out?

The portrait hanging alongside was bright and cheery, with vibrant, though soft, calm colours: pinks, whites, creams, blended with subtle touches of greens and blues.

It was the late Liberace, the popular pianist, dripping with jewels, as usual. And with a warm, smiling face.

I could hear the light tinkling of piano keys and a melody softly resonating around me.

I was hesitant to take a closer look, when - from where I stood - I clearly saw him wink at me.

I stared in disbelief.

He winked again. I muttered to myself, “Some people never change”, and turned left to face the adjacent wall.

There hung a picture of Elvis Presley.

Thinking, “...now, Elvis... that's a really cool guy!”, I instantly - and unafraid for some reason - stepped right up to the picture to touch it. I noticed that it was mounted behind glass.

I looked closer and saw that it was a print.

Sort of like those Hollywood movie posters.

Elvis didn't move.

I thought about that - I mean, Columbus tried to slap me and Liberace winked provocatively at me - and concluded that it must have been because it was a print and not an “original”.

I was disappointed.

And even more so, intrigued and confused.

I was also relieved that Columbus' backhand didn't connect, and, on leaving the room, warily stepped backwards out the door, closing it quietly behind me.

I never got to see the blonde again. Interview over.

When I awoke from this dream, I was confused, though calm.

Intrigued, yet content; as if there were a mighty revelation awaiting me.

I got out of bed.

Did the usual ablutions and went to work.

It was only a few days later - at the office, during an important presentation to a major client - I began to reflect on the dream.

The interview. The blonde. The three portraits.

And why Elvis, the only print, was expressionless.

And then it hit me; striking with such clarity.

Listening to the all the bullshit being thrown around the room - egos bursting at their already inflated, stretched-to-the limit-seams - I concluded that the “symbol” of Elvis was plastic, hollywood shit; and that the others were for real.

After all that portrait of Elvis - bless his soul - was just a lifeless, cheap print.

“Its all so damn plastic!”

The dream repeated itself, over and over again. Fast-forward. Rewind. Forward, back.

It was pure repetition, by then.

And repetition is a definite clue.

I thought about the contrasts.

The blood and guts of conquest, war, destruction, agony and mayhem, however violent and disturbing, surrounding Columbus, were, despite all the horrors, very real and human.

The same went for the culture and softness of music, poetry and art; however effeminate the aura of Liberace. It too was real.

Gentle, slightly sexy; even sweetly decadent.

As for Elvis, he just didn't perform his old magic; trapped as he was.

I sighed. “Fuck, Elvis, they sure got to you! ”.

Short Story by Mario d'Offizi. (c) 2004

Published as “Read of the Month, October 2004 on www.jhblive.com

PARK LANE MANSIONS

It was a sad day for Jo'burg, then.

Particularly for the many, many who, over the years, lived in, with, or even for, Park Lane Mansions.

I have heard their sorrow, their anger, their protest. Even those who knew Park Lane only by word of mouth were sad.

Park Lane Mansions bred many legends. There was comfort and joy, pathos, great suffering and great humour. There were tragedies. There was incredible fun.

"Pipe" Lane (after dagga pipes), "Mandrax" Heights (after those deadly, notorious sleeping tablets which are either crushed, mixed with dagga and smoked in glass bottle necks; or simply swallowed for a rave), Park Lane, depending on how you saw or experienced the place, was a beautiful, tree-shadowed "debauched –monastary” of a building reeking of seventy odd years; and ages and ages.

It cornered crazy Empire Road and peaceful Park Lane, which winds by the Brenthurst Clinic and up, curving past the Sunnyside Hotel to the Wilds.

In a sense, Park Lane Mansions was exactly like the Wilds. With the same extra-ordinary powers of light and darkness, stone and tree and openness.

And seething with living things and vibrancy. Flowing with life.

Sadly now, the walls have been felled; the rubble unceremoniously carted away.

The rich roots have been dug out by the grave - diggers of development.

The past has been pocketed by the pimps of progress; to be replaced and rejuvenated by some lifeless, modern piece of shit called contemporary.

But ah, Park Lane Mansions lives on. In the hearts, souls and memories of many. There it can never be felled, dug out or replaced.

