 
Zebra Horizon

A novel

Gunda Hardegen-Brunner

Published by Timshel

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Gunda Hardegen-Brunner

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for brief quotations in a book review.

All characters in this publication are ficticious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Design and Layout: Nathalie Shrosbree

Cover photo: Jenny Metelerkamp

Jolly Jumper: Heather Metelerkamp

Cover design: Nathalie Shrosbree

### Table of Contents

Title page

Part I

Part II

Part III

About Gunda Hardegen-Brunner

Contact Gunda Hardegen-Brunner

Other Books by Gunda Hardegen-Brunner

Sample Chapters from other books

Interview with Gunda Hardegen-Brunner

### PART I

When I was 12, I decided that there must be more to life than going to school in a little Bavarian town. I told my parents, that all I wanted for my birthday, was to be sent to Summerhill School in England, a place where they knew that it is more important for children to be themselves, than force them to learn the anatomy of the inner ear and make buttonholes by hand – in the age of the automatic sewing machine. My father told me I was crazy. I wrote to the headmaster of Summerhill anyway. He sent me a very funny letter, at the end of which he said, that I was already too old to start at his school. He probably thought I was too far down the process of becoming a 'good' citizen.

My friend Anna and I then wrote a poem of 23 verses, in which we gave our school a piece of our mind. It filled 3 pages in the school-newspaper and became the scandal of the district. The newspaper was promptly banned and the only reason the school didn't expel us was that Anna nearly died because of a burst appendix, and they couldn't put more strain on her mother, who had already lost 13,5kg in 2 weeks, she was so worried.

I boycotted the buttonhole/needlework classes as much as possible. It wasn't easy, because that old witch Frau Semmelweiss would wait in front of our door 10 minutes before her time to take over, to make sure that nobody escaped. That's why I also had to skip the English classes and my English marks were terrible. Later, when my _National Geographic_ collection took up about 2 cubic metres of my room, I knew words my teacher hadn't even heard of, but my marks were still terrible, because my vocabulary was not in the curriculum. I realized that to get away from the German system I would have to persuade my parents to emigrate. I immediately ran into problems. My father, a doctor, said the tropics were out because he had no inclination to live in countries with mosquito borne diseases. My mother said Muslim countries were out because she could not abide their dress code. She had got herself arrested once before while on holiday in Spain, because she insisted on tanning in the nude. I was more for respecting other people's cultures.

When I was 16, I discovered an article about 'exchange students' in my dad's Rotary magazine. I went straight to the president of his club, who was a bit surprised, because I was the first and only applicant, who had ever walked into his office. After I had explained the procedure to him, he accepted me without further fuss as a candidate.

I didn't know it then, but that trip was going to change my life.

*

Africa appeared at the first light of dawn. The Sahara stretched like a dark, frozen ocean 10.000 metres below. A million stars and the silver disc of the moon hung in the sky. The night faded and an orange glow hit the eastern horizon. The dunes, divided by black valleys, emerged in shades of purple. Suddenly a segment of sun set the earth on fire. The purple melted into reds and yellows and the blacks into shaded ochre. The desert gradually petered out, changing to sandy plains and barren grassland. At lunch time the DC 10 dodged between grey, equatorial Cumulonimbus clouds. I took a good schluck of red wine. Life was incredibly exciting.

Through the green jungle below little red paths criss crossed leading to forlorn villages. In Germany you can spit from one village to the next. As kids we used to play a game with my grandmother: you had to find a spot with a view where you could turn 360 degrees without seeing a house, a road or an electricity pole. It was just about impossible and she hardly ever had to hand out the first prize of a carob bar filled with nuts and honey, devoid of any preservatives. My gran believed in health food long before it became a national obsession.

I ate some pretzels enjoying the view. Looked like down there you could walk for weeks and turn in circles all the time without ever getting a glimpse of civilization.

Hours later there was grassland sprinkled with thorntrees and occasional signs of humanity appeared. A plume of red dust from a car on a dirt road. Remote farms in clusters of trees. The silvery ribbon of a dead straight highway. A tiny town in the middle of nowhere.

I didn't really want to go to South Africa. What a rotten place – apartheid and all. I had nightmares right from the start. Whites killing blacks and vice versa. The committee of the Rotary Exchange Programme did not give me any choice. Victoria Bay in South Africa or nothing. My friends said: how can you go to a country where they've never heard of human rights? Hell, I felt guilty. In the end I just shut up. If they wanted to stay in old, sclerosed Europe where just about everything was predictable and cast in rigid laws, that was their problem. I was more for seeing the world for myself and for adventures in far off places.

At dusk, the lights of a town etched the coastline of the Indian Ocean. Victoria Bay! I could hardly believe I had arrived. A short while later I stepped onto African soil! The air was humid and filled with unknown scents of vegetation. I nearly exploded with the feeling of adventure. I saw real African blacks. They were unloading the luggage from the plane.

A small crowd was waiting at the arrivals in the tiny airport building.

_Who has come to fetch me? Maybe that fat couple with the 3 kids over there. I hope not. They look terrible_ ...

I only knew my future host family's surname.

_Could be anybody_.

I grabbed my rucksack and my sea bag from the luggage carousel.

A thin elderly man with a lot of grey hair and a melancholic smile asked: "Are you Mathilda Lindner?"

"Yes."

_Hm, they sent the grandfather_.

"Welcome to V.B. My name is Hannes Wieffering." He pointed to a robust grey haired lady. "Meet my wife Marieke. We'll be your host parents for the next couple of weeks." Marieke planted a kiss on my lips.

Yuk, what the hell does that mean?

"You must be tired and hungry, my girl. We'll have some lekker boerekos when we get home."

I grinned at her, waiting for an opportunity to wipe my mouth without her seeing it.

At the car Hannes held the passenger door open for Marieke and one of the back doors for me. After he had made sure that 'the ladies' were comfortably seated, he loaded my luggage in the boot as if I couldn't have done that myself. I was astounded. We were living in the 20th century after all. Hadn't those old fashioned gentlemanly manners died out during the last century? I tried to keep an open mind about it.

The town sprawled out on several hills around a huge bay. Hannes said there were some uninhabited islands in the bay, but one couldn't see them in the dark. The lights of a big ship blinked far out in the ocean and more and more stars appeared in the sky. Tall palm trees lined the street we took along the beach. White foamy waves washed up on the sand. Across the road, blocks of flats sat like a row of fossilized dinosaurs.

_Weird to drive on the 'wrong' side of the road_.

They drove on the left hand side in this country like in Britain. Had something to do with the early days and the way you mount a horse when you have to haul a sword around. That's what I'd read somewhere. It's also got something to do with using your dominant hand for making signs or for steering. That's what I'd read somewhere else.

A bank of clouds reflected the bright lights of the harbour. The CBD was deserted. I felt like in a dream. In my mind I had visited Victoria Bay lots of times already. A place made up of some photos I'd seen in brochures and a short paragraph in an encyclopaedia. V.B. wasn't famous for anything, except that in the 1920s man had finally managed to build a harbour in the bay, a project that 'was greatly hampered by the turbulence of the sea'. There was a bit of tourism and some industry and a hinterland of bush, dairy and chicory farms and mountains.

We went up a hill with houses in big gardens, came past a golf course and finally turned into a cobbled driveway. It was all quite different to what I had imagined. When I got out of the car gusts of wind made the trees rattle and a big Labrador licked my hand. In my mind travels I had never been aware of my body but now I was glad to arrive. I badly needed a toilet.

That night I slept in a white room with garlands of pink flowers on the wallpaper and a matching bedspread. On the dressing table were some southern hemisphere flowers in a blue vase. On one wall hung a painting of a herd of elephants in front of some orangey mountains. On the night table was a jug of water covered with a beaded cloth to keep the insects out, an upturned glass and a bible. I exploded in a burst of giggles. I was lying in a real young lady's bed! In Germany I had painted my room in the flashy colours of the disc cover of _Hair_ , and I slept on a mattress on the floor, like most people, who aren't completely brainwashed by the advertising Mafiosos. I snuggled up under the young lady's blanket and loved the idea to wake up in this foreign room the next morning. To plunge into a different universe was part of the adventure. It was August 1975 and I had a whole year of discovery ahead of me. Judging by this first day, it would be colossally exciting.

*

In the morning there was the twittering of strange birds, the rustling of palm leaves, scissor cutting noises, the clattering of dishes, muffled voices and the barking of dogs. There was the smell of the sea and sweet and spicy exotic plants. Outside little tortoises crawled across the lawn and iridescent, green-purple birds as big as ducks were poking the ground with long, curved beaks. The scissor noises came from the gardener cutting the hedge by hand.

_I better make my bed and a good impression on my hosts_.

Somebody knocked at the door. In came Marieke in blue slippers and a salmon coloured dressing gown. I was a bit surprised. One doesn't see dignified old ladies one hardly knows in a state of dishabille every morning of one's life. Marieke cheerily put a tray with coffee and rusks on the night table and asked how I had slept. Fortunately she didn't kiss me on the lips again.

"Breakfast is in about half an hour...and don't make the bed, Paulina, our maid, will do the rooms later." She checked a curler on her head and said: "If you need anything don't hesitate to ask. Just feel completely at home."

At the breakfast table Hannes said grace. The only ceremony opening a meal in my family was practiced once a year, when the whole clan met for my grandfather's birthday. We all lifted the huge oak table a couple of centimetres off the floor and everybody yelled 3 times on top of their voice:" _Gesegnete_ _Mahlzeit_." Then we let the table go and listened to the clattering of the dishes. We never broke any plates or glasses, but on my granddad's 61st my uncle Matthias fractured two metatarsals when he accidentally got his foot under a table leg.

I was presented to Paulina when she served bacon and eggs. Paulina was a Xhosa of amazing dimensions. She wore a pink uniform and old takkies without laces, and her head was covered by a sort of scarf. She greeted me with a mixture of shyness – covering her face with her hands – and total enthusiasm, culminating in an outburst of laughter that made her fat rolls wobble. I shook her hand, something she obviously wasn't used to. For 30 seconds she looked embarrassed; then she exploded in another mighty outburst of giggles.

As we munched our way through bacon and eggs and sausages and fried tomatoes and scones with cream, my host parents jumped from English to a weird sounding guttural language and back to English again, sometimes changing lingo in mid-sentence.

"Jy verstaan Afrikaans, Mathilda?" Marieke asked with her high voice. "Of course you understand Afrikaans, all Germans do."

I had to admit that I could only make out a small percentage of what they were saying.

"You'll pick it up fast, all Germans do," Hannes stated as a matter of fact, "because Afrikaans is a Germanic language." He explained that it was one of South Africa's 2 official languages together with English, and that it was derived from the Dutch of the first white settlers at the Cape of Good Hope.

"Afrikaans is the most beautiful taal in the world," Marieke sighed rolling her Rs.

I personally thought that it would never win the first prize for elegance but I kept that to myself.

After breakfast Marieke gave me a guided tour of the house. It turned out to be quite a grandiose affair in the Cape Dutch style, with sweeping gables, sash-windows and a big stoep, which is the same as a veranda. There were several lounges, 6 bedrooms, a couple of bathrooms, a study, a huge dining room and a big kitchen. The floors were Oregon pine and the ceilings enormously high. I quite liked the place; it had a pleasant, old fashioned, lived in feel to it.

One of the passages was plastered with family photos: daughter Mieke, a tall blonde, in all stages from her first tooth to graduation at medical school; her wedding to a Humphrey Bogart type attorney called Marthinus Bezuidenhout, and their 3 little girls .An old shot of Hannes working on a construction site of some South African bridge. Marieke on a horse on the family farm in the Karoo. A grandfather with a hunting party and an elephant they shot. The tusks were hanging in my host parents' lounge now. Auntie Hermien with her marlin that won the first prize in the Bazaruto fishing competition. The Dominee uncle, who got bitten by a snake in Matabeleland.

I explored the garden accompanied by the Wieffering's 2 dogs. In the front I found a mighty lot of rose bushes and a garage. It had 2 cars inside and space for some more. In the back behind the washing line stood a building that looked like a garage, but it was Paulina's room. I discovered a swimming pool with a rockery surrounded by palms and hibiscus and some kitschy statues. A lawn edged by flowerbeds stretched to the hedge forming the border with the next door neighbours. Some small tortoises were lying under a huge tree. I didn't know what kind of tree. Later I found out that it was a kind of fig and that one could get a glimpse of the sea from one of the big branches quite high up. What impressed me most was the tennis court, not because I had never known anybody who had their own tennis court, but because it had been converted into an enormous aviary.

Hannes believed in regular exercise for people approaching their 70s and asked me if I'd like to accompany him on his daily morning round. Marieke had her own ideas about exercising and rather stayed at home, supervising the gardener and knitting booties for poor Afrikaaner babies.

The dogs, Shaka and Hintsa, pissed with great dedication on every blue gum and palm tree on the wide, grassy sidewalk. Shaka, a Labrador, was named after the Zulu king who had united the different Zulu clans into one nation in the early 1800s, he had also invented a kind of stabbing spear. Hintsa, a Bouvier, got his name from a Xhosa chief.

"The blacks pronounce Xhosa like this," Hannes produced a click sound at the beginning of the word.

I tried it.

"Nearly Mathilda, just suck with your tongue quite far back at the side of your mouth." I practiced while Hannes gave me a lecture on the different population groups in the country: "The Zulus and the Xhosas are the biggest black tribes in South Africa but then you get also the Venda, Ndebele, Sothos, Tswanas, Swazi and a couple of others as well."

"And what about the whites?"

"Well, if you look at the history of this country the first settlement at the Cape of Good Hope was Dutch because the Dutch East India Company decided it would be a good thing to have a supply station for their ships halfway between Europe and Asia. Jan van Riebeeck and his men arrived in 1652."

"Did the Dutch meet any indigenous people?"

"Ja, the Hottentots, who stole all their cattle, and the Bushmen, who tried to kill everybody with their poisoned arrows. These people just weren't interested in making friends with anybody, so a lot of them were hunted down."

_Does he really believe that? Sounds like government propaganda to me_.

I crushed some eucalyptus leaves in my hands and inhaled their spicy scent.

Phhh, I'm supposed to be an ambassador of my country and not to stir up any shit. I'm supposed to behave like a neutral observer.

I decided not to start any heavy political discussion – anyway, not yet.

"The British came to settle a bit later," Hannes carried on. "There has been a lot of fighting between the British and the Dutch or Afrikaaners, as they called themselves later. In the Transvaal and in the Orange Freestate they still don't get on so well together. And then we've also got coloureds, Indians, Chinese and Cape Malays..."

"I always thought there were only blacks and whites and a couple of coloureds."

"Oh no Mathilda. It is much more complex than that."

We walked past a Portuguese green grocer called Madeira Gardens and a Greek shop, the Mykonos Café. There weren't many people in the street. Some white dog walkers and joggers and a few blacks on errands for their bosses. On the golf course there wasn't much movement either. From hole number 8 one could see the sea. It spread smooth and silvery to the horizon, melting into a light blue sky. In the industrial area trucks and cars looking like small ants bustled under a cloud of smoke. On the hills around us V.B.'s suburbs sprawled, roofs of various colours peeping through the shades of green of the vegetation. I got the knack of the Xhosa click by the time we got to the post office.

The post office was a small, red brick building surrounded by blue gums and hibiscus bushes. Peacocks paraded next to lush flowerbeds and roosted on the branches of two pines. The post office had 2 entrances. One for blacks and one for whites. Although I had seen photos of apartheid signs, I wasn't prepared for _this_. This was real life with real people using the different entrances and everybody behaved as if it was totally normal

Hell. Maybe my friends in Germany are right. Maybe I shouldn't have come in the first place.

"Why do you have...things ...like that?" I asked Hannes.

My host father said: "Mathilda, it's always difficult to explain South Africa to foreigners, especially when they come from a first world country and think the only difference between blacks and whites is the colour of their skin. We'll talk about this when you've been here a little bit longer."

Bloody coward! He chooses the easy way out.

Hannes threw a letter in the letter box and we headed back to the house. By the time we reached the Madeira Gardens greengrocer, 3 of the Wieffering's neighbours had invited me to give a talk to the youth groups of their churches. I said "yes sure" and hoped they would forget about it. Public speeches were the one minus point of being an exchange student.

Hannes bought a bunch of flowers at the greengrocer and a packet of candy bars at a Chinese shop.

"Ja, every Friday I buy flowers for Marieke and sweets for Paulina," he said. "Would you like a candy bar?"

I took one wrapped in gold and pink. It was so sweet that it hurt my teeth.

In the afternoon I asked Paulina if I could have a look at her room. She giggled and hid her face behind her apron.

_Oyoyoy. I've broken some behavioural code. Maybe it means bad luck in her culture...or maybe white people in this country are not supposed to be interested in black people's living conditions_.

After a couple of minutes Paulina stopped giggling and seemed quite eager to show me her place. She had a room and a toilet in the building behind the washing line. The most amazing thing was her bed. It stood elevated on bricks more than a metre above the ground.

"Like that the tokolosh can't get to you," she explained.

"What's the tokolosh?"

"Hau, the tokolosh, he is small but he is evil and he comes in the night while you are sleeping."

_Here we go, African superstition_!

"What does he look like?"

"The tokolosh? Like a little man. He is tiny...like that," she gestured with one hand below her knees. "And he has got a lot of hair on his body. And that thing between his legs – aish – it's double, treble long. He is a very bad man. He makes the women pregnant when their husbands are not at home. You need a strong muti to fight him."

"What's a muti?"

"Herbs, bones, roots, things...medicine."

I was just beginning to think that it was quite amazing that Africans still believed in tokoloshes while the western world sent guys up to the moon, when I remembered Opa Huberschmidt, a farmer at the edge of Riedberg, the village in Bavaria where I came from. Opa Huberschmidt had a vast knowledge about how to influence fate, people, the weather and all sorts of things. Last year his favourite cow died of some infection and in the same week his dog got run over by a car. Opa Huberschmidt worked out that his worst enemy, Herr Kleinhans from the bakery, had cast a spell on him. Opa Huberschmidt got into action. On a full moon night he cut a branch from a 200 year old oak tree and repeated a secret sentence while walking backwards towards the east. He soaked the branch for 10 days in the brook behind his house and at the next full moon he attached the branch to Kleinhans' house wall between 2 roof trusses, so that nobody would find it. I knew that it all really happened, because Opa Huberschmidt's granddaughter Friederieke was my best friend in the swimming club, and we even watched Opa, and I heard with my own ears that he mumbled something about bad fortune and 13 snakes. Some time later the health authorities closed down Kleinhans' bakery. I reckoned they would've anyway. His place wasn't exactly known as an example of hygiene. Frau Maier at the post office said it happened because Frau Kleinhans smashed a mirror and everybody knows that that brings 7 years of bad luck. Other people talked about black cats crossing the street from left to right.

The only other furniture in Paulina's room was an old cupboard with a plastic basin on top and a table on which stood a tin mug and a tin plate. There wasn't much space left to move around. As decoration Paulina had arranged a row of coloured glass bottles on the windowsill. "I found most of those," she explained, "but the Madam gave me that yellow one and this red one. Ja, the Master and the Madam are very good to me. I've been working here for 25 years."

A ray of afternoon sun crept over the green carpet in the lounge. Marieke was busy counting stitches on a jersey for a poor black baby in Lesotho.

I asked her: "Where does Paulina wash? I didn't see a tap or anything at her place."

"She has a basin and she uses the tap in the garden." Marieke's knitting needles rattled. "Paulina is a good, hardworking maid, but if she had a tap in her room the water would run all day. When she uses the garden tap we can see if she has turned it off. I don't know what it is with these blacks, but they just don't seem to be able to turn a tap off."

Hintsa caught a lazy fly and Marieke started a new ball of wool. "By the way," she said, "Mrs Jameson phoned. "She invited you to go with her family to Dolphin Hoek tomorrow. Some of the Jameson children are in the same school you'll be going to. It will be nice for you to meet somebody of your own age."

*

The Jamesons were all tall, thin and blond. I climbed in the back of the bakkie together with 2 Labradors and the 4 older kids. There was Kim, who was 16 like me, the 14 year old twins Coral and Julian and 9 year old Jamie. Mother Jameson, her friend Bridget and Hunter, the youngest boy, sat in the front.

It was the first time ever I travelled in the open like that. The German weather is not conducive to bakkies. Here under the African sun, it was great fun. The dogs also enjoyed it. They barked at every oncoming car. We crossed some suburbs, not all of them as affluent as the one where I was staying. In one area ramshackle houses with rusty roofs stood in tiny, weedy gardens and the people there looked a lot like the crowd living between the railway line and the cheese factory in Waldsee, the town where I went to school in Germany.

_So even here being white doesn't automatically mean to be wealthy_.

We left the town on an avenue tunnelled by big blue gums and entered hills covered in dense bush. Monkeys ran through the trees and Ma Jameson nearly flattened a snake.

Dolphin Hoek was a stretch of coast not far away from V.B. A dozen cottages half hidden in the bush lined a narrow road. Huge waves thundered on big rocks and washed up little sandy beaches. Some fishermen's silhouettes cut dark shapes into the greenish sea, white spray jumped into the deep blue sky.

Ma Jameson and Bridget put up a sun umbrella, surrounded themselves with picnic baskets and settled down on big towels.

"This is a fantastic spot," I said. "Feels like being in one of those American movies where everything is perfect."

"I'm glad you like it," Ma Jameson said, rubbing sunscreen on her nose.

"Wait until the sand fleas bite you," Jamie grinned.

The boys got their fishing gear organized. Kim, Coral and I set out for a walk on the wet, hard sand along the water.

"I hear you'll be in my class," Kim said. "When are you going to start?"

"Don't know, sometimes next week I guess. I first have to get a school uniform and everything."

"The whole school is already taking bets about how long you'll last," Coral announced.

"Gee, why is that?"

"One of the exchange students we had before was only here for 6 weeks."

"What happened?"

"He spent one whole day calling all his friends back in Atlanta," Kim said. "His host parents nearly had a heart attack when they saw the telephone bill. He was sent back on the next plane."

_Heidewitzka. That won't happen to me_.

Except for the fishermen there weren't any other people around. I could hardly believe it. This was a week-end after all. In Germany the place would be packed.

"Is it true that the French guys are the world's best lovers?" Coral asked out of the blue.

"That's what they say but I can't vouch for it."

"You'll see the guys at our school," Kim said. "Some of them are quite nice but most of them are still little boys."

"There is Johnny Bartlett," Coral's face melted into a dreamy smile. "He is the captain of the hockey team. Do you play hockey, Mathilda?"

"Sometimes ice hockey in winter, when the lake is frozen."

"Wow, on the ice!" Kim said. "Isn't that dangerous? What happens if somebody breaks through the ice?"

"You try to get them out with a plank."

"I wish I could go to your place," Kim said.

"Me too, " Carol said, "cause in Germany you've got TV."

"Why? Haven't you got TV here?" I asked totally astounded. "I haven't seen a TV set at Hannes and Mariekes' but I thought it was because they didn't want one." It had never crossed my mind that a country with modern airports, the latest car models and the know-how of doing the first successful human heart transplant wouldn't have an ordinary thing like TV.

"We'll only get it next year," Kim said. "I've already told my parents that all I want for my birthday and for Christmas is a TV set."

There were yellow dunes in the distance, looking like the edge of a desert. The rock pools were populated by spongy, immobile ovals and green and red creatures with long tentacles.

"Let's go for a swim," I suggested wading into the waves.

"Are you crazy?" Kim frowned. "The water is freezing."

"Where I come from it hardly ever gets warmer than this."

"No, you can't swim here," Kim picked up a shell from underneath her foot. "The waves would smash you right into the rocks."

"Ja, and there are sharks," Coral said. "A couple of people get eaten up along the coast every year."

"Have you ever seen one? A shark I mean?"

"Nope," Kim threw the shell into the water. "But you can sometimes see dolphins right from here."

"And whales," Coral said.

"Yes, and then there is the sardine run. There are so many of them that they jump right onto the beach in Durban. You just go and pick them up. Don't you shave your legs in Germany?"

"No."

"Why not?" Kim sounded astonished.

"Why should we?"

"Well, it feels nice and smooth, and it looks more feminine...and the guys like it better," Coral said.

"I don't know, I think we just like to keep our bodies as natural as possible. Anyway, if a guy is really fond of you a couple of hairs shouldn't make any difference to him."

"At our school Peggy Atkins is the only girl who doesn't shave her legs," remarked Kim. "Her mom won't let her. Peggy says the first thing she is going to do on her 18th birthday is to get rid of that bloody hair."

I lifted one foot out of the water and looked at the tiny hairs clinging to my skin.

_Nothing wrong with that_.

"I guess that whole smooth leg business was started by some razor producer with a good marketing strategy."

Coral crinkled her nose. "I like smooth legs, nice hair styles and pretty dresses."

I thought of my bio sandals and said: "I'd always go for comfort."

The rocks were getting hot. A huge tanker glided across the horizon. The Labradors fought over a stinky, dead fish.

"Here comes dad," Coral announced.

Kim stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled for the dogs.

Father Jameson, also tall, tanned and blond unloaded a bag of charcoal and some packets from his car. He started to make a fire on the sand.

"Why don't you use driftwood, Mr Jameson?" I asked.

"It doesn't burn so well, salt somehow puts the fire out...and please call me Gordon."

Smoke curled into the air. Gordon cracked beers for the adults. Kim poured us minors coke into plastic mugs. Mother Jameson, whose first name was Allison, said: "Boys, get that sand off yourselves and I don't want any crabs in your pockets. Julian, you can help your father with the braaing."

Coral's twin brother put a long sausage on a barbecue rack.

This is really great. In Germany they'd probably throw you into jail if you made a fire on the beach.

I asked if I could do the grilling.

Coral giggled. "Braaing is a job for men – not that Julian is a man. You can help us girls to butter the rolls."

Gordon grinned: "Mathilda, you must know that we South Africans are the world's number one barbecuers. We call a barbecue a braaivleis. It's an art that has to be learnt. Today you better watch how it is done."

During supper, back at the Wiefferings, Marieke said: "My child, don't forget to get your stockings and your hat out for tomorrow. Church starts at 9.30."

_Heidewitzka, they have not only got school uniforms in this country, you even need a uniform to go to church_.

"I don't have a hat and I don't have stockings."

"Oh yes of course my dear, you belong to a different church."

"Uh...I don't have a church either."

"Oh...ag?!..." Marieke's eyes nearly popped out of her head.

Hannes sprinkled some salt over his potatoes. "Do your parents belong to any faith?"

"Mmh, my mom was brought up as a Rosicrucian. They believe in reincarnation and don't eat meat. When she met my dad my mom learned how to fry sausages and became a Christian like him. One day my parents found out that the church tax went to some liberation army, which used the money to buy guns. They decided not to pay the tax anymore. The next thing that happened was that the bailiff walked through our house to confiscate the furniture. Yoa, my parents were angry. They went to the _Pfarrer_ the same day and told him, that they didn't wish to be associated in any way with an organisation that preached love and peace and at the same time organized weapons for terrorists and was prepared to pull out chairs right underneath innocent little children's bums. And that was the end of the church in our lives."

Marieke hadn't moved a millimetre since the beginning of the conversation. Her fork, loaded with beans and a piece of meat, hung suspended in mid air.

"But you were baptized as a baby, weren't you?"

"Oh no, my parents always maintained that one's religion is a very personal choice and that everyone must make it for themselves, once they are old enough."

Marieke lowered her fork gently onto her plate and said with a voice full of pity: "My dear child, I'll lend you some stockings and a hat and then you can come to church with us tomorrow."

The church, an orange brick building, towered gloomily into the sky. Everybody was dressed in darkish colours, and the ladies and the girls wore hats. The children looked bored and nobody smiled. There weren't any blacks, which was not surprising, because this branch of Christianity had discovered that the Almighty himself had invented apartheid, and that it was all written down in the bible.

We sat down somewhere in the middle. The whole place was barren and somehow crushing, even more so when the Dominee walked in and started to growl from the height of his pulpit. It was all in Afrikaans and I only understood the words _sonde_ \- sin, and _hel_ \- hell, at the sound of which everybody shrunk a couple of centimetres each time. Within 15 minutes the congregation was reduced to guilt ridden little heaps. After that the service went on for another 2 hours. Maybe they subscribed to the theory, that God's bounty is proportional to the time you spend in the kerk, although it didn't take much to figure out that the tiniest little babies were already considered to be filled with sin up to their nostrils, and that even a life time of prayer and repentance wouldn't get them out of their misery. The stockings on my legs felt like icy spider webs. The air was thick with guilt, fear and suppressed anger. Even the flies were paralysed. I swore to myself never to put a foot into a kerk again. If this was religion they could have it.

In the car back home nobody said a word. We sat down to a big meal Paulina had cooked. After that there was nothing much to do. On the 7th day you had to rest like Him. I went to my room and wrote a letter to Friederieke. It was a shit letter because I was thinking of all the beaches and exciting places to explore only a couple of minutes away. Why did these people hate life so much? This wasn't exactly like I had imagined a year of adventures in Africa to be. Even the dogs were miserable because they didn't get their walk. On the radio they only played hymns and sombre classical music. Hannes explained to me that South Africa rested to the extent that there were no sports competitions, no movies, no concerts, no theatre shows. The gold mines were about the only places that worked. They probably had a special deal with Him.

*

"Hey, you can't use that entrance," a tall blond boy in school uniform shouted at me.

Bloody hell.

"Why not? Doors are made to get into a place. What's different with this one?"

"It's for the teachers."

"What? Teachers have their own entrance and pupils are not allowed to use it?"

"Yes."

Good heavens. Back to the Middle Ages. What would the headmaster of Summerhill say to that?

"You are new here, hey?" The boy smiled at me. "I'm Brian, standard 9. One of the prefects."

What on earth is a prefect? Probably some kind of school cop. Right out of the ranks of the pupils. 1000 stinking barnacles! Kids should stick together. Especially at school.

There were 2 other entrances on this side of the brick building and crowds of pupils in uniforms all over the show. Boys wore long grey, pants, a blue blazer, a white shirt and a blue and yellow tie, girls wore the same kind of blazer, tie and shirt, a khaki skirt and long, grey socks. I had never dreamt of being caught alive in this kind of outfit, but life is full of surprises especially when you are an exchange student.

"So where do I go in?" I asked Brian.

Shit, if it's already complicated to enter, what's it going to be like inside?

"See that first door there? That's for the girls. The next one is for the boys. And then there is another door round the corner for boys _and_ girls, but only the ones who are in matric."

I was speechless.

At the girls' entrance a pigtailed fatty stopped me. "You can't go in there like that."

_Another bloody school cop. The whole place is infiltrated with them_.

"I thought this is the entrance for the girls."

"Ja, that's correct. But your hair isn't right."

"What?"

"Come on. It's the same in all the schools in the country."

"Well, this is the first one in this country I'm trying to get into. "

"Oh, where do you come from?"

"Germany."

"Ja, you've got the accent. Don't you have to tie up your hair in Germany?"

"Huh?"

She looked at me as if I had just crawled out of a rat hole and explained with a tone of superiority: "Well here, girls once their hair is hanging over their ears must tie it into pigtails or a ponytail or plait it. If you have got a fringe it mustn't touch your eyebrows, and boys' hair mustn't touch their shirt collar."

Marieke had forgotten to tell me all that.

"Why?"

Fatty stared at me cow like. "Don't know... It's a rule... it looks tidy. It has always been like that. "

Heiliger Strohsack! Don't they ever question things here?

"What standard are you in? " The cow asked me.

"Standard 9."

"Well, you are new so you better go with Lynn. She is the head girl. "

_Good Lord. The chief cop_!

The cow's face broke into a smile. "By the way, I'm Jenny. Welcome to South Africa and the Protea High School. Would you like one of these?" She pulled a packet of chewing gum out of her blazer pocket, unwrapped 2 for herself and gave me one. "Just be careful. Chewing gum isn't allowed in the school."

I went over to Lynn, a tall brunette with pigtails. Lynn produced a blue spare elastic, matching the blue of the school tie. I put my hair up into a ponytail.

"The headmaster, Mr Martin, told me you were coming," Lynn said in a business-like manner. "You are to go to assembly with me and he'll introduce you to the school. "

Assembly! What's that?

Another thing I hadn't the faintest idea about. I finally entered the building through the matric entrance – ho ho ho Brian! We walked down a long corridor with wooden floorboards. On the right were science and biology rooms and on the left big cottage frame windows with white frames. The walls were painted in an eggshell colour and the place smelled of floor polish. We arrived in a rectangular courtyard enclosed by double storey dark red brick. A sort of roofed stoep with pillars went all the way around. One of the short sides of the stoep was a bit elevated, like a stage, and that was where the teachers sat. In the courtyard the pupils lined up according to standards. The prefects took their positions on the sides. The head boy and girl and I stood closest to the teachers. It looked like some military drill to me especially with all these uniforms. In Germany you just walked into your classroom in the morning and that was that. The teachers on the 'stage' were dressed in quite conservative dresses and ties and suits. 10:1, here you would never see one of them in jeans like Herr Apfelschmid, my arts and sex education teacher at home.

Assembly turned out to be just a school meeting. The headmaster started it with a prayer. Apparently nothing in this country could be done without making contact with the Almighty first. Quite amazing for a society that denied all basic human rights to the majority of its citizens. I glanced over the lines of pupils and spotted Coral and her twin brother Julian in the standard 7 group and Kim in the standard 9 row. Kim grinned and waved at me. Lynn punched me in the ribs.

_Hells bells, is one not even allowed to smile at somebody_?

Lynn stroked her cheek with one hand and gave me one of those looks that try to convey a message in times when it is forbidden to talk.

_What on earth does she mean? I just don't get it. Seems to be quite important, judging by that streak of panic in her face_.

Suddenly it dawned on me. The chewing gum! I was standing there like Jenny cow herself, publicly breaking a school rule within the first 10 minutes in my career at Protea High. While Mr Martin made some announcements, I cautiously removed the wad from my mouth. I couldn't throw it anywhere, so I stuck it in the palm of my right hand. I hadn't finished a second too early because Mr Martin called me up to the 'stage'.

"This is Mathilda our new exchange student from Germany," he told the assembly.

"I hope you'll all do your best to help her acclimatize." He turned to me, stuck out his hand and said with a friendly smile: "Welcome to our school, Mathilda."

I raised my arm – and stopped in mid air.

Ayayay, the chewing gum – and 500 pairs of eyes on me!

I moved the wad as fast and as discretely as possible from my right into my left hand.

Is that a trace of a grin on the headmaster's face? He must have seen my manoeuvre.

Mr Martin didn't betray his thoughts and gave me a hearty handshake. He seemed to be quite a nice guy... for a headmaster.

Kim took me to the standard 9 classroom, which looked a lot like every other classroom I had seen in my life, except that the teacher's desk was standing on a platform. During the first 2 periods we had maths and geography. I didn't understand much but that didn't bother me. I wasn't expected to write exams. The German and South African syllabi were too different.

My seat was next to Niko, who had emigrated with his family from Cyprus the previous week. I pondered for quite a while about the logic of different entrances for boys and girls when they sat next to each other on the same school bench and came to the conclusion that South Africa had developed a logic of its own. My conclusion was reinforced by the fact that during break girls had to keep to the one side of the hockey field and boys to the other. The prefects' job was to make sure that nobody broke that rule.

Crazy place. One must have been born and reared here to understand what it is all about.

During the lunch break us girls were sitting in the shade of some tall eucalyptus trees. A family of hadedas – the purple green birds with long, curved beaks – was busy on the hockey field. On the far side, behind pink hibiscus bushes and more trees, extended other sports fields to a fence that surrounded the premises. The red tin roof of the caretaker's cottage peeped out between fluffy, yellow acacia blossoms. Far down, at the bottom of the hill, the sea stretched blue and misty with dark shapes of cargo ships moving like silent fabled creatures.

Jenny explained to me, that Protea High was a progressive school because of coeducation. I nearly replied that it wasn't progressive enough to admit kids of all races, but I kept my mouth shut. I was a guest after all, and one doesn't look a gift horse in the mouth, not on the first day, I thought.

Peggy, the only girl besides myself who hadn't shaved her legs, asked me if it was true that we didn't have school uniforms in Germany.

I swallowed the last bit of the peanut butter sandwich that Paulina had prepared for me. "No, we don't wear school uniforms in Germany."

A freckled blonde called Norma said: "It's good to have a school uniform. It makes everybody look alike. There is no difference between rich and poor kids."

Bullshit!

"That's not true," I replied." Some of you have got brand new school uniforms and sassy bags and stuff and others wear skirts with the seams let 5 times out and blazers that are too big or too small for them and worn out shoes."

"I guess you are right," said Liza, who sat in front of me in class. "But the good thing about school uniforms is that in the morning you don't have to think about what to put on."

Heiliger Strohsack! A minute of reflection is too big an effort to keep your individuality.

After lunch Miss Pembleton entered the classroom like a ship in full sail. Everything on her middle-aged body was round. A potato nose protruded between her ball shaped cheeks and her monumental bosom rested on a Rembrandt belly. Her backside stuck out like a giant pumpkin and her feisty legs contradicted all laws of locomotion. She collapsed on the chair behind the desk on her platform and fished a couple of fat books out of her bag. "Today we are going to analyse Shakespeare. Polonius' speech to Hamlet." She grabbed the biggest volume and all of a sudden seemed to change her mind. "Does anybody in this class not believe in God?"

Niko glanced big question marks at me. He had only started to learn English 3 months ago and was never sure if he understood correctly or not. My command of the language was a bit better but this time I wasn't quite sure either. The rest of the class had put their gypsum faces on – absolutely expressionless – 11 years of South African schooling had taught them this art to an extraordinary degree.

Miss Pembleton heaved her bulk out of the chair and stepped to the edge of the platform. "If there is anybody who doesn't believe in God, here is the proof of His existence." Niko and I leaned forward like one person to get every nuance of her theory. With a voice to fit her size Miss Pembleton proceeded. "If you were a bushman out there in the Kalahari who never knew any civilization and one day you found a watch – what would you think?" Niko and I stopped breathing. "You would think," she said, "that somebody greater and cleverer than yourself exists who made this watch, because this watch is so perfect that it could not just have grown all by itself on a thorn tree. And what is a watch compared to our planet, which is so cleverly designed that the air around us is just what human beings need to keep alive? It's too perfect to be a coincidence. And that is where God comes in. He created it all in His great wisdom." Miss Pembleton raised a sausagy finger. "Is there anybody in this class who doesn't believe in God now?"

Nobody stirred. Niko and I were stunned.

After school I walked to the bus stop Hannes had shown me in the morning when he had dropped me off. Brian, the prefect, and another guy from my class called Peter were waiting there. The bus and I arrived at the same time. It was one of those gorgeous double-decker busses. The first one of my life. I bought my ticket, raced upstairs and yelled to Brian and Peter: "Let's sit in the front row on top here."

"The driver, a coloured, shouted: "Please come downstairs, Miss."

Peter screamed: "You can't go upstairs."

An elderly dark skinned man with a wreath of grey hair got up from his seat and said: "Please Miss, you don't want to get into trouble. The upper deck is only for non-whites. You go and sit downstairs Miss. It's the law."

I was totally perplexed.

"You haven't been long in this country, have you?" asked the man. He smiled. "I lived abroad myself for many years. In London. Studied medicine. Now I am helping my people. God bless you Miss, that you find conditions here confusing."

I looked around and realized that there was not one white person amongst the passengers on this level. There were only faces in all the shades of ebony and everyone of them smiled at me. I felt like a traitor on my way downstairs.

Brian said: "You have a lot to learn Mathilda, but don't worry we'll help you." He grabbed my schoolbag and carried it to an empty seat.

The downstairs passengers all had gypsum faces and behaved as if nothing had happened. The only person who looked at me was a middle-aged lady with the most amazing violet eyes. As I walked past her she closed the book she was reading and thrust it into my hands. She gave me one of those looks that go right down to your soul and said with a gentle but determined voice: "This will help you to understand South Africa."

Marieke was feeling so lousy that evening that she didn't come to supper. I waited until Hannes had said grace and then I asked him if he could organize a bike for me. He looked at me in total amazement. I somehow sensed that it wouldn't be a good idea to tell him my plan was to boycott the bus. Hannes just said: "But young ladies don't ride bicycles." And that was the end of it.

The next couple of days Marieke stayed in bed. She looked like a ghost and even stopped trying to convert me to Calvinism. Paulina cooked special broth all the time and Hannes bought a box full of Lennon's Dutch Medicines; little bottles with red tops and yellow labels. They had names like Duiwelsdrekdruppels, Rooilavental and Jamaika Gemmer and were mostly for the relief of winds and other digestion related complaints. Most of these mixtures contained a goodly part of alcohol and Marieke, who never touched any booze because "it comes straight from the devil", consumed druppels fit to make an elephant drunk. On Friday the doctor came and said that her blood pressure was a bit high but otherwise he couldn't find anything wrong with her. On Saturday the Dominee visited her and on Sunday at lunch time she had miraculously recovered without even having gone to the kerk. Marieke gave all the credit to the Dominee, but Paulina maintained that the Madam was well again because of a muti she had secretly mixed into the Madam's druppels.

"You must never tell her, Mathilda," Paulina implored. "The Madam thinks it's all bad witchcraft but I swear by our little Jesus that it is good and it works." She arranged some biscuits and a cake for afternoon tea and poured boiling water on a teabag in her enamel mug. "You know what happened in my family. The second brother of my youngest sister's husband is an inyanga – a healer. His kraal is in the Transkei and I get all my muti from him." She took plates out of the cupboard and added 4 sugars to her tea. "The older sister of the third wife in my older brother's kraal was barren. She went to the inyanga. He threw the bones and gave her muti. The muti burnt like a fire in her belly. That is how she knew it was a powerful muti. Now she has got 5 children. 3 boys and 2 girls. The older ones are big and strong and the younger ones nice and fat."

She cast a critical eye on me. "You are much too thin. You'll never find a husband." She sloshed a heap of cream on an enormous slice of cake. "Eat that Mathilda, that will give your body a softer shape."

"But I am going to have tea with Marieke and Hannes in 10 minutes."

"You must eat as much as you can. The ancestors and men prefer women who are nice and fat."

"I'll eat something with the tea."

"So you don't want this?"

"No thanks, Paulina."

"One mustn't let it go to waste." She lowered herself into a chair and started to munch with great dedication. "If you ever have a problem, any problem, come to me and I'll organize muti for you and I swear by our little Jesus that it works."

*

At school I was asked to go around to the various classes when they had their German lessons. I read Goethe to them and stuff out of their textbooks, like _Fritz_ _geht_ _in_ _den_ _Zoo_ and _Das_ _Heidelberger_ _Schloss_. In the higher standards we also practiced conversation, usually about a subject of general interest chosen by Mrs Davies, the teacher; for example: how does the German postal service work? or weather patterns in Bavaria.

Mrs Davies was bony and tanned with a long nose and thin lips. Her greyish hair formed an impeccable helmet, even on days with a storm warning. She was never seen other than in navy blue outfits and Scholl's health sandals. Mrs Davies' grandparents had left Prussia to live in South West Africa and she had grown up on a farm called Vogelweide not far from the Caprivi Zipfel. Mrs Davies ran her lessons with Prussian discipline.

"Sit down, _zack_ _zack_ " and "stand straight, _jawoll_ ," were part of every period. When the weather was good she marched her pupils around the hockey field, _im_ _Gleichschritt_ _marsch_ , singing _Mein_ _Vater_ _war_ _ein_ _Wandersmann_. The first time I was involved in this exercise, I nearly collapsed laughing in the middle of the field. Mrs Davies was not impressed and told me to straighten up, _zack_ _zack_. I tried to explain to her that in Germany marching wasn't in anymore and she mumbled something about _Disziplin_ _jawoll_. All her pupils knew every word of the _Wandersmann_ by heart, which was more than I could say for myself. After the first line I improvised with lalala, which lowered Mrs Davies' esteem of me considerably. I guess by that time she was disillusioned about the _Übermenschen_ quality of the younger German generation.

One rainy day, Mrs Davies ventured into a free discussion. Brian, the prefect, asked me in German mixed with a generous amount of Afrikaans what it was like to live so close to the _Rooi_ _Gevaar_ – the communists.

"Huh?"

"Come on Mathilda, _die sind_ right next door to you."

He slipped back into English. "Aren't you scared?"

Mrs Davies had sore feet or something. She loosened the straps of her sandals and didn't pay much attention to us. The whole class looked at me expectantly. For some reason the _Rooi_ _Gevaar_ – the red danger, seemed to be a matter close to their hearts.

"No, I'm not scared," I said. "Why should I be?"

Brian took a deep breath. "Well, they had the Bolshevik revolution and cold bloodedly murdered the Tsar and his family. Then they chucked God out of their system and when they marched into Germany they stole and raped and behaved like animals..."

"And even now they don't treat their women like ladies because they make them drive cranes and lorries and send them to work in the salt mines," Liza interrupted.

"Ja," Jason said. "And if the communists ever get hold of South Africa we'll have to hide all our women and everybody will get stuck with one entire family in each room of their house. They'll burn all the churches and shoot all the pastors and nobody will be able to lead a decent life anymore."

I was speechless for at least a minute.

They must have some total geniuses working in their propaganda department here.

The first answer that sprang to my mind was that women in South Africa were also not always treated like ladies, especially when they were black. Brian said that was different because blacks were black and Russians were white!

I did my best to convey to my classmates that the general German population didn't loose much sleep because they lived close to the communists, but at the end of the lesson I could tell that nobody believed me.

*

"Are you sure I won't have to give a speech at that meeting?" I asked my host father again. Hannes shot an amused glance at me. "Calm down, Mathilda. There is no reason to be nervous. Today the Rotary Club only wants to see what its new exchange student looks like.

I hope to hell he is right.

Hannes turned into Marine Parade. Long, blue waves were rolling up the white beach and further out in the bay the sea shot silvery sparks of reflected sunlight into the cloudless sky. We parked in front of the Blue Dolphin Hotel, which sat like dignified mother hen in a nest of kikuyu lawns, flowerbeds and palm trees. It was painted mainly in red brown with brown red to set off the vertical corners, and pinkish brown to enhance the broad, rounded gables under the corrugated iron roof. A few polished red steps led up to the entrance. It took me a while to accustom my eyes from the dazzling sunlight to the dimness of the hall, where copious crimson curtains were drawn across all the windows. Some faint electric lamps illuminated heavy, dark brown furniture and a greenish carpet. Why anybody would shut the sun out on such a gorgeous day totally eluded me – but different strokes for different folks. Hannes and I climbed up a flight of stairs, went down an endless red carpeted corridor and arrived at a door, where 2 men were discussing something. The tall, thin one turned out to be Fred Collins, the president of my host club, and the tall fat one with the bald head Tom Warner, the secretary.

"Let's go in," Fred Collins suggested after Hannes had introduced us.

Nobody moved.

_What are they waiting for_?

Hannes cleared his throat and said: "Ladies first."

I looked around and all of a sudden I realized: _Heiliger_ _Bimbam_ , the lady is me! I shot into the conference room in the most dignified manner possible. About 15 men were standing in little groups, talking. Green curtains shut out the sunlight and clouds of cigarette smoke rose to the lit chandeliers. I answered variations of the question: how do you like South Africa? and got invited to half a dozen homes before Hannes had organized a glass of juice for me.

Fred Collins hit a little silver bell. Somebody said grace and after the 'amen' Hannes pulled out a chair for me.

_Gee, I'm not used to that lady thing_.

I slowly lowered myself onto the green and red striped seat, looking out for other ladies from whom I could copy South African lady behaviour, but the only other female in the room was a coloured waitress, organizing things on a trolley. Fred hit the bell again and opened the meeting. I was asked to stand up so that everybody could welcome the new exchange student. I looked at the Rotarians, total strangers until 15 minutes ago; people who had made it possible for me to share a year of my life with them – to enable me to plunge into a whole new universe. Everybody should be so lucky as to be an exchange student; the world would be a better place.

While they were discussing how to raise funds for the old age home and other matters, the food was served, and by the time a guy called Chris started his speech about the gold mining industry in South Africa, everybody had got stuck into their ostrich steak. Chris said that the first gold finds of real importance were made in the 1870s in the Pilgrim's Rest / Lydenburg area and in the 1880s prospecting was started on the Witwatersrand. First they mined deposits close to the surface but later they had to go deeper down, so they dug shafts and cross cuts and drives and raises, which are various kinds of tunnels that intersect the reef. Chris said that South Africa had the world's largest gold refinery, but what astounded me most was that Johannesburg was only founded in 1886, when the first tents were pitched at Ferreira's Camp. That meant my grandparents' house in the Black Forest was older than any building in Jo'burg.

After the speech the meeting broke up quite fast. Everybody had to go back to work. I got some more invitations and then Hannes and I went to the bird park to look at their newly acquired Chaetops frenatus, also known as Cape Rockjumper.

*

On Wednesday that little prick Steven, who always lurked around the girls' change room, stoned Rosie, the caretaker's dog. The vet had to put 15 stitches in her and the whole school was speculating about Steven's punishment.

"He'll get 6 cuts, that's for sure," Brian said.

"What's a cut?" I asked.

"You bend over a chair and the headmaster hits your backside with a cane."

" _Heiliger_ _Strohsack_! You mean he's actually got the right to hit pupils?"

"Ja, it's called corporal punishment. Don't they klap you in Germany?"

"If a headmaster in Germany hit a pupil he'd be in major shit. It's barbaric."

"Stoning an animal is also barbaric," Kim said. "I hope Steven will get a hiding that he can't sit for 3 weeks."

During assembly the next morning Mr Martin announced that he wished to see Steven in his office. By the first break everybody in the school knew about the punishment. Steven got 6 of the best – as cuts were also called – and he had to work at the SPCA every Saturday, on public holidays and for 2 weeks during the Christmas hols.

"Serves him right to have to clean out tons of dog shit," Kim commented.

"He's lucky that he wasn't expelled," Peggy said. "I reckon most other schools would have kicked him out but old Martin likes to give other people a second chance."

Steven wasn't to be seen at Protea High for a whole week. Rumour had it that his dad beat him green and blue because he had to foot the vet's bill.

*

The next week-end Hannes left for a bird watching trip. Jacob, the garden boy, helped him carry a bag full of bird books, binoculars, tape recorders, sketch books, note books and a suitcase full of camouflage clothing to the car. Paulina brought the padkos basket in which she had packed provisions to feed an army and a flask of coffee. I knew that Hannes had hidden 4 bottles of brandy and some 6-packs of beer between the spare wheel and the toolbox. I had a feeling that his trip was about much more than just birds.

"Are you ladies going to be all right?" Hannes asked Marieke and me for the 100th time.

"Ja skat, don't worry. It's only for 10 days," Marieke said. "Did you take your malaria pills?"

"Ja lieffie, and don't forget to lock the house in the evening and keep the revolver next to your bed. Remember that the Milners down the road were burgled last week while they were having a braai with 20 people in the back garden."

"Don't worry, skat. It's not the first time there is no man in the house. You've been going on these trips for the last 29 years."

Hannes kissed Marieke on the cheek. "Bye, my lieffie."

"Totsiens, skat. The Lord will watch over us...and He'll watch you."

As Hannes drove off with a puzzled look on his face, Marieke remarked: "I'll tell you something, my child, a bit of a break every now and then does the world of good to any marriage."

*

"Does anybody have any ideas for the school fete?" Mrs Davies asked pulling a snow white hanky out of her pocket. Her sneeze was drowned by the clatter of the sash windows. A puff of cold wind invaded the room. The whole building shook and creaked. Big raindrops started to hit the windowpanes and reduced the visibility to about 10 metres. I could just make out the silhouettes of the blue gums shaking in a landscape of different shades of grey. "What weather, _schrecklich_ , _schrecklich_ ," Mrs Davies sighed folding her hanky neatly. "If it doesn't stop soon there will be a _Katastrophe_."

The gale had been howling for 2 days. The harbour and the airport were closed and some kids living out of town couldn't come to school because the roads were washed away or blocked by fallen trees. A man had been killed by a flying marquee and a piece of corrugated iron from the roof of my host parents' neighbour had landed between the swimming pool and Hannes' aviary, missing the kitschy statues by the breadth of a salami skin.

Nobody came up with an idea for the school fete. Mrs Davies sighed again. "You must all think about it, _zack_ _zack_ , that we can organize everything in time"

In the afternoon occasional blue patches appeared in the sky and the wind eased. I found a young dove, the size of 3 matchboxes, waddling around under the big fig tree in the garden. It looked totally lost so I picked it up. It had big black eyes and a thin beak that seemed too long for it's face. I put it in a box and went to the garage to get some of Hannes' bird food. There were at least 10 big drums with different varieties of seeds. The only ones I recognized were sunflower and maize.

_What on earth does a baby dove eat_?

There were boxes and bags full of bird stuff and I had a good look around. Between 2 rolls of chicken wire and a cage covered by bundles of coconut fibre, I found a pile of _Playboy_ s!

_Hohoho Hannes! First booze hidden away in the car and now a collection of sex mags. I wonder what the Dominee and Marieke would say to this_?

Mr Perlman, the neighbour, came over with his garden boy to collect his sheet of corrugated iron. Mr Perlman was small, fat and freckled and had carefully combed, thinning red hair. "My post card collection got drenched because of that bloody hole in the roof," he grumbled. "Hope I can get them back into good shape." He lit a cigarette. "So Hannes has gone off to have a look at the 'birds' again?" He winked at me. "Quite a remarkable man for his age."

_Does he mean what I think he means_?

Mr Perlman relished some deep puffs, winked again and left with the words: "Anyway young lady, if you need any help or anything just pop in and ask."

Marieke came back from where ever she had been and I showed her the little dove.

"I don't know much about birds Mathilda, but there is one thing Hannes has taught me. You must never put them into a box. They need to be able to look around and see what is going on. It's just as important as sunlight and food for them. Go and ask Jacob for a cage. There are some in the garage."

Jacob told me that in the township a couple of shacks, a shop and a school had been blown down in the storm, and that the tap at the street corner where he got his water didn't work anymore. None of this had been mentioned in the local news but everybody who listened to the radio, knew that a dog had been swept out to sea.

I made a nest out of coconut fibre and grass and put the cage in front of my window with 2 pot plants on the sides so that the bird would be surrounded by familiar greenery. I felt quite guilty and a bit ridiculous spending my time and energy on a bird while there were people without a roof over their heads out there. But what could _I_ do? Hannes had said that without a special permit from the police, a whitey couldn't even go into the township. When I went into the kitchen to organize some breadcrumbs for the bird, Marieke said: "By the way, you'll have to mouth feed that little dove of yours, otherwise it won't eat."

"How do you mean?"

"You put some bread in your mouth and chew it. When it is nice and soft you push it with your tongue between your lips and the bird eats it right from there."

"Yuk, isn't that unhygienic? Maybe it has got some illness."

"Don't be silly. I'll show you how to do it."

She gave me a demonstration. After a minute or 2 the dove stuck it's beak between her lips and eagerly swallowed bread mixed with Marieke's spit. I was impressed. Old Marieke sure had some unexpected qualities.

Paulina was washing up dishes in the kitchen, listening to an early morning program on an African radio station. Every now and then she contributed an enthusiastic harmony to the tune. Jacob had started to fish leaves out of the swimming pool, but now the net with its long handle lay abandoned on the lawn and he jived elegantly with closed eyes in a world of his own to the music. Marieke was nowhere to be seen, probably still sleeping in her bedroom on the other side of the house. Normally she was the first to get up to make coffee. Since Hannes had left Paulina had taken over this task.

The sky shone a pristine blue. A flock of white pigeons circled above the garden, some invisible choreographer directing their flight. Their changing shapes gleamed orangey pink in the early light. A little breeze, still cool, but with the promise of a hot day, gently moved the trees and carried the flowery scent of a thousand blossoms.

I climbed the fig tree, something I could only do when Marieke was not around. She had warned me not to engage in any un-ladylike activities like wearing tiny shorts, sitting Indian tailor style and climbing trees while the garden boy was around, because that would lead him into temptation, as sure as God made little apples. I didn't know if her apprehension was justified but I thought I would rather live without servants and run around naked if I wanted to. What had mankind invented washing machines, vacuum cleaners and electric hedge cutters for? But in South Africa just about everything was done by hand. "We have to give work to the blacks," Hannes had said one day. "It's true that machines are more reliable, don't steal and don't consume a kilogram of sugar per week, but just imagine millions of unemployed blacks not able to buy warm clothes when it is cold, and their children dying of hunger."

_So whitey only has servants to keep the blacks alive and happy? The propaganda department has probably also worked out why blacks just love to live in 'locations' and are delighted to go to jail when they are caught without a passbook_.

It was one of those blissful days when everybody seems to be happy. At school even Miss Pembleton smiled at me and Mrs Davies looked as if she wanted to kiss me, when I suggested a Bavarian _Biergarten_ for the school fete.

"We can't serve beer. That is _verboten_ ," she said." But German cakes would be _sehr_ _gut_ , _sehr_ _gut_."

I nearly had a fit of laughter every time I heard her accent. I was also German, but I didn't speak like that, or did I?

"I can make _Linzer_ _Torte_ and _Käsekuchen_."

"Cheesecake! Lekker, lekker, my girl. We'll ask Mrs Koekemoer if we can use the school kitchen. You can teach the girls, ja ja. I'll have to find some other occupation for the boys, _natürlich_."

_Of course, when it comes to preparing food, males can only be chefs in restaurants and braaivleis bosses_.

"I could also do the decoration," I suggested. "Paint the beer garden and do some _Bauernmalerei_ – that was to skip some of those boring biology and history lessons.

"What a brilliant idea, _sehr_ _gut_ , _sehr_ _gut_. With that some boys could give you a hand, ja ja."

I was sitting on the carpet tailor fashion, and the little bird was nibbling between my lips when Mr Perlman came to check if Marieke and I were still all right. He always wore impeccable suits and today's tie had neat little black and yellow squares on it. He observed the feeding with considerable interest.

"May I sit down, young lady?"

"Mhmmm," I nodded with my mouth full of bread.

He drew up a chair, sat down and lit a cigarette. "So how is life without a man in the house?" He winked.

"Mhmmm."

"Lucky animal, to be able to feed from those lovely lips." He winked again. Little beads of sweat appeared on his half bald head.

_Why is he sweating? It's not that hot_.

The dove kept on pecking between my lips. Mr Perlman moistened the end of his cigarette. "By the way, my name is Roderick." Wink. "People who are very close to me call me Roddy." Wink.

_What's this guy winking for all the time? Looks like a nervous tick. He should take some Baldrian to calm himself down – mebbe that would also stop his eyes jumping from my lips to my lap_.

Mr Perlman Roderick Roddy took a deep draw from his wet cigarette, swallowed and announced: "I've always liked..."

At that moment Marieke walked in. "Good afternoon Roderick, isn't it a beautiful day?"

She shot a murderous look at me – sitting in tailor fashion – and said with a sugary voice: "Won't you get me that big red book from the top shelf, my girl?"

_You old witch, now I have to get up_.

Mr Perlman left shortly afterwards, reminding us that we just had to knock at his door if we needed help – or anything. Wink.

"I wonder if Roderick thinks I'm getting too old to look after myself," Marieke remarked. "Sometimes we don't see him for 6 months at a time and now he comes over every day, just because Hannes is not here."

Kim, Peggy the non leg shaver, Jason the maths genius and Brian the prefect had been chosen to help me decorate the gymnasium for the school fete. The ambiance was great because we had already missed Mr Brown's boring history lesson and half of Mr Cuthbert's maths revision.

"During the last Christmas holidays my folks and I went to my uncle's game farm in the Klaserie," Jason was saying while cutting a long piece of wallpaper off a big roll. "One afternoon the game ranger, old Tony, came along and told us to be careful because there were some cheeky young lions roaming around."

"What, there are real wild lions on that farm?" I asked, helping Kim to hang up some garlands.

"Ja," Jason said. "You get the Big Five there."

"The Big Five! What's that?"

Peggy gave me a pitiful look from the height of the chair, where she was putting prestik on the wall. "I guess in Germany you don't get many wild animals, in any case not the same ones as we do here. The Big Five are: lion, elephant, rhino, leopard and buffalo."

"Wow," I was impressed.

Brian climbed down from a ladder and said:"A cousin of mine is a game ranger in Kenya. You should see him. The guy knows all the spoore. He can tell by the look of a footprint how long ago which animal walked past at what speed and what it had to eat..."

"For that you have to check the dung," Kim interrupted. "Come and help me move that bench, Brian, we need to stick up some more paper in that corner there."

"You know that they found a piece of mammoth crap in the arctic or somewhere not so long ago," Peggy contributed. "Now they are analysing what those mammoths lived on. Imagine, after all those thousands of years."

"I wonder how big that droll is," Brian said. "Mammoths were humongous beasts." He rolled out some more wallpaper on the floor. "Just pass me the scissors please, Mathilda. The biggest heap of shit I've ever seen came out of an elephant and that was already quite impressive."

"Ja, Mathilda," Jason grinned. "Do yourself a favour and visit a game reserve. You can't leave this country without having seen a nice, fat elephant droll."

A good part of the gymnasium walls was covered with beigeish paper by now.

"I reckon this is enough," Kim said.

"Ja, let's start painting," Peggy suggested. "What does one need for a German beer garden atmosphere, Mathilda?"

"Some chestnut trees with coloured light bulbs... mebbe we can also use some real light bulbs...Mrs Davies said beer is out of the question for the school fete, but we can paint some _Masskrüge_ , that's 1 litre beer mugs..."

"...and a Bavarian barmaid with big boobs carrying them," Brian suggested.

"Hells bells, do you never stop talking about shit and boobs?" I asked.

"I thought you Germans were so liberated," Brian answered.

"I guess we are – and that's why we get over our anal phase when we are 4, and after that we can concentrate on other things."

"Like sex?" Jason asked.

Phhhhhhh

Mr Perlman came before I even had time to take my school uniform off. His carroty hair was extra carefully arranged across his head and he wore an orange tie with blue and yellow stripes.

"How is your little bird?"

"All right."

"It should be thriving on the special treatment it gets." Wink.

Here we go again. He definitely needs some Baldrian, but what is Baldrian in English?

"Do you know any German, Mr Perlman?"

"Oh ja, _ich_ _liebe_ _dich_." Wink.

_Phhhh, very original_.

Mr Perlman lit a cigarette. "Ja, I learned some German at school when I was still young" – wink – "and strong, hahaha... But as they say: use it or loose it." Wink, wink. He eyed me from my head to my toes. "In my day the girls' school skirts covered their knees"

"Female fashion has come a long way since your day, Mr Perlman."

He pulled on his wet cigarette. "Yes my dear, but certain things don't change. The essence of a school gym for example." Wink. Little drops of sweat rolled along the few strands of his hair. "There is this unique blossoming with the promise of the fruit. And the desire to be the first one to pick it." Wink. Wink.

That's enough!

"I have to do my homework now, Mr Perlman."

"Maybe I can help you?" Wink.

"I doubt it. I've got to make 4 button holes by hand with 4 different stitches."

"Oh, I see. You'll be a good little wife to a lucky husband one day." Wink. "If there is anything I can do for you" – wink – "you must be quite lonely... all by yourself in a foreign country." Wink.

"I'm okay Mr Perlman."

He extended a limp hand. "Don't forget, Roddy is always available to help a pretty girl." Wink.

"Bye, Mr Perlman. By the way, seeing that you are so much into fruit, we've got a whole basket full of fresh oranges. Please do take one. They are lovely. Full of vitamins."

Marieke arrived with a new hairstyle, shorter and much better although far too artificial for my taste, but Afrikaaner women seemed to love to carry heaps of perm on their heads. She told Paulina to get the groceries out of the car and poured herself some Wincarnis. Since Hannes had left the Wincarnis bottle was never far away from my host mother. She said it was a fortifying medicine for elderly ladies. I had tried one schluck and noticed it was quite potent stuff.

"I got us some warmbrakke for supper," Marieke announced. "Of course I would never do that if Hannes was here, because there is nothing like a good, hearty meal to keep a man happy. So when you are married, Mathilda, don't expect your husband to live on warmbrakke."

"What's that, warrrmbrrakke ?"

Marieke swallowed some Wincarnis. "It's about time you started to learn some Afrikaans, my girl. Warrrm is warm and a brrrak is a dog, plural brrrakke, so warrrmbrrrakke are hot dogs."

_Gee, sounds as if she is gargling_.

After the warmbrakke Marieke said she needed an early night and went straight to bed. I read the 'Dark Side of the Rainbow', the book the violet eyed lady had given me on the bus. It was full of stories and poems by black writers telling about life of black people in South Africa:

men leaving their families to work on the mines, living in hostels, 20 guys in a dormitory, sleeping on concrete bunks, sweating their souls out 200 meters under ground;

women pounding mielies in the kraal, drums thudding through the bush, herd boys looking after the cattle;

police raids in the townships in the middle of the night;

the song of the village praise singer;

THE STRUGGLE, exile, Robben Island;

the spirits of the ancestors, helping the living or destroying them;

detribalized people in Soweto and other townships, struggling along, trying to keep their dignity...

Each word written with blood hope and tears.

It was midnight when I switched the lights off, having touched the shadows of a universe unknown to me, right here in my host country.

*

In my dream I was decorating the school for the fete. Mr Martin helped me to hang up a lime green garland with golden spirals on it. We had run out of prestik but he said:"No problem, I've got some chewing gum." He fixed the garland with a huge orange wad to the wall. When he pulled his hand back an orange filigree grew out of his palm. In the middle of the filigree sat the Dominee like a big fat spider. The little dove flew by in an elegant curve and picked the Dominee's eye out. One of the dove's feathers sprouted through the empty socket, entangling Mr Perlman's feet. He broke into a nervous giggle. Sweat poured down his face, collecting in a puddle, that soon grew into a glassy ocean. The ocean dissolved Mr Perlman's clothes. His whole body was covered in freckles and his little wrinkly penis peeked out of some thinnish, carroty hair. "It's Hannes who is bird watching, not me," said Marieke indignantly. Perlman answered:"You may have boobs like a Bavarian barmaid but you are not entitled to any treats because you have crossed the colour line." Marieke looked at herself and screamed. She was as black as Paulina. The violet eyed lady from the bus appeared with a burning magic candle. "Don't worry," she comforted Marieke,"under the skin we are all pink." Marieke stared at her stupefied. "I have never thought about it that way. Let's have a look." She started to peel her skin off. "Now that is quite fascinating, said Perlman. "I hate freckles." And he rolled his skin off like a panty hose. Miss Pembleton grabbed the 2 hides and stated:" These are ideal for new school uniforms. "We'll need some additional material for the school tie." "Ja natürlich," said Mrs Davies. "What about that?" asked Mr Martin and pointed into the air. Rosie, the caretaker's dog, rode on a pink bicycle across the sky. The yellow fur on the shaved patches around her stitches had started to re-grow. "Young bitches shouldn't ride on bicycles," growled the head boy. "Anyway, that'll give us a nice colour scheme," said Miss Pembleton and pulled out a revolver.

It was the crashing of Rosie's bike on the ground that woke me up.

I looked drowsily around the room. A silvery moonbeam lit the little dove's cage. The dove was sleeping on its perch. I grinned sleepily.

Well done birdie, to pull the Dominee's eye out.

I yawned.

_That old witch Pembleton is capable of murder just for a school tie. She doesn't know it yet but she'll braai in hell one day. Poor Rosie is still whimpering_.

I turned into a block of ice. There _was_ a dog whimpering and it wasn't Rosie and it was right here in the house. I heard it again.

Shit, if the whimper in my dream was a real one then what about that crash I just heard?

I sat up and listened to the night. There the whimper was again. I slid under the blanket and pulled it over my head.

_A burglary! Somebody has smashed a window and given poison to the dogs. They are dying. That's why they are whimpering. Mebbe there is a whole gang of murderers in the house_.

My heartbeat shook every atom of my being. The whole universe could hear it.

There was that whine again. This time louder. I never knew that terror consists of cold explosions and hot waves inundating your body, pulling your skin tight to tearing point and flattening every brain cell against your skull. My T-shirt was already sopping wet with sweat. A double howl floated through the house.

_Heiliger Bimbam! Hitchcock, you can retire_.

The dogs howled and howled and howled again.

_Mebbe the gangsters have left... otherwise they would make the dogs shut up.... Hell, I can't lie here and wet my brooks. I'll have to do something_.

The moment I had made up my mind I felt better. A sort of cool calm came over me as I opened my door in slow motion and carefully tiptoed through the house. The moon shone through a window and dipped the passage into a cold, colourless light. The dogs were still whining. Sounded as if they were in Marieke's room. How did they get there? They normally slept in the hall. I grabbed a knobkerrie from Hannes' collection out of the big wicker basket opposite the study. The moonlight faded the more I advanced, and I moved deeper into a tunnel of shades of grey, ending in a pitch black hole. A floorboard creaked. I stopped. Listened to my heartbeat – other than that – absolute silence. I opened Marieke's door slowly slowly. Hintsa came to lick my hand. Shaka sat in the gap of the not quite closed bathroom door. The bathroom lamp cast a yellow beam on him. He heaved his big body heavily towards me as if a ton of lead was sitting on his chest. On the white tiles of the bathroom floor a puddle of blood spread its crimson fingers.

I think I screamed. I switched the light on. A revolver was lying on the bedside table.

_Shit, the murder weapon! The gangsters left it here_.

I quickly threw it into a drawer. If they came back they wouldn't shoot _me_ with it, the bastards. The puddle on the floor grew bigger. Shaka returned to his old position in the door. I wasn't so brave.

_I must go and look what is going on in that bathroom_.

Shaka whined.

I must.

A night jar screamed.

I must.

I went. The door was blocked. I couldn't open it any further.

Has Marieke fallen against it?

I couldn't put my head through the gap. "Marieke, can you hear me? It's me, Mathilda..." No answer. I tried to push the door with my body but it didn't move. The puddle on the floor grew bigger. In places it began to coagulate into a dark red gluey mass. Vivid fresh blood oozed silently along the grooves between the tiles.

_Quickly. It's all a matter of time. If she's still alive she needs a doctor fast_.

I left the whimpering dogs and ran to the telephone in the hall.

_The number of the hospital or the Notrufdienst. What the hell is Notrufdienst in English? And where is that bloody directory_?

I couldn't find it. I took the receiver off the hook and stared at the shiny black contraption. It stared expressionless back at me, yapping its stupid noise.

Fat lot of help. Marieke's address book! But where does she keep it? I don't have time to look for it. And I don't even know the number of 'dial a number'... hell! I don't know anybody's number in this country.

I sprinted back to Marieke's room. All of a sudden a terrifying thought shot through my brain.

_My fingerprints are on that gun! They'll think it was me and I'll rot in jail... Bullshit. I'm getting crazy... I must get her out then it won't be murder_.

The dogs were still sitting at the bathroom door. A groan came from the other side.

"Marieke? Marieke, I'm here. Don't worry, everything is all right."

_Understatement of the century_.

I tried to move the door again. No go. A big part of the puddle was solid now, dark and shiny, with little threads of bright red blood flowing the way of least resistance.

_She is still bleeding. I must get a doctor...fast... but I should also stay with her...and I must...Paulina! I need Paulina to help me_.

Outside I could smell the sea.

_Blood is nearly like seawater, but blood is thicker than water. The ocean doesn't coagulate. Only in dreams. Maybe this is all a shitty dream. I want to wake up_.

The grass under my feet was cold and wet with dew.

_They won't put me in jail because the forensic guys know what they are doing. They'll see other fingerprints on that gun and Paulina will be my witness_.

I knocked at her window. No reply. Her door wasn't locked. "Paulina." Still no reply.

_Boetie, can she snore_.

I slid my hand across the dark, cool wall until I found the light switch.

Paulina sat up like a rocket and pulled the blanket up to her chin. She looked at me, horrified. Next to her lay a black man sleeping. _He_ was the snorer.

"Paulina, the Madam is sick. Come fast, as fast as you can."

There was still fresh blood creeping across the tiles.

She must have lost a litre by now. How many litres of blood does an adult have again? 4 or 5...

Paulina came running, wearing one of her uniforms.

"Paulina, help me push that door."

It didn't budge. On the other side Marieke grunted.

"Paulina, where is the telephone directory?"

"The Master took it to the post office the other day to get a new one."

Fat luck. It's probably collecting dust in some forlorn place in Botswana right now.

Marieke groaned.

"Paulina, we need a doctor. I'll go to Perlman."

Shit, it's in the middle of the night, he'll think I am a burglar. He'll shoot me as soon as...

"Mathilda, you must not go out there in the dark. I can call Eunice, the maid of Master Smith next door. Her kaya is right next to the hedge. Then she can tell Master Smith and he can phone the hospital."

"Brilliant idea Paulina, hurry."

The time until the emergency people came seemed like an eternity. Marieke groaned and grunted every now and then - at least she was still alive. I talked to her, accompanied by the whines and whimpers of the dogs. The flow of fresh blood diminished.

Is that a good sign or a bad sign?

"Marieke, everything is going to be all right. There is a specialist on his way to help you. He'll be here in a few moments. Be strong. Just a couple of minutes more."

Groan. Snort. Whine. Silence. Groan. Howl.