I cannot tell the whole story from experience.

My memories are of a mere fifteen months or so. But, gathering the harvest of tales told by those before me, passed from mouth to mouth, I can sow in hearts and minds a small understanding of what there was. Of what had been destroyed.

Park Lane Mansions had a soul. A beautiful profile. A mystical demure.

I would like to say that it was the people - permanent, transient; settled, squatting - who provided this soul, who created this profile and this demure.

Truly it was the people. And Park Lane "Herself"

Recalling Park Lane with her majesty and her mystery, and considering the grandeur of her past, she must often have wondered about the types who filled her, taking shelter or refuge in her warm, once-sumptuous confines.

I doubt she ever turned her nose up at any of these. She was a real Lady.

There were a few entrances to Park Lane; though only one was official. Brown, sturdy, convent-type benches against high white walls, on a white tiled floor,(the guy in No 34 used the decorated oak "Tenant" Name and Number board for firewood one cold July night),and a cagey, gleaming brass "Jack -the -Ripper" lift.

A broad, solid white marble staircase with wooden balustrades led the way up to the second floor.

There was an elegant, gentle air of welcome.

There were quite a few exits too.

Had you lived or visited there you would have seen the Black Maria's roaring into and out of the grounds from all directions, most nights of the week, with loads of cops, black and white; some riding cowboy on the running boards; others jumping the iron fences bordering parts of the complex.

And you'd have wondered where all the cleaners had gone.

The cops took away lots of folk who couldn't move fast enough…drunks, prostitutes, the elderly; and the unfortunate innocents who just happened to pop in for a visit without their Reference Books.

Since time immemorial the cops had been trying to bust up that shebeen down at the bottom of the property in the old, dilapidated servants quarters by the waterway and the long grass. Right there on the outskirts of Hillbrow and Parktown. And just a whistle away from Clarendon Circle Police Station.

From time to time, Park Lane also attracted scores of other policemen…the plainclothes types. But for different reasons.

(One of which caused me to spend a long weekend in a crowded cell at John Vorster Square).

Don't get the wrong impression. Park Lane was a respectable place, really.

The sweet old lady who lived in the apartment next door to me - she maintained two farms in the country - remembered the tea parties, the Mayoral do's, the old stables, the first cars, the tennis courts, the elegance.

She could never leave. Because, she said, Park Lane never lost "her" elegance.

The Caretaker spoke broken English and she was fat with a fatter daughter whom she dragged along by her arm all over the place, to whichever apartment she went to.

She complained constantly about this and that. But nobody took any notice of her; nobody cared. She was difficult to understand, so it was best to ignore her. Because, anyway, she never listened to OUR problems, never listened to our pleas, threats or demands for hot water in winter especially.

But we helped ourselves to the coal supplies, for every apartment had a fireplace.

Many a winter's night was heard the sounds of coal being hauled from it's heap in the coal shed; and the stealthy scurrying of footsteps along the cracked, concrete corridors.

I admit to my footsteps echoing prominently and happily along with the others on those nocturnal adventures.

RIGOR MORTIS

By the time we arrived there, Cahama had been almost totally demolished by battling armies who seemed to change sides at the drop of a beret.

It was a small town in southern Angola; about 200k’s northwest of Pereira de Eca, our first point of entry into Angola, after crossing the Cunene.

It was completely deserted – except for flocks of goats, stray sheep, chickens and a few emaciated dogs.

Only a handful of buildings, bomb-ravaged and bullet-ridden, stood precariously amongst the ruins.

It was a scorching-hot February when we arrived in Cahama to set up positions which would help block possible Cuban/MPLA advances southward. So we were told.

We were the first “civvy” regiment to go on active duty in a war zone outside of South African borders since the Korean war of the early ’50’s.

I was assigned to the 60mm mortar section of one of the infantry platoons in this regiment.

Originally trained in our teens as riflemen, all of us, apart from our mortar sergeant, were suddenly enlisted in a week’s crash course in 60mm mortars at Grootfontein, the base in then South West Africa, where South African troops were re- trained and equipped, and from where we moved into Angola.

We spent close on six weeks in and around Cahama.

Waiting for the MPLA.

Waiting for the Cubans.