_Lieber Gott. If this is ever going to end I'll be kind to everybody...even to Perlman and to Miss Pembleton... and to myself, and I'll_ ...

"Marieke, I can hear them coming. You can relax now. Everything is fine."

Paulina led a black man and a coloured into the room.

Gott sei dank. They can take over now.

My knees started to shake. In fact I was trembling from my toes to my eyeballs. I couldn't even see straight anymore.

"Where is the patient?" The coloured asked.

"Behind that door there but one can't open it any further. She must have fallen against it."

"Hau, this is a lot of blood," the black man commented.

"Ja, we better unhinge that door fast," the coloured said.

I held the dogs back and the men lifted the door. Marieke was lying in a strange way on her side, the skin of her forehead split open and cuts from a broken blue glass in her right forearm. There were splinters of glass everywhere and blood all over the show. I think I screamed again.

"But the lady is white," said the coloured man.

"Ja she is white, so what?" I said.

They leaned the door against the bedroom wall.

"We are a non white ambulance."

"How do you mean a non white ambulance?"

"We can only transport non white people."

_This is a dream. This can only be a nightmare_.

"But you must do something. She is nearly dead. Can't you see?"

"Sorry Miss, we are not allowed to help a white person."

Please, please, why can't I wake up?

"Are you saying there is an ambulance right in front of the house and there is life saving stuff in it and you are medically trained and you'll let her die?"

"It's the law, Miss."

_This can't be true_.

"I'm not interested I the bloody law. Do something."

"We can call the white ambulance."

The 2 men dashed outside to their radio. The dogs howled. I could hardly hold them anymore.

"Paulina take the dogs into the kitchen and make some tea, please. There is nothing else you can do right now."

I looked at the scene.

_There will be a criminal investigation. We mustn't disturb any evidence_.

Groan.

She needs some comforting. Fuck the laws.

I knelt down right in the middle of the blood and the splinters and I took Marieke's hand and stroked it. In the gap in her forehead I could see the bone of her skull.

_Under the skin we are all pink...in this country nobody gives a damn. Fucking rotten place_.

Marieke's blood was sticky and cold. A peacock screamed outside. Marieke didn't groan anymore. I put my hand on her ribs. Her chest still moved. For how long?

"Marieke only some more minutes..."

I've said that before. She won't believe me anymore if she can hear me. She could be in hospital by now. Why don't these guys hurry up?

The peacock screamed again.

When the 'white' ambulance arrived, Marieke was hardly breathing at all. 2 white men in smart uniforms put her on a stretcher. I held the drip.

"Name and date of birth of the patient, please."

_Good heavens. Why the hell do they waste time with that Korinthenkacker stuff_.

"Shouldn't you..."

_I better shut up. It's probably the law. Chiselled in stone and unchangeable. Even in the face of death_.

I told them everything I knew.

"Any ailments?"

"High blood pressure."

"I thought so," said the taller guy. "She had a stroke and collapsed with that glass in her hand."

"What?"

"It happens to people with high blood pressure. Stroke out of the blue."

"You mean she wasn't shot, nobody tried to kill her?"

"No, no Miss. She had a stroke."

That was when I started to cry.

The cops won't come to investigate my fingerprints on the gun. I'm not a murder suspect anymore. I won't rot in jail. I...

The smaller guy grabbed the drip I was holding and said:" You better sit down, Miss. It was all a bit much for you. I'll give you a little thing to swallow. Just relax. Everything is all right now."

_Stupid fool. Nothing will ever be the same again_.

They left in a hurry with flashing lights and screaming tyres.

Big deal.

I threw the pills they had given me into the toilet and flushed them down with all the stuff that I vomited.

I don't want to have anything to do with this bloody place anymore. If I could I'd even stop breathing until I get out of this fucking country. I'll take the first plane I can get tomorrow.

Paulina was sitting miserably at the kitchen table, a mug of untouched tea in front of her. She looked at me with desperation in her eyes. Her face was ashen grey.

_Sjoe, I never thought a black person could turn so grey. Looks kind of spooky_.

"Relax Paulina. Everything is fine now."

_How often am I still going to say this tonight_?

"And thanks for coming so fast, Paulina. I couldn't have done it on my own. You were a great help."

Paulina sighed.

"Come on Paulina. Cheer up. You've done a marvellous job and Marieke is with a doctor right now. She'll be nearly like new in a week or 2."

I hope.

Paulina sighed again. "Do you want some hot chocolate, Mathilda?"

"No thanks Paulina, but I'll have some tea."

The tea in the teapot was cold.

"I'll make some fresh tea for you, Mathilda."

"Don't worry Paulina, I'll just heat this one up."

Paulina jumped up. "No no. I'll do it." She grabbed the teapot. Her hands were trembling so much that she spilled tea all over the table.

_Poor old thing. She is in a state of shock. Maybe blood means a bad omen in her culture. I should have kept some of these pink pills for her_.

"Paulina calm down. Everything is all right."

Ha ha ha

"Do you want some hot milk with honey?"

"No thank you, Mathilda."

Big tears rolled down her cheeks.

"I'll get some druppels for you."

"No Mathilda, I don't want druppels." Her face was amazingly pale. She looked like a ghost.

_Good Lord. I hope I won't have to go through that ambulance business again_.

"Paulina, you can't stay like this. You look sick. Why don't you take some of your muti? Or maybe a hot water bottle would do you good."

"No no, Mathilda." She sighed again. And the tears kept on rolling.

I could see she fought some internal battle.

Seems to be quite serious. Has maybe got something to do with the ancestors. Hadn't Levy-Strauss or some ethnologist seen people die like flies because they believed some evil spirit had taken up residence in their bodies?

"Mathilda, I want to talk to you."

"Ok, let's talk."

_Anything, as long as I don't have to call an ambulance again_.

Paulina sat up straight and took a deep breath. "Mathilda please, you must never tell the Master or anybody about the man in my room."

_The guy must be a witch doctor! Paulina thinks all that happened tonight is her fault because she has a witchdoctor sleeping in her bed_.

"Listen Paulina, what happened to Marieke just now is nobody's fault. She had a stroke. That means she started bleeding inside her head. There is nothing you or I could have done to prevent it."

"I'm not talking about the Madam. I am talking about the man in my room."

"Ja, the witchdoctor."

Her eyes nearly popped out. "He is not a witchdoctor. He is my husband."

"Wow Paulina, that's great. Maybe you should go back to him right now. That would make you feel better."

Sigh.

"Or go and fetch him and we all have some tea together, if you'd like that." I got up. "What should I make? Rooibos or Ceylon or..."

She started to cry again. "Mathilda, you don't understand."

"Understand what?"

"He is my husband."

"Ja, you told me. And he is not a witchdoctor."

"And he doesn't work here."

"Well, I know that too 'cause I've never seen him around."

"Mathilda, he is not allowed to be here." Her voice faded into a whisper. "If anybody finds out we'll both go to jail."

"But Paulina, you said he is your husband. Surely married people can sleep together in the same room without getting arrested."

"Here in the white suburb we can only do that if we both work for the same Master and if we both have permission to stay on his premises. And Solomon doesn't stay here and he hasn't got a permit." She started to cry again.

"But Paulina, if he is visiting surely nobody can say anything. What's the use of being married if you can't see each other. Maybe you've got it a bit wrong."

"Mathilda, I see you don't know this country, but I know what I am talking about. It happened to my sister and her husband. They both went to jail."

_Can't be true. I'm getting crazy. Nightmare, nightmare, nightmare of a nightmare_.

"But Paulina, that is terrible. Of course I won't say anything, ever...But I don't understand..."

"Nor do I Mathilda, nor do I."

And we both wept together.

*

There was a telephone number on my aeroplane ticket. The lady of the air company said: "Gooie môre. Good morning. Kan ek U help?"

"I hope so. I want to change my flight back to Germany from August next year to tomorrow, or even better today, the soonest possible."

The doorbell rang.

_Verdammter Mist. If this is Perlman I'm going to kick his slimy face in in spite of last night's resolutions_.

"...and you'll have to come to our office to have your flight changed," the lady said.

"Pardon?"

"We can't change a flight over the phone. You'll have to come to our office..."

The dogs barked. I heard Paulina talking to a man but it was not Perlman. They spoke Xhosa but I could tell by the sound of the guy's voice that he wasn't black.

_What the hell is going on out there? Probably a cop arresting Paulina for having her husband in her bed_.

"...you'll have to pay a fee to change your ticket..."

_But white cops don't speak African languages to blacks. They brawl in Afrikaans_.

All of a sudden the man exploded in laughter and Paulina chuckled.

_A cop would probably not laugh like that either_.

I told the air company lady that I would phone her later.

At the front door a man in his 40s was folded in 2 by laughter. Paulina was holding onto a pillar of the front stoep giggling like a mad horse. The man was dressed in a blue safari suit. He had dark brown hair with a couple of silvery strands in it. He had dark blue eyes, a lusty nose, sensuous lips and a beard. He was one of those finely boned athletic guys with broad shoulders and narrow hips, and he radiated a lot of energy.

"Hello blondie," he said between some final chuckles.

_Phhh, they aren't only racist here they are also sexist_.

"My name is Mathilda and I am not a blondie."

His expression changed completely, from the big grin to puzzlement to something like – compassion?

"Sorry my girl...Mathilda. You've had a dreadful night." He smiled. "You probably still feel a bit shaky. Everybody would." He took my hand. "We are all very proud of you."

I felt tears welling up from somewhere inside me.

No no no, not now. I'm not going to cry.

"Don't worry," the man said. "After a bit of sleep and some good food the world will look brighter again."

I heard myself sniffle and bit my lips. The roses in the front garden became blurred patches of red, pink, white and yellow. I felt tears running down my face.

_Ah hell_ ...

The man took me in his arms. It felt warm and safe and he smelled of cloves and leather. "It's all right Mathilda, everything is fine my girl." He rocked me gently. I wanted to stay there forever. He pulled a hanky out of his pocket. "Here, use this. It's good to cry Mathilda. Takes the pressure out of the system. Better to shed some tears than to develop a bloody ulcer."

I blew my nose. "Uh...who are you?"

"Sorry my girl, I forgot to introduce myself." He gave me a hearty handshake and grinned. "Ludwig Winter, pleased to meet you."

I blew my nose again. "And uh...how do you know about what happened here last night?"

"Fred Collins, the president of the Rotary Club told me."

"Ah, and how did he know?"

"His son Dylan is a doctor at the hospital they took Marieke to. He was on duty when she arrived. They all know each other, of course. Ja, Marieke lost a lot of blood but they managed to stabilize her."

"And the stroke?"

"She can't move her right hand side. But stroke patients can recover quite a bit. A good physiotherapist can do wonders."

"Ah."

"By the way Mathilda, I'm here to fetch you."

"Huh?"

He smiled. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. I'm your new host father."

"Oh."

"If you want to pack your things now I can come back later, but if you feel like..."

"Thank you very much but it won't be necessary."

"Listen my girl, nobody expects you to stay here all by yourself. Paulina can look after the house until Hannes comes back. We can't contact him out in the bush, but it doesn't really matter. Marieke is in good hands and..."

I felt terribly tired all of a sudden. "It's not that. I'm going back to Germany today or tomorrow."

Ludwig's eyebrows jumped up to his hairline. "Why would you do that?" he asked gently.

"I don't want to have anything to do with this country anymore."

He looked at me with inquisitive eyes. His blue irises had black circles around them. "Hm. Maybe we should talk about this. How about going inside and discussing the whole thing? Is there any coffee in the house, Paulina?"

Paulina was still leaning against the pillar. "Ja, Master."

All of a sudden the dogs ran down the drive way and started to bark.

"There is somebody at the gate, Master."

"Ok, let's go and see who it is."

An elderly gentleman walked towards us.

"It's Master Smith, Master."

_So he is the guy who called the ambulance last night_.

Mr Smith lifted his hat and greeted us. "So Paulina, already back from the hospital? It wasn't so bad then after all."

Paulina looked at him with big eyes.

"Paulina didn't go to the hospital. Marieke is there now," I explained.

Mr Smith turned white under his tan. "Oh my God...I thought......I'm so sorry......I didn't......know... You see, my maid woke me up in the middle of the night and said I must phone the ambulance for Paulina, and of course I told them it was for a black person. I hope...how is Marieke?"

"She is getting the best possible care," Ludwig said.

"That's good, that's good," the old man mumbled. "Well, I came to ask if Marieke wanted to borrow my maid for a while...ehm, I see, that won't be necessary. Oh God, I'm so sorry." He left repeating that he was sorry. Poor guy. All he had wanted to do was to help.

Ludwig and I sat down in the lounge. Outside, little white clouds were sailing across the sky. Jacob, the gardener was leaning on his broom doing nothing and one could hear the plop plop of a ball on Perlman's tennis court.

"I guess this ambulance story has got something to do with your decision to go home," Ludwig said.

"Mmh."

"Must have been a bloody awful experience."

"This whole crazy country is a bloody awful experience. I should never have come here in the first place. I can't understand how anybody can live in this damn totalitarian place and why nobody is doing anything about it."

"Woah woah Mathilda, there is no need to shout the whole neighbourhood down."

Paulina came in with a tray. Ludwig poured the coffee. "Sugar? Milk? Have a crunchy. Paulina makes the best." He stirred 2 teaspoons of sugar into his cup and took a couple of schlucks. "Ahhh, this is good stuff. How old is your father?"

"Huh? My father? Hm, he was born in 1929 so he is turning 46 this year."

"And did he ever kick Hitler in the balls?

_You arrogant poep. This is not fair. I'll kick you in the balls if you don't stop_.

"South Africa is not an easy country to live in, Mathilda, and you coming from Germany where Jews were gassed by the millions should understand that the situation here might be more complex than it seems from the outside."

"The concentration camps didn't have anything to do with me. I was born long after the war."

"I know. But how did your grandparents and other relatives get through that time? How many of them grasped what was going on? How many did anything against it?"

_Phhh – of course he's got a point there_.

"But it wasn't as evident as here," I said. "Lots of people didn't even know what was going on."

_Hard to believe, but that's what they say_.

"I mean here every day of your life you see these signs 'Whites only' and to sit on the wrong seat on the bus is a major crime and even..."

"In Berlin everybody knew where the ghetto was and the Jews wore yellow stars," Ludwig said. "Mathilda, you've got a choice. You can run away or you can stay and watch and tell the world. If there is no pressure from the outside this country won't come right in a long, long time."

"There are already stacks of journalists reporting about South Africa all over the show."

"So put one more oar in the water. And as an exchange student you'll get to see things no journalist ever sees."

One of the clouds in the sky had the shape of a fat crocodile.

_Maybe he's right_.

The cloud slowly changed into a dancing elephant.

"Mmh, I'll think about it."

I packed my rucksack and my sea sack and gave Paulina a Bavarian cowbell as a gift. She giggled. "Hau, that's the thing they used to call us to school with."

"Where I come from they put bells like this on the cows and then they always know where the cows are walking."

"Hau!"

I put the dove in the aviary. "Cheers birdie. I promise you won't have to live locked up like this all your life. As soon as you are big enough you can fly where ever you want."

Paulina gave me a big parcel. "Some sandwiches for the journey."

"Thanks Paulina, but I don't really need them."

"It's always good to have some food when one is travelling."

"But Paulina..."

The doorbell rang. It was Ludwig. He smiled in a curiously serious way at me.

"Where do we go? To the airport or to my home?"

"To your place."

His face lit up to a luminous smile. "I'm glad you decided to stay, Mathilda."

***

The Winters lived in a suburb on the southern side of the Chinesese shop. Here the gardens were a bit smaller and the trees growing in them not as old. The houses were big but not grandiose. Hibiscus bushes lined the grassy sidewalks and big stretches of bush cut into suburbia.

Ludwig's place was surrounded by a high white wall. The driveway led past a long, single storey, L-shaped house. Several balls and other toys were strewn around and a half finished dinghy stood on trestles next to a lemon tree. A brown spaniel appeared barking from a huge wooden shed in the back and a black Labrador shot out from under a bush, nearly flattening the gardener, who was trimming the lawn.

"The spaniel is called Schnappsi because he drinks my booze, and the other dog is called Clochard because we found him in a dustbin and also because some of my wife's ancestors were French," Ludwig explained while he parked the car in front of a double garage.

The house was whitewashed and surrounded by flowerbeds. The sound of some classical music floated through the big windows and somebody inside accompanied the orchestra with an enthusiastic soprano. We entered through the back door into a spacious kitchen. A longhaired grey cat was lying on a wooden table in the centre. "Shove off Doodles," Ludwig chased it away. "You can sleep somewhere else."

I stepped carefully over the lego blocks on the tiled floor and followed Ludwig along a passage. The walls were plastered with children's drawings and photos, with prints of Gauguins and old maps. We went past several bedrooms and bathrooms and a carved wooden giraffe as tall as myself. Ludwig pushed the door to the main bedroom open. A slim woman in her 30s with copperish curly hair stood on top of a ladder, holding a paintbrush. She was in the process of adding some violet to a flood of wisteria she had painted onto the ceiling. The record player went full blast and the woman on the ladder as well, in duetto with the aria singer. On the huge double bed a little kid was busy trying to put a bra over her T-shirt. Ludwig turned the music down, which didn't stop the lady on the ladder from singing the last bit of the aria on top of her voice, waving at us. She ended in a forceful trill.

Ludwig smiled at her and said: "Julie, I love it when you sing, my darl, you've got the most beautiful voice." He looked at the ceiling. "And your flowers are gorgeous too."

The kid had left the bed and the bra. Ludwig picked her up. She pointed at me: "Who is that, Dad?"

"This is Mathilda..."

"Oh, the girl who saved Marieke's life," said my new host mother. She stormed down the ladder and smacked a noisy kiss on each of my cheeks. "How brave you are."

The kid stared at me with intense blue eyes. "My name is Loctudy," she said. "Do you have a bra on?"

Nobody will ever catch me wearing a bra. Who wants to imprison their body?

"No, I haven't got a bra on."

Loctudy frowned. "My mom sometimes puts a bra on. I also want one, but my mom says I don't need one until I've grown some boobs."

"Your mom is a wise lady."

The kid checked my front. "Mebbe your boobs must grow a bit more too. Wanta see my tree house?"

Ludwig and Julie laughed.

"Let's first get Mathilda's luggage in," Ludwig suggested. "Lolo, you can show her where she is going to sleep."

Lolo's blonde corkscrew locks bounced around her head as she ran down the passage. My new room had a coir carpet and half a dozen hides on the floor. The bed and the cupboard were painted blue. An ancient school bench stood against one of the walls and a table covered with traces of dried paint and glue stood in front of the window. Outside was a big stoep decorated with flowerpots, hurricane lanterns and mobiles; the lawn stretched to a kidney shaped swimming pool in which several little sailboats and a huge blow-up crocodile were floating. 2 hammocks were suspended between some trees, and the red roof of a tree house peeped out between the branches of a blue gum.

I smiled to myself: I like it here.

A thin, brown skinned woman carried my rucksack into the room. Lolo informed me that this was Opheibia from Graaff Reinet, whose mother tongue was Xhosa , but that she had learned a lot of English since she had started to work for the Winter family, and she also made the best fudge in the world, 'specially chocolate fudge'. Ludwig brought my sea sack.

"I'm getting hungry," he said. "What's for lunch, Opheibia?"

"I don't know, Master. The Madam didn't tell me to cook."

Ludwig seemed neither surprised nor annoyed. "Ok, let's organize something."

I pulled Paulina's parcel out of my belongings. "Here are stacks of sandwiches. Paulina thought I'd starve in transit without some padkos."

"Looks like there is enough for all of us," Ludwig grinned. "Go and wash your hands, Lolo honey bunny."

"Hey Dad, my name is not honey bunny. My name is Pippi Longstocking Supergirl."

"Ok, Pippi Longstocking Supergirl, wash your hands and ask Opheibia to bring the olives, please."

I had hardly slept all night and only eaten a crunchy all day. After half a tuna sandwich I retired to my room and fell asleep before I had even taken my clothes off. When I woke up, elephants, lions and rhinos were staring at me. The whole wall along the bed was covered in animal posters and paintings. I turned round and looked into 2 dark blue eyes.

"Does your bath water in the northern hemisphere go clockwise or anti-clockwise down the drain?" a girl's voice asked.

"Hm, I really don't know."

"But you must. It's very important."

"Hm. Really?"

"Ja, you see, Tracy from my class has just come back from England and she says there it turns anti-clockwise and I've just seen that in our bath it turns clockwise. Do you think Tracy is right or is she fibbing?"

"I haven't got a clue, but if you want to put the question to my family we can send them a letter."

"Ok. How many brothers and sisters do you have?"

"2 brothers and 2 sisters."

"Wow, I've only got Lolo and Joshua but I am the eldest. Lolo is still a baby, she is only 4, and Joshua is 7. I'm already 8."

"Oh I see, and what's your name?"

"Greta, like Greta Garbo. She was a great actress. My dad loves acting. Do you like rocks?"

"Rocks?"

"Ja, rocks...like stones. You get very pretty ones. If you help me send that letter to your family I'll show you my collection."

When it got dark Julie asked me if I'd like to help Lolo with her bath.

"Ja sure."

"Oh great; then let's get organized." Julie took a little box out of a kitchen drawer and gave me some money. "Here are the coins..."

_Huh_?

"...now we need the flippers." She turned to the maid. "Opheibia, do you know where the flippers are?"

"Maybe on the stoep, Madam, maybe in the tree house, maybe in the dog house, maybe..."

"Ok ok, Opheibia. Just go into the garden and ask Joshua to look for them."

I watched all this like an anthropologist doing a field study of a foreign tribe.

First money, then flippers! What else does one need in this house to have a bath?

Lolo was already in the bathroom. Her clothes were lying in a heap on the floor.

"I want my goggles, Mom."

"All right Supergirl, go and fetch them."

"Uh...what must I do with these coins?" I asked.

"Oh," Julie burst out laughing. "Of course you can't know. Lolo fell off the pier in the harbour last year. Ever since she's been scared of water. So we make her dive for coins in the bath and invent all sorts of games to help her overcome her fear."

A blond boy came in with the flippers and a sailboat made out of a piece of plank, a piece of broomstick and a piece of sheet.

"Are you the girl from Germany?"

"Yep."

"Lousy place. I wouldn't like to live there."

"Really? Why not?"

"They haven't even got a decent ocean there. My dad showed me on the map. They've got a bit of North Sea and then there is the Baltic Sea and that's a pisswilly little puddle. When I am big I am going to sail around the world on the biiig oceans like Joshua Slocum. I've already built 3 yachts." He held the plank boat in front of my nose. "This here is the _Spray lll_."

"Great boat. And who is Joshua Slocum?"

He shot a contemptuous look at me. "Ask Lolo. She is still a baby but she knows."

"Joshua my darling," Julie said, "different people know different things. That is one of the reasons why life is so interesting – but only if people talk to each other."

"'kay, Mom." He put the boat into my arms. "Here, you may hold it."

"Thanks Joshua."

"My dad says your name is Mathilda."

"That's right."

"My name is Joshua after Joshua Slocum. He was the first man who sailed all by himself around the world. It's called single handed circumnavigation."

"I see, single handed circumnavigation."

"Yep, and that's what I am going to do when I'm big."

"Madam," Opheibia stuck her head through the door. "There is someone on the phone for you."

"Thanks Opheibia. Joshua, you and Greta can jump into the bath when Lolo is finished."

"'kay Mom." He went to fetch the _Spray I_ and _II_.

Lolo fished coins out of the water, she made bubbles with a long plastic pipe and she made waves with her flippers. That was when I saw the rat. It ran next to the wall and stopped under a shelf. It was still a young rat, about as big as my fist, with round hairy ears and brown fur. I had only known white laboratory rats and dark grey wild ones.

_This must be an African variety_.

I was just working out that in the strong African sun white animals would probably be prone to skin cancer when that rat did the most extraordinary thing. It peed on the floor, tramped in the puddle and climbed backwards up the doorframe as if it had suckers on its feet. When its bum touched the lintel it jumped on the door and ran swiftly along the top. It didn't have a tail and for the life of me I couldn't think of a reason why an African rat would be better off without one. Lolo was still splashing around, her goggles covered in foam. She hadn't seen the rat yet, thank God. If she was terrified of rats anything could happen. That rat had to disappear fast.

_The cat in the kitchen! What's it called again? Noodle or Poodle or something_.

"Lolo, what's your cat's name?"

"Which one? We've got 2. Doodles and Bubesi."

I called the cats. They didn't come.

_Mebbe I should chase away that rat with a wet towel_.

I chucked a towel in the water.

"Hey," Lolo yelled through her plastic pipe. "Is that a new game? How do you play it?"

"I'll show you just now."

The rat was still sitting on the same spot and didn't even move when Greta came in. I grabbed the towel and wrung it.

"Hey Gret, Mathilda has a new game," Lolo shouted. "You throw a towel in the water and then you take it out again and then...I don't know. You also need a cat."

I rolled the towel into a long sausage and lanced an evaluating look towards the door. Just as I got ready for the big klap Greta said: "Hello Dodger, ts ts ts, where have you been?" and that damn rat jumped right onto her shoulder. "He is my pet dassie," she explained. "Do you want to hold him?"

"Eh...ja."

Joshua arrived with his boats. The dassie pissed on my hand.

Greta giggled. "He does that all the time. You can put him on the floor."

"Does he always run all over the show?"

"Ja, and he sleeps in a little box in my room."

I wanted to ask what exactly a dassie is but I changed my mind.

_Joshua will think I'm a total dud_.

"So how does one play your game?" Lolo asked again.

"Eh...uh...you throw the towel in the sky and try to catch it without using your hands and..."

"And the cat?"

"The looser must count the cat's whiskers."

"I don't know if I like that game," Greta said.

She and Joshua got undressed dropping their clothes all over the floor.

"Don't you want to pick up your things?" I asked.

"No, that is Opheibia's job."

"If you lived in Germany you would have to do it yourselves."

"I told you Germany is a yucky place," Joshua said to his sisters.

*

In the mornings Ludwig dropped off Joshua at Dolphin Bay Primary, Greta at St Anna School for Girls and then me at Protea High.

"You know, it would be much easier for everybody if I had a bicycle," I said to Ludwig one day. "I'd just cut through the back roads, turn at the Chinese shop and roll down the hill to school."

"And in the afternoon you'd pedal all the way up the hill again."

"I don't mind hills. Where I come from it's hilly all over the show. I'm used to that."

Ludwig seemed quite astounded, but he was more open minded about girls riding bikes than Hannes. "Ok. If you are really prepared to do it you can use my old bike. It's standing in the garage collecting dust."

After school Kim and I went shopping for the school fete. Ma Jameson dropped us off at Victoria Bay's biggest supermarket where one could get everything – except booze. The first aisle we walked down was packed with toy guns made out of plastic. I found it was disgusting. Kids shouldn't play with guns. And what had happened to all the wooden toys and the creative stuff? Kim didn't have an opinion. She gestured to a cooler shelf. "There is the cottage cheese. Do you want low fat or normal?"

I took some kilo buckets with the labels I liked best, chose the cheapest butter and heaped packets of nuts and raisins into the trolley. We walked past the veggie section where coloureds weighed the customer's purchases and where one could buy single tomatoes in little polystyrene punnits wrapped in meters of plastic foil. At the spices I didn't remember the English word for _Nelken_ and spent quite a while sniffing out different packets until I found some cloves.

There was a long row of tills. Everyone was worked by a white lady. A black lady packed our stuff into a generous amount of plastic packets. I watched some cleaners washing the floor in a leisurely manner. A white woman, dressed in the supermarket uniform, came along and inspected their buckets.

"What's she doing?" I asked Kim.

"Checking if they've pinched anything."

A customer behind us in the queue commented: "I've seen them hide 10 kg of cheese in their water buckets. You can't trust these blacks. They are born thieves and liars and they are as lazy as sin."

An iodine laden breeze chased some big white clouds across the sky and the sea danced with choppy, silvery waves. The scent of subtropical flowers rose from the gardens and mingled with the perfume of eucalyptus trees. At last I had a bike! I cycled around a tortoise.

_It's great to be in Africa_!

It felt as if my whole body smiled.

_It's amazing to be surrounded by palm trees and hibiscus and dolphins in the sea; smell strange smells; see exotic birds...even the colour of the sky is different here – more intense. Ja, that's what it is – everything is more intense_.

After the Chinese shop the traffic became denser. I was still pondering about the phenomenon of increased intensity, when I realized that just about everybody in the street looked at me.

Something the matter with my gym or what?

We had just changed from winter to summer uniforms. Girls wore white shirts with blue and white checkered collars, khaki skirts and white socks now and boys the same kind of shirt and short grey pants. I checked and could find nothing wrong. I tucked the gym a bit tighter under my bum, just in case the South Africans with their different perception in certain things had a problem with a flying skirt.

Along the pine forest a gang of about 15 road workers were hacking up the tar. They were all dressed in yellow overalls and worked in a row several metres away from each other. Only 2 of them really moved their pickaxes. The others just stood and discussed something in Xhosa with far carrying voices. One of them had organized a fire and stirred something in a big, 3 legged iron pot. As I came closer all activity stopped and everybody stared at me.

_This is really getting creepy_.

I checked my gym again. Everything was okay – or was it?

At the school gate Peggy waved at me. "Jeez," she said. "Are you looking for a new host family now?"

"Huh?"

"Hell, your new host family really treats you like the Russians," Steven, the dog stoner declared.

"Eh eh, what are you talking about?" I asked. "The Winters are great people. I like them and..."

"They could at least give you some bucks for the bus if they can't organize a lift," Peter interrupted.

"But I don't want to take the bus. One can't even sit where one wants to in a bus."

"Come on, don't be stupid," Norma said. "Do you really want to sit next to a muntu who hasn't washed for a week and is full of fleas?"

"Oh, and that's why you have your house cleaned by a maid and your meals cooked by a maid who is dirty and full of fleas."

Norma turned her eyes to heaven.

"My mom can drop you off at your place after school," Kim suggested. "We can load the bike in the back of the bakkie."

"But I want to ride on the bike, hells bells. There is nothing wrong with that? In Germany I ride to school every day except in winter, of course, and I love it."

"But girls don't ride bicycles to school," Norma protested. "Not here, anyway."

"Why not?"

Nobody had an answer.

During assembly Mr Martin announced that the decoration of the gym for the school fete had to be finished and that the kitchen would be free for baking the cakes.

I gave some last touches to the Bavarian Beer garden. Mr Thompson the art teacher came in. He was a stick of a man with grey yellowish hair and big feet. He walked around squinting his eyes and humming various sounds. "Not bad, not bad," he mumbled after a thorough inspection. "But you can't have a purple sky. Doesn't look right, just doesn't look right. Put a decent blue there, my girl."

_Phhh. Ever heard of the Impressionists_?

Later, while the rest of the class learned to sing _Kommt_ _ein_ _Vogel_ _geflogen_ with Mrs Davies, Kim, Liza and I got cracking in the school kitchen to bake the cakes. Mrs Koekemoer, the domestic science teacher, was there to do some supervising. She had a bum like a carthorse and a face to go with it and advised every girl in the school to upgrade her cooking skills with a 'Bonne Cuisine' cooking course, the infallible recipe to catch a decent husband. Mrs Koeks was in her middle 40s and had caught 3 so far. The school's opinion if this signified a defeat or a triumph for 'Bonne Cuisine' was divided.

Mrs Koeks opened fridges, drawers and cupboards and ordered us to put our aprons on. She grabbed a huge folder and waddled over to a big table in the middle of the kitchen. "Let's compare recipes," she puffed. "Where is your cooking book, Mathilda?"

"Oh, I've got it all in my head," I said, opening the lids of the cream cheese pots.

"You should always write everything down, Mathilda, otherwise you might forget an essential ingredient in the heat of the battle," she said with a big frown. "Now let's see here, Linzer Torte and cheesecake." In her folder each recipe was neatly stuck in a transparent plastic envelope, all in alphabetic order. "Let's start with the Linzer. It says here: 3 cups of flower, 1 cup of sugar..." and she rattled down all the other items mentioned on her list. "Is that like your recipe?"

"Don't know. We usually don't measure in cups but in grams."

"I see. German system. So how many grams of flower do you put in?"

"Dunno, I always do it by eye."

"That's not serious baking, Mathilda. You'll never get the same cake twice."

Kim and Liza were eating almonds and raisins, listening mildly interested to our conversation.

"And what is the ginger for?" Mrs Koeks looked at me with her hazel horse eyes. "I can't find ginger as an ingredient for Linzer or for cheesecake in my notes."

"I find ginger makes the Linzer taste more interesting."

"Don't tell me you just put it in without any reference to the book."

I expected her to start frothing at the mouth like a distressed horse, and because I couldn't possibly stroke her nose or offer her a lump of sugar, I tried to think of some other way to calm her down. "I know ginger is not really mentioned in the books," I told her. "But there is this new movement in Germany. It's called _kreatives_ _Kochen_. Very popular. Creative cooks use the recipes as a sort of technical guide to get the basics right and then they...uh... adapt them to their personal tastes and needs and so on. Makes it more... uh... individual."

"Hm, sounds interesting," Mrs Koeks admitted. "Ja, I know we are always quite far behind European trends." She cheered up visibly.

I guess a whole new world of possibilities of how to catch another husband opened up in her mind's eye.

While Kim was grinding the almonds and Liza separating eggs, I stuck my finger in the cream cheese to have a taste. I nearly keeled out of my socks.

_The stuff is salty_!

I knew by now that butter in this country was usually salted – but cream cheese! I couldn't possibly disappoint Mrs Koeks newly found interest in creative cooking.

I'll just put in a lot of sugar and a heap of raisins, mebbe a good shot of cinnamon as well.

Mrs Koeks left to check something in the office. That gave me a chance to experiment with the ingredients. I ate at least a pound of the mix until it had a decent flavour.

Kim was kneading a big ball of Linzer dough sampling pieces of it at an amazing rate.
"Hey, stop eating so much," I said to her.

"Ok, just a last morsel, Mathilda. It's sooo lekker. She broke off a chunk the size of my fist.

"Gee Kim, you are as greedy as a pig," Liza said licking raspberry jam from a spoon.

"I don't give a hoot if you have a bum like Mrs Koeks one day," I declared. "But what really pisses me off is that we have to make some more dough now. Are there any nuts left?"

"Ja, a whole packet," Liza poured the nuts into a bowl.

"What are those little black things in there?" I asked her. "Looks like pieces of liquorish."

"I'll have to disappoint you there," Liza said. "I think it's rat shit."

"Oh come on, how would rat shit get into a sealed packet?"

"I don't know but it sometimes happens. I'll throw that whole lot away."

"What a waste."

"Well, you can't possibly use it, Mathilda," Kim said.

"Mebbe I can."

They both looked at me flabbergasted.

"Are you crazy?" Kim screamed. "Do you want to poison the whole school?"

"If this is how you guys go about preparing food I'll never eat any German stuff again," Liza said disgustedly. "I always thought that...."

"Calm down," I interrupted. "I thought the dassie might eat it."

"Now she is completely off her rocker," Liza said. "Where on earth are you going to find a dassie?"

"The Winters have got one at home."

"Oh really?" Kim said and absentmindedly stuck some more dough into her mouth. "Where did they get it from?"

"Some friends of theirs found an abandoned little one on their farm in the Karoo and gave it to Greta as a pet."

"Hm," Kim frowned, "doesn't it pee all over the show?"

Liza finished licking another helping of jam from the spoon. "Did you know that the Boere use it as a muti?"

"What?"

"Dassie pee. It's white and they scrape it off the rocks."

"Come off it Liza," Kim said.

"But Liza was adamant. "The Boere call it Dassie Pis and it's for fever."

Kim wiped her sticky fingers on her apron. "I only know that the dassie is the closest relative to the elephant."

"Hahaha, you must be joking," I said. "The one I'm talking about is the size of a small rat, and even though he's still a baby he'll never be bigger than a rabbit...and he's got tiny little ears and no trunk at all."

"It's true, the dassie _is_ the closest relative to the elephant," Liza said and Kim nodded.

_These 2 are pulling my socks_.

I chucked the nuts into the garbage bin.

Kim watched and asked: "What about the dassie?"

"I'll let you know a secret," I whispered to her. "This was an experiment. I'm an undercover scientist to study the South Africa psyche..."

Kim choked on some raisins.

"...and you know who I am working for? The KGB."

Ludwig was whistling in the big wooden shed at the back of the Winters' property. He spent a lot of his spare time in there building a 35 foot gaff rigged cutter. I parked the bike under the lemon tree and went to have a look. Ludwig was standing on top of the keel hitting a nail into a plank. His shorts and his faded T-shirt were covered in saw dust. When he had finished he said to his labourer: "Alpheus, pass me a lag bolt and the 17mm hex spanner, please." Alpheus rummaged in a wooden box. Ludwig started to whistle _Ol_ ' _Man River_ and screwed the bolt into a big beam across the keel.