Waiting for attacks by SWAPO.

On our way into Angola in early January 1976, the MPLA and the Cubans were our enemies.

Unita were our allies. And nobody seemed to know exactly on whose side the FNLA stood.

On the way out, in late March of ’76, FNLA troops were our friends (or we, their protectors?) and accompanied us back to “The States”.

Unita became our enemy.

And of course, the Cubans and the MPLA remained our enemies.

It was all quite confusing.

To us, the rank and file, our real enemies were the flies and the mosquitoes.

And they weren’t even commies. Although they were referred to often by some as “fucking little black bastards”.

The flies! The mosquitoes! Now they were real warriors. There was never a frontal or rear attack on their part. They surrounded us totally, attacking with ease.

We spent much of our time planning ways to stop these monsters, against which there was little or no defence.

At the crack of dawn - referred to in military parlance as “Stand To” - there was perhaps a pause of a minute or so between the daily retreat of the mosquito hordes and the onslaught of the fly battalions.

At dusk – “Stand Down” – there was about the same brief pause between the withdrawal of the flies and the continuing onslaught of the mosquitoes.

At night, during the height of that blistering Angolan summer, we slept fully dressed; every milimetre of our bodies covered and wrapped in ponchos, balaclavas and tucked and zipped into sleeping bags.

Still the mossies attacked.

Until enough was enough, and, breaking every rule of warfare, (bush, conventional or other), we built huge log fires that would burn throughout the night; and slept beside these.

Just far enough so as not to be incinerated; yet close enough to keep the enemy at bay.

Mosquitoes hate fire, and smoke in particular.

It worked, sort of. The odd “special forces” mossies got through and wreaked their bloody havoc on us.

It also worked, sort of, until our platoon commander got cold feet and put a stop to it.

It would give away our positions, he said.

Fair enough.

But, because we were so bored, frustrated and angered with the waiting, the anxiety and anticipation of impending attacks by the “other” armies, with terrifying thoughts of pitched battles, fire-fights, hand –to –hand combat, we told him we couldn’t give a fuck.

Either way, we insisted, let’s get our part in this fucking war over so we can be dead or go back home. Where we actually should have been.

Letters from home – when we got them – informed us that we were actually in SWA; and nowhere near Angola. Letters home were handed in unsealed and rigorously censored. I suppose the powers that be, then, did not want to alarm our families. And so they lied to our loved ones.

One night, way after midnight, all hell broke loose.

A gunner manning one of the two Ratels assigned to our platoon “lost it” (its called going “bossies” or “bos-befok”) and opened fire on the mossies with a 7,62mm Browning machine gun.

Most of us were dead asleep. We awoke, startled and frightened, to the chilling, rocketing sounds of whistling rounds with an awesome display of tracer bullets pouring into the black sky; lighting it up in a fluorescence of green and pink.

“YOU MOTHER-FUCKING MOSSIE BLACK BASTARDS” … he screamed

“YOU MOTHER…” And kept firing until a couple of troops close to the Ratel, who had quickly assessed the situation, clambered up onto the vehicle and pulled him down. He had to be forcibly restrained.

The rest of us thought that we were finally being attacked.

Without any clear orders in the midst of the chaos, some froze where they were sleeping, or standing guard; some fled from the scene far into the dark bush to take shelter and wait for the shit to subside and just go away

Just go away. Please.

Some okes were so pissed, they missed the fireworks. The adrenalin rush.

The next day the gunner was taken to a field hospital.

We heard later that he had been sent back to the “States” and into a psychiatric ward at No 1 Military Hospital in Pretoria.

That’s how powerful this mossie army was.

Devious, cunning and relentless in it’s endeavour to beat us into bloody submission, it provoked a severe, though fruitless counter-attack.

The flies were no different. There was simply no defence against them.

Except for one little strategy that threw them off for a few moments.

But only if you needed to have a crap. This was the one and only opportunity you had to be rid of them for a while.

It worked like this: You’re covered in flies and you’re dying for a crap. So you go a little way into the bush, quite a way away from your existing position, dig a hole, drop your webbing, drop your rods; crap. Then you slowly lift your rods, fasten your webbing, buckle up, grab your rifle and spade, and sprint as fast as you can away, away, from that pile of shit that’s now writhing in flies.

You’ve now thrown the fuckers off. And you can now enjoy a few moments of bliss.

Until the next wave of attack.

Meanwhile.

We waited in vain for the Cubans, the MPLA, SWAPO.

But they never arrived.

There were so many furtive shadows in the night; so many strange, unfamiliar sounds.

Apart from the foot patrols on which we were sent from time to time - out into the hinterland, scouting for possible enemy positions or movement - it was an excruciatingly boring existence.

Until one morning there was an urgent call to action.

The entire company was summoned to a parade.

We were informed that a certain General would be inspecting our positions.

We were ordered to clean our dirty selves up– some hadn’t washed for weeks – launder our “browns”, render our assortment of weapons spotless and in perfect working order; and generally clean and tidy up our trenches and positions.

There was a lot of excitement amongst the troops.

At least we could look forward to a little break from the monotony; the boredom; the inertia. Maybe even have a braai and some beer.

The rest of that day, and half that night, we went about the business of carrying out these orders.

The next day, as promised, the General arrived with an entourage of officers.

Our mortar section stood to attention beside our spotless positions. Everything was in perfect order.

The General exchanged a few words with our mortar Sergeant and proceeded with his inspection.

Already the flies were probing and parrying.

After the General and his officers had scrutinized our persons and our weapons – R5’s, mortar tubes, base-plates, crates of mortar bombs - a young, squeaky–clean lieutenant stopped and stood before me.

In a lowered voice he asked: “Are you guys 60mm mortars?”

“No lieutenant”, I answered with a straight face, standing stiffly to attention.

“Rigor mortis!”

He smiled wryly. And moved on, following the General, the other officers, and a fast-gathering army of flies.

A Short Story by Mario d'Offizi. (c) 2003: (1441 Words)

First published on www.jhblive.com, as Read of the Month (October 2003).

WALKING ON CLOUDS ON TOP OF A MOUNTAIN

While power walking mid-morning one Sunday I passed by a church, catching the tail end of a service where the fervent throng were in full song. A man standing outside commented courteously as I powered past him.

“Why don’t you come inside and join…?”.

A car roared past and I didn’t catch the rest of his sentence.

It was most likely “our congregation”.

I replied without thinking, “Closer to nature, closer to God”, smiled… and powered on. I remember being quietly embarrassed, saying to myself, “what a cliché!”

It was at the very beginning of my walk and I still had some smile in me.

I was still relatively fresh.

Actually, I was unfit: flabby, way out of shape, suffering bouts of depression, anxiety and stress. But this Sunday morning, I was on a mission to change my life.

It was my third “power” walk and I felt invigorated. For me walking was the easy means of getting fit. I hate running and besides, running hurts my knees. In the past I had often observed power-walkers and took note of the various techniques: heel, toe; heel toe...move the mid drift, swing the arms... shift the butt from side to side. It appealed to me. It was, after all, one of the best cardiovascular exercises one could do I was told.

As I sweated along I thought about my comment to the man standing outside the church. He was a middle-aged man with a nice smile too.

I had Table Mountain, and all the mountains left and right of it, more or less in full panoramic view before me. And I took real notice of all of them for the first time.

It was a beautiful morning, late July, surprisingly with no rain.

“That must be God’s altar, yes! ”, I mused as I considered the possible adventures – even revelations - that may await me should I ever go up there.

I found myself wandering on top of the mountain. I walked the slopes and contours. I walked on clouds. I sweated and pained. It was altogether a good feeling.

As my walk (the real one, the pounding of tar) progressed though, with me sweating profusely and struggling to maintain an already flagging pace, other thoughts of cold beer and smokes, and, even invigorating sex, crept into my mind.

I drank a beer and smoked a smoke within minutes on arriving home.

A few weeks later I was ensconced at the bar of a newly acquired “local” with newly acquired friends. They were planning a five day, new-year (late January) hike which had already been booked and paid for. It was now nearing the end of August and spring was a couple of days away.

I suggested they begin training soon, by going up the mountain.

And could I join them?

We discussed the idea of a few training hikes and also, especially, about none of us being in any shape to speak of.

We agreed on a walk that coming Sunday.