"Hi everybody," I said.

"Hi Mathilda." Ludwig took another bolt from Alpheus. "Had a good day?"

"It could have been better."

"Tell me more about it."

"I arrived at school on a bike and all hell popped loose because apparently girls are not supposed to do that here," I said angrily. "I painted a purple sky and was told to change it into a 'decent' blue, but I didn't do it. I baked 3 cheesecakes and 3 trays of Linzer with recipes out of my head and was told that wasn't the proper way to do it."

Ludwig gave a last turn to the bolt. Then he jumped down from the keel. "You know Mathilda, there is no need to fight everything all the time. It's good to have your own ideas and dreams, to ask questions and to realize that there is a lot of brainwashing going on, but it's not worth it to get so worked up about everything; you'll end up with an ulcer or something. One must just accept that people have different ideas about things, but that doesn't mean everybody is against you."

I don't think that...or do I?

I kicked a piece of wood. "And you know what, Ludwig?"

"What?"

"On top of all that the girls who helped me in the kitchen tried to take the Mickey out of me. They told me that dassies are the closest relatives to elephants. They think just because I come from Germany they can tell me any shit and I'll believe it."

Ludwig grinned. "You know Mathilda, Africa is an amazing continent. There is nothing soft and gentle about it. There is either a flood or a drought, burning heat or icy cold, there are swarms of locusts and poisonous snakes, veld fires and hailstorms, deserts and jungles. Africa is full of extremes and so are its people; and it's full of surprises and the dassie _is_ the closest relative to the elephant."

_Oh_ ...

"Life is an adventure and not a perpetual battle, my girl. Just relax and enjoy it. How about getting a coke for all of us to start off with?"

I went into the house. Doodles was sleeping on the kitchen table and Dodger the dassie sat between the 2 little horns of the carved giraffe in the passage. In my room I took that damn school uniform off and put on an old pair of dungarees and a crumpled shirt.

_One probably has to be 40 like Ludwig to be an individual and to be able to compromise at the same time_.

I strolled into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of coke and 3 glasses. Then I stuck the glasses back into the cupboard. Black servants always drank out of tin mugs in this country. I couldn't possibly give Alpheus a mug and Ludwig and myself a glass.

_Why is everything so complicated? Phhh. Where is the borderline between behaving like a guest and compromising like a bloody coward? I really don't know anymore_.

Back in the boat shed I asked Ludwig: "Couldn't you give me a job here? I'd like to do some real work. You know what I mean? Something that makes sense."

Ludwig passed a mug of coke to Alpheus. "Sure Mathilda. See that big piece of tree trunk there? That's going to be the bowsprit. You can paint it with raw linseed oil out of that white container over there." He drank some coke and gave me a paintbrush. "Treating wood like this has been done since time immemorial. Boat builders have used whale oil and tallow...it has some sort of a timeless quality. Puts things back into perspective."

"Like old rocks and the sea," I said.

I felt the blue eyes on me and heard: "Ja, and like a starlit night in the desert or the world seen from an aeroplane."

*

The Jamesons arrived at 8 in the morning to fetch me. The school fete would only start at 10, but there were still stacks of things to do. Julian and Coral were sitting in the back of the bakkie surrounded by bags full of dolls' clothes. I squeezed in in front with Kim and her mom with several cake boxes piled on my lap. We stopped at about 5 places to collect more dolls' clothes, more cakes, more kids and a couple of items for the White Elephant Stall, which I thought to be a typically African affair, but Kim explained that it was sommer a normal flea market type of thing.

In Germany they would have given Ma Jameson a major fine for overloading but the traffic cop who stopped us asked with a big grin, if we didn't want to buy a ticket for the police lottery. "Lady, the first prize is a trailer," he said with a heavy Afrikaans accent, "and with all the stuff you have to transport, you could probably make good use of a trailer, hey lady."

The school was buzzing with activity. Fathers, male teachers and boys put up stalls helped by the black gardeners. Mothers, female teachers and girls gave last touches to the decoration and arranged foodstuffs, prices and things to sell, assisted by the black cleaning ladies. It took me some time to recognize some of my classmates because I had never seen them in civvies before.

At the boerewors and hot dog stand fathers filled lengthwise cut drums, which served as grills, with charcoal and bushveld wood. There were half a dozen other stalls where one could throw rings and win prizes, buy dolls or books or biltong, throw balls and win prizes or eat pancakes. The White Elephant took up the most space. "One man's poison is the other man's meat," declared the chairlady there wading through tons of knick-knacks, trying to find a place for some faded water colours showing battles of the Anglo Boer War and a portrait of Paul Kruger with a brass plate on the frame, saying: Last President of the Transvaal Republiek. The Greatest Figure of Afrikanderdom.

Mr Booysens, the caretaker, supervised Kleinboy, his Xhosa aid, to nail a dartboard to the shed in which the tools were kept. Rosie, the dog, walked around with her nose in the air, sniffing unfamiliar smells. The pink patches of skin around her stitched up wounds gave her the looks worthy of an exhibit at the modern art Biennale in Venice.

"Kleinboy hit square, jou bliksem," Mr Booysens suddenly exploded. "How many times have I taught you how to hold a hammer?"

A man passing by told Mr Booysens to stop swearing – there were ladies present!

I went to the Bavarian beer garden to give Mrs Davies a hand. It was the strangest beer garden I had ever clapped eyes on. There was not a drop of beer in sight. Instead of an oompah band, somebody had organized a tape with hearty sea shanties sung by a sailors' choir from the North German Waterkant, and the place was swamped with pies and sweetmeats totally unknown in the country of the _Dirndl_ and the _Lederhose_.

Mrs Davies was in her element. "Girls, get the paper cups out of the packets, _zack_ _zack_ , and arrange the cakes in neat rows. I don't want any chaos." She rattled in her health sandals across to the cool drink counter and called Brian and Peter. "You boys put ice and cans in these 3 zinc baths and then you get the change ready." She clappered back through the rows of benches and tables, straightening out tablecloths, mumbling: "It's all a matter of organization, _jawoll_."

At 10 o'clock, when Mr Martin officially opened the fete, Julie arrived with Greta and Lolo. The 'men' had stayed at home to work on the yacht.

"...and today's profits will be used to build a swimming pool for the school," Mr Martin announced well into his speech. "As you know, the government doesn't pay for extras like that."

Lolo was getting bored and stuck a loop of her self-made necklace between her teeth. The string broke just as Mr Martin said: "There is nothing more noble than a healthy mind in a healthy body."

Around us not many people were listening anymore because Lolo screamed: "I want my beads," crawling around between people's legs. Mr Martin soon came to the end of his speech and the crowd dispersed towards the stalls.

At the beer garden Mrs Davies got some of us organized to sing _Das_ _Wandern_ _ist_ _des_ _Müller's_ _Lust_ to add to the ambiance; some barrels of beer would have done a better job. Instead, Lettie, the tea lady, brewed hectolitres of tea.

Lettie's work on a normal school day consisted of supplying the white staff with as much tea as they could drink, which was quite a lot. She could usually be seen pushing the tea trolley somewhere between the kitchen, the teachers' room, Mr Martin's office and the secretary's office. The constant clattering of the cups and saucers on the trolley was forever accompanied by Lettie's monologues. She conversed with herself in the melodic broad Afrikaans typical for the Cape Coloureds and added considerably to the repertoire of swearwords of anybody, who happened to spend 5 minutes or more at the school. Parents regularly complained about her bad language, and every now and then special meetings were held to find a solution to 'Lettie's problem'. But Lettie had her pride and her principles, and her never changing reply to Mr Martin's suggestions to upgrade her language was a clear: "Yes Sir", and a mumbled: "Fok julle almal", as soon as Mr Martin was out of ear shot. Anybody else would have been fired, but Lettie knew that she was irreplaceable. She made the best cup of tea since the first tea leaf had reached western civilization, and on top of that, she had the amazing capacity to remember exactly how many sugars and how much milk each member of the staff took.

At lunchtime Jenny relieved me from my cake-serving job. I went outside to look for Julie and the girls. The place was packed with people, especially around the White Elephant Stall and the food stalls. Whiffs of braaied meat and toasted marshmallows wafted through the air. The gardeners were picking up empty cans and papers from the lawn and some cleaning ladies cleared the tables of empty plates.

"Look here Mathilda, what I winned," Lolo screamed and held up a dark brown monkey made of material. It was dressed in a little titian red frock with a big green bow tied around the neck.

"Great, Pippi Longstocking Supergirl," I said. "Just what you need, hey?"

Lolo grinned. "Pippi Longstocking in the book has got a boy monkey but this one's a girl and her name is Mrs Bowtie." She looked at the monkey, frowned and asked: "What's a bow tie in your language?"

"We call it a _Fliege_."

"Vleega," Lolo repeated. "I'll call her Mrs Vleega."

Greta carried a roll of silvery golden paper. "Pretty, hey Mathilda. Mom bought it for me. I want to wrap some of my rocks in it."

Julie was talking to Peggy's mother about raising herbs in special pots. I noticed that Peggy's mom, who didn't allow her daughter to shave her legs, didn't shave her own legs either.

Mebbe they belong to one of these sects and it is against their religion. I had heard of several 'new churches' in Victoria Bay. Each one had its own point of view and set of rules straight out of the bible.

The 'Reborn Vinegrapes', who met 3 houses down the street from the Winters, maintained that the Pope is not a Christian and that musical instruments should only be used to play hymns. The spiritual leader of 'Butterfield Church' knew for sure that letting your dog mate on a Sunday and looking at tarot cards were major sins, and for the 'Reborn Bearers of the Cross' grey was the only colour His servants were supposed to wear and females never cut their hair.

Peggy's mom let us into the secret of making Buchu Brandy without any alcohol in it. My host mother didn't show much enthusiasm. When Lolo announced that Mrs Vleega was getting hungry and felt a humongous need for a doughnut, Julie grinned gratefully. "All right, let's get some food."

We bought doughnuts for the kids and boerewors rolls for Julie and me. Somebody tapped me on the shoulder.

"Hannes!" I hadn't seen my first host father since he had left for his bird watching trip. He looked thinner, his hair was whiter and he seemed to move in some sort of trance.

"How is Marieke?"

"Getting a bit better, slowly. She is in a good rehab clinic now. The doctors say there is a good chance for her to regain the use of her arm and her leg." He absentmindedly slid his wedding ring up and down his finger.

"And how is my dove doing?"

"I guess quite well. I set it free a while ago and it comes back every day for some mielie pips."

The rest of the fete was uneventful except that Lolo stuck a bead up her nose and we couldn't get it out. While Miss Pembleton asked over the loudspeaker system if there was a doctor on the school grounds, Greta told us, that Paul Kruger had died because he had stuffed a diamond up his nose. "He wanted to hide the family jewels from Queen Elizabeth or mebbe King Henry, I don't know, but the British cut him up and he bled to death."

Lolo did her nut and the only doctor on the premises was a urologist without any experience in getting beads out of little girls' noses. Rescue came in the shape of Mrs Koeks' husband no 3, whose hobby was to put models of ships into bottles.

"You are lucky that I bought this special kit of tweezers this morning," he said while gently teasing the bead out of Lolo's nostril.

When it finally plopped into his hand Lolo generously offered: "You may keep it."

Mr Koeks no 3 inspected the green bead and mumbled: "Maybe I could use it as a starboard light on one of my ships."

*

Opheibia had gone to visit her family in Graaff Reinet for the weekend. On Sunday the kitchen looked like a battlefield.

"Someone has got to wash up," Ludwig said.

"I must feed Dodger," Greta said quickly. "He is still growing, he needs a lot of food 'specially in the morning."

"Washing up is for girls," Joshua stated.

"Where did you hear that nonsense?" Ludwig asked. "And who is going to wash the dishes during your circumnavigation?"

"That's different, Dad. I'll just rinse everything in the sea. That'll be fun."

"Opheibia can wash up when she comes back tomorrow," Greta suggested.

"No no no," Julie protested. "We are already running out of cutlery and space in the kitchen. And it's going to be hot again, and there'll be flies and cockroaches." She got up from the breakfast table. "I'm off to do some sketching on the beach. Suzy from my painting class should be here to fetch me any minute. So you guys make a plan."

"Listen kids," Ludwig said, "one doesn't have to clean and polish everything in a house every day..."

"Like Auntie Mary," Greta grinned.

"Exactly," Ludwig carried on, "and we don't want to live in a place that looks like a museum, but there comes a time when certain things have to be done."

"Daddy, why don't you wash up? You're the oldest so you've got the most 'sperience." Lolo piped up.

"Because I'm going to work on the dinghy so that we can use it during the Christmas holidays," Ludwig said. "And when it comes to experience I think in the field of dish washing Mathilda has got the most, because in Germany everybody does their own housework. There aren't any servants to clean up."

"Really Mathilda?" Greta was astounded. "So who washes up in your family?"

"The dishwashing machine."

The kids nearly fell off their chairs with laughter. Dodger fled under the sideboard.

"You see Da-ha-ad," Joshua yelled, gulping for air. "They have a ma-ha-chine to do it."

In the end the kids and I had a 'kitchen session', an invention of my grandmother before the introduction of a dishwasher into her house. I explained to them that the main object of a 'kitchen session' – besides washing up – was to make music with the dishes.

"I've never seen anybody wash up like this," Greta said while producing clinking sounds by tapping mugs with a wooden spoon.

"People in different countries do things in different ways," Joshua said philosophically. "Like here we have school uniforms and in Germany they don't." He rapped a scraper on the salad bowl. "If you think of it, sometimes people in the _same_ country do things in different ways. Like the blacks never finish their food because they always want to throw some on the ground for their ancestors. We don't do that."

"Uncle Ivan said it's called cultural peculiarities," Greta informed us. "But Auntie Mary says they are just wasting food."

When we emerged from the kitchen 2 hours later Ludwig was bending over some boat plans. He looked at us. "You kids sure know how to make a racket."

"It's how the Germans wash dishes when they haven't got a dishwasher," Joshua said.

"Ja Dad, it's called cultural peculiarity," Greta explained.

Ludwig grinned.

"Lolo dropped a bowl and it broke," Joshua said.

"Nooo, it wasn't me it was Mrs Vleega."

Ludwig's grin deepened. "I guess a washing up session that is fun is worth a broken bowl, but you see, monkeys can't put their thumbs in opposition to their other fingers like human beings, so maybe Mrs Vleega should specialize in a different job next time."

The rest of the morning I helped Ludwig with the dinghy.

"I am building this dinghy according to the stitch and glue method," he explained. "That means you take pieces of plywood and stitch them together with copper wire and then you cover the whole thing with epoxy and fibreglass cloth. Very logical way of doing it. Simple, fast and cheap." He stepped over a tortoise. "Now what we need is to drill some holes into the plywood for the copper wire to go through. Ever worked with an electric drill before?"

"No, I don't think we've got one at home. The only tools in my folks house are a hammer and a pair of pliers...ah ja...and then that thing you use to take a bicycle tyre off when it's flat. What do you call that again in English?"

"A spanner," Ludwig said somehow perplexed. "Well, it's never too late to learn, my girl. The main thing is to hold the drill square to the job. Come and look."

I drilled 50 holes.

"Not bad, Mathilda," Ludwig said. "You've got a very good hand-eye coordination."

Little columns of smoke were rising from the neighbours' gardens. Ludwig sniffed. "Looks like everybody is braaiing today. Mmh, the Duncans are having mutton chops and the Frosts...hm...South West Wors." He turned his head with flared nostrils and looked at me. "With all respect, Mathilda, do you use a deodorant?"

_Hell, the day I join the crowd that is brainwashed enough to believe they must smell of pink honeysuckle stardust or some other artificial shit still has to come_.

"Uh no, I like to keep it natural."

"Well girl, just keep in mind that we are living in a Mediterranean climate here and that summer is on its way."

Nobody felt like cooking, so we went to the Chinese shop to get some lunch. Old man Chan was working at a trestle table in the space behind the counter.

"Mr Chan, that bird you're making is beautiful," Greta said enchanted.

The old man bowed. "Thank you, Missy. It's a kite-bird. All silk and bamboo like in the old days. I'll let it fly on the beach soon."

"It's a real work of art," Ludwig said.

"Oh thank you, Mista Winta," Old man Chan bowed several times.

We took a while to choose fish steaks in bean sauce, prawn balls and stacks of filled dumplings, which were, according to Lolo, Mrs Vleega's favourite food. While young Chang prepared our order we walked around in the shop.

"Look at this here, Mathilda," Ludwig held up a bottle with a red and black label. "Did you know that on Sundays bars and off-sales are closed in South Africa and you can only buy alcohol when you go into a restaurant and have a meal? Then you can order a beer or a glass of wine or whatever."

"I've heard about that."

"Bloody stupid law in my opinion, but that's the way it is." He handed me the bottle. It was filled with some clear liquid that looked just like water.

"What is it? Everything on the label is written in Chinese."

"You've got there the most potent booze on the planet. This stuff is like dynamite. Undiluted strong enough to even stop our dog Schnappsi from drinking." He scratched his head. "Hell, I hadn't thought of this before, maybe it's an idea. We'll take this bottle."

"But today is Sunday."

"One more reason to buy it."

The kids came with some packets of dragon sweets and asked their father if they could have them.

"Yes, but only one packet for all of you. You remember what happened to your aunt Mary when she was small and ate a whole packet by herself?"

"No."

"She gave birth to a whole brood of little dragons the next morning."

"Nooo Daddy, that's not true," Greta screeched with laughter. "You told me to make a baby you need a sperm and an egg."

"Dragons are different." Ludwig kept a straight face.

"They lay eggs and bury them in the sand," Joshua said. "And Dad, it's always the girls who hatch out things. I'm a boy, so I can eat as many as I like."

"Sometimes boys also hatch out things," Lolo said importantly. "Like Mr Venter in the butchery. Mom said looks like he's going to have twins."

"He's been looking like that for the last 10 years," Ludwig said. "But you are quite right, Lolo. There are certain species in which the male is pregnant. Now if you look at the seahorse..." And the matter was discussed in great detail.

Young Mr Chan didn't raise as much as an eyebrow when he rang up the bottle.

"Isn't he going to be in trouble if they find out that he's selling booze on a Sunday?" I asked Ludwig when we were driving back home.

"He's been doing it for donkeys years. I guess he's all right. These bloody inspectors can't read Chinese labels."

In the back, the kids stuck out their dragon sweet blue tongues and debated who had achieved the deepest shade. Some sailboats were cruising in the bay, and the big dunes far away on the other side shone like mountains of gold.

"Daddy, do you think I can go to the beach with Mr Chan when he flies his kite there?" Greta asked.

"Mmh, I don't think that is possible."

"Why? I want to see it fly."

"The beach Mr Chan is going to is forbidden to white people and Mr Chan is not allowed on our beaches."

"How d'you mean?" I asked. "Are the Chinese...uh...blacks in this country? Or what the hell are they?"

"They are classified as non-whites, Chinese."

"This is crazy. So not only the blacks have to go to the 'black' beach because they are black, but the Chinese also have to go there 'cause they are non-white."

"No no, it's more complicated," Ludwig pointed across the bay. "See that stretch of sand next to the industrial area?"

"Ja."

"That's Jennings Beach for the blacks. And then there is Gaansbaai Beach for the coloureds. And then you get Wemmer Bay for the Asians. That is where Mr Chan would go."

"And we can't go there? I would also like to see that kite in the air."

"In South Africa every racial group has its own amenities and nobody puts a foot into another group's area. By law."

"But Ludwig, when I went with Hannes and Marieke to that fancy restaurant on the beachfront there were some Chinese sitting right next to us. If they are considered as non-whites how come they are accepted in a 'white' restaurant?"

"They can't have been Chinese. The restaurant would have risked losing its license. They must have been Japanese. South Africa has very good trade relations with Japan. The Japanese are classified as 'honorary whites'.

_I think I'm going to puke_.

"Ludwig, how can you live in a place like this?"

He looked at me and said: "Why do you think I'm building that yacht?"

*

There was a queue in front of the 'up to standard 9 girls' entrance. I joined Kim at the back of the queue. "What's happening?"

"Bloomer control."

"Huh?"

"Hell, I guess this time I'm in for it," Kim stared nervously ahead.

"In for what?" Kim normally wasn't prone to nervous behaviour.

"I'm a second time offender," Kim said. "No chance of getting away with it."

"With what?"

"I'll try anyway," she mumbled ignoring me.

We moved some steps forward. Kim was getting whiter in the face by the minute.

"Next," Lynn, the head girl, ordered.

Kim sighed. Then she straightened her shoulders, thrust out her jaw in fighting mode and walked forward. Lynn and Miss Pembleton were standing in the entrance.

"Miss Pembleton..." Before Kim could say anything they lifted up her gym.

_I don't believe this; they are looking at her bum_!

Kim had a tiny pink tanga pantie on.

_Who would have thought that she is into sexy little nothings_!

"Turn round, girl," Miss Pembleton said.

Again they lifted up Kim's gym.

"Girls," Miss Pembleton said in a loud voice addressing all and sundry. "This is why they call us _Delilah_ s... _Salome_ s. When you girls sit tailor fashion on the floor in assembly..." she pointed to the tanga, "...this is what we teachers see. I will not have this in my school!!!"

"Miss Pembleton," Kim said, "I had my period. I couldn't put my school bloomers on because they are full of blood."

Miss Pembleton gave a snort of exasperation. "Kim Jameson, you had the whole weekend to fix that up."

"And you're supposed to have 2 school bloomers anyway," Lynn added.

_Bloody traitor_.

"My dog...uh... chewed up the other ones last night."

Miss Pembletons face turned red. "Oh, and if I remember correctly, the last time one of your school bloomers was stolen off the washing line and the other one got burnt in the stove. I'll never understand how they got there..."

"They were damp because of the rain and I wanted to dry them, and then the phone rang and..."

"That's enough," Miss Pembleton hissed. "Lynn, write down: 2 hours detention for Kim Jameson on Friday afternoon. Next."

They lifted my gym up. Miss Pembleton sighed at the sight of my 100% bio knickers. I felt like kicking her in the chops and chopping Lynn's stupid head off.

_I'll report this to the Human Rights Commission. Have these shit shots here never heard of human dignity_?

"Mathilda, you are supposed to wear your school bloomers; they are part of your school uniform," Miss Pembleton informed me.

"I didn't know that. Nobody ever explained it to me. I don't even know what school bloomers are."

"Your host mother should have told you."

"Well, she didn't."

"Look here," Lynn lifted her gym a bit and exposed some billowing blue nylon brooks. "Have you got any of those?"

"Ja."

_Hell, do they really expect a person to wear these plastic bags? In this heat! Do they want you to develop all sorts of fungal infections, or what_?

"Well Mathilda, don't forget to wear them in future," Miss Pembleton said with irritation in her voice.

"You can wear them on top of your own ones," Lynn announced magnanimously.

During break I found Kim all by herself on the far side of the sports fields. She was furious. "That fucking fat old bitch. 2 hours detention on Friday afternoon! I'll kill her." She kicked a coke can across the lawn. "Tomorrow I'll bring my dad's knife and slash her motorcar tyres."

"That won't change anything." I offered her half of my avo sandwich.

"No thanks. I must lose some weight."

"Why? You're already as thin as a stick."

Kim stared all of a sudden dreamily into the distance. "I met a boy."

"Oh. Who is he?"

A loony expression spread over her face. "Brendan." She sighed. "Brendan Trevor Thorburn. I met him yesterday at my cousin Amy's birthday party." Sigh. "He's just gorgeous." Sigh. "And he's a surfer." Sigh. "I wanted to watch him surf on Crabs' Beach on Friday afternoon. And now this bloody old cow is fucking it all up." She kicked a blossom off a bush.

_Seems to be pretty serious_.

"Why don't you watch him on Saturday? And why do you want to _watch_ him? If I were you I'd jump on that board and give it a go myself."

Kim plucked some leaves off a little blue gum and crushed them between her fingers. "He's going to his sister's wedding in Stutterheim over the weekend...and I can't ask him to lend me his board."

"Why not?"

"Uh, he doesn't know – yet. Kim chucked the blue gum leaves on the ground. "And he's got a girlfriend – Pamela."

Oyoyoy!

"But that is not a problem," Kim said without a trace of a doubt. "I had worked it all out. Pamela goes to extra maths on Friday afternoons, so I could have seen Brendan – sigh – without her in tow on the beach...and now that fat old cow is fucking it all up."

"Bloody hell," somebody grumbled behind us. "Fok julle almal, blooming bastards."

Kim and I turned round like one person. We saw Lettie, the tea lady, shuffling in the direction of the non-white toilet block, mumbling her unequalled repertoire of swearwords in both official languages.

After school Ma Jameson dropped Kim, the twins and me off at the beach while she took Jamie to the doctor. We drew a line in the sand and Julian broke his personal record of walking on his hands by 50 cm.

"Not bad, hey?" He put his tape measure in the pocket of his shorts.

"Johnny Bartlett can do 15 metres, Coral said.

"I'm training for 20," Julian announced unperturbed. "Watch me, I'm going to beat your stumblebum boyfriend in no time."

Coral started a speech about the superhuman qualities of her boy. Nobody listened but she carried on until we arrived at Seal Rock. We walked to the end of the pier and watched seals racing elegantly through the water. The curves of Seal Beach, Parker's Bay and Victoria Bay stretched golden white towards the huge contraptions of the harbour. A few kids were playing in the sand and people were walking their dogs. There were more dogs than people on the beach. White people's dogs, of course.

"I'm starving," Kim said. "I'll go up to the road house and get myself a hamburger and chips."

"I thought you were on a diet," I said.

"A person has to keep up her strength," she answered hastening her steps.

To keep up our strength we all bought take-aways of which my gran would have said that they bring you 5 years earlier to your grave.

We met Ma Jameson at the Beachfront Continental Bakery, where they made the 'best bread in town', which meant it had a bit less air in it than the normal bread.

"Jamie has an infection in his ear," Ma Jameson told us. "We'll stop at the Indian Ocean Pharmacy to get his antibiotics."

The pharmacy overlooked Crabs' beach, the most popular spot for surfers. Kim stretched her neck to make out the shape of her Brendan – sigh – but he wasn't there. Ma Jameson sent Coral to get Jamie's medicine. The glass doors and the windows of the chemist were plastered with posters and stickers about surfing and with ads for laxatives, sunscreens and insect repellents. When Coral came outside again she was accompanied by a middle aged lady in a white coat. The lady had a mirror in her hand. She studied the sky for a moment and then she flashed the mirror out to sea.

_Heiliger Strohsack. Looks like contraband_.

The lady kept on sending her signals, casually chatting to Coral and waving to us with her free hand.

Ma Jameson waved back and yelled: "Good afternoon, Marlo," across the street. She didn't seem to find anything strange in Marlo's behaviour.

"What on earth is this lady doing?" I finally asked.

"She's calling Geoff, the pharmacist," Ma Jameson said.

"Huh?"

"Geoff's passion in life is surfing," Ma Jameson grinned. "He lets his assistants run the place while he goes surfing, but certain prescriptions can only be handed out by a qualified chemist. So every time his assistants need him they flash a signal with the mirror. When the sun doesn't shine they wave a flag from the roof."

_I take my hat off to the guy_!

"Look, here is Geoff now."

A man in a short neoprene suit crossed the street. His feet were full of sand and his dripping hair and beard stuck to his head. He disappeared into the pharmacy leaving a wet trail behind him. A short while later he reappeared wearing a white coat over his neoprene suit.

"Hello Allison, hi kids," he greeted us. "How is the little man?"

Jamie held his ear and produced a miserable smile.

"Don't worry, my boy, you'll soon feel fit again." The pharmacist handed Jamie a surfing sticker and explained to Ma Jameson how and when the boy had to take his medicine. A shrill whistle sounded across the road.

"Oh, the ladies need me," the pharmacist said. "Before I forget, the surfing club is going to have a beach party to raise some money for shark nets. Last year 2 guys got attacked out at White River Bay. Interested in some tickets for the tombola? I've got them right here."

Ma Jameson bought 2 tickets and Kim bought 4 with her pocket money, because of her Brendan – sigh – of course.

Back home I found a deodorant on my bedside table. The bottle was dark blue and turquoise with 'Deep Sea Breeze' written across. I rubbed some on my hand and sniffed at it.

_Not too bad. At least better than some of that disgusting sweetish flowery stuff_.

I took my shirt off and smelled under my arms.

_Hmm. Quite ripe. Must be the African heat_.

I decided to go for a swim to cool down. The house was deserted. Not even Opheibia anywhere in sight. The kitchen looked like a battlefield. Clochard, the Labrador, joined me in the pool. Normally he wasn't allowed to do that, but he wouldn't listen to me. I finally got him out with a piece of smelly cheese, which reminded me of the deodorant again.

_Phhh. I never thought I'd contemplate one day putting some commercialised stink on my body_.

I sniffed at the 'Deep Sea Breeze' again.

_Not too bad. But what's wrong with natural body odour? Next thing, they'll tell you what a poep has to smell like and develop special vanilla and strawberry scented poep suppositories. Phhh_.

I sucked some liquorice until it made a thick smeary paste in my mouth and rolled a bit more deodorant on my hand.

Ludwig and Julie are not Korinthenkacker-minded. And it's really quite hot under the African sun...mebbe the wisest thing is to adjust. Phhh.

I chucked a handful of liquorice into my mouth and went to the bathroom to have a shower. When I put the deodorant under my arms it felt like some sort of defeat. I finished the whole packet of liquorice and vowed: I'll never fall for that crap of razorblade manufacturers that women must shave their legs.

*

"Hells bells, that blooming Opheibia better have a good excuse when she comes back," Julie furiously scrubbed the stove. "I kept on telling everybody that she is the best maid in the country, always on time, and with her we don't even lock the phone...and now she is 4 days overdue."

"Mebbe she is dead," Joshua said. "Tylor in my class told us that his maid got stabbed while she was in her township. She was a Xhosa. Tylor said his dad said the blacks have got it in their genes to kill each other. His dad says we all come from Africa that is where mankind started and it is like tea."

Julie frowned. "Like tea?"

"Ja Mom. Around the teabag is the darkest tea and that is Africa. Anywhere else it's more watered down. The strongest genes are around the teabag and the stronger the genes the more they kill...or something like that."

"That's the first time I hear that theory," Julie said. "Anyway, teabag or not, you kids will have to help me tidy up the place a bit."

"You could show Alpheus how to tidy up the place," Joshua suggested.

"You can forget about that," Ludwig said. "Alpheus has got enough other jobs to do. And anyway, I must take him back to the prison just now."

"To the prison?" I was flabbergasted.

"Ja, Alpheus is a convict. He's out on parole."

"What did he do?"

"Disorderly conduct and drunkenness."

"And that's enough to lock somebody up?"

"Ja, but Alpheus wasn't exactly locked up," Ludwig said. "We've got a system here by which you can go and get a prisoner if you need a labourer. You swear an oath, become a deputy warder and the prisoner stays with you. You feed him and normally you give him some clothes and shoes because he hasn't got anything. When his time is over, you take him back to the prison and pay him in front of the official. I think it's a good system. It keeps the guys busy and gives them a chance to earn some bucks and it saves the state a lot of money. See our pool?"

"Ja."

"The pool firm did a lousy job when they first put it in. I complained and they refused to do anything about it. I was so gatvol that I went into Jimmy's hardware and bought 10 hammers and 10 chisels and then I went to the prison and got 10 convicts. We hacked the whole pool out and threw the pieces into the pool bosses garden."

Mein lieber Scholli, here is a man of action.

After the kids' good night stories Ludwig made a fire in the fire place. Julie put a Callas record on and sat down to study a pile of mags. I read the 'Dark Side of the Rainbow' and Ludwig the _Evening_ _Post_. Clochard, Schnappsi and the cats were snoozing in front of the fire. The flames leapt around the thorn tree logs and made crackling noises. Outside a gusty wind shook the trees and every now and then big raindrops fell out of the sky.

I took a sip of my mango juice and grunted contentedly: "Lekker ou lewe."

Julie looked up from her mag and grinned. "So you're beginning to pick up the taal?"

"I haven't got much of a choice. They stuck me in the Afrikaans class for foreigners at school. It's absolutely obligatory for all new immigrants. Niko from Cyprus is there and 2 sisters from Bristol, whose father is managing some factory here. Then there is a boy called Luciano from L.M. His family fled from the civil war in Mozambique. And there are 2 kids from Holland who say Afrikaans is a disgrace to the Dutch language, because it's so primitive, but Mevrou van der Bijl, the teacher, says it is the language of the white African and the most beautiful on the planet."

Julie put her mag down. "I don't know so much about the most beautiful, but it is certainly most helpful for people to get certain jobs in this country."

"Especially in places run by the government like the Kruger National Park, Ludwig said. "I wanted to become a game ranger there when I was young. No chance. My Afrikaans wasn't good enough."

"You were also in the wrong church," Julie said. "This country has been run by the Afrikaaners since 1948. If you don't praat the taal and if you don't go to the Kerk you can forget about any job in anything that is run by the government."

Ludwig reached for his whisky glass and let off a roar. "Where is that bloody Schnappsi? He's done it again. Finished my booze. Mathilda, let that blooming dog out. I want to drink my whisky in peace."

I opened the door and, with a pissed off expression, Schnappsi disappeared under one of the chairs on the stoep.

"I hope this boy – Luciano – doesn't plan to become a game ranger," Julie said. "He's probably Roman Catholic like most Portuguese. So according to official propaganda he is part of the _Romse Gevaar._ "

Doodles had woken up and jumped on my lap. "Don't worry, Luciano is planning to become a famous _fado_ singer in Lisbon." Doodles dug her claws into my jeans and purred. "Isn't all this totally schizo?" I asked. "The _Rooi Gevaar_ , the _Swart Gevaar_ , the _Romse Gevaar_ ...as if there was a danger behind each tree. Even the kids at school talk about it. Dead scared that the communists might shoot all the pastors one day and that the blacks will drive all the whites into the sea. And what exactly is the _Romse Gevaar_ anyway?"

"Do you know why the Huguenots came to this country?" Julie asked.

"Because they were persecuted by the Catholics in Europe."

"Ja, and it hasn't stopped, except this country is Protestant and they persecute the Catholics."

"Not officially," Ludwig said. "South Africa is supposed to be a place with religious freedom. But go to the Beresfords down the road and they'll tell you what sort of hassle they had to go through to get a permanent resident's permit just because they are Catholics."

Some strong gusts of wind made the doors and windows rattle and a flash of lightning cut through the night. Ludwig poured himself another whisky. The thunderstorm started to rage so wildly that Schnappsi was allowed back into the house. He got a stern warning not to touch any booze, otherwise he would have to sleep on the stoep come hell or high water. As a reply Schnappsi farted – according to Ludwig a sure sign of the dog's superior intelligence – and disappeared without looking at us. I put some more logs on the fire and Julie changed the record.

Suddenly Ludwig whistled through his teeth. "Listen to what is written in the paper here: Dominee Johann van der Westhuizen, 56, and his maid Mmabatho Dlamini, 24, were convicted for contravening the _Immorality Act._ 3 policemen testified to peering through the windows of van der Westhuizen's house and seeing the couple having sexual intercourse. The magistrate..."

" _Heiliger_ _Strohsack_ , I know the guy. He is the Dominee of Marieke's church."

"That's him," Ludwig confirmed. "Johann Dikpens with the thundering tongue."

"Bloody hypocritical bastard too," Julie said. "He's the first one to send 'immoral sinners' into the fires of hell. And now he is sleeping with another woman. How can he do that to his wife?"

"Listen to the rest of the article: The magistrate said because that was van der Westhuizens second offence he would sentence him to one year in jail for this offence, which would be added to the suspended sentence from the previous offence, to run concurrently: an effective one and a half year jail term. The magistrate remarked that van der Westhuizen was a disgrace to society. He sentenced Mmabatho Dlamini as a first time offender to 4 months effective jail."

"How come 3 cops peer through the window of a person's house?" I asked. "Haven't they got more important jobs to do?"

"One would think so," Ludwig said. "I guess one of the reasons is that the fastest way for a young cop to climb the professional ladder is to make a maximum of convictions, and because the law of South Africa makes sex across the colour line a crime, that is where you get your offenders." Ludwig swallowed half a glass of whisky one shot. "You know Mathilda, in this country the cops don't even need a search warrant. They just walk into your house. And that is not all. They can even convict you for _planning_ to contravene the _Immorality Act_. How on earth can a person disprove that charge?"

*

"Here is a letter for you from Germany," Greta yelled. "It's got nice stamps on it. Can I have them?"

"Ja sure." I climbed out of the swimming pool and grabbed a towel.