But there was more debate about the time we would meet, than around the route we would take.

We partied hard that Friday night!

We arrived, all six of us, at our agreed meeting place at more-or-less 7am that Sunday.

Our hike leader, the only one with any real hiking, climbing, mountain experience had already decided on the route. That Friday night, when he mentioned “First Waterfall Ravine” we had enthusiastically - and ignorantly - agreed. None of us, excepting him, had done the hike before.

First Waterfall it was. And it was a hike! A scramble, scary at times, with loose rocks and even looser boulders.

Six hours later, a little bruised, battered and exhausted, I returned with the others to our car. I chucked my back pack into the boot.

(It was only later I learned that this particular hike was not recommended, even for the experienced. But it got me hooked on the mountain; hooked on hiking).

The next Sunday, we hiked up the Jeep Track – Constantia Neck - over the mountain, past the dams and back down.

It was along the way that I saw the old man. He had a walking/hiking stick in both hands. I estimated that he was at least 85 years old.

I remarked to the guys, “****, this old guy, he’s about 85 in the shade, he didn’t come up here by helicopter. He came up on his own and he is going back down on his own!”

The guys had already tagged me the “senior citizen” on our first hike. Although I didn’t consider 52 to be that old! But the old man was old!

(I was to discover later that he would turn 92 the following year: June 4, 2003).

He was small, thin, weather-beaten and dressed for the worst weather, although it was a warm day. That’s age, I suppose. And experience, I was later to learn.

I couldn’t get the sight – and inspiration – of the old man out of my mind.

The annual FNB/Cape Times Big Walk takes place in Cape Town every October. This year it was on Sunday the 13^th. That was roughly three weeks from the day I first enquired about the Big Walk. The press was awash with pre-publicity and so I was aware of the event. I toyed with the idea of giving it a go. Light-heartedly at first.

Since I had started power walking, and with the image and inspiration of the old man on the mountain taking a firm foothold in my mind, I decided, impulsively, to enter the walk. Not the 32k stretch, nor the 80k (that would have been suicide) but the “middle-of-the-road”, 50k, from Kalk Bay harbour, around a point some way past Simonstown - I think it was Miller's Point - and back to Hartleyvale.

I didn’t expect the walk to be a breeze. But I never guessed how I would suffer.

And if it han't been for the old man on the mountain, I would never have achieved, nor even attempted this feat.

It’s strange how it takes certain people and certain things to change a life.

The race kicked off at 7,15 am at Kalk Bay Harbour that Sunday. The inexperienced amongst the three hundred or so walkers in the 50km section, sped enthusiastically ahead. I was one of them and must have been one of the least experienced of the bunch. It was my first real physical feat since the youth of my army days and within hours of the walk I was to reflect on that.

“A route march with full pack has got f**all on this!”

At one stage, somewhere between Fish Hoek and St.James I found myself staggering from side to side; my steps slurring, dragging me along. Sweat blinded me. Sun tan lotion mingled with the sweat and burned my eyes. I grabbed hold of the railing on the side of the pavement. I had slowed down to a pace slightly faster than standstill, a sort of wobbling, painful shuffle, barely lifting my feet to the “heel, toe, heel, toe” rhythm.

My chest imploded. My head pounded. And the beating sun didn't help. Even my nipples bled from the chaffing of the safety pins attaching my race number to my vest.

Around about this time, by now at least three hours into the race, I heard the voice of a walker, coming up from behind. As she came abreast of me she slowed down and, without mincing her words, remarked:

“You're in bad shape my friend, you should quit”.

“I'm going to Hartleyvale”. I just managed a mutter.

“You can't in your condition”

I nodded as vigorously as I could, meaning I can and I will.

“Ok then, here... share my energy bar and drink some of this”.

I did, and muttered my thanks.

She picked up her pace, waved good bye and powered on.

“She's a guardian angel”, I thought.

The chocolate (swallowed, not chewed) and the orange juice (gulped down) gave me that extra ounce of energy, that little boost that somehow got me to the next water point where a few enthusiastic first-aiders quickly surrounded me and iced me down all over, from scalp to shins; front and back. They also suggested I quit. I thanked them and continued; a little more refreshed and encouraged.