"Is it from your family?"

"Ja," I opened the airmail envelope and pulled out 2 sheets of paper.

"Do they write anything about how the water goes down the drain over there?" Greta wanted to know.

"You mean if it goes clockwise like here or the other way round?"

"Ja."

Let's see. It says here that my sisters are on a skiing course with the school, my aunt is going to have a baby, Friederieke is in Italy with the swimming club...ah ja, here we go: In the northern hemisphere the water goes anti-clockwise down the drain; researched by my brother Daniel. He tried about 20 basins."

"So Tracy from my class was right," Greta said.

"I think it's all bullshit," Ludwig threw in. "It depends on how you pull the plug out and if the basin is level, stuff like that."

"So Tracy from my class is not right," Greta said with a grin.

"I don't know," I tore the stamps off and gave them to her. "Mebbe you must find yourself a sponsor to provide you with the ideal basin for scientific research."

"Hello," somebody standing at the stoep door said.

"Gee Opheibia," Greta gasped. "We thought you got killed or something."

"What happened, Opheibia?" Ludwig asked. "I'm nearly deaf with the kitchen sessions these kids had."

"Ag Master it was terrible," Opheibia rolled her Rs even more than Mevrou van der Bijl, my Afrikaans teacher. "Master, my little girl got sick. She got pneumonia in the lungs, Master. That poor child rattled like the cattle train. Jirrah, there is no hospital close to the township, Master, I thought my Lena would die."

It suddenly hit me that I had never thought of Opheibia as a person who also had a private life, a family, worries and dreams like all of us.

_Hells bells. How could that have happened to me_?

"I'm sorry to hear that, Opheibia," Ludwig said. "Is she all right now?"

"Well enough that my mother can look after her again. But my mother is getting old, hey. She's got artheritis in her bones. Jirrah, she can hardly walk sometimes. And she's got my 2 other kids and the 3 of my sister to look after."

Opheibia picked up my host siblings' wet costumes and towels from the floor and said: "You kids go and have a bath now and I'll cook you a nice supper."

Hell, I nearly cried.

_Here she is looking after other people's children while her own are condemned by these shit laws to grow up without her_.

"Opheibia's lucky that the cops didn't get her," Ludwig said.

"Why?"

"Because black people can't just travel around the country."

"What do you mean?"

"First of all every black person must carry a passbook at all times, and in this passbook must be the name and the address of their employer. I, as Opheibia's employer have to sign her book every month, so if she gets into a police control while she goes shopping or something the cops know that she's got a job and a right to be here."

"I've heard about that. The blacks call it dompas and they hate it and I don't blame them."

"Ja, it's an extreme measure of control and you know that there were already pass laws in the late 1800s to control the movement of black miners. I guess those guys were pissed off from the very first day. And then in 1952, the Nats came up with that law that every black above the age of 16 has to carry a passbook for influx control reasons. They said they want all the blacks who move from the rural areas to the towns to have a job and a house in the township."

"But it's against human rights and dignity to restrict one group of the population like that."

"That's why in 1960 thousands of blacks went on a protest march in Sharpeville. They went to the police station and burnt their passbooks. The police killed and wounded hundreds."

"And South Africa still has got the pass laws."

"Ja, and if you ask me, there is bound to be another Sharpeville. It's only a matter of time."

"I guess it's one reason why the whites are so shit scared of the Swart Gevaar," I said. "But I don't understand why Opheibia, who has a passbook, could also get into trouble."

"Because when she travels she has got to have a letter from me that says that I allowed her to travel and on what dates. She came back a few days after the date I put in my letter. That's against the law and the cops could have put her in the can."

I couldn't believe it. "You know what Ludwig, you whites here are lucky that the blacks haven't blown up the place already."

*

After having dropped off the kids at their schools Ludwig and I were heading for the Winters' book shop in the CBD.

"I'm glad I don't have to write that exam today," I said. "Being an exchange student has lots of advantages."

"Sometimes a day in real life teaches you more than a month in school," Ludwig replied.

"I never thought it a good idea to lock up kids and force selected bits of information down their throats."

"A _Revoluzzer_ always stays a _Revoluzzer_ ," Ludwig grinned.

"I'm not a _Revoluzzer_. I'm only fighting for small and personal things. For example the right to choose what kind of panties to wear to school. Real revolutionaries are people like that white woman Helen Joseph. She is involved in the struggle and she was the first person in South Africa to be placed under house arrest. Or that black lawyer Nelson Mandela. He said in court he's prepared to die for what he believes. They sentenced him to life imprisonment. He and some of the other guys who worked in the underground for the ANC have been in the can for over 10 years already and they haven't given up hope. I find it's absolutely amazing. Takes strong people to react like that. They are trying to study when they don't have to labour in the quarry, and they..."

"How do you know all this, Mathilda?"

"I read it in a book I found in the boat shed. In that big box where you keep all the plans and some tools. It's about South African history from a black point of view."

"Do you know that that is a banned book?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean if the authorities find out that there is banned literature in my house we could all end up at the same place as the underground guys from the ANC."

"In jail? For reading a book?"

"For reading the _wrong_ book. There are stacks of books banned in this country."

I suddenly had an inkling that the 'Dark Side of the Rainbow' could be one of them.

The bookshop was in a narrow street with brick face office blocks and anonymous concrete buildings. Ludwig's shop took up one of the few old houses in the street. It had been somebody's home a long time ago. There were still flowerbeds and a palm tree in the front garden. We walked down the gravel path past an ancient fountain. 2 goldfish were swimming in the greenish water. Edda Pearsons, who did the accounts, had won them in a lucky draw at the Seafarers Club.

The house dated from the 1920s. The former lounge had been transformed into the main section of the shop with shelves designated to various themes and a corner for the kids. There were some tables in the open plan dining room where people could sit down and have a cup of coffee. When there wasn't too much wind the French doors to the stoep were kept open and kids could swing in a tyre suspended from a jacaranda tree.

One of Ludwig's employees, Mrs Siobhan O'Reilly, lived in a flat without a garden. She spent a lot of time on the upkeep of the 2 flowerbeds in the back garden of the shop. Siobhan O'Reilly's ancestors had come from Ireland where her aunt Sheilagh still grew 'the best potatoes the world has ever seen'. On the return flight from her last visit to Ireland Siobhan had just about tripled her luggage allowance to revolutionize South Africa's vegetable crop with a supply of aunt Sheilagh's seed potatoes. Ludwig thought this whole manoeuvre hadn't been kosher – countries were quite strict about things being schlepped across the borders because of germs and other pests – but he had allocated Siobhan a part of the back garden for agricultural purposes.

Ludwig's office was in the former main bedroom. It had a bathroom en suite with tiles of a mossy green, a bathtub on feet with big claws, massive taps with lion heads on them and a toilet like a throne. There were 3 other bedrooms used for storage and as office for the 3 – white – ladies who worked at the shop. There was a second bathroom that looked like the first, only its tiles were pink.

The cleaning lady arrived dressed in golden shoes, a purple dress and a green beret. She had a faded bath towel wrapped around her waist to keep the morning chill off her kidneys. She walked unhurriedly down the passage and said: "Molweni."

"Molo Albertina," Ludwig handed her a plastic packet. "Here's a clean uniform for you."

Albertina took the packet and went to the servants' quarters behind the garage. When she reappeared in her light blue working outfit Miss Edda Pearsons and Mrs Jeannie Grobler had arrived. Edda was in her middle 30s, tall and dark haired, with a little rabbit nose and big feet. She never read anything but the agony aunt's column in the magazines. Ludwig said she was an excellent accountant and that was all he was asking for. Jeannie was as wide as she was high and had been working in the shop since time immemorial. In spite of her bulk Jeannie moved swiftly, especially her tongue. She practically never stopped talking.

"Good morning, my girl," she greeted me. "Ah, you start to look like a real South African. A bit of a tan makes a world of a difference. You people from Europe are always too pale around the face. It's that horrible weather, of course. Can't be healthy for man or beast to live under a grey sky in sub-zero temperatures most of the time." She waffled on about the terrible German eating habits that didn't include enough meat to feed a sparrow. "A person needs a lot of protein to go through life, not so Edda?"

Edda nodded absentmindedly and lit a cigarette.

Albertina began to vacuum the rooms. The phone rang. It was Siobhan to say that she would be late because she had to drop off her maid at the hospital, because the poor thing had a cheek like an Irish potato, due to a vrot tooth that threatened to poison her whole system.

I got the job to make coffee and to buy some stuff at Beulah's Bakery round the corner. The street climbed up the hill and turned at a park with a fort built in the 1800s. A dozen municipal workers were fixing up the flowerbeds around the cannon. 2 of the workers were engaged in some serious digging while the others stood leaning on their shovels taking it easy. Down below the ocean sparkled and a huge tanker stood black against the silvery blue of the bay. At Beulah's whites were served first like everywhere, and because Ludwig had asked me to hurry up, I didn't say that the black lady had been first although she had entered the shop before me. It made me feel shit immediately.

Siobhan was busy parking her beetle when I got back to the bookshop. "That maid of mine is crazy," she sighed getting out of her car. "I've been telling her for a week now that this rotten tooth must come out. Her cheek is so swollen that she can hardly look out of her eye but she won't listen. She can get free dental care at the hospital and what does she do?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "We used to tie a piece of string around the tooth and attach a brick to the other end of the string and stand on the balcony and throw the brick down. One can also tie the string to the door handle and..."

Siobhan gave me an exasperated look. "That might work for milk teeth but not for a Bantu's molar. You know my girl, these blacks have strong teeth. Comes from eating mielies all the time."

"Oh really?"

"Ja. Well anyway, some days ago I noticed that my Modesta smelled of liquor. That's funny, I thought, because my Modesta is a Zionist, you know, with a silver star on her chest, and Zionists don't drink." Siobhan kicked some gravel from the lawn back onto the path. "And then I caught her in the act."

"Huh?"

"I caught her with a bottle of methylated spirits. _My_ bottle of methylated spirits. And you know what she told me?"

"I haven't got a clue."

"Madam, she said, it's muti. I pour it on my tooth." Siobhan snorted like a horse and turned her eyes to heaven. "Well, I trust my maid. I don't think she's all of a sudden hit the bottle. But can you believe it. She'd rather live in agony than get it over and done with. This morning I said to her she either goes and has this tooth pulled out or I'll fire her. Of course I wouldn't have done that but every now and then one has to force these people a bit. They don't always know what's best for them."

I spent half the morning putting books on the shelves back into alphabetical order and reading _Jock of the Bushveld,_ the story about the adventures of a dog during the times when transporters hauled goodies in ox waggons from the coast to the gold mines. Ludwig said it would give me some insight into the history of the country, which it did. Jeannie said the book had first been published in 1907 and was still an absolute hit, and all South African kids just loved Jock. I guessed she was talking about the white part of the population.

I had just got to the point where a guy steps on the back of a sleeping crocodile instead of a rock when Ludwig called me. "Do you want to come to the post office, Mathilda? I've got to fetch a new consignment."

We crossed half the CBD to get to the main post office. In some of the clothing stores they were changing the decoration in the windows. Mannequins draped in sheets dominated the scene and Ludwig said that by law you couldn't have a naked mannequin in your shop window because it was 'indecent'.

When we got out of the car Ludwig mumbled: "Well, I'll be damned," and grabbed a middle-aged lady, who was walking past. He smacked 2 kisses on the lady's cheeks.

The lady first turned grey in the face and then red. She looked like she was going to scream, but all of a sudden she smiled. "Ludwig Winter, you bastard. If you do that again I'll kill you."

Ludwig grinned. "There is nothing like a kiss for the upkeep of your health, my darling."

The lady embraced him. "Looks like I could still teach you a thing or 2."

They both burst out laughing. When they got their breath back Ludwig turned to me. "Mathilda, meet Joelle Gorman, South Africa's greatest director."

Joelle Gorman protested a bit, but Ludwig insisted. "Come on Joelle, every single play you've done has won an award."

Joelle pushed a grey curl behind her ear. "Well, I've had the privilege to work with some of South Africa's best actors – and that includes you, Ludwig." The curl fell back into her face. "By the way, my darling, the next thing I'll do is _A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum._ I've got a part for you in mind. You'll hear from me when we start with the auditions."

Joelle Gorman left us and Ludwig said: "She is a hell of a talented director. She should move up to Jo'burg where everything happens and turn professional. If I didn't have a family to support I'd try that myself as an actor."

I bought some stamps from an unsmiling, fat postal worker with a towering false blonde perm and tons of make up on her face. She grumbled an irritated "môre" – which means good morning without the good in Afrikaans – and klapped the stamps and my change on the counter, as if I'd just taken the world's last ration of food away from her. I thought the equivalent of 'unfriendly bitch' in German, but when I walked past the tellers for the non-whites, I realized that the false blonde must be the most amiable employee on the premises. Her all white colleagues treated their dark customers like worms, especially those customers who couldn't speak Afrikaans.

Ludwig emerged from a special office with a black guy carrying a postbag full of books for him. As we climbed into the car my host father smiled happily. "That prick from Customs and Excise let me take the bags."

"What's so extraordinary about that?"

Ludwig scratched his head. "My girl, you've still got to learn a lot about this country. Remember we were talking about banned books this morning."

"Ja."

"Well, the Nats set up a thing called _Publications Control Board._ There is a bunch of public servants working full time to keep South Africa's morals intact. And they don't only look at books. They check posters and postcards and mags and movies and records – amongst other things, and then they either let them through or they place them under embargo or classify them as undesirable."

"What's the difference?"

"Undesirable means something is banned and it's a criminal offence to have it, and under embargo means they haven't made up their minds yet and one is not allowed to sell it until they come to a decision."

"But how do they know which books to check? They can't possibly read every new publication. It would take an army to do that."

"If Tannie van Jaarsveld phones up and tells them a book should be banned because there is too much swearing and kissing in it they'll put it on the under embargo list before you can say cock Rubinstein. And then there are titles which are immediately suspicious, like _Black Beauty."_

"You mean the story about the horse?"

"Yep."

"What's wrong with that?"

"They first have to find out who that black beauty is and if she behaves properly. They are especially touchy about colour issues. And sex, of course. Ever read _Noddy_ by Enid Blyton?"

"Ja."

"There is a Mr Plod who has a big head in there. They first had to investigate what that big head is. Could've been porn."

"I don't believe this."

Ludwig shrugged his shoulders. "I guess only sick minds can work out things like that. Just imagine there are people out there, with 18 year old sons who are sent to Angola with a license to kill in the border war. And when these same people read the _Playboy_ and look at photos of the tools which have made those sons, it's a criminal offence."

_So Hannes did not only hide his Playboys from Marieke_ ...

We drove into a petrol station and while one attendant was filling up the car with petrol and another one cleaned the windscreen Ludwig carried on. "Another thing is politics. They are shit scared about the Rooi Gevaar of course."

"The communists."

"Ja, doesn't make much sense if one knows that we have so many public servants that it makes Russia look like a kindergarten, but if they catch you with anything advocating leftist stuff, you are in big trouble. I got hold of the _Communist Manifest_ and _The Capital_ because I ordered them for the university. That's about the only place where you are allowed to read these books. For study purposes. Under supervision."

"There is one thing I don't understand. If all that banned literature is corrupting everybody's morals, what about these public servants who spend 5 days a week looking at the stuff. If it's really so filthy, these guys must be the vrottest lot south of the equator."

Ludwig grinned. "Lots of people with brains in their heads have made that same observation. I don't think the government has come up with some logical explanation yet. Just shows you how stupid this whole system is."

At the book shop Ludwig hooted twice and Eliah, a tall Xhosa, came to help unload.

"You haven't told me yet why it is so extraordinary that you could take this bag with you," I said to Ludwig.

"Oh, you see, this bag is still sealed. Normally nobody other than the Customs and Excise guy is authorized to open it."

Eliah carried the bag into Ludwig's office. The bag was closed with a thin wire going through all the holes at the top and there was a lead seal on it. Ludwig took a pair of pliers and cut the wire. "Cost me half a crate of brandy to be able to do this," he said. "First the customs prick wouldn't budge, but one day he agreed that it would save him some time if _I_ unpacked the books and he would only have to come and check."

We put the books in little piles on a table. When we had finished Ludwig handed me a form. "Look here, I get a list like that every week."

The list stated all the undesirable books and the ones under embargo.

"Now let's see," Ludwig studied the list. He pointed to a pile of _First Blood_ and a pile of _The_ _Quick Red Fox_ by J.D. McDonald. "We'll keep these. Just hide them in the cupboard in the bathroom, please Mathilda."

I put the books in the top shelf of the bathroom cupboard and covered them with towels.

_Meine_ _Herren_!

Goosebumps shot up along my spine.

_I must be committing a crime right now_.

I started a laughing fit.

_Serves these fascists right_!

I collapsed on a packet of toilet paper and banged my head on the cast iron bath.

Ludwig rushed in. "Are you all right, Mathilda?"

I couldn't stop laughing. They say laughter is contagious. Ludwig started with a little ripple, which grew fast into a real roar. After a while he wiped the tears out of his eyes and groaned: "I must finish the job. The inspector will be here any minute."

I crawled out of the heap of toilet paper and went back into the office.

_Might just as well learn how to do the job properly while I get a chance_.

"What are you doing now, Ludwig?"

My host father picked up a bundle of papers. "These are invoices that come with the books. The inspector checks the invoices against the _banned_ list." Ludwig took a pen out of a drawer. "What we have to do is to cross out the _First Blood_ and the _Quick Red Fox_ on the invoices."

"But anybody can do that. Isn't the customs inspector going to ask you why they are crossed out?"

"You just tell him that that was already done in London and that these books never got here."

I didn't want to laugh again because my tummy muscles were already aching, but I couldn't stop it. I heard Jeannie announce: "Menheer Duvenage from Customs and Excise for Mr Winter". I spotted a little man with sandy hair. He wore a safari suit and a comb was sticking out from one of his long socks. As I ran snorting past him out of the room, he uttered "môre". 15 minutes later Ludwig and Mnr Duvenage emerged from the office. Ludwig winked at me. I couldn't help it. I ran into the garden and laughed until I cried.

In the afternoon several ladies came to see Ludwig about a 'private matter'. Each one of them disappeared for a while into his office and reappeared with a peculiar smile on her face.

_What the hell is going on in there_?

I couldn't tell because the door was always closed and Ludwig had announced that he didn't want to be disturbed.

The first one was a tall dark haired stunner in her 20s, maybe a student from the university. The second one arrived half an hour later. She was in her middle 40s, had long, red hair and a very curvy figure. I tried to concentrate on the _Bauernmalerei_ Ludwig had asked me to do on a shelf, but the beatific expression of the redhead when she came out of that office somewhat perturbed me.

_Mebbe he is looking for another employee and it's only job interviews_.

I mixed some yellow with some blue and started a garland of heart shaped leaves.

_But the smile on their faces...must be something else...mebbe lovers...? Ho ho ho Mathilda... pasop. Is there a trace of jealousy gnawing at your guts_?

I added a bit of yellow to the green.

_Don't be stupid. Ludwig and Julie are happily married. He would never do that to her...and not in his office...and not 2 within an hour_ ...

I carefully painted some thorns between the leaves.

He said himself he is a lusty schnorkel...even if he is, it has got nothing to do with you. Pasop Mathilda. Don't behave like an idiot.

I mixed some white and red for a flower. Just then number 3 walked in; small athletic, big blue eyes, middle 30s. I watched her go towards Ludwig's office.

_Seems a bit nervous. Mebbe she_ ...

A gruesome cry tore the heat of the afternoon. I dropped the brush. It exploded into a pink splash on the floor. I raced outside where the cry had come from. Edda was standing at the fountain yelling her head off. "Get some buckets of water, quickly," she shouted at me. "There's a tap in the garage."

I didn't ask any questions and organized 2 buckets of water at maximum speed. They were 20 litre buckets and bloody heavy but in an emergency a person develops superhuman strength and Eliah came to help me carry.

"Is the house burning down or what?" I asked him.

He looked at me and said nothing. Edda was still at the fountain, yelling. Siobhan and some customers were standing around her. A fat man grabbed my bucket and said: "This is no job for a lady."

"I hope they'll survive," I heard Edda wail.

I stepped through the circle of onlookers and the drama unfolded in front of my eyes. The 2 goldfish were floating belly up in the fountain. The fat guy was busy pouring water out of the bucket around the fish.

"Not too fast," Siobhan said. "They need time to adapt to the temperature."

"You should splash the water around to create oxygen in there," a grey bearded gentleman suggested.

"Oh no, the poor creatures will die of fright," a high heeled lady protested.

"Where is that blooming Albertina?" Edda yelled for the umpteenth time.

"I am here, Madam," Albertina came down the gravel path.

"Now, _whose_ job is it to put fresh water into this fountain every day?" Edda asked her.

"It's my job, Madam."

"So why don't you do it?"

"I forgot, Madam."

"You see these fish are dying?"

"Yes Madam."

"This is already the third time that you forgot. How on earth..."

"Calm down, lady," the fat guy interrupted. "Shouting won't help. You know what these blacks are like. No sense of responsibility. And when it comes to animals, the saying 'I don't even wish my worst enemy to be reborn as a Kaffir dog in the Transkei', didn't crop up for nothing."

"I guess you are right," Edda said. "One can't win with these blacks. The shouting just helps me to get my frustration out of my system."

I didn't know how to get my disgust out of _my_ system.

_This is the most untactful behaviour I've witnessed in my life_!

I tried a cheering up smile in Albertina's direction. She was standing there with a totally blanc face. Impossible to tell what she was thinking.

The fish were slowly revived with splashings and fresh water. Edda got some special vitamin food to help them get over their ordeal and asked me to make some coffee for the rescue team.

Inside, I met Ludwig and the blonde. She looked terribly excited.

"What's all that commotion about?" Ludwig asked me.

"The goldfish."

"Again," he sighed. "That is the third goldfish drama in as many weeks. Edda will have to take them home."

"If she's looking for a place for them, she's welcome to put them into our pond," Blondie offered.

"Maybe that's the solution," Ludwig said.

Blondie flashed a dazzling smile at him.

Schmalzliese.

Ludwig grinned back at her before introducing us. Blondie's name was Bev and she turned out to be the Winters' vet. I mumbled the usual "pleased to meet you" and that I had to get the coffee going. Bev said she had to move it to be back at the practice for a bowel op on a corgi.

She smiled at Ludwig. Thank you so much for..." She suddenly stopped in the middle of her sentence and glanced in my direction. Her smile dropped.

_Heiliger Strohsack, what is cooking here_?

Bev looked again at my host father and said: "Thank you Ludwig," in a business like manner.

_Go to hell with your secrets_.

I dashed to the kitchen range to make the coffee. Ludwig followed me.

"This has been quite an interesting little afternoon," he said.

"Oh really." I filled water into the percolator.

"Yebo, fuck the bureaucrats."

"Pardon?"

_I don't believe this. He could at least use more romantic language_.

Ludwig grinned from one ear to the other. "Did you notice that several ladies came into my office?"

"Ja."

"Well, each one of them walked out with some of the books you hid in the bathroom cupboard. And I guarantee you that by the end of the month half the town will have read these books, because all of these ladies are members of different book clubs."

I plonked onto the nearest chair.

Ludwig laughed. "Ja, these book clubs are my best customers for banned literature."

***

"The kids have been running around barefoot all afternoon," Julie said to me. "Just make sure they scrub their feet when they are in the bath. And lights out at their usual times."

Julie and Ludwig were invited for dinner at some friends' place. They left early. Nightlife in V.B. usually happened before 10 pm. After that the streets were deserted and only stray dogs, cats, windblown leaves and plastic packets moved through the town.

"What's for supper?" Joshua asked as soon as his parents were out of the door.

" _Kässpatzen_."

"Case what?"

" _Kässpatzen_."

"Case shbazzen."

"That's right. Special noodles they make in Bavaria."

"Mrs Vleega loves noodles," Lolo said. "'Specially with cheese."

"I like cheese with noodles," Greta said. "A heap of cheese and 3 noodles on top. That's the best."

"Good show; _Kässpatzen_ means something like cheese noodles. I'll show you how to make them with a special machine I brought from Germany. But first I want to go to the loo and then have a shower."

In the toilet I grabbed the Condensed Xhosa Dictionary, which I kept there on a shelf that went from the floor up to the ceiling and housed a mighty lot of books. I tried to learn 2 Xhosa words every day. The school could have done something useful and teach us African languages – this was Africa after all – but the only 'African' language they taught at Protea High was Afrikaans, the language of the white African.

" _Manzi_ \- water, _indlu_ \- house..."

The toilet door opened slightly. In the Winters' home no doors were ever locked and the toilet door didn't even have a key. A bright green pipe appeared through the gap and then a yellow one, a little bit lower. The pipes turned slowly until they pointed at me.

_What the hell is_ ...

A squirt of blue liquid hit me in the face, followed by some green stuff on my feet. There were giggles behind the door and some more fluid on my T-shirt.

Shit. I can't possibly get up right now and these bloody brats know it.

I let off a roar that the window panes rattled but the kids only laughed.

I found them in the tree house. The rope ladder was pulled up.

"Eh Mathilda, why're you blue in the face?"

"She was sitting on the loo and there was no poo, so she pushed til she was blue," Joshua yelled.

I suppressed a grin. "Who squirted this disgusting stuff at me?"

"The goblins," Lolo said. "Mrs Vleega saw them. They had a biiig water pistol..."

"Shush man." Greta knocked her sister in the ribs.

"It was the tokolosh," Joshua claimed.

This isn't going anywhere. Better make a fun thing of it.

"This is quite a nice green on my feet," I said. "Anybody want to paint some flowers or something on it?"

3 heads popped over the tree house railing.

"You mean paint on your skin?" Greta asked.

"Ja, if it's any good you can go up to my knees."

"Mrs Vleega wants to know if you're still cross with the goblins," Lolo said.

"No no, they've chosen my favourite blue for my face. Where did they get it from?"

"Daddy's ink," Lolo said.

"Shush man," Joshua growled.

"Ok guys, I'm going to wait for 5 minutes next to the swimming pool. Anybody who wants to paint bring their finger paints and I don't want any mess 'cause we'll take photos when we've finished."

I ended up with flowers, beetles and an image of her favourite rock on my right leg by Greta; an octopus and sharks on my left leg by Joshua and stars and a red snowman on my left arm by Lolo. Then Greta wanted a rainbow on her face, Joshua a whale on his belly and Lolo a giraffe o her back. Schnappsi got a sun on his forehead but I stopped them from converting Dodger into the Pink Panther. By the time we had taken photos of everybody it was dark.

"My auntie Mary has got a much bigger noodle machine than you," Greta cast a critical eye on my _Kässpatzenreibe_ , which consisted simply of a rectangular piece of metal with holes in it and a mobile container on top.

"But auntie Mary never makes noodles," Joshua said. "For her it's too messy."

"You've got to live life even if it kills you, that's your dad's opinion," I said. I filled some dough into the container and moved it to the left and to the right. Little finger-thick dough sausages dangled into boiling water in the Winters' biggest pot. Lolo sat on a small plastic chair on the kitchen table and observed the process with great interest. "Looks like worms," she said.

"Before it looks like worms it looks like runny tummy crap," Greta observed.

"Ja, like albino runny tummy crap," Joshua contributed. "What's crap in German?"

" _Scheisse_."

"Shy- za."

"No no. _Scheisse_. With an s like in sausage."

"Shy-ssa."

"That's better."

By the time they mastered the pronunciation of _Popo_ , _Piesel_ , _Pimmel_ and _Scheide_ , I had fried the onions and grated a big heap of 3 brands of cheese I didn't know. Greta insisted on the addition of her favourite cheese, some orangey sweetish stuff. "Otherwise it will taste like shy-ssa, you know."

I mixed the noodles, cheese and onions in the biggest dish I could find. There was about enough for a week. The estimation of quantities was one of my weak points, especially when it came to pasta.

Mrs Vleega presided over our meal, seated in Lolo's plastic chair on the kitchen table.

"Your stuff looks more like the mieliepap the blacks eat than noodles," Joshua observed.

I grabbed a portion of noodlepap with 2 serving spoons. "Lolo first." The kids watched, fascinated. I was quite surprised myself. Threads of cheese stretched from the big dish right across to Lolo's plate.

"It's an example of cultural variation," Joshua broke the silence.

"Must be the mix of all these different brands of cheese," I guessed.

"Are you sure one can eat that?" Greta asked.

"Watch me." The threads extended from the plate to my mouth.

"We'll need scissors to eat that," Greta said.

Joshua pulled on a cheese string. "I wonder how far it stretches?"

_Interesting question_.

I walked backwards until I hit the kitchen door.

_It's probably better to keep this stuff out of the rest of the house_.

I tied the string to the door handle.

For once Joshua was impressed." Reckon you've invented some new type of rubber, Mathilda?"

"I also want to have a pull," Lolo said.

_Du_ _lieber_ _Himmel_.

But it was too late. Nothing could stop them now. Some time later the kitchen looked like covered in a drunken spider's web.

"I think that is enough now," I said. "The more you mess around the more we'll have to clean up."

"I'm not going to clean up," Joshua protested. "That's Opheibia's job."

His sisters agreed. I only got them into their beds by promising a packet of dragon sweets to the first one to be under the blankets.

I decided on some more sustenance before the clean up and finished a bowl of _Kässpatzen_ pepped up with chutney and chilli sauce. Then I called the dogs in but they didn't show much enthusiasm for stringy cheese suspended between the furniture. I was in the process of luring Schnappsi with some whisky when the back door opened and my host parents walked in.

_Oy oy oy, now the shit is going to hit the fan_!

They stopped dead in their tracks. Ludwig whistled through his teeth. "You should apply for a job as a set builder at the theatre. There might be some future in surrealistic work."

Julie stared at my colourful limbs. "Look at that cute blue beetle," she said to Ludwig. "And this extraordinary octopus. Maybe we should send the kids to extra art classes."

*

Mr Martin's office walls were decorated with prints of flat topped mountains with various African animals in the foreground. The South African flag hung between 2 dark, wooden book cases filled with official looking volumes. Besides his writing equipment and a calendar showing Cape Town under a pristine blue sky, Mr Martin kept a soapstone rhino and a fibreglass fish on a metal rod on his desk. I was waiting for a comment about some illegal behaviour of my part. After a while of small talk about how I was enjoying my stay, he came to the point.

"What I wanted to discuss with you is your speech, Mathilda. I thought you could give it after assembly on the 28th. That should give you enough time to prepare it. About half an hour would be fine.

_Oy oy oy_ ... _du_ _lieber_ _Himmel_.

The mere thought of speaking in front of 500 people gave me sweaty hands.

"My English isn't that good yet, maybe..."

What the hell. The sooner it's over the better.

"...all right. What should I talk about?"

"Life in Germany, your school...maybe you have some slides to show..."

During the big break I could hardly concentrate on Kim's latest news about her boyfriend but she was in such high spirits that she didn't notice.

A speech...half an hour...30 minutes...and in English! Heiliger Strohsack. That's the downside of being an exchange student.

I already started to suffer from indigestion.

"Do you think I should wear split panties?" Kim asked me.

"Huh?" Split panties hadn't been part of my vocabulary so far but sometimes it doesn't take a lot of imagination to work out a word in a foreign language.

"What do you want to wear split panties for?"

"For my date, man. Don't you listen? I'm going to the drive-in with Brendan next weekend."

"Oh. What's his girlfriend got to say about that?"

Kim shot a disdainful look at me. "You really didn't listen, hey. The girlfriend is a gonner."

"Aha. What movie are you going to see?"

"Who worries about the movie. I reckon split panties are dead right. What d'you say?"

"Germany is situated in the middle of Western Europe. It is landlocked in the W, S and E and in the N it borders on the North Sea, Denmark and the Baltic Sea. Since the end of World War II the country has been divided into West Germany and East Germany. I am going to talk about West Germany, that's where I come from. West Germany has got about 40 million inhabitants. The capital is Bonn _..."_

_Phhh, this speech is developing into a major bore of a geography lesson_.

I drew an elephant on the left bottom corner of the page...and a palm tree...and put them on an island surrounded by waves, fish and octopi. Inspiration didn't strike. I went to the kitchen and had a cheese and tomato sandwich. That didn't help much either.

I took out my boxes with slides. The first shot showed my swimming club group. My friend Friederieke was lying flat on the ground and grinning into the camera like everybody else excepting Xaver Müller, who has been a miserable shit ever since he was born, but that didn't stop him from being the best swimmer in our age group. I looked a bit closer. Nobody had shaved their legs or under their arms and some of the guys had moustaches and beards and hair hanging down to their shoulders.

_Enough to kick them out of any SA school_.

The next slide showed just about my entire clan standing in the snow at one of my grandfather's birthday parties. I remembered the tobogganing down the hill, the _Glühwein_ in the _Gasthaus_ and everybody telling stories. I was on the verge of a violent attack of homesickness when a brilliant idea shot through my brains. I went and asked Julie if I could phone the German Consulate.

"Of course," she looked a bit worried. "Anything wrong?"

"No no, everything's fine."

I dialled and got through to a lady who answered with a crisp: " _Guten_ _Tag_ ". I told her what I was after and she said: "No problem, we'll mail it tomorrow." I put the receiver down in great relief. Problem solved!

*

On Saturday morning all 3 kids and Mrs Vleega climbed into my bed and we had a detailed discussion about why rainbows are arcs and what is the real colour of chameleons. Pearly morning light crept through the window and painted the dancing shadows of wind shaken trees on the wall. Doves' cooing and hadeda screams mingled with the rustling of the leaves. Threads of fresh made coffee scents wafted through the salty smell of the sea.

"Today at the yacht club I'm going to put all my 3 _Spray_ s in the water," Joshua announced. He stuck a finger up his nose and dug out an enormous snarly. The future solo circumnavigator inspected his find with great interest and declared generously: "You girls may come and watch the launch."

While Opheibia dished up breakfast, Julie said that she'd take Greta and Lolo to the shops to buy them some clothes before joining Ludwig, Joshua and me at the yacht club. Opheibia placed a dish with sausages on the warming tray and said: "Madam, I need a new uniform, my yellow one is vrot. They make nice ones now with little flowers on them...and Madam, I think blue suits me best; it goes well with my complexion."

Julie swallowed a smile. "Ok Opheibia, I'll have a look at that yellow uniform later."

I searched my cupboard for some suitable stuff to wear for my first visit to a yacht club. In movies, yacht club people always seemed to dress up quite seriously. Dark blue blazers with polished brass buttons, special skipper caps with golden cords...a pipe clamped between their teeth and their fingers clasping a glass of whisky. I wondered if my best Bermuda shorts and my only white polo shirt would be up to the occasion. Personally, I couldn't give a hoot about my outfit but I didn't want to disgrace my host parents.

Ludwig said: "You look very smart, my girl," and he even winked at Julie. Ludwig himself was wearing some every day shorts and an unspectacular T-shirt.

_He's probably got all his smart stuff at the club_.

The harbour was closed off by something that looked like a concentration camp fence. We came to a gate with a barrier and a customs official who asked if we had anything to declare.

"Just going to the yacht club," Ludwig said.

The official peered through the car windows. "Alrrright." He made a sign and a black man in uniform opened the barrier.

"Gee whiskers, this place doesn't look very welcoming," I remarked.

"Well, there are customs in any harbour of the world and the rest is part of the measures against terrorists," Ludwig said.

"What terrorists?"

"Various underground organisations. The ANC for example has a military wing called _Umkhonto we Sizwe._ Means _The Spear of the Nation_. Their aim is to regain power for the black people. They might want to throw a bomb in here, especially at the oil storage tanks over there." He pointed at some monstrous steel tanks further down the road. "These tanks are guarded by the army and have special fences around them. If somebody shoots off a rocket the fence detonates it before it gets to the oil."

_Phhh...one can't get away from politics in this country_.

"Isn't it normal for the blacks to want their power back?" I asked. "This is Africa after all and they are the majority."

"Ja, if things don't change, they'll sooner or later klobber the hell out of us whites. The government tells us it has everything under control and it will never happen...but I don't know, it's like living in a pressure cooker, one day the lid will blow off."

The harbour was a labyrinth of bumpy roads, railway lines, docks lined with big sheds and enormous cranes, and empty lots covered in bush. Boats of all shapes and sizes were sitting in the harbour basin, and on the hard parking some coloureds painted a fishing boat a sunflowery yellow. In the dry dock the blue flames of welding torches hissed around a steel vessel, adding to the cacophony of harbour noises. Machines screamed, motors chugged, cranes screeched, hammers banged. We wound our way through pungent fish-, oil-, coal- and weird chemical smells. Fishing nets and buoys were lying in the sun and Indian Mynahs, seagulls and cats fought for eatable scraps. We drove through an empty lot where stacks of railway sleepers and heaps of rusty junk stuck out of the grass. A bumpy road led past some old abandoned sheds and changed abruptly into a sand track. Ludwig stopped next to a big fig tree. Joshua jumped out of the car like a flash. I thought he needed a pee.

"Wind up your window, Mathilda," Ludwig said. "It's safer to lock up the car."

"What are we doing here?"

"To your left, my girl, is the Victoria Bay Yacht Club."

"I can only see something that looks like a double garage."

"That's it, my girl; all great things start off small. We are in the process of building the club house."

_Mich laust der Affe_.

I looked down my snow white shirt and my crisply ironed marine blue shorts. Ludwig opened the boot. He chucked a packet at me and grinned. "Julie packed this here for you. Might come useful."

The packet contained some paint stained shorts, an ancient pink T-shirt and a frayed out straw hat.

"Why did nobody tell me?"

"Oh, different strokes for different folks," Ludwig said. "You do what you want."

"You can get changed in the ladies' loo," Joshua suggested.

"You guys don't know how fortunate you are that I can take a joke," I declared with dignity.

Inside, the clubhouse to be had a bare concrete floor and one white washed wall. The other walls were partly plastered. The corrugated iron roof sat on some dark brown beams. There was no ceiling to keep the temperature within an acceptable range. Already it felt like the inside of an oven. Some folding chairs and a bench were grouped around a wooden table, with ashtrays and paraffin lamps on top. A forgotten doll lay between an ancient gas fridge and a grey metal locker. Dinghies, fishing rods, a generator and tools took up the rest of the space. I got changed in the loo, a separate little building with lizards all over the show and a frog in the basin.

A white bakkie arrived. It was laden with 3 coloured men, a heap of planks and a big cooler box. 2 blond boys and their fishing gear tumbled out of the passenger door. A guy in his 30s jumped out of the driver's seat, radiating cool class in spite of his frayed, paint stained outfit. He turned out to be Dylan Collins the Rotary president's son, the doctor who had treated Marieke after her stroke.

"I'm pleased to meet the heroine at last," he greeted me. "Marieke would be much worse off if you hadn't acted so fast."

"And how is she doing?"

"Jolly well. She has to learn again how to use her body and she is making good progress. It was quite a shock for Hannes of course. The poor old chap turned from grey to white overnight."

The coloureds unloaded the bakkie, chatting in the typical Cape coloured sing song manner. "Blerry hot," one of them said. "Tjaaa jirra, a man needs a dop to make up for all that sweat pouring out of his body." The third guy agreed and they trundled off to the clubhouse.

Dylan's boys were about the same age as Joshua and ready to catch the biggest fish in the harbour. Joshua couldn't wait to launch his boats.

This part of the harbour was formed by a dredged channel. On our side there was a sandy beach with a small jetty. Upstream the channel narrowed into the Crocodile River, which came down a wild, bush covered valley. Down channel was a little island. About a dozen yachts and a thing that looked like a floating shed were moored in a row. The floating shed was the size of a medium caravan, with a porch around it. A long time ago it had been given coats of paint, but now the multi coloured flakes of the different layers screamed neglect. The porch sagged dangerously towards the bottom of the ocean. That didn't stop a couple of dogs from chasing each other across the warped planks. Some cats were sleeping on the crooked railing and on the ridge of the roof, seabirds sat like a row of movie spectators.

_Must be the local version of Noah's Arc_.

We launched the _Spray_ s from the jetty. Joshua said that he was happy with _Spray II_ 's improved bowsprit, but that _Spray III_ could do with more ballast.

A choir of disharmonic howls rose from Noah's Arc. The door opened and a man emerged. He climbed with some difficulty into a clapped out dinghy tied to the porch gate. The dogs and cats jumped in with him. The man shouted something and a grey heron came flying from the opposite bank and landed elegantly on the bow of the dinghy. The guy started rowing and all the birds from the roof followed him like a feathery cloud.

Wow, the nautical version of the Piper of Hamlin.

"Check that," I said to Joshua.

My host brother tore his eyes from the _Spray III_ for a second. "That's Gordon. He can talk to animals."

The feathery cloud above the dinghy grew during the short crossing with birds joining in from all directions. When he got near the jetty Gordon threw a waterlogged rope at me. I tied it to a metal ring. The dogs and cats leaped out of the boat. Gordon was a small, thin man all sinew and bone, with a dark tan. He cast a critical look on my knot and untied it, mumbling something into his big grey beard. The dogs and cats watched his every movement. Even the birds, who were sitting on the jetty and on the dinghy now, seemed to keep a close watch.

"Bowline," Gordon mumbled as he did some loops and fancy things with the rope. "You can't go through life without knowing your knots."

I went back to the clubhouse to see what was going on there. Some more cars were parked in the shade of the trees and the dinghies had been moved onto the grass. A tall, sturdy guy a bit older than Ludwig was walking around with a roll of paper in his hand and a pipe in his mouth. He told jokes, clapping everybody on the back and laughing like a horse. He approached me with a friendly grin and introduced himself as Sam, architect and weekend sailor. He unrolled the papers, which were plans, and pointed to solid and dotted lines in various colours, explaining something or telling another joke, I didn't know because I didn't understand half of what he said with his British accent. He burst out laughing again.

_Must have been a joke_.

Sam looked at me. "Are we experiencing a little language problem here? Or is it a lack of appreciation of the British humour?" He took a pull of his pipe. "Foreign languages! Not easy, my girl. I'm talking from own experience. Learning Xhosa." He pronounced it Kosa without the click. "Trying to impress the locals. Encourages collaboration. At least that is what some of the whiteys say." He took his pipe out of his mouth and called "gunjani" to 3 blacks unloading a bakkie.

"Ninjani," I said. The plural is..."

Sam stuck the pipe in his face again. "Always perfectionists these Germans. Must be ingrained in their genes. "He grinned. "Nothing wrong with that. You guys invented aspirin and the X-ray machine, after all."

I grinned back. "I'd like to ask you something."

"Go ahead. I'm all ears."

"Why does your Yacht Club look like a garage? Couldn't it be a bit more...sophisticated?"

Sam sighed, his shoulders drooped and I thought he was going to collapse. But he straightened up again and growled: "It's that bloody harbourmaster, that wood headed bureaucrat. He doesn't want a yacht club here."

"Why not?"

"If you find that out, my girl, you'll know more than all of us. I suspect it's a psychological dog in a manger kind of thing. This bastard just doesn't want other people to enjoy themselves."

"And there is nothing you can do? Talk to the mayor or something?"

Sam snorted. "Railways and Harbours! You are talking about sacred government property, girlie. The ground you are treading upon is under his high and mighty harbourmaster's command. Finish and klaar. There is nothing you can do...except what we are doing now. We told him we needed a shed to store our dinghies. A utilitarian thing. That he could take. Of course he doesn't know that we have got a nice little bar in our 'shed'; that reminds me, it's about time for a dop. Let's go and see what we have got."

Inside, Dylan and 2 blacks were trying to assemble Dylan's heap of planks into a shelf. The generator was howling. Sam switched it off. "Hell guys, I don't want to lose my hearing, now that I've reached a man's most prolific years."

Dylan put his drill down. "I wish we had electricity. But with our present harbourmaster there ain't no hope for such luxuries."

"I think I'll have a little chat to the harbour electrician," Sam said. "One can go far with some bottles of brandy in this country."

A short, stocky man was rummaging in the gas fridge.

"Got some beers in there Steve?" Sam called over to him.

The man turned round. "Just brought in 2 cases of quarts and there are still a couple of cold pints." A T-shirt showing the Big Five bulged over his pair shaped torso and he wore thick glasses and ironed jeans with creases.

"Jolly good," Sam smacked his lips. "We better send the darkies outside. One shouldn't drink in front of them. Sets a bad example."

While they started to discuss if one should have a warm Castle Lager or a cold Black Label or maybe mix the 2, I went outside to look for Ludwig. I found him kneeling on the ground with one of the coloureds, floating a floor on the short side of the 'garage'.

2 blacks were mixing sand, cement and water with shovels. The straps of Ludwig's kneepads were cutting in his flesh.

"If you cut off your circulation like that you're bound to end up with varicose veins," I warned him.

Ludwig got up. "Don't worry about my blood vessels. I come from very healthy Swiss pioneer stock."

The blacks shovelled the concrete mix into a wheelbarrow and tipped it out where the coloured was working.

"Ok Japie, you and these 2 guys carry on here," Ludwig said to him.

"All right Master," the coloured answered. He had green eyes.

Ludwig took his kneepads off. "We're slowly but surely enlarging our clubhouse. This will first be a stoep and then a stoep with a roof, and by the time we put the walls up the current harbourmaster might have kicked the bucket and we can get cracking at full speed." He gave his kneepads to Japie and washed his hands at the outside tap. "I thought you could paint the window frames if you want to do some work, Mathilda. Old Alistair has donated about a gallon of Prussian blue."

"Ja, I can do that. Who is old Alistair?"

"Our oldest member and a teetotaler. Never touches any booze. He's a bit scatterbrained though. Had to go back home because he forgot to bring the paint brushes."

We went to join the guys inside. Ludwig had a cool Black Label and I some mango juice.

"Where's Gordon?" Steve asked. Nobody knew. Steve opened another beer for himself. "If anybody sees him I brought some scraps from the restaurant for his zoo. We had a wedding anniversary last night. A golden wedding! Can you imagine it!" Steve took a big schluck. "Jesus. I wonder how they did it. My marriage only lasted 26 months."

"You are not the only one," Ludwig said. "We have the highest divorce rate in the world, pal."

Sam grinned at me. "You better not look for a husband among the South Africans, Mathilda."

"Never planned to." I put my glass down. "Actually I don't think I'll ever get married. Marriage is just one of those society things. Who needs a piece of paper to share her life with another person?"

Sam emptied his pipe into an ashtray. "Hell girl, how on earth did _you_ end up as an exchange student? I thought they only choose the tame ones."

Alistair arrived. He looked like an ancient spider; long limbs and a lot of silvery hair all over his body, except his head. He poured himself stuff out of a thermos flask and said: "There is nothing like rooibos tea. Excellent against heart diseases and old age ailments."

"Same as whisky," Sam said.

I asked Alistair for the paint brushes. He blinked pensively behind his black-rimmed glasses. "Hm...uh...let me think. Didn't I bring them in? Cor blimey. Thought I put them right here on the table. Hm...maybe in the car. Hm. On the back bench. "

"Have a whisky," Sam suggested. "Stimulates the flow of blood to the brain."

"No no. I must look for those paint brushes," Alistair got up.

"I think I'll have another juice then," I said. "May I take one out of the fridge?"

"Go right ahead," Steve said. "If you want ice there should be some in the deep freeze compartment."

The fridge was mainly filled with bottles and cans but there was also an ancient looking piece of butter, a lump of some unidentifiable stuff – mebbbe bait – several tubes of glue in the egg shelf and a cake in the top shelf. I opened the deep freeze section and started to laugh.

"What's up?" Ludwig asked.

"I always thought the Germans have a strange sense of humour," Sam said. "You tell them our hottest British jokes and they don't turn a hair, but they split their sides when they look into a fridge."

_Hahaha_.

"Alistair," I yelled, "Alistair, the search is over."

"What search?" Steve asked.

"The paint brushes. He put them in the deep freeze."

I went outside and got cracking on a window. Ludwig came and asked Japie how things were going. The coloured meticulously straightened out a quarter square metre of concrete, put down his plank and cast his eyes to heaven. "Jirra Master, we could be finished by now, but these Kaffirs are lazy bastards. Takes them hours to mix a bit of concrete."

I nearly dropped the paint brush.

_Nobody in Germany is going to believe this. The oppressed don't stick together_.

At lunchtime we had a braai under the trees. Julie arrived with the girls, a huge basin full of potato salad and 3 freshly caught Red Roman _._ Steve dug about 3 metres of boerewors out of his coolbox and a fowl marinated in a sauce, which had been a family favourite ever since Steve's great-grandmother had invented it during the time of the Seventh Kaffir War _._

Sam's wife, Nadine, arrived, looking like a smiling bird, with her sharp nose and penetrating eyes. She inspected the place and said: "Well done, well done," and then she asked me to help her butter the rolls.

Phhhh

I looked at the half drum where the meat was sizzling over the embers of bushveld wood. The braaing was done by the guys again of course.

Phhhh

I swallowed any protest since I was a guest and because of people's tendency to generalize. I was representing the entire population of Germany, after all.

Dylan's boys had only caught an old shoe and a tangled piece of tape measure.

"Pollution is getting worse by the day," Dylan commented.

"Just wait until they've built this new iron ore berth," Ludwig said "There'll be so much iron ore dust in the air that you won't be able to see the island from here anymore."

"Ja, I guess you're right," Dylan said. "But at least the country will get in some foreign currency by exporting the stuff."

"I thought South Africa is boycotted by just about the whole world," I said.

"All propaganda," Steve growled. "Where do you think the Yanks get the space age metals for their space program from? From us, my girl, from us. Horrible old South Africa." He angrily chucked his cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it with his heel. "They are a bunch of bloody hypocrites out there. Not only do they pretend not to do any business with us because of apartheid, but look at the way people are treated all over the world. I'll give you just one example. Arab women. They don't even get their own ID books, let alone the vote. And who is boycotting Arab oil, hey?"

A cloud of birds approached from the west. Alistair glanced up at the sky. "Looks like Gordon is coming. One can always tell by the birds."

Some minutes later Gordon schlentered along the road, the dogs copying their master. A couple of cats joined the trek. Gordon greeted us with a toothless smile.

"Come and join us," Ludwig invited him.

Gordon sat down on a wire chair and accepted a cold beer. The birds descended into the trees, except the heron, which stood like a one-legged statue close by. Everybody watched in silence how the dogs and the cats settled in a circle around their human friend.

"Here we go," Steve dropped 2 bulging plastic packets into Gordon's lap. "Golden wedding anniversary left overs. Only the best for the beasts."

Nadine nudged my arm. "Watch. You won't often see something like this."

Gordon slowly got up from his chair. The dogs wagged their tails, the cats got up and stretched, the birds cried excitedly. Gordon walked a couple of metres away. He chucked a bone to each dog and each cat, mumbling something in a secret language. The birds took off from the branches and landed on Gordon's outstretched arms, picking morsels out of his hands. The heron approached in a graceful stalk and grabbed his share with his long beak.

"St Francis of Assisi," Nadine whispered, "in flesh and blood".

After the braai Gordon had a digestive cigarette and a digestive dop. Then he excused himself. He had an important appointment at the Seafarers' Club.

"Here goes a tragic figure," Julie said as Gordon disappeared and only the cloud of birds was still to be seen in the sky.

"One can't put him in a drawer," I said.

"Uh?" All of a sudden I had all eyes fixed on me.

"Don't try to put him in a drawer," Alistair said. "He might charge you with assault."

"What do you mean, Mathilda?" Dylan asked.

"Ehm, we've got a saying in German. Translated directly, it is to put somebody into a drawer. It means to classify somebody...or mebbe in English it's to categorize...and if you can't put somebody into a drawer, you don't know where that person fits into society. Something like that."

"I think I get your point," Dylan said.

"So you reckon one can't put Gordon into a German drawer," Steve chuckled.

" _I_ can't. He looks like a hobo yet he talks like a gentleman. His fingernails are broken and dirty yet he's got table manners fit to eat with the Queen."

"You are quite right," Julie said.

"Shame, the poor man," Nadine sighed.

"Ja, a it's terrible story," Dylan said. "Amazing that he didn't end up in the loony bin or hasn't drunk himself to death. You see Mathilda, Gordon once was one of our most brilliant biologists. He taught at the University of Cape Town and wrote papers about things we normal mortals don't even know how to pronounce. Then he got married to an Afrikaans girl by the name Dalene van Rensburg."

"That's when the trouble started," Steve commented.

"Well I don't know," Alistair said. "She was quite a bit younger than him but that doesn't necessarily end in disaster."

"That' not the point," Ludwig said. "She came from one of those very conservative Afrikaaner families in the Transvaal and Gordon from an English family, who arrived here with the 1820 settlers. Old man van Rensburg just couldn't stomach that his daughter married a bloody rooineck instead of a nice boereseun. He told his daughter he never wanted to see her again. In good old Boere tradition that means nobody of her family was allowed to contact her, and when the patriarch speaks you listen because it's all taken from the Old Testament. In spite of that Gordon and Dalene seemed to lead quite a happy life. They had a boy and a girl and much later another little girl called Vicky."

" _That_ 's when the trouble started," Steve said.

"Why, was something wrong with the kid?" I asked.

"Hell yes," Sam said. "She was born a darkie."

"Dalene got involved with a black man," Nadine said.

"We don't know," Dylan said. "According to the official version it was a genetic throw back from one of her ancestors."

"I still maintain Dalene had a go with a black guy," Nadine insisted. "Her first 2 kids were as white as any of us; blond hair, blue eyes. And all of a sudden a brown skinned, dark eyed child with curly black hair. Something doesn't ring true."

"Genetically a throwback is possible," Dylan said. "And after all, what percentage of Afrikaaners have got black blood in their veins although they'd never admit it?"

"Bunch of bloody hypocrites," Sam growled.

"Dalene came from a background where everybody believed 100% in white supremacy," Ludwig said. "She shot herself. Couldn't handle the fact that she had given birth to a coloured child. Must have been a hell of a thing, but Gordon somehow managed to get over the death of his wife and his kid's colour and carried on with his life. He sent the 2 elder children to a boarding school where nobody knew they had a dark sister. At home the maid looked after the little one.

When Vicky was 7 she was officially reclassified 'coloured'. Parents of the children in her school had complained that she wasn't white. Vicky was removed from the school and stayed at home."

"Poor kid," Julie said. "Just imagine, not belonging anywhere, no friends..."

"Absolutely awful, Nadine sighed.

"When she turned 8 Vicky had had enough," Ludwig carried on. "She swallowed a packet of rat poison. From that day on Gordon was never the same again. He left his job at the university without notice, locked up the house without packing anything and trundled along the coast until he ended up in that floating shack over there. He surrounded himself with animals and refused for years to have anything to do with any human being. When we first started building here he wouldn't even acknowledge us. Only after weeks of leaving plastic packets full of leftovers for his animals did he accept us. It was his 'sociable' day today. He doesn't often stay that long. The only other place he ever goes to is the Seafarers' Club."

The barman there gives him dops on the house," Steve said.

"What happened to Gordon's other kids?" I asked.

"When Vicky died both of them were already at varsity," Nadine said. "Brilliant students. The boy specialized in astro physics. As far as I know he's living in the States now. And the daughter is doing research on primates in Borneo. Seems to be quite an authority in her field."

"One wonders what Vicky would be if she had been born in a different country," I said.

"We'll never know," Ludwig answered, "But one thing I do know is that this country will stand for ever guilty in the centuries to come for a social engineering attempt based on some crack pot Hollander – Verwoerd – who's forbears couldn't even run a decent half way stop at Cape Town in the 1600s."

I finished painting the windows and went down to the jetty. The kids were absorbed in a game that involved the building of sandcastles and a lot of water splashing. The sun beamed golden rays from a pristine sky and the sea gleamed in ripples of silver and blue. The milkwood trees in the Crocodile River Valley shone like a pond of emeralds and the breeze carried flowery scents. The childrens' laughter filled the hot afternoon air.

_Such beauty in such a fucked up country_.

*

"So how was it?" I asked Kim on the way to assembly.

"Huh?" Kim didn't look her sparkling self.

"How did it go? You and Brendan at the drive-in...and the split panties."

We took our places in the standard 9 line.

Kim shrugged her shoulders. "So so."

"That doesn't sound very enthusiastic for a first date. What did..."

"Ssshhht," a prefect hissed, and Miss Pembleton started the prayer.

In maths Kim got a bollocking from Mr Cuthbert because she couldn't explain Pythagorasses theorem. Mr Cuthbert took his glasses off and thundered: "I warn all of you. The jacarandas are in full blossom and you know what that means."

_Huh? What have jacaranda blossoms got to do with maths_?

After the lesson I asked Jason the maths genius of our class.

"It hasn't specifically got to do with maths," he grinned. "We've just got this saying in South Africa, that if you only start to study when the jacarandas are blossoming it's too late, because the end of the year exams are just around the corner." He glanced at the door, quickly took a gum out of his mouth and stuck it under his desk.

Mrs Pienaar, the history teacher, made her entrance on skinny legs, clasping her bag with bony arms on her plank-flat front. Her colour scheme was like her hair, grey and brown. Nobody knew her age. Could have been anything from 40 to 60.

"Good morning class," she croaked from the hight of her platform. "The jacarandas are blossoming, so let's revise a couple of things."

During the next 30 minutes Niko from Cyprus, who was sitting next to me, frenetically took notes. The poor guy was expected to write the exams although he'd only been in the country for a few months. His English still wasn't so hot because at home they only spoke Greek. I was exempted, _Gott_ _sei_ _dank_ , because I'd go back to Germany and finish my schooling there. I wrote a letter to Friederieke while Mrs Pienaar waffled about the Groet Trek _._ I was just telling Friederieke about jacarandas and exams when Niko punched me in the ribs.

"Let's hear what our exchange student has to say about this," Mrs Pienaar purred through her thin lips.

_This – what_???

"Ehm, where should I start Mrs Pienaar?"

"It's always good to start right at the beginning."

_Hell, the beginning of_ _what_?

A decade of German schooling had taught me the art of bluffing. If Mrs Pienaar wanted a beginning I could give her _the_ beginning. I was quite clued up about it because last Christmas my uncle Rolf had given us a fat book about the history of the world. "In the beginning there was the Big Bang," I started. "The universe expanded from one single point to its present vastness and it's still expanding. Our solar system emerged about 4,6 billion years ago. It consists of the sun in the centre and 9 planets circling around it. Life on earth started about 3,5 billion years ago when the first amino and nucleic acids were formed..."

_Why is old girl Pienaar getting so white in the face_?

"...and the way all the different species developped is explained in the theory of evolution..."

Mrs Pienaar hit her bony fist on her desk. "We don't teach this... this ...this theory here."

"Oh, then what theory _do_ you teach here?"

Mrs Pienaar got quite agitated. Red spots began to glow on her pale cheeks. Her mouth crinkled into a self righteous pout.

_Looks like Perlman's boxerdog's poephol_.

She stuck her index finger up into the air. "We don't teach any theories here. We teach the truth and the truth is written down in the bible."

_Mich_ _laust_ _der_ _Affe. Looks like she takes the bible verbatim_.

Mrs Pienaar got up from her chair and instructed us to study page 78 while she would get something she had forgotten in the teachers' room. At the door she turned round. "By the way, Mathilda, just now we were revising Adolf Lüderitz, the founder of the colony which became German South West Africa in 1884."

As soon as she was outside Jason stuck his gum back into his mouth. "Here goes the old liar," he said. "Forgot something in the teachers' room, my arse. She is going for a smoke; can't get through one period without her nicotine fix."

"She'll probably need a double dose," Liza said. "That theory of yours upset her quite a bit, hey Mathilda."

"It's not _my_ theory, a guy called Darwin first wrote it down more than 100 years ago."

"Oh Darwin," Brian said. "I've heard about him. "He maintained our ancestors were baboons."

_Hells bells, these guys don't even know the most basic facts of life_.

Fortunately the conversation turned to the latest cricket match and the bell rang before Mrs Pienaar came back. She probably needed a triple dose.

During the break I tried again to get Kim to talk about her drive-in date but all she said was that guys were weird and had damn double standards.

In the afternoon we foreigners sat through another lesson of Afrikaans. Mevrou van der Bijl explained once again, that in the youngest member of the Germanic group of languages the verb is not inflected to express differences in person or number, and the only time it changes is to form the past participle by using the prefix of ge, the ge being pronounced like the ch in loch. Niko hung on Mevrou's lips to secure his future in this country. He knew that without Afrikaans he wouldn't even get a matric. The 2 sisters from Bristol also showed an increase of motivation since their parents had applied for permanent residence, because South Africa was such a marvellous place, filled with exceptional opportunities, wide open spaces, cheap servants and blue skies. Our class had shrunk a little bit because the Dutch kids had been sent to a boarding school in Swaziland, where they didn't have to learn Afrikaans and shared their classroom with kids of all races and denominations.

"...and in Afrikaans we have no grammatical gender or case..."

I finished my letter to Friederieke. Next to me Luciano from LM was working on a new song that would make him famous once he'd start his career as a singer in Portugal. Every now and then he beat a couple of bars with his fingers on the desk. Mevrou usually raised her eyebrows and said: "Hou op", which means 'stop it'. Luciano never reacted because he never learned one word of the language of the White African, except 'fok julle almal' from Lettie the coloured tea lady, who never stopped swearing. A fly buzzed across the window and a little lizard walked up the wall.

"...and Afrikaans has discarded the imperfect tense," Mevrou announced as if it was a personal achievement.

When I was riding back from school, the roads were shimmering with heat and at places my bicycle tyres left traces in the softened tar. The spicy scent of the blue gums mingled with the sweet perfume of jacaranda blossoms. My gym was drenched in sweat before I was even halfway up the hill.

Just shows you that all that advertising talk about 'stay dry in your armpits with our super hyper Dingsbums deodorant' is a lot of kak.

Back home the thermometer showed 37ºC in the shade. Alpheus was washing Julie's car. Ludwig had fetched him in the morning from the prison. Alpheus wore a helmet-like head gear he had made out of plastic packets and knee high rubber boots.

_Boetie, the guy must have the most extraordinary micro climate around his toes_.

In the house the fans were swirling cool air around. Clochard, who couldn't take high temperatures, was snoring under the dining room table. Some flies buzzed lazily along the window panes.

Julie looked up from a painting she was doing and said: "Some friends of Jim Hawks from the Rotary Club have invited you to stay with them for a while. They are living on a farm in the Freestate."

"Oh great. When do they say I should come?"

"During the Christmas holidays. And by the way, there was a parcel in the post for you. I put it on the desk in your room."

The parcel was from the German Consulate. It contained exactly what I had asked them for.

Halleluja

I changed into my costume singing _Oh Baby Baby Balla Balla_ on top of my voice and baby baby balla balla-ed all the way to the pool, where half a dozen kids were splashing around.

"You are in a brilliant mood today," Julie grinned.

"Yebo yebo balla balla _Buxenknaller_."

Kim still didn't want to talk about her date but it looked like she wasn't thinking of much else. Mrs Pienaar threatened her with detention when Kim said that during the battle of Trafalgar in 1066, King Arthur kidnapped Lady Jane Grey, which caused the final outbreak of the Napoleonic Wars. Mrs Koeks was more human and sent Kim to the secretary's office to get an aspirin after she had poured 3 cups of salt into the dough for a Strawberry Angel Cake.

I asked Coral what she thought was wrong with her sister. In Coral's opinion Kim hadn't hit it off with Brendan and was suffering from an extreme case of love sickness, completely unnecessarily, of course. You just had to take one look at Brendan to see he was nothing special, there were millions like him out there, where as her Johnny Bartlett happened to be the most extraordinary person breathing on this planet and... All of a sudden Coral's eyes nearly popped out of her head. "You don't think Kim is pregnant, do you?"

"It's a bit early to tell."

"I'd rather be dead than pregnant and not married," Coral said grey in the face.

"Come on, we are living in the 20th century. One can always get an abortion on social or medical grounds, or whatever you call it in English. You know, you wouldn't have the bucks to support a kid, your whole life will be buggered because you can't finish your education, you've got a tubular pregnancy...something like that."

"I don't know," Coral stammered. "I've never heard about all that stuff. I don't think we've got it here. Abortions are only for rich people. They send their daughters to England and they have done it there. If your parents haven't got bucks you go to one of those homes for unmarried girls, where life is worse than in prison, but that's what you deserve when something like that happens to you, and you aren't even allowed to look at your baby when it is born and it is given away for adoption, and you are an eternal disgrace for your family, and chances are you end up as a spinster because no guy wants to marry a tart."

"And the fathers?"

"What fathers?"

"When there is a baby there has to be a father."

"Oh, _those_ fathers," Coral scratched her nose. "I don't know. One never hears much about them."

"Isn't it amazing that the guys always seem to get off scot free."

"An abortion in this country – easiest thing in the world," Julie said when I asked her. "But under certain conditions only. If a black guy rapes a white woman she gets her abortion before you can blink your eyes."

"And the other way round, if a white guy rapes a black girl?"

"Hm. I don't know. I've never heard about that."

The next day during lunch break Kim exploded. We were sitting on the far side of the sports fields and, out of the blue, she smashed a coke bottle against a tree and yelled: "The bloody bastard."

I was sure one could hear her right up to the school building. "Kim calm down, man. What ever he did it's not worth getting so upset about it." I hoped I was right.

"What do you know? The prick. I could kill him." She thrashed a broken off branch against the tree and kicked rocks. I just waited. They say it's good for people to let off steam. It took her a while to calm down.

"You know what that bloody bastard did?"

"Not yet, but I'm all ears."

Kim put her hands on her hips and snorted: "We went to the drive-in and first everything was going fine. A bit of kissing and a bit of stroking...and then he discovered my split panties. I thought they would be a nice surprise for him and you know what he said?" She stomped disgustedly on the ground. "He said he didn't want to have anything to do with a whore who showed off her cunt to the whole world." Kim snorted again. "Does that make any sense to you?"

"Mebbe he didn't expect this kind of signal and felt you were putting pressure on him."

"Rubbish. Normally guys love it, you know."

I didn't know, but I didn't feel like discussing my sexual experience with Kim. Looked like she was light years ahead of me.

"And then the whole evening was buggered," she carried on. "I jumped out of the car and my cousins, who were also at the drive-in, gave me a lift home. I had to bribe them with 2 packets of cigarettes not to tell my folks, because they thought I was swotting for the exams with Peggy. Hells bells, what a fuck up. And all because that shit shot can't handle split panties."

*

The day of the speech had arrived. While everybody else was at assembly, Brian and I set up the necessary things in the gymnasium. Brian opened the parcel from the German consulate and said: "I'd love to go overseas after matric next year. London, Picadilly Circus, a live Beatles concert...Paris, the Eiffel Tower, the French chicks..." he sighed. "Ride a Vespa through Rome, drink litres of Chianti and meet some Italian chicks..."

"If you really want to go nothing is stopping you. If you want to come to Germany you can stay with us. Just give me ample notice that I can warn the German chicks."

Brian grinned and then he frowned. "For you it's easy to travel, Mathilda, but with a South African passport you're not always welcome. My dad goes a lot to foreign countries for his work and I'm telling you, there are places where they treat you like shit if you are a South African."

"Don't you think you treat the blacks here like shit even in their own country?"

"Ag, come on Mathilda. They are stone-age people. One can't let _them_ run the place."

The doors opened and the pupils of Protea High swept in like a white, khaki and blue tide. The teachers took up their places on the chairs in the back. The pupils settled down on the floor, the girls on the right hand side, the boys on the left, everybody sitting tailor fashion.

I wiped my sweaty hands on my tunic. Being nervous was a terrible feeling. I hoped Mr Martin wouldn't disapprove too much of my slight change of plans.

Mr Martin came to the front. He tapped his silver pen on the lecturn and all whispering stopped. He cleared his throat as always when he had an announcement to make and told the school that I was going to enlighten them on the subject of Germany. Germany, a country he had had the privilege to visit himself in 1962, an experience he would never forget. He didn't mention why. He handed the word over to me with an encouraging smile. My colleagues clapped and whistled. Even Kim grinned.

_Not bad for a start_.

" _Sehr_ _geehrter_ _Herr_ _Direktor_ , _sehr_ _geehrter_ _Lehrkörper,_ _liebe_ _Mitschüler.._."

Everybody looked a bit baffled except Mrs Davies, the German teacher, who nodded with every word I said.

"First of all I would like to thank everybody again for making me feel so welcome."

My audience relaxed at the sound of familiar English.

"Today I..."

Whoamm. The door slammed open. A tea trolley squealed in, accompanied by a ribald"jou moer".

Mrs Koeks had the shortest reaction time. While her collegues still held their breath in sudden fossilization, she jumped up and manoeuvered Lettie, the tea lady, back outside. Everybody started to breathe again. I carried on with my speech. After 2 minutes I mentioned that man had listened to speeches ever since he had started to develop language and living in a technical era now, one should make use of modern means of communication. I gave a sign to Brian. He turned a switch and a wide angle shot of the Rhine valley appeared on the wall. Half an hour later the documentary finished with a view on Neuschwanstein Castle in autumn. Brian switched the projector off. Everybody clapped. Mr Martin seemed quite pleased although I hadn't spoken for more than 3 minutes. The German Consulate had sent me a hell of a good documentary. I was impressed.

It was the job of Peter, the president of the debating society, to thank me. He waffled on for quite a while so there was no time for questions. Before he bell rang, Mr Martin quickly said that he had enjoyed the film and that it had brought back pleasant memories of his trip in 1962. He cleared his throat and carried on: "Now that we've seen an...uh...official documentary about Germany, we are looking forward to a more...uh...personal view in Mathilda's next speech."
PART II

The road stretched ahead like a black ribbon, dead straight for the next 30 km. There was no other car in sight. Flat topped mountains rose from the plain, each one like an island, surrounded by a sea of veld. A few blue dams shone like morsels of fallen sky. Here and there grazing sheep and lonely windmills dotted the vastness of the landscape. The only trees, mostly huge blue gums, clustered around solitary farmhouses.

Emily Bell glanced at the map book on her lap and said to her husband: "Henry dear, I think we should take the next turn off to the right. That would save us at least 50 kilometres."

Henry, his bony hands firmly gripping the steering wheel, answered: "As you wish my dear, as you wish."

I looked at Leonard who was sitting next to me. He shrugged his shoulders and grinned a soundless sigh. The Bells, both in their 70s, had extensively travelled all the continents of the planet. How they had ever managed Leonard and I did not know. During countless hours we had got lost so many times, I was in a daze. According to plan the Bells should drop me off at the farm Mooiwater in the Freestate. I had my doubts if we would ever get there. And I was the lucky one. Leonard, an exchange student from Michigan, was headed to Pretoria, still hundreds of kilometres further north, with Emily and Henry right to the bitter end.

The next turn off to the right was a brown red dirt road. Henry steered the white Ford without hesitation over the cattle grid. A group of guinea fowls took off with raucous warning cries. In the distance a mountain range rose rocky blue into the sky.

Leonard studied the map, pointed to the mountains and announced: "Over there is Lesotho."

After half an hour we took a turn off into another dirt road. Red legged francolins ran out of the high grass and yellow butterflies danced above the corrugations. Henry showed a special talent for driving at the exact speed to get a maximum effect out of the corrugations to destroy the motorcar. Emily's white curls jumped up and down and for the first time in my life I regretted that I didn't wear a bra. I crossed my arms under my boobs. Leonard philosophically offered a round of jelly tots.

I was looking for a decent pee-spot, when all of a sudden the car skidded in a curious sort of slow motion. Henry carried on driving as if nothing had happened and we thumped along the road like a limping duck. Leonard silently shook his head and finished his packet of jelly tots.

After a while Emily said: "Henry dear, you had better stop. Something is not right."

"As you wish my dear, as you wish." Henry stepped on the brake and the car came to a halt.

Emily opened her lipstick and started to apply a new layer of dark pink to her mouth. Henry, Leonard and I got out.

"Flat tyre," Leonard diagnosed.

"Oh indeed." Henry bent down and inspected the right back wheel. "Well now, that shouldn't't be a problem. Leonard, you know how to work a jack, don't you?"

"Yeah, sure."

"What is happening?" Emily called from the passenger seat.

"Nothing serious. Only a flat tyre." Henry straightened up. "Don't worry. Our young friend will put on the spare in no time."

Leonard grinned and winked at me.

"Uh...Henry..."

"Yes, my girl."

"The left front tyre is also flat."

Henry marched around the car and had a look. "Oh indeed, oh indeed. You are quite right."

Emily opened her window. "Henry dear, put this on your head. The sun is strong today."

"Thank you, "Henry took his white Panama hat. "I'm afraid we have a little problem. Nothing serious, of course."

"Good to hear, "Emily closed her make up mirror with a click. "So what's the problem?"

"We have 2 flat tyres and only one spare."

Emily didn't't bat an eyelid. She looked at her watch and said: "It's tea time. What about a nice cup of Earl Grey?" She flashed a smile at Henry. "I brought your favourite shortbread."

We planted the sun umbrella into the red, stony ground and arranged 4 folding chairs around a folding table. Emily clipped a rose patterned tablecloth to the tabletop and got matching plastic plates and cups out of a wicker picnic basket. Henry sat down and surveyed the landscape with binoculars.

I hope to hell he can spot a farm...or something...or somebody. We haven't seen one car since we turned off the tar road.