The image of the old man toiling on top of the mountain was firmly entrenched in my mind. It were as if he were coaxing me along; beckoning me to follow in his footsteps.

At one stage, only briefly though, the image of the old man was temporarily replaced by a few sequences of Rocky being pummeled in the ring, going down and getting up again. Down, up, down, up, hanging in, for a glorious victory. In my desperation I was using Rocky to trick my mind into getting my body to... just hang in there!

But it was the magnetism of the old man that coerced, coaxed and literally dragged me to Hartleyvale.

Seven hours, nine minutes and forty seven seconds later - an eternity under the circumstances - having given my last and final thrust of energy (and everything my mind could muster), I crossed the finishing line, passing through a channel of cheering spectators. For the first time I knew the feeling “sportsmen” felt when bathed in that very special glow of achievement.

I also really, really believed without any doubt whatsoever what we all hear so often and which most of us take so lightly: Mind over Matter. For the first time in my life the truth of it rang loud and clear.

A marshall, manning the checkpoint through which I passed congratulated me on my efforts and handed me a gold medal. I stared at her in genuine disbelief. I had thought I was way past the cut-off time for any medal, let alone gold.

“What's this for?”

“You did very, very well”.

“Is this for my age category?”

She shook her head.

She placed the ribbon with medal around my neck.

“Can I smoke?” I asked her sheepishly.

“Are you crazy!!”

I lit one anyway and painfully inched my way to the closest beer tent. My feet ached, every limb in my body cried out; my legs barely held me.

But my mind was in a state of pure elation.

That Tuesday's Cape Times carried a special supplement with all the race results.

To my astonishment I saw that I had been placed 74 out of 262 finishers in the 50km walk.

I silently thanked the old man and gave him full credit.

I was to thank him personally a few Sundays later.

As I had hoped, he was on the mountain. We were approaching the big pine tree by Woodhead dam when I saw him, off the path, a stick in each hand, slowly working his way through the fynbos and over some rocks.

I broke from the group and headed in his direction. I did not want to alarm him by suddenly descending upon him, so I moved cautiously toward him.

A couple of metres away from him - his head was lowered, obviously focusing on the uneven surface of stones, shrub and rocks - I called out to him, quite softly.

“Hello!” He did not appear to hear me.

“Hello, hello”, I called again, a lot louder this time. I had clearly distracted him because, next thing, I saw him tilt backwards, sticks flying in the air, and fall on his back.

“Oh my God”, I got a fright and dashed to his aid.

“I'm sorry, so sorry”, I said, bending down to take a hold of his hand to help him up.

“Don't worry, it was just a little tumble” He had a strong voice and a wide grin.

I gripped his hand - it was firm and wiry - and pulled him to his feet.

“I'm sorry to have done this to you but I just wanted to thank you”.

“For what?”

“For helping me through the Big Walk, in fact...”.

“Big Walk? I didn't do a thing.” And then, as if he knew well what I was on about, he asked: “How did you do?”

“I took a gold, and I want to thank you because it was your example that made me enter. You were the inspiration, believe me”. And then, lost for words, overwhelmed

and a little embarrassed, I quickly said “ciao”as I moved on and away to catch up with my friends.

I heard him call after me: “Thank you young man, you're an inspiration!”.

I felt the goose bumps.

I turned to wave and saw his knowing smile as he gave me the thumbs up.

I was elated by this experience. So elated, I hadn't noticed the fast-gathering cloud cover enveloping us. The crisp, biting freshness; the tingling of mist on skin.

It was exhilarating.

There and then I composed and forwarded this SMS to my daughter:

“I'm walking on clouds on top of the mountain.

If love's a spring, then life's a fountain.”

First published in The Cape Times ‘Review”.

Re-published in The Mountaineer

Buzzz

life in the late sixties
was a giant neon light

buzzzzzz buzzzzzz

buzz buzz
the purple hearts

buzz buzz
the black bombs

buzz buzz
the yellow dexies

buzz buzz
the acid trips

buzz buzz
the marijuana

buzz buzz
the mandrax pipes

now, some twenty years on
buzz buzz
my sons threaten to sue me for
sperm cell abuse

(thank God we ain’t living
in america)