Emily poured the tea. " Who would like a cucumber sandwich?"

Leonard closed the boot of the car. "I can't find a jack in there."

I stirred my tea and said: "I guess it doesn't really matter anyway."

Henry produced a sound that vaguely resembled a whistle. "Isn't that extraordinary...brownish crown, face and foreneck, wing coverts white and brown...white belly...and the size is about right...hm...Neotis denhami?..or Neotis ludwigii?" He got up. "Where is my bird book?" 10 minutes later Henry informed us that it was definitely a Neotis ludwigii because the denhami had a grey foreneck and had more white on his wings.

After tea Emily got her embroidery out of her bag and cross stitched a dark brown deer on a green background. Henry studied his bird book and made notes in his diary.

"Mebbe we should go for a walk," I said to Leonard. "Who knows, there might be a public phone round the next bend."

Emily looked up from her cross stitch. "Watch out for snakes dears; when it is hot like today they like to lie in the sun."

Except for a spectacular view over more veld and more koppies and more mountains, there was absolutely nothing around the next bend.

When we got back to the car, Emily had finished the hindquarters of the deer and Henry was sprawled across his chair, snoring softly into a hanky spread across his face.

"There is roast beef and coleslaw for lunch," Emily said. "And strawberry tartlets for desert."

After lunch the real drama struck. Emily ran out of burnt umber thread for the flank of her deer. Henry tried to cheer her up. First by citing Longfellow poems and then by imitating bird calls.

Nothing helped.

"I 'm going to climb up that koppie behind us," I said. "Can I take the binoculars along?"

"Yes you may, my girl. You might see some Ayres' Cisticola higher up. I'm almost certain I heard their call. It goes something like: chiki pee pee pee."

Leonard got up from his chair. "I think I'll join you, Mathilda."

We climbed through a fence and found something that looked like a cow track.

"Where there are cow pats there must be cattle, and where there is cattle there must be a farm," Leonard observed. "And..."

"D'you know how big the farms are here?"

"Yeah. I guess we'll have to spend the night in the car."

"Mebbe somebody will pick us up before we run out of cucumber sandwiches and Earl Grey tea."

In the distance a cloud of dust rose into the sky. It moved at a regular speed across the veld. We watched it coming closer.

I stared through the binoculars. "Let's go back, Leonard. Looks like there is a bakkie coming."

The bakkie stopped next to our car and 2 tanned, stocky guys jumped out. They were both in their 30s and wore khaki shorts and shirts and long socks with a comb sticking out the top. The taller one's face was hidden behind an enormous reddish moustache, a bushy beard and a broad rimmed leather hat with a band of zebra skin around it. The other guy had chubby cheeks like a baby and a cigarette between his lips.

"Meddag," they said in unison, and the tall one asked a question that I didn't understand. Henry answered in his best Afrikaans, which couldn't't have been very good because the guys changed into English. After Henry had explained our situation, they discussed the matter amongst themselves in Afrikaans. Finally baby cheeks chucked his stompie into the dust and said with a heavy accent: "There is a garrrage on the other side of the brrridge. We can drrrop you off there."

They put the spare wheel on and it was decided that Leonard and I would go with them. We loaded the 2 flat tyres on the bakkie.

Baby cheeks pointed at Leon. "The ou can sit in the back." He grinned at me. "You can sit in the front with me and Marthinus."

_Dream on boetie. Only over my dead body_.

I climbed over the tailgate and said: "I get carsick when there is cigarette smoke around. I'll rather stay in the fresh air in the back here."

We travelled at full speed, leaving a cloud of dust behind us. Leonard and I sat with our backs against the cabin. It wasn't exactly comfortable on the bare metal, especially when we hit potholes. A few gigantic clouds sailed above the koppies and the mountains towered silently in their bluish splendour. It felt like we were the only human beings left on the planet, until we overtook a group of black women. Some of them had babies strapped to their backs and they all carried big bundles of wood on their heads. A while later we stopped in the shade of a big blue gum. The bearded guy disappeared behind the tree. Marthinus offered us some biltong and told us that Jacobus was going to drive now, and that it wasn't very far anymore.

We came to a small brick building with a corrugated iron roof. There was a pole with the South African flag dangling in the wind and a pole across the road. A fat young man in uniform slowly rose from his chair on the stoep. He yawned and burped on his way down the steps and stared at us with a big frown.

"Hey Kerneels, hoe gaan det?" Our driver shouted.

The fat guy's face split into a grin. "Meddag ouens." He winked. "Gaan julle for a naughty fuck?"

Leonard and I looked at each other.

"What do you think this place is?" Leonard asked me.

"Looks like a border post but mebbe it's a government brothel."

Fatty leaned through the car window and chatted in Afrikaans to Marthinus and Jacobus.

"There ain't no brothels in this country," Leonard said. "At least no official ones. I've studied the subject." He looked around. "No, this must be a border post."

"Somebody could have told us that we are going across the border."

"Maybe they did...in Afrikaans."

The 3 guys in front burst out laughing.

"Shit, you don't think they're planning to kidnap us?" I whispered to Leon. "You know, the white slave trade. I heard that at least..."

"Relax Mathilda, they would have drugged us."

The guys in front cracked some cans open and howled with laughter. Fatty slapped his thighs and spilled some beer in the process. All of a sudden he became serious. He pointed to us with a meaty index finger: "Julle mense het a re-entry visa nodig. Burp."

"I didn't bring my passport," Leon said.

" _Heiliger_ _Bimbam_ , why not?" I asked.

"Because I'm not used to taking my papers along when I wanna have a tyre fixed."

I handed my passport to Fatty. He studied the first page and said: "I had a German great-grandmother. From Telgte. The damn most God fearing woman you can imagine. Knew her bible by heart. Gave birth to 14 children and could work like a horse. A strong woman she was. A bum like a merrie. Shoulders like an ox." His eyes travelled from my toes to the top of my head. "Looks like they don't make them like that anymore."

"What gaan an, Kerneels?" Jacobus shouted from behind the steering wheel. "Hurry up man. We haven't got all day."

"Ja nee ouens, die Amerikaner didn't bring his paspoort I can't let him through."

"Come on, Kerneels. They only want to go to the garage to have their tyres fixed. They'll come back with us."

"Ja nee. Burp. A ou must do his duty for his country."

"Heere," someone growled in front. A minute later Jacobus stuck a bottle out of the window." Take a schluck of this, broer."

Fatty's eyes popped open that the whites flashed in the sun. "Mampoer," he said and dropped my passport into my lap. He unscrewed the top of the bottle and sniffed. "Witblits _._ " He glugged some of the transparent liquid down his throat. His face turned even redder than it already was and tears ran out of his eyes. "Heere mense, baaie lekker goed die. Leister oukie, this time I'll let you go. But you behave yourself, boet. Ek will nie trouble he nie."

Leonard nodded gravely. "Okay, I promise."

As soon as we were out of Fatty's sight Jacobus stopped the car. "Have you people got a bit of money on you?" he asked us. "That would speed up the process on the Lesotho side."

"Ja," I said. "It's South African Rands. Do they accept Rands in Lesotho?"

"Heere meisie, Kaffirs accept anything as long as it is money."

We crossed a bridge and bought our entry into Lesotho for 10 bucks each.

There hadn't been many trees on the South African side of the border but here there were no trees at all. There were also no fences. Goats, cattle, donkeys and horses walked wherever they wanted to; lots of them on the road. Jacobus didn't slow down one bit.

"If he carries on at that speed we'll end up like one of those," Leon pointed to a car wreck. "Jeez, I've never seen so many fucked up cars before."

Nor had I. They were lying all over the show; in the veld that was reduced to a stubble, in the dusty riverbed and in the red scars of soil erosion. Mud huts with thatched or corrugated iron roofs stood scattered in the rolling hills. Each kraal had its own collection of rusty car wrecks. We overtook men riding small horses and women carrying water in plastic containers on their heads. Soon we came to a tiny town with some ramshackle colonial houses. We stopped at a big rectangular building that had once been white, but now flakes of paint were hanging down the walls. Above the roll-up gate one could decipher 'Royal Garage'. Between the 2 petrol pumps a skinny dog and some goats were lying in the sun and kids were playing with the pieces of a burst tyre. Jacobus hooted. The dog blinked and the kids assembled around our car but nothing else happened. Jacobus yelled something in Sotho. After a while a man shlentered out of the garage. He wore a conical grass hat with a loop on the top. He took his time examining the tyres, looking at them from every angle, commenting in his language. At last Jacobus and he struck some kind of a deal and the man got the kids to help him roll the tyres into the garage.

"Let's hit the dorp," Jacobus said.

We drove down the main road, which was the only road anyway, lined with general dealer shops and a Roman Catholic chapel with a little school. On the sides of the road people were cooking on dung fires and selling everything from live fowls and other foodstuffs to plastic basins and tanned sheepskins. Roaming goats and donkeys took an interest in the wares, especially the vegetables.

The Royal Hotel was the biggest building in town. It had the Royal Off-Sales attached to it. The whole outfit was covered by a corrugated iron roof that still showed some traces of red paint. The stone walls had some major cracks, but nobody seemed to worry. A lot of windows were broken; some of them had been fixed up with pieces of cardboard. In the yard was a long queue of women and children waiting for their turn to fill their plastic drums at an outside tap.

We got out of the car and Marthinus tripped over an old can. "Fok." He kicked the can towards the queue where it landed between a heap of plastic packets and some broken bottles.

Inside the hotel a black woman was on her knees brushing an ancient, greenish carpet. The curtains were drawn and the dark furniture did nothing to brighten up the room. Fat flies buzzed lazily and a buckled fan wobbled on the ceiling. A middle aged white man appeared behind the counter. He had yellowish hair and wore khaki pants with braces and a lilac shirt. He took a cigarette out of his mouth and greeted Jacobus and Marthinus like old friends. After they had exchanged some news he looked at us and said to them: "I see you've brought some new customers." He grinned at me. "We don't often get female clients." Wink.

What the hell is going on here?

"Heere, no Charley." Marthinus scratched his head. "They are still minors, man."

"And overseas foreigners," Jacobus added. "I don't want any diplomatic trouble."

Leonard was getting nervous, checking the place from the corners of his eyes, looking for an escape route or something.

"They can wait here and have a coke," Marthinus suggested.

"They look old enough to have a proper drink," Charley said. "Come on guys, it's on me."

The hotel bar was even gloomier than the lounge. It stank of stale tobacco and booze. A billiard table stood in one corner and an ancient jukebox in the other. A black man was washing glasses in slow motion and a black woman with a baby strapped to her back was dusting the bottles on the shelves. We sat down on barstools and Charley went behind the counter. "The usual?" he asked. Jacobus and Marthinus nodded.

"And for the lady?"

"A gin and tonic, please." I was beginning to enjoy myself. One doesn't every day get the chance to have a drink with some weirdos in a bizarre hotel in the middle of nowhere.

"Good choice," Charley grinned. "Stops you from getting malaria and hookworm."

He pushed my drink across the counter and poured some brandy and coke for Jacobus and Marthinus, a whisky for himself and gave Leonard a beer. He raised his glass and asked the guys how life was treating them.

"All right man, all right," Jacobus said. "We had good rains to plant the mielies and Rina just had the baby, another girl."

"Hell, you Boere breed like rabbits," Charley said. "How many kids have you got now?"

"6," Jacobus answered proudly. "And we are going to have more. At the moment the Kaffirs are still tame but we must increase the white population to secure our future."

"Ja," Marthinus put his glass down. "One can't let these savages run our Suidafrika. Just look at the rest of Africa. All fucked up."

Charley shrugged his shoulders. "Here in Lesotho life isn't too bad for a guy who uses his brains. At least it's better than Glasgow where my parents came from. A hellhole of a place that – too many people and it always rains. In Africa a guy still enjoys some freedom, and Lesotho is more liberal in...uh... certain departments than South Africa." He grinned happily. "A guy who uses his brains can make it big time here."

Marthinus glanced at his watch. "Heere, it's getting late. The border closes at 5 and I must go home tonight. The wife comes back from her trip with the Boerevroue Vereenigung _._

"Right," Charley poured himself some more whisky. "First the bucks and then the basadi – as always."

5 minutes later 2 young black women came in. The fat one squeezed between Marthinus and myself.

Seems to be true that Africans need less airspace around them than a person from Europe.

There was hardly half a metre between Marthinus and myself and after 30 seconds that woman's fat thigh cut off the circulation in my leg.

_Talk about skin contact with the indigenous population_ ...

I couldn't move away because on my other side was the wall. My leg was feeling half dead already.

_What is she doing standing here_?

When I looked again, Marthinus' hand was caressing her bum. I didn't believe my eyes.

_Hells bells, what does he think he is doing_?

I scrutinized Jacobus and the thin woman and wragtig, the same thing was going on there.

_These bloody hypocritical shits_.

"I'm going for a walk," I forced my way past the fat woman. "I need some fresh air."

"You can't go for a walk now," Charley said. "That goddamn heat will kill you. Sit down and have another drink."

"If you go, don't go too far," Marthinus said. "We'll leave in half an hour."

The guys walked out with the 2 black women. Charley slid another beer across to Leonard. "Don't look so devastated, kids. What you are seeing here is called real life."

I slumped back onto my stool.

"You can't suppress human nature," Charley said. "But the bloody Nats across the border can't get that into their wooden heads. Want another gin and tonic, girl?"

I nodded.

"Good choice. Calms the nerves. I'll make it a double." He opened a gin bottle.

"Ja, my best customers are God-fearing Boere from Suidafrika. The kind of guys who schlepp their families to church every Sunday and believe they are God's chosen people to tame the African wilderness and civilize the indigenous population."

I took a sip of my drink. "What I don't understand is that they never stop saying how lazy and dirty the 'Kaffirs' are and then they come here and hit it off with black girls."

"It's a matter of infant psychology," Charley said.

"Huh?"

"You mustn't forget that most of them have been brought up by black nannies, strapped to their nanny's back...the whole tootie, so their earliest memories of well-being and security and comfort are connected to black women; and later in life, when a guy goes through a bit of a rough patch, where does he look for some cradling and comforting and all the rest of it? The black ladies. And that is one of the reasons why apartheid will never work."

"I suppose it's good for your...uh...business," Leonard said.

"You hit the nail right on the head, lad," Charley grinned." And of course business is not only in the black girls. The Nats also prohibit gambling in their country. They got that straight out of the bible like most of their stuff. Has got something to do with 'you must earn your bucks by the sweat of your brow', whatever that is supposed to mean. Haven't seen many guys who don't work up a goodly lot of sweat at the gambling table." He crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. "If you want to enjoy a good game you come back on a Friday or Saturday, that's when things are happening here. Last week-end the boss of the cop shop across the border took home 2000 Rand."

When we got back to the garage, the man with the grass hat had repaired one tyre and just started on the other one.

"Fokin _'_ lazy Kaffir," Marthinus growled. He looked at his watch. "We can't wait now, it's quarter to 5. Hurry up man, load these things fast."

At the border we got just waved through. The landscape glowed as if someone had switched on a sub-terranian light. Our dust cloud sparkled golden, a flight of white ibises moved like a shining arrow across the deep blue sky. Even the shadows had colours.

Henry and Emily were sitting exactly as we had left them. They invited Marthinus and Jacobus for a cup of tea and thanked them over and over again. The guys declined the invitation and said that the whites in Africa wouldn't be where they are now if they hadn't helped each other since the time of the first settlers. They quickly put the tyre on and left in a big hurry because Marthinus had to fetch his wife.

We packed everything and hit the road again. The Bells were in excellent spirits. Emily because she had found a spare reel of burnt umber and had finished the flank of her cross stitch deer, and Henry because he had spotted 'a fine Ayres' Cisticola'.

They didn't want to travel in the dark – which I thought was a good idea, because already in bright daylight they got lost all the time – so we slept in the Arendsnes Hotel in a little one horse town. Emily and I shared a room and Henry and Leonard another one because Leonard and I were still minors and shouldn't be exposed to temptation.

*

The gate to the farm Mooiwater was built of big blocks of red brown rocks forming 2 rectangular wings. Beyond it a sand road wound its way down a slope to a river. Behind the river were flat topped mountains with valleys meandering between them, looking like a gigantic labyrinth. The only other signs of civilization were a telephone line suspended on wooden poles and some dead straight fences, cutting through the veld.

Leonard said: "Gee Mathilda, I hope you are not the shopping mall disco-addict kind of person. This is really in the sticks."

"Don't worry. You go and enjoy the exhaust fumes of Pretoria. I always wanted to stay on an African farm."

On our way down the road, we saw blesbok and springbok grazing among the cattle, herons were stalking around a dam and guinea fowls ran across the track. We crossed a shallow river forded by a concrete bed. From a cluster of rondawels smoke rose into the sky. We came to a long avenue of old blue gums. It opened up to a homestead nestling on a mountain slope that rose gently up to a steep, rocky krans.

Several sheds and outhouses, built out of rock like the entrance, were grouped around a kikuyu grass meadow the size of a football field. On the far side the red roof of a house peeped out of a cluster of trees. In between the buildings horses were grazing and 2 windmills were turning in the breeze.

3 huge dogs shot out from behind a concrete water reservoir and jumped around the car barking their heads off.

"Good luck, Mathilda," Leonard grinned. "These monsters will probably eat you up for breakfast first thing tomorrow morning."

"Ha ha. If you don't shut up they'll bite your backside off when we get out of this car."

*

My home to be for the next few weeks was an ancient one storey house surrounded by lush flowerbeds. In the front wide steps led to a large stoep. The roof above it was supported by dark green iron pillars with brookie lace around the top. The floor of the stoep was covered in buck and zebra skins, the wall was decorated with hunting trophies and riempie chairs were standing around a large wooden table.

Inside, the house looked like it hadn't changed much in the last 50 years. There were oldfashioned flower patterned wallpapers on the walls and faded lampshades hung from the pressed iron ceilings. The furniture was massive and dark and the upholstery, like the carpets, a bit threadbare in places. There were bookshelves with old hardcover books, dressers with hand painted plates and an army of knick knacks and family photos. It all looked quite welcoming and cosy.

Bertha Saida, my new host mother, was a sturdy woman in her 40s. She wore her thick blonde hair in a bun and looked like somebody who wouldn't take any nonsense. She told me, that her 2 older kids were on holiday from boarding school and had ridden over to the neighbouring farm for the day; her husband had gone to the co-op in town to get spare parts for a tractor and to fetch 2 of their younger kids from school. As she opened the door to my room, a small boy came racing down the passage on a tricycle. "That's our youngest son," Bertha said. "Christo come and say hello."

Christo had straight black hair and dark eyes and didn't resemble Bertha at all. He greeted me politely and then took off to the other end of the house, producing something like aeroplane noises.

Bertha left me to unpack. My room smelled of mothballs and of the woven grass mats on the floor. I opened the 2 windows and looked across the valley. Pomegranate trees and honeysuckle bushes hedged the garden from the veld. A bit down the slope lay the veggie garden, bigger than my grandparent's plot, which was already twice the size of my parents' place. Friederieke's grandfather always said that he was glad that he had been born in the last century because these days Germans couldn't afford big pieces of land anymore; the country was getting overcrowded and running out of space.

I saw sheep grazing in the veld and in the distance a huge krans _._ Except for the humming of a bee and a black woman singing in the innards of the house, it was absolutely quiet. A maid called Sannie put a jug of water and a glass on my night table and covered them with a bead-hemmed doylie. I chucked my clothes into the ancient wooden cupboard and went for a trip to the even more ancient toilet at the end of the passage. It stood on a platform and the bowl was a real splendour, with a blue flower pattern and a wooden seat, fit for the bum of an elephant.

My new host father, Sidney Saida, was a small, slim, dark haired man with black eyes and a hooky nose. As he got out of his Land Rover, he stuck out a hairy, tanned arm and shook my hand. I first thought he was Sicilian but he told me that his family had emigrated from Lebanon 3 generations ago.

10 year old Debbie and 7 year old Hein looked as different as 2 people possibly can. One would never have thought that they were siblings. Debbie was fair and blue eyed and her brother black haired with an olive skin. They got changed into shorts and T-shirts and we set off to have a look around.

"First you must see Apie, "Hein said to me.

"What's apie?"

The kids giggled. "Apie is not a what, he is a who."

We went round the house past a reservoir and a huge water tank overgrown with roses. 2 maids were cleaning shoes in the backyard. Christo and 3 small black children were playing with a handcart, all of them yelling in Sotho. Past the washing line and some lemon trees stood a tall pole with a wooden box on top. Hein whistled and something shot out of the box down the pole.

"This is Apie," Debbie said.

Apie had a little black face, silvery fur and a long tail.

"He's a blue vervet monkey," Hein explained. "I swapped him for my pellet gun from Frank in my class. Frank's pa shot Apie's mother in the bushveld and then he found the baby and brought it back."

Apie jumped up and down at the end of his chain making little grunting noises.

"You can go closer, Mathilda."

"Doesn't he bite?"

"No. Wanta give him some food?" Hein pulled a greasy piece of meat out of his pocket and gave it to me. Apie pulled on his chain.

_Poor little chap being tied up like this_.

Debbie hit her brother in the ribs with her ellbow and for some reason both of them started to giggle. I had read somewhere that it is always good to talk to wild animals in captivity, so I said: "Hi Apie, _hier_ _ist_ _was_ _zum_ _Fressen_ ," as I squatted down in front of him. Apie stuck the meat in his mouth with the speed of lightning and then, just as fast, he grabbed me between the legs, right on the you know what. I tumbled backwards flat on my bum with surprise. The kids fell around laughing. Before I had recovered, Apie was back on his pole pulling his wire.

"He always does that with girls," Hein panted when he got his breath back. "Pa says Apie is a randy old bastard."

When Debbie suggested that next thing I should meet Rommy and Juliet, I was a bit apprehensive, but Rommy and Juliet turned out to be completely harmless twin lambs. They were kept in a special paddock because their mother had died giving birth, and they had to be bottle fed. A ewe by the name of Beulah kept them company. Hein said that Beulah should be called Methusalem 'cause she was as old as the hills, probably the oldest sheep on earth. A border collie pup called Trigger joined us and we visited the goat paddock and the poultry, which included some ostriches, and then we went to see the pigs.

"Now the ponies," Debbie suggested after we had seen her pet rabbits. The ponies were in a paddock between one of the big sheds and the horse stable. Hein fished some crumbly biscuits out of his pocket and gave them to Witvoet, who belonged to him, to Dudu, who belonged to Debbie and to Christo's little Shetland pony.

"Your brother has already got his own pony?" I was amazed. "How old is he?"

"Oh, Christo got Jasmine for his last birthday when he turned 3."

2 riders approached down the blue gum avenue. Trigger wagged his tail.

"Here come Sarie and Hummel, that's my big sister and my big brother," Hein announced with an important voice. "Sarie is 15 and Hummel is 14 and he got a special prize because he runs faster than anybody else in his school. It's called sprinting."

"Ja, Debbie nodded. "Pa says Hummel is real Olympic material 'xcept South Africans aren't allowed at the Olympic games."

The 2 riders galopped towards us. The big dogs shot out from a shed and followed them, their ears flat and their legs moving like staccato drumsticks. The girl arrived with a 2 m lead. She patted the chestnut's neck.

Sarie was as dark as Hein and Hummel as fair and blue eyed as Debbie. As they dismounted, Pa Saida came out of the big shed.

"Having a good time everybody?" He wiped his hands on his grease stained overall. "Got that bakkie fixed at last. Needed new sparkplugs and cleaning of the carburetor. Tomorrow you can take Mathilda around the place."

"Pa, can I learn to drive this holiday?" Hein asked. "I've been in school for one whole year now already and Debbie drives, and she's only a girl."

"Debbie's got longer legs than you."

"Ja, you can't even reach the pedals," Debbie said.

"'course I can."

"No, you can't."

"Whoa whoa, kids. Hein we'll try some time next week, all right?"

Hein beamed. "If my legs are still not long enough we can make a plan, hey Pa. A boer always maak a plan."

A white bird flew up from the grass and landed on Witvoet's back.

"Piet," Sarie yelled to a black man fixing a fence. "Piet, come here and take the horses."

Pa Saida frowned. "Sarie, a real horsewoman looks after her horse herself. I find I get the greatest pleasure out of horses when I walk them after a ride and rub them down and give them back something for what they've given me."

Sarie sighed. "Ja Pa."

Pa Saida stroked the 2 animals on their muzzles and said: "I'm going to see how the boys are doing fixing up that workshop door."

As soon as he was out of earshot Sarie yelled: "Piet come here and take the horses."

And Piet came.

While everybody else was doing stuff for school, for the farm or for themselves, I went for a stroll around the garden. A golden light ignited the veld and the krans. Flocks of birds returned to their nesting places, crickets chirped and some Africans sang a repetitive harmony. A lizard luxuriated on a hot rock and a caterpillar munched a lemon leaf with a soft crackling sound.

Heidewitzka, one can hear the silence.

Boump boump boump...a srange thud filled the air. It slowly increased in speed and noise.

_Gee, sounds like a helicopter. What's a helicopter doing here_?

I stared my eyes out to spot the chopper – to no avail. The lizard ran down the rock and disappeared.

I better go and find out. Mebbe it's not a helicopter at all.Phhh, it sure makes a hell of a racket.

On the stoep I met Hein.

"What's that noise?"

"Huh? What noise?"

"Are you deaf? That major thud there in the back."

"Oh that, that's only the generator."

"The generator?"

"Ja man, the generator." He looked at me as if I was an idiot. "You know, a machine that makes electricity?"

"Oh, can I see it?"

Hein crinkled his nose in disbelief. "You wanta see a generator?"

"Ja, what's so strange about that?"

"I've never met anybody who wanted to look at a generator, 'specially not a girl."

"Well, I've only ever seen one small generator in my whole life, at the Yacht Club in V.B. Yours sounds like a much bigger one."

"Y'know, Ma said Germany has given the world stacks of geniusses 'specially artists and inventors, and you don't even know what a big generator looks like. How do they make lamps and band saws work on the farms where you come from?"

"I guess they are all connected up to municipal electricity."

"Wow, not here, hey. Our closest point is 10 kilometres away. Pa says it's too expensive to get us connected."

The generator turned out to be a fly wheel attached to a huge hunk of steel, stinking of burning fuel. The shed in which it was housed, vibrated with the incredible thudding it produced, and so did I.

"Don't tell me that thing is going to be switched on the whole night," I shouted to Hein.

"Only until the last one goes to bed," Hein shouted back.

_Here go my dreams of idyllic evenings at the bosom of African nature_.

My gran from the Black Forest, who never travelled without noise protection, had given me a box of _Ohropax_ earplugs as a farewell gift, together with a family pack of almond peach energy bars to keep up my strength on the black continent. I went straight to my room to check if I had brought those earplugs along.

Sarie knocked at my door. "Want to listen to my records? I've got all the Abba. Isn't Benny cute? I'd give anything to meet the guy."

Bof

The walls of Sarie's room were plastered with posters of singing and acting _Schmalzers_ , mainly American, and several square metres of Abba.

"Let's put on _Waterloo._ That's my favourite at the moment."

"Haven't you got anything South African? Some Zulu group or something?"

"No man, we don't listen to muntu music...but let's see..." she fiddled around in a huge pile of record. "Ah, here we go. Jeremy Taylor, that's quite a nice one – for South Africa." She switched on the record player and yodled in unison with the singer: " _Ag pleez Deddy won't you take us to the drive-in all_ _all 6, 7 of us 8, 9, 10_ ..." When she got to the refrain her brothers and sisters had joined us and the whole lot yelled loud enough to drown the noise of the generator:" _Popcorn, chewing gum, peanuts and bubblegum, ice cream, candy floss and Eskimo pie, ag Deddy how we miss Nigger balls and liqorice Pepsi Cola, ginger beer and Canada Dry._ "

After a while I yelled with them, wondering what Nigger balls were, and at the end of the song we all collapsed laughing. Debbie and Hummel yanked off the mosquito net above the bed in the process.

"You blooming mamparas," Sarie screamed. "Can't you pasop a bit? Now the mozzies will chomp me up all night and it's all your fault."

"Serves you right," Debbie said coldly. "It's your punishment 'cause you didn't listen to Pa about looking after your horse yourself."

Hummel sighed. "Girls! One can fix things up, you know."

"Then do it," Sarie shouted. "Do it chop chop and if..."

An old fat maid came into the room and told everybody to calm down and to have a bath, because supper was nearly on the table and children should show some respect to their parents by not being late for meals. She grabbed Christo by the hand and said that she'd already run his bathwater, and that his toys were waiting for him.

As they went out Sarie said to the maid: "Lorah, get Poppie to fix up that mosquito net for me"

"Ja, Miss Sarie."

_Miss Sarie treats the blacks like shit_.

"Don't you say please to her?" I asked.

Sarie threw one of these scornful looks at me. "What do _you_ know about the blacks? I'm just adapting to their culture. There are no words for please and thank you in their language."

For supper we sat down in the dining room at a big yellow wood table. According to the family history, great-grandpa Saida had bartered that table for a keg of gunpowder in 1896, during the celebrations of the 10th anniversary of the city of Johannesburg. This remarkable piece of furniture not only had a bullet in it, presently covered by the meat platter, but there was also a secret map on the underside. The bullet had been fired from a .45 caliber blackpowder army colt by great-uncle Ben Saida when he saw a puffadder on the table during Bertha and Sidney's wedding in 1958. The map was thought to show the hiding place of the Kruger Millions, a treasure alledgedly hidden by the last president of the Transvaal, during the later stages of the Anglo Boer War.

Grandpa Saida had spent years studying the map and had come to the conclusion that it showed the courtyard of a horse stable in Barberton. As soon as he was certain that the treasure was buried in a corner of the yard, probably under a tree represented by a heartshaped knothole on the map, he set out to inspect the place. On arrival he was confronted by the owner of the stable, 'a beautiful lady', who had recently converted to Buddhism and didn't believe in digging up trees, especially not the Erithrina kaffria in the corner of her yard, and she believed even less in the existence of the Kruger Millions _._ The 'beautiful lady' invited grandpa Saida to a meal of steamed vegetables and boiled pulses, which made him fart all night but didn't get him any closer to the treasure.

"Your grandpa was a dreamer," Ma Saida stated while dishing out a second helping of roast duck to her husband. "And Paul Kruger was a liar and a coward. A real president wouldn't leave his country and wife in the middle of a war and hide in Switzerland like he did."

Pa Saida answered to this: "Give me some more spinach and rice and 2 of those roast potatoes Bertha, will you?" He took his plate and sloshed about half a litre of gravy on his food. "There are lots of other accounts about the Kruger Millions. They might have been buried all over the country by his kommandos"

Ma Saida attacked her piece of meat with a vengeance and said: "I can tell you right now where these millions are, they are right there in Switzerland, where Oom Kruger died, in some blooming Swiss bank account." After that she calmed down a bit. "At least we owe that traitor one good thing and that's the Kruger National Park."

"Forget it," Pa Saida said waving his fork in the air. "When it came to game, all old Oom Kruger was interested in was to make biltong out of it. The real pusher behind the game reserve was Loveday, the Barberton representative in the Volksraad." Pa Saida turned to me, his fork like a weapon in front of him. "The Volksraad was the legislative of the Boer Republic, my girl. I guess they don't teach you details about South African history in your schools in Germany."

"No, they don't."

Ma Saida put her cutlery down and eyed her husband with a frown on her face. "Sidney, how come you know so much about Barberton representatives and stuff like that?"

Pa Saida froze with the fork pointing to the pressed steel ceiling. "Uhm, I've done a bit of research about Barberton. He banged the fork on the table. "You know, the Kruger Millions are not called millions for nothing. Imagine what we could do with even half a million." He stared dreamily at the salad platter. "We could get connected up to Escom, buy a new John Deere tractor, and you and I would go over to the King Ranch in Texas and get a bull and 2 heifers of the best beef cattle in the world." A big sigh escaped his chest.

Ma Saida inhaled a huge volume of air and opened her mouth to let out her reply. Pa Saida awoke abruptly from his reverie and before his wife could utter a sound, he added quickly: "And Bertha, we could also buy you a ring like the one with the diamond that you liked so much when we went up to the Rand Easter Show in Jo'burg some years ago."

Ma Saida exhaled gently, smiled and squeezed her husband's hand. The kids grinned at each other.

Over pudding, Hein enlightened me on the subject of Nigger balls. "They are sweets and they look like black marbles and they taste of liquorice, and when you suck them your tongue goes black."

I refused a second helping of peaches and cream and asked how Hummel got his name.

"Oh, it's my maiden name," Ma Saida said. "You see, I've got German ancestors and in my generation there were only girls in the family and the name was going to die out, so Sidney and I decided to call our first son Hummel to keep the name going, and we pronounce it the German way: Hoomml."

"You mean it's his real first name, written down in his birth certificate and everything?"

"Ja," Hummel nodded. "Hummel Saida; sounds good, hey?"

_For a totalitarian state they've got some mighty liberal laws here_.

"In Germany you could never do that. You've got to use proper, recognized first names for your kids.

"The Germans, "Pa Saida stated," tend to really push their urge for perfection."

I wondered if the Saida clan was aware of the fact that Hummel means bumble bee. I'd better not tell them. Hummel would never hear the end of it.

Ma Saida called the maids, Pa Saida retired to the lounge to read the _Farmers' Weekly_. Lena and Poppie came to clear the table.

Sarie said: "Let's go and look at the glow worms."

In the garden, little clouds of tiny blue and greenish lights sat along the hedge. The black shape of an owl screeched through the ink blue night and its thousand stars. Bats shot through Scorpio's curvy tail, the Southern Cross lingered at the edge of the sky above the flat tops of the mountains. A jackal howled in the distance and the generator went boump boump boump.

In the morning I unplugged my ears and went to check out the place.

Pa Saida was sitting on the stoep, smoking his first cheeroot of the day. He had already flattened all the components of an English breakfast plus a bowl of mieliepap and fermented milk called inkomazi.

The morning was so clear that one could see every single sheep on the other side of the valley. Dewdrops hung in the pomegranate trees and sparkled on every grassblade. Hummel's bare feet left a dark trail on the lawn. He was expertly whipping a matchbox sized piece of wood across the garden.

Pa Saida puffed a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling and said: "Hummel is getting quite good with the bullwhip. Bertha's grandpa could hit a pea off a beerbottle with a whip. Ja, the old man was a good shot too. They called him One Shot Hans. He'd take one bullet and come back with a buck every time."

Sarie shuffled on to the stoep, clad in her pyjamas, her long black hair tied into a chaotic version of a ponytail. "Hi Mathilda, morning Pa," she breathed a sleepy kiss on her father's head.

"Enjoying your holiday beauty sleep?" Pa Saida smiled.

"It's absolutely divine Pa, divine." She grabbed a pork sausage. "And real food for human beings. That's even more divine. I'm sick and tired of that boarding school slop."

"Some things never change," Pa Saida grinned. "I haven't met a kid yet that doesn't complain about boarding school food." He stomped his stompie in an ashtray. "And that includes myself when I was there."

Sarie slumped on a riempie chair and stuck a soupspoon into the peanut butter. She dug out about half the contents of the jar and licked the spoon with great relish. "At least you were allowed peanut butter, Pa."

"Why? Don't they let you eat peanut butter at your school?" I was intrigued.

"No ways, it's a major sin," Sarie answered with a full mouth.

_Now I've heard everything_.

"And what is so sinful about eating peanut butter?"

"It's only a sin for girls."

"Why?"

Sarie glanced at her father and said: "It's supposed to make girls randy."

_This country is a colony of bloody perverts_.

"And what about the boys?" I asked.

"Ag, I guess they don't mind the boys getting randy," Sarie said. "It's part of the process of becoming a man or something."

"I think it's an urban legend," Pa Saida said. "But there are girls' boarding schools where you won't find peanut butter with a telescope. And your school happens to be one of them."

"So did you tell the head mistress of Sarie's school you think that peanut butter story is nonsense?" I asked him.

"No, I didn't," Pa Saida's eyes flashed with a trace of annoyance, "because it's one of the finest girls' schools in the Freestate, run on solid Christian principles, with one of the highest matric pass rates in the country. You go there – you accept the rules. And for a good education one can do without peanut butter during the term." Pa Saida got up. "I must go and check up on the boys. They are fixing the fence on the southern border." He put a crumpled khaki hat on his head. "Sarie, the bakkie is filled with dieseline. What about bringing your old Pa some nice tea round about 11. I'll be near the old windmill."

The track was overgrown with grass and full of potholes but that didn't stop Sarie from putting her foot down on the accelerator. In the back of the bakkie, Christo and 2 of his little Sotho friends screamed excitedly every time we hit a bump or a hole, and in between they laughed their heads off. Hummel stood on the loading area with bent knees, like an old sailor, to compensate for the bumpiness, his hands clinging to the roof of the bakkie cabin. The airstream would have ruffled his hair if it had been longer than the 3mm he considered as the ideal summerholiday haircut. We crossed the river and drove up a hill. On top we stopped. Hummel jumped off the bakkie to open a gate.

"I love your place," I said to Sarie. "The wide open space...it's beautiful."

"I personally like cities," she said. "The best place I've ever been to is Cape Town. All the shops and movie houses! That's where things are happening. Here it's absolutely dead. Just imagine, the greatest events are weddings, funerals and barndances and the absolute highlight is the agricultural fair in our one horse town. Bloody boring! And our closest neighbour is miles away. You can't even see his farm from here."

"Really?"

"Ja, everything you see from here belongs to Pa..."

Gee whiskers

"...and Mooiwater is only a small farm. Lots of our neighbours have much bigger ones."

After Christo and his pals had had a pee against a rock we set off again. Red cattle and merino sheep were grazing in the veld. At a dam, blesbok were drinking and the spheres of weaver birds' nests swayed on reeds and willow branches.

"Pa's over there." Sarie pointed to the left.

I spotted a group of people close to a windmill; the wheel turning languidly on its stilty iron tower. Sarie turned the steering wheel and drove into the veld straight towards her father. The long grass brushed against the car's underside with a swishy noise.

"Shit," Sarie slammed the brakes on that I almost went through the windscreen. "I nearly hit that blooming termite hill. Sjoe, one can hardly..."

A deafening clatter hit the roof of the bakkie. It was Hummel hammering the bodywork with his fists. "Do you want me to break every bone in my body? Why do you drive like an idiot?" He slumped down into a sitting position. "Hells bells, girls should only be allowed horses and bicycles."

Pa Saida was supervising half a dozen labourers fixing a fence. As we approached they downed tools and watched our arrival.

"How's it going, Pa?" Sarie asked while she stirred 3 spoons of sugar into her father's tea.

"Ag, all right my girl. Sometimes I envy the guys who lived in the last century," He gulped down half the contents of his mug. "Those were the days...not a fence in Africa. A guy could ride straight across the veld from here to Cape Town."

While Pa Saida returned to the fence, we went over to the windmill. I was the only one wearing shoes – my favourite bio sandals. The small boys ran as if the ground was covered with velvet instead of rocks and thistles and sharp grassblades. Hummel trod a bit more carefully and complained that townlife really buggered up a person's feet. For once Sarie agreed with him.

At the side of the windmill was a big concrete reservoir.

"Look what I found," Hummel yelled. "My raft from last year. Let's do some boating."

The raft was about half the size of a single bed and made out of planks and beams held together by pieces of nylon rope. We heaved it into the water and Hummel set out for a trial run. The contraption proved to be in excellent condition only the gaps between the planks did nothing to keep the sailor dry. After a while Hummel got onto his feet and wiggled his bum in an amazing act of balance. He only fell off the raft because he laughed so much.

"Who's next?" he snorted. "Wanta try Mathilda?"

"Yep."

I sat tailor fashion on the raft and used a plank for a paddle. The sun shone hot on my body and the water was cool and clear. Groups of butterflies danced up and down and dragonflies hovered in mid air.

"And now the weather forecast," Hummel announced with a radio voice. "Heavy gales are expected over the Freestate." He jumped into the water, grabbed the raft and pushed it up and down. Everybody started screaming and laughing and I braced myself for a swim. All of a sudden Hummel's jaw dropped, his eyes nearly popped out of his head and his body froze within a nano second.

Heart attack? Killerbee-sting? Watersnake-bite?

Before I could think of anything else, Hummel blushed in the most extraordinary manner.

"Are you all right?" Sarie called, but Hummel didn't answer.

I followed his stare and...oy oy oy, of course, that was it. I didn't wear panties under my shorts and Hummel's eyes were glued right on my watchamacallit.

Oh boy!

Kim had told me that the guys in boys' boarding schools spent about 90% of their time fantasizing about girls and had competitions to masturbate into boerewors skins. No wonder Hummel was confused!

We took the 3 little guys for a spin and then we went to check on the sheep in the 'Eastern Camp', wet pants and all.

Hummel followed me around like a puppy. I'd given him a bone and now it looked like I had a slave for life.

_How simple boys are_.

*

On Thursday it was Hein and Debbie's last schoolday. They only had to go in for 2 hours and Ma Saida suggested that she'd show me around town during that time. Sarie came with us to visit her grandparents and to check out the shops. Fortunately Hummel had to stay at home to clean up the major mess in his room, caused by 5 bottles of secretly brewed loquat wine that had exploded on top of his cupboard at 4 o'clock this morning. Ma Saida said: "Praise the Lord that the boy doesn't suffer from any shrapnel injuries". Pa Saida said: "It's about time the boy learned the principles of primary and secondary fermentation". I thought, good show – one whole morning without Hummel trying to check out my fanny.

Hein and Debbie jumped into the car clad in their school uniforms, but without any shoes on. "Shoes are only for winter," Hein said. I thought he was taking the Mickey out of me.

We went in the old Land Rover. It looked like a box and was about as comfortable, especially on the dirt road. We only got onto tar after about half an hour – God save my bum. But as Pa Saida had said at breakfast, there's no sacrifice too big to make to enjoy the privilege of riding in the best vehicle mankind ever developed, especially for a Lebanese Freestate farmer; raw power produced by absolute basics, no bullshit like emission control and other frippery, and incased in an aluminium body that would never rust, not even if you spent your holidays in Durban.

The first sign of Kneukelspruit was the black location, situated on a slope facing away from the 'white' town. Rows of identical little boxhouses with corrugated iron roofs lined parallel dirt roads. There was not one tree or any plant higher than veld grass, except some mieliestalks in some of the tiny frontyards. In every backyard stood a small outhouse with a tilted corrugated iron roof, reflecting the morning sun. There were 2 bigger buildings. One had a cross sticking up from the front gable and on the other one it said SKOOL _._ Kids in uniforms were converting towards the school. Fowls and dogs were running in the streets. Women and children stood in small groups around public taps chatting and waiting for their turn to fill their plastic containers. Others were sweeping with short grass brooms around their houses. The smell of coalfires hung in the air.

Ma Saida explained that there was a water point to every 20 households or so.

"And electricity?"

"They've got streetlamps but no electricity in the houses." She stepped on the accelerator and we overtook a bakkie driven by a young Boer with 5 sheep and 2 blacks crammed into the back. "You can't expect a couple of whites to pay for everything for millions of blacks," Ma Saida carried on. "This whole location is run by the Kneukelspruit municipality, you know. The municipality graded the roads and built the houses and connected up the water and organizes the garbage removal...and everything. And who pays tax in this country? Whitey! I guarantee you there is not one black person living here, who pays a cent to the government.

_With the wages they are earning that's probably a good thing_.

"These little houses in the backyards are their toilets and they crap in buckets," Hein contributed.

"And guess who organizes the nightsoil collection?" Ma Saida said getting agitated. "Us whites of course." She impatiently stuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Ja, these blacks owe us whites a lot. Without us there wouldn't be anything in this country. No roads, no cars, no hospitals, no schools, no electricity, nothing Just veld and bush."

_Would be interesting to get the blacks' point of view on that one_.

"Have you been in the location?" I asked Ma Saida.

"Oh no. In the first place I have no reason to go in there and then white people need a special permit. One can apply for it at the office for Bantu Administration," she pointed to a building at the turn off to the location.

"And what's that big building with the chimney over there?"

"That's the abbattoir; in South Africa if you look for the abbattoir you always look close to the location."

In front of the Bantu Administration the South African flag hung on a pole. At the abbattoir thick smoke crept out of the chimney. They were the only 2 buildings in sight that had electricity and a telephone line.

The next sign of Kneukelspruit was the name of the town spelled out in white rocks halfway up another mountain. We went round the bend and there it was – a tiny patch of chessboard streets with a mainroad as wide as an _Autobahn_ , lined mainly by one storey buildings; a church with a high spire, houses with corrugated iron roofs surrounded by big gardens, a couple of orange brickbuildings in park like settings. With its bright green kikuyu lawns and hundreds of trees it looked like an oasis in the vastness of the African landscape.

On the way to the school we came past the practice of 'van Jaarsveld and Pieterse, Attorneys', the rooms of a doctor and the Springbok Chemist. Barcley's Bank was in an ugly concrete block sitting like an alien monstrosity between the old buildings with their roofed verandas that served as sidewalks. At the Methodist church, which looked like a normal house to me, we turned into a dirtroad. The whispy leaves of old jacarandas made it look like a green tunnel. A couple of flower bordered driveways led into big gardens and right at the end of the road was the school. Hein and Debbie joined the uniformed, barefooted crowd – so Hein had _not_ been taking the Mickey out of me. An inscription at the gate said: 'Noorderlig Skool', and Sarie explained, that the kids were taught in Afrikaans and in English.

Hein and Debbie disappeared into one of half a dozen long, low brickbuildings, which were connected by roofed concrete walkways elevated above the lawn, looking like jetties in a harbour.

"The boys' hostel is over there behind the hockey field," Sarie said, "and the girls are on the other side of the swimming pool. Shame, I would have hated to be a border right from Sub A, but this is the only primary scool in the district. If you're living on a farm far away you haven't got much of a choice."

"And what about highschool?"

"For highschool everybody around here goes to boarding school." Sarie pulled an enormous grass seed out of her skirt. "In the beginning it's hard but it's all right, I suppose. They say it is good for your character."

The turn off to the school was part of the only crossroads of the CBD of the dorp. Coming back I noticed that there weren't even any traffic lights. The Drostdy Hotel on the corner looked a lot like other hotels in other dorps and even in V.B. Red polished steps leading up to the main entrance, the walls pinkish yellow, the corners set off by chocolate coloured strips, big curved windows, curtains drawn; a separate entrance to the off-sales. Opposite the hotel was the post office, SA flag and all and the Vrystaat Butchery, advertising kudu biltong and Karoo oysters _._ We drove past the Odeon Cafe, the Standard Bank, 'Lipschitz and Lipschitz Attorneys', and an estate agent, who was an agent of the Permanent Building Society at the same time. Another concrete bunker housed the Pep Store where one could buy cheap clothes. The cop shop and the garage lay opposite each other and behind the garage a dirtroad branched off to the left. There wasn't much movement in the dorp yet. A couple of blacks swept the street in a laid back manner, a maid cleaned the windows at 'Kerneels van den Heever, General Practitioner'. The steeple of the NK Kerk stuck into the sky like a warning finger of die Heere himself. At the Bokmakerrie Slaghuis 2 blacks in white rubber boots unloaded half carcasses of sheep and tollies.

The grandparents Saida lived next to the 'Cheri Unisex Hairdresser', in one of the few double storey houses in the town. It had a balcony with a wrought iron railing all around the first floor and a little square tower sticking out of the roof. The basement was taken up by 'Saida, the Shop for Your Clothing Requirements' with mannequins in big windows, displaying 'high quality outfits for the elegant lady and the stylish gentleman'.

We went in through a side entrance and climbed a flight of worn wooden stairs to the Saidas' living quarters. A faint, spicy, sweetish scent hung in the air and hit us full blast when Grandma Saida opened the door. Her dark eyes sparkled when she wrapped her long, bony arms around her granddaughter. "Sarie my darling, so nice to see you. You've grown since the last holidays." Grandma Saida planted a kiss on my cheek, greeted her daughter-in-law and led us down a light blue passage with paintings of brightly cloured birds. Through a half open door I saw 2 maids working in a big kitchen.

The spicy, sweetish smell crept up my nostrils. "This smells divine. What is it?"

Grandma Saida smiled at me. "Lebanese cooking, the best in the Levant."

Grandpa Saida was in the lounge smoking a stinky cigarillo. As we waded across several layers of magnificent carpets, he heaved his dumpling-like body out of a heavy leather chair and saluted us. We sat down on divans with sumptious cushions. Stained glass windows filtered the light and coloured sunrays shone on the richly carved wooden furniture. I was absolutely speechless. Aladdin's cave was about the last thing I had expected in the Freestate.

Gran Saida rang a silver bell and a maid brought a tea tray with little brightly coloured cakes. Grandpa Saida puffed his cigarillo and enquired about his son, his grandchildren and my stay in South Africa. While Gran Saida poured the tea, he hit me with a question about the German stockmarket, which I couldn't answer because I didn't understand the question in the first place.

"Malik, don't bother Mathilda with these things, you can ask your financial adviser," Gran Saida said gently. She swallowed a bite of her pink and green lozenge and turned to Sarie. "Last week we got in some beautiful silk. What about a new dress for you?"

"That would be great, Gran," Sarie licked some sticky cake stuff from her fingers. "What colours have you got?"

Gran Saida listed a vast range, elaborating on which shade would suit Sarie best. Grandpa Saida got a watch on a chain out of the pocket of his waistcoat and excused himself. He had to go to Bloemfontein to the mainbranch of the Saida shops. He heaved his dumpling body out of the chair, kissed us all good bye and departed, leaving the scent of a newly lit cigarillo behind him.

"So what are your plans for the holidays, girls?" Gran Saida asked, while Sarie passed the cakes around again.

"Ag Gran, the usual," Sarie sighed. "Horseriding, swimming in the dam, doing nothing...stuff like that. The most exciting thing before Christmas is the Boeredance in de la Rey's barn." Sarie put the tray on the table and flopped down in her grandfather's leather chair. "You know Gran, some girls of my class are going skiing in Switzerland. _That'_ s what I call a real holiday."

"You don't know how lucky you are," I said. "You've got this huge farm and your own horses and your own river and you aren't 18 yet and your parents let you drive the car all over the show and..."

Sarie cast her eyes towards heaven. "I'd much rather live in London and travel in the tube and go to the movies every day."

"Here we go," Ma Saida said. "The grass always seems greener on the other side of the fence."

"The de la Reys are renowned for their barndances," Gran Saida changed the subject. "Boeremusiek, a sheep on the spit. You'll enjoy that, Mathilda."

"Ja, especially with all these fat, boring Boereseuns from the neighbouring farms trying to kiss you all the time."

"Don't be so negative, Sarie," Ma Saida said. "It's bad for your skin."

"Gran Saida took a bite from an almond cake and started to chew heartily. All of a sudden she stopped, swallowed and put it down. "Mathilda, what about a new dress for the barndance for you? You can choose some material in the shop and we've got some pretty patterns for a young girl like you."

_Heiliger_ _Bimbam._

"You mean to make a dress myself?"

"No no, we have a very good seamstress. Tannie Dalene. She can make it. She'll also make Sarie's silk dress." Gran Saida grinned happily. "For a barndance I would suggest cotton, something flowery maybe. Let's go and have a look in the shop."

Half an hour later, I, Mathilda Lindner, was actually studying dress patterns! My former needlework teacher, old witch Semmelweiss, was probably spinning in her grave laughing her head off, that the biggest tomboy in her career finally had to realize that you can't go through life without the basics of sewing.

Gran, Ma and Sarie Saida bombarded me with enthusiastic advice as to how to fold, wrap, stitch and pleat the blue cotton I had chosen. I seemed the only one in the room who didn't subscribe to the theory that every female is born with a gene that turns her into an avid clothes freak. I tried to keep an open mind.

I looked up from the sea of patterns covered in dotted, solid and broken lines and asked if Tannie Dalene would be able to make a dress from a drawing.

"She can do anything," Gran Saida said. "Tannie Dalene spent all her life sewing. She started when she was 5 and she has just turned 77."

I made a quick sketch of what I remembered of a dress in a Waterhouse painting and then announced that I was ready to hit the dorp. The Saida women looked at my drawing.

"This is very simple," Ma Saida said. "Don't you want a bit of smocking around the top?"

"Ja, and maybe a bow in the waist," Gran Saida suggested.

"I'd put some frills at the bottom," Sarie said. "And pleats around the neck."

It took me about 15 minutes to persuade them that I didn't want any smills, frills, smocks, ribbonds, smibbonds... At last Ma Saida said she would never be able to do all her shopping if she didn't leave this very minute.

Gran Saida quickly took my measurements and said: "We always give 5cm for movement."

That was all right with me because I hated tight clothes. That's why my favourite gear at home consisted of my father's shirts and painters' dungarees from the hardware shop.

Ma Saida and I made tracks while Sarie stayed on to work on the details of her dress. Our first stop was the post office. Ma Saida asked me to stay in the car, because lately there had been a steep increase in thieving in the dorp. She disappeared, balancing a pile of Christmas parcels in her arms.

I was getting hot and wound my window down. There was quite a crowd around now. Lots of blacks with loads of kids around the cheaper stores; some whites parking their cars right in front of the place they wanted to go into, and, after having got their purchases, driving 100 m down the street to park in front of the next shop on their list. Back home in Waldsee nobody would ever have dreamed of doing that – for 2 reasons. Number one: lack of parking bays; if you were lucky enough to get one in the medieval centre of town you made good use of it until your allocated 60 minutes were up. Number 2: pollution through unnecessary use of petrol; a person had legs to walk. It looked like in Kneukelspruit there was enough parking space to accommodate all the cars of the district even if everybody rocked up at the same time.

A bakkie parked in front of me. A man in a safari suit climbed out. He wore a big sort of cowboy hat and a comb was sticking out of the top of his left sock. Out of the blue, he stopped a black man who was walking down the pavement. "Hey...," and he barked on in Afrikaans. It was very basic and I could understand it. "Hey boy, go and buy me 10 stamps. Here is the money." The black guy said: "Dankie Baas," and went off to the 'Non European' entrance of the post office.

_I don't believe this. Looks like they don't even know each other_.

The Baas lit himself a cigarette and plonked back into his bakkie. After a while the black guy came back with the stamps and some change. The Baas gave him a coin and after a"dankie Baas", the black carried on on his way down the pavement.

When Ma Saida emerged again I was close to heat exhaustion.

"My poor girl," she said. "There was an enormous queue at the teller. Everybody is sending off their last Christmas mail." She opened the back door. "Now we'll go and drop off a leg of lamb at the chemist. I hope Poppie didn't forget to put it in the car. Touki, the chemist, is expecting his cousin's family for the weekend." Ma Saida crawled around the back of the Land Rover. "Ah, thank God, I found it...and here is still half of Debbie's sandwich. Kids! We better get rid of it before it starts to go off in this heat." She grabbed the remains of the sandwich and called a black woman with a baby strapped to her back and 3 other children trotting around her. The woman changed tracks and said: "Ee Missis." Ma Saida spoke to her in Sotho and gave her the sandwich. The woman said: "Dankie Missis." Neither she nor the kids looked especially undernourished and I half expected her to throw the sandwich into the gutter, but when we drove off all of them, even the baby, were happily munching.

When we got to the chemist I announced right away that I wouldn't stay in the car.

"Of course not," Ma Saida said. "It's too hot now. We'll lock it up; especially with all these piccanins around." She looked sceptically at a group of black children playing on the pavement.

"They must be happy to be on holiday at last," I said.

"I don't think they go to school."

"But most of them look like they are at least 10 years old."

"There is no compulsory school attendance for blacks in South Africa."

_An easy way of keeping them uneducated_!

Ma Saida checked if all the doors were locked and sighed: "I don't know what this country is coming to. In the old days you never had to worry about your property, and now at the post office, Mrs Strydom told me, that she doesn't give her maid the key to the back door anymore, since the de Waal family got hacked to death in their beds."

I thought of Ludwig saying that living in South Africa was like living in a pressure cooker and that this could be one of the signs of the big blow-up.

Touki, the chemist, resembled a big, cuddly teddybear and he was a Greek. He spoke Afrikaans to his employees, 2 highly made-up, permed young women; he spoke Sotho to a black customer and English to us.

The pharmacy looked like a place out of a historical movie. The floor was Oregon pine, the ceiling of pressed steel with geometric patterns. Behind the dark, wooden counter big jars and pestels and mortars were lined up on wooden shelves. There was an old fashioned scale and a riempie bench. One entire wall was made up of wooden drawers with enamelled plaques on them. Out of one of these drawers, Touki took a perfectly modern plastic container with the latest brand of ß-blockers for Grandpa Saida, who suffered from high blood pressure.

For his Christmas decoration, Touki was less traditional and clearly influenced by the Americans. On top of one of the free standing shelves, a glitzy Rudolph the Reindeer, galopped towards a flashy Mickey Mouse and next to the drinking fountain, a sexy Cinderella, surrounded by heaps of artificial snow, kept an eye on insect repellants.

There weren't many customers around and Touki invited us for a coke. His office was just as old fashioned as his front rooms, except for a very big, very modern painting on which hundreds of planets were spinning through an enigmatic universe. It was signed Larry Scully. Touki asked what I thought of it.

_Oh hell, now I must think up something intelligent quickly_ ...

But then I just said: "I like it and it looks like it exactly belongs into this room."

Touki smiled. "I know what you mean. I think it would be perfect anywhere. It reminds you that there are greater things out there than your own little personal context and that we are all part of that." He opened a bottle of coke. "Ja, living in Kneukelspruit, you sometimes need something to help you look beyond the horizon."

Ma Saida sat down on a riempie chair. "Toukie, you've really got a gift for sounding dramatic. It must be your Greek blood. If there is one family in town hopping over the horizon all the time it's yours." She turned to me. "They go to Greece just about every year."

"Every second year," Touki said, "to visit the folks in Corfu. Marjorie and the kids left last week. I've still got to slave on for a while."

"Are you coming to de la Rey's barndance?" Ma Saida asked.

"Ja, I've got an invitation," Toukie said. "The de la Reys are quite an exception, don't you think? Normally the Boere prefer to stick to their own kind."

"You can say that again," Ma Saida agreed. "Not many of them would invite people who are only just considered to be 'whites'."

I didn't understand what they were talking about, but I didn't ask because I was fed up with every conversation ending up in racial issues.

On our way out Touki said: "I see the mozzies have been bothering you, Mathilda. Isn't it amazing that they nearly always prefer the ladies to the blokes? You must try not to scratch because we've got some mighty virulent germs around here." He gave me a bottle of 10% volume hydrogen peroxide to kill off the germs. "And here is a bottle of Mylol, an excellent mozzie repellant." He also gave me a tube of sunscreen. "You're blonde and blue eyed, same as Marjorie my wife. You must look after your skin here under the African sun."

He opened the door for us. Before Ma Saida and I could walk out, 2 women clad mainly in blue walked in. I guessed the older one was in her 60s and the younger one in her early 20s. Otherwise they looked absolutely identical. Both of them wore blue hats and had their hair tied up in buns. They didn't have a trace of make-up on. Their skirts covered their knees, and in spite of the heat they wore stockings.

They produced an unsmiling, simultanous "môre", without looking at anybody in particular. Touki greeted them and said goodbye to us, and when we got out into the sun, it was even hotter than before.

Ma Saida's shopping list was about a kilometre long. We first went to the Klopkloppie Superette. Klopkloppie was a word I hadn't learned in Mrs van der Bijl's Afrikaans class, and Ma Saida informed me that a klopkloppie is a kind of warbler. As life goes, warbler wasn't part of my vocabulary either, so she explained to me that a warbler is a bird. At the entrance of the shop stood a fat, middle-aged Portuguese with a big beard. Ma Saida introduced him as Manni, the owner of the place. Manni extended a meaty paw and said: "We've got nice fresh breadrolls today and the fig jam is on a special." He was one of these bloody handcrushers and I felt like kicking him in the balls or hitting him with one of the wooden sticks leaning against the wall. There were about half a dozen of them, each one a bit longer than a metre. I was wondering if they were for sale when an old, black man climbed up the steps towards us. Without any apparent reason, Manni shouted at him as if the old man had just committed a major crime. The old man was obviously used to that kind of treatment. He just grinned "Ee Baas" showing the world the 3 teeth he had left in his mouth, and added his stick to the other ones leaning against the wall. Manni grunted some more and the old man grinned "Ee Baas" and put a grubby plastic packet with some stuff in it next to similar plastic packets next to the sticks. Manni lit himself a cigarette and watched the old man disappear into the shop. "These guys, if you don't watch them they'll steal your underpants off your bums before you can say Cock Robin, or they start a bloody fight with their kerries.

Manni's wife and 2 teenage daughters were sitting at the tills smiling meekly, hammering the oldfashioned keys. Behind the tills, one entered a kind of labyrinth with narrow passages leading past heaps of bags filled with mieliemeal, sugar or flour, packets of bushveld charcoal and rows of coke bottles filled with paraffin. There were piles of washing powder boxes and enamel plates, pyramids of toilet paper and cans of bleaching cream 'guaranteed lighteners of African skin'. There were also bottles of hair straightener for African hair and columns of galvanized iron buckets and plastic basins. We loaded our goodies into shopping baskets and stepped carefully between boxes of fruit juice and rat poison, tins with floor polish and baked beans and cleansing muti.

Every now and then I stopped to admire Klopkloppie Superette's unique Christmas decoration. Suspended from the ceiling hung a forest of old flystrips covered in insect corpses. In between, shiny garlands, looking like tape worms from outer space, wound their ways in intricate patterns.

When we finally made it to the tills, Manni's wife was just ringing up a black man's purchases: half a loaf of bread and a single cigarette. All of a sudden she let off a howl, lept up from her chair and pulled out a 200g chocolate bar from under the guy's armpit. She exploded and slapped his face with the chocolate bar. Manni took over by kicking the guy out of the shop. Some white customers yelled for the polisie and a sjambok, because a good whipping is the only thing a Kaffir understands. The black customers fell around laughing.

_Try and understand different cultures_.

Ma Saida studied her list. "Next stop the hairdresser, to get my favourite shampoo." She smiled and sighed at the same time. "My only real luxury in life."

"Bertha, why did the blacks laugh their heads off when one of them got kicked out of the shop?" I was intrigued.

"That's just the way they are. In their culture you take anything you like; if you don't get caught it's not called stealing, but if you do get caught you're stupid and that's funny."

Marietta's Unisex Haarsalon was run by an energetic Italian lady, who tried to talk Ma Saida into buying a new sensational hair conditioner, imported from Italia, much better than the local rubbish, of course. She expertly put some rollers into a client's mop and told her black assistant to sweep the floor and then go and make some coffee, _presto_. Ma Saida decided to take the conditioner, it was Christmas after all, and once a year she deserved a little bit of spoiling.

"Your husband will just love it," Marietta assured her. "In the end it always pays for a woman to look after herself."

When we walked back to the car, I saw some more women wearing blue clothes and hats, with their hair tied back in buns.

"Is that a kind of uniform?" I asked. "Crazy wearing stockings in this heat."

"Those are Blourokkies," Ma Saida said. "They belong to a very conservative splintergroup of the reformed churches." She looked at her watch. It was time to fetch Debbie and Hein.

At the school everybody was in high spirits, especially Hein, who had come second in his class. He didn't stop waving a book which he had received for his achievements under everybody's nose, and kept on saying, that a guy of his calibre couldn't possibly carry on in life without knowing how to drive a car, and that his pa now really had to make a plan to teach him.

"Mebbe he'll even teach you, Ryno," he said generously to a freckled red haired boy.

"We'll see about that when we get home," Ma Saida said. "Now let's get cracking."

Ryno and his sister Alicia, a chubby blonde, climbed into the car with us.

"Ryno is 7 and in my class and Alicia is 11 and year ahead of Debbie," Hein told me. "And they are going to stay with us, and us boys are going to learn how to drive, and..."

"My parents are on holiday in Germany," Alicia interrupted him. "They had stacks of snow and my ma got a new fur coat."

We popped in at the grandparents Saida to fetch Sarie. Gran Saida gave Hein 5 Rand for being a clever boy and Ryno a yoyo for being a holiday boy, and she took Debbie's and Alicia's measurements to have some 'nice dresses' for the barndance made. Sarie emerged from the Saida shop and showed us, very pleased with herself, the final pattern of _her_ dress, smocks, plaits, bows and all.

Back at the ranch Ma Saida alotted the sleeping quarters for the newcomers. Ryno moved in with Hein and Alicia got her own room.

The sounds of an animated chat came out of the kitchen where the maids Lena, Poppie and Lorah were cooking. In the back garden Christo and his Sotho pals were mixing a concoction out of water, ash and fowl shit. Hummel had cleaned up his loquat wine explosion and ridden to the river.

Pa Saida was outside fixing up the bakkie. "So how did you like our dorpie?" he asked me from underneath the car.

"It's small, it's got some pretty, old houses and it's got a mighty wide mainroad."

"Ja, lots of dorps have. In the old days there used to be a law that an ox waggon with 16 oxen had to be able to make a turn. Fuck!!! This bloody nut nearly fell into my eye. Petrus, give me the number 11 spanner."

"Ee Baas, number 11." Petrus got up from his haunches, selected a spanner from the toolbox, passed it to Pa Saida and squatted down again, leaning his back against the blue gum tree. Pa Saida did something accompanied by a couple of groans and bloody hells, bawled "that's it" and emerged with oil stained hands.

The branches of the blue gum hung motionless, and even the birds seemed smothered by the heat. The sweltering air rose in waves from the dusty ground. I looked around for a mirage but there was none in sight. Pa Saida wiped his hands on a rag and I passed him a bottle of coke.

"There were some strange people in town," I said. "Rokkiebokkies or something. Bertha said they are an extreme sect of the Christians. The women wear stockings even in the heat and blue clothes and hats..."

"Oh, you mean the Blourokkies," Pa Saida grinned. "Ja, for them it's heavy work to be Christians. To lead a God fearing life means to suffer and to put on a stern face all day long." He took a big schluck of coke. For them everything that is pleasant is a sin. When you are thirsty you drink water or milk. Coke comes straight from the devil." He took another schluck. "And why do the ladies wear stockings? Because the men must not see bare female skin." He put the coke bottle down and said in a conspiratorial voice: "Don't tell Bertha I told you this joke. You see, these Blourokkies are not allowed to fuck standing up because that might lead to dancing." He slapped his hands on his thighs and roared with laughter.

Phhhhh. Am I missing something? What's so funny? Try to understand a different culture!

When he was finally over his laughing fit, Pa Saida told Petrus to pack the tools away and suggested a little test ride. Petrus climbed into the back; I jumped onto the front bench. We drove round the hill and dropped Petrus off at the black village of the farm. Nothing much was going on there except for some kids playing a game with pebbles and a woman doing her laundry in a stone trough. Pa Saida was very pleased with the job he had done on the bakkie. He took me to the highest point of the farmroad, from where one could see the green expanses of sheep and cattle camps and a few rust red fields, where rows of mielies stood in impeccable lines. There were islands of dense blackwattle forests and groves of blue gums, and from one of the dams several storks took off into the sky.

"We need a lot more rain," Pa Saida lit a cheeroot. "The mielies are still small and the dams are half empty. Mind you, it's not as dry as 5 years ago. Back then we had a real drought. The mielies didn't grow and lots of animals died. "He took a pensive puff. "And then the winter came, and in winter it never rains anyway, not a drop for 3, sometimes 4 months...that's when you lie in your bed at night and listen to every little noise, because it could be a fire destroying the few mielies you managed to grow and burn the veld that you need as grazing." He inhaled deeply and pointed towards a hill across the valley. "See that koppie over there? In that year we had a fire that burnt across that whole koppie and everything to where we are standing now – about 3 square miles. It happened during the night. There was a strong wind and there was nothing one could do to stop it. Sparks jumped clean over the firebreaks. I've never seen such flames in my life, although we have fires every year. Ja, that one was really bad. We lost acres of mielies and some cattle and some sheep were burnt to death."

"It must be scary. The only big fires I'vet ever seen were on TV and that was already quite spectacular...but there is one thing I don't understand. How does a fire start here in the middle of nowhere?"

Pa Said took a final puff of his cheeroot and stomped it carefully into the ground. "Ag, it's always the same. Some bloody muntu throws a match into the veld."

"Oh come on Sidney, if anything bad happens in this country it's always the fault of some 'bloody muntu'.

Pa Saida sighed and said in a benevolent voice: "You Europeans are an arrogant lot. Think you know everything and that people everywhere think exactly like you. My girl, you don't know Africa at all. Have you ever considered that there might be people on this planet whose values are so different to yours and mine that there aren't even any words in any of our respective languages to describe what the other guys' principles are all about?"

"But..."

"And Mathilda, you're also right. There _are_ fires that start naturally, by a strike of lightning for example, and fires are part of the natural cycle in Africa; you even get certain seeds that will only sprout if they've been in a fire. And there are also white people who chuck cigarette butts out of their car windows and who don't extinguish their braaivleis fires and cause millions of Rands of damage, but I'm telling you, I've seen Kaffirs throw matches into the veld ever since I was a little boy."

*

"What a shit thing to happen during the holidays," Hummel groaned at the breakfast table.

"My boy, that is what happens to people who don't brush their teeth," Ma Saida said.

"Ja," Debbie agreed, "you'll have your mouth full of stinky black stumps before you turn 21."

"And you'll never find a wife," Alicia said. "Who wants to kiss a guy with a breath like an old dog?"

"And who wants to kiss a fat cow with pimples all over her face?" Hummel retaliated.

Alicia threw her spoon into her pap making the cream splash all over the table and ran off with a howl.

Pa Saida closed his _Farmers' Weekly._ "Stop this nonsense everybody. Hummel, you go and apologize to Alicia. Maybe that will teach you some manners."

"But Pa, she _does_ look like..."

"Hurry up, or I'll get the wooden spoon out," Ma Saida threatened.

"Okay okay, but it's not fair." Hummel got up.

"And then get ready for the dentist," Ma Saida shouted after him.

"I also want to go to Swawelpoort," Debbie said. "I haven't been there for ages."

"You drive all the way to Swawelpoort to go to the dentist?" I was amazed. "Isn't that quite far?"

"Not really," Pa Saida said. "Only about 60 ks."

_Heidewitzka_!

"And in any case, it's where our nearest dentist is." Pa Saida grinned. "This is different to Europe, hey? In my younger days I used to drive up to Jo'burg to go ice skating. That is about 200 ks – one way." He grabbed his hat. "All right. I must just get Petrus and the boys started to fix up the road to the lower sheep camp, and then we can go."

Debbie, Hein and Ryno disappeared to their rooms to empty piggy banks and get their pocket money to hit Swawelpoort, which didn't only have a dentist and a permanent vet but also Woolworths and a movie house.

Sarie slapped some more lemon curd on her toast. "I'm staying here. My friends from the Zeekuievlei Farm are coming over."

"I'm not going either," I said. "We came through Swawelpoort on our way here. It didn't really look like an exciting metropolis to me. It actually looked a bit sad. Come to think of it, a lot of little towns I've seen in the Freestate don't exactly look joyful. There is junk lying in the gardens and the houses look neglected and even in the middle of the day the curtains are drawn. I dunno...there is nohing just for fun or because it's pretty. Like as if for the people living there life's a total drag."

"Hear that Ma?" Sarie said with a full mouth. "I've always known that there is more to life than the dorps in the Freestate, that's why I want to go to Cape Town or London or Paris."

"You've got the farm," I said. "That's different. A farm is heaven on earth."

"You hear that?" Ma Saida said to her daughter. "Be grateful for what you've got." She put her serviette on the table. "I'm going to make jam and chutney today. Lenaaa..."

The maid shuffled in. "Missis?"

"Lena, tell Sannie to bring the peaches in and Lorah to clean the big copper basin." Ma Saida got up energetically. "And tell Hezekiel to wash the Land Rover and Poppie must quickly clean it inside, the Baas wants to go to town."

"Mathildaaa, want to come and take the boys to the lower sheep camp?" Sarie yelled through the house.

"Jaaa, when?"

"Right now."

Ma Saida stuck her head out of the kitchen. "Girls, you better take Alicia along."

"But she's in her room sulking, Ma. She says she's fasting and she won't come out of there until she's as thin as Twiggy."

"Oh, in that case leave her alone. We'll probably see her for lunch...or supper."

I met Sarie at the shed. 4 blacks were loading tools into the bakkie. Trigger, the puppy, jumped onto the front bench with Sarie and me. The blacks climbed onto the back. Sarie reversed out onto the road like a rocket, changed gear and kept on at great speed, slowing down only at the gates to wait for one of the blacks to open and close them. The farm roads didn't exactly have the impeccable surface of the Nürburgring, and it crossed my mind that Pa Saida's frequent maintenance work on the bakkie might have something to do with my host sister's driving style.

"See that?" Sarie suddenly slammed the brakes on. The 2 guys who had been standing on the back holding to the cabin roof, crashed into the tools.

"Gee Sarie, can't you drive a bit more carefully?"

"It's their own fault. I've told them to sit on their bums while we are travelling. If they don't want to listen..." She shrugged her shoulders. "And just look at them. They think it's a colossal joke."

She was right. Everybody in the back was having a big laugh.

"Look there," Sarie pointed to a tall black and white bird with an orange face.

"What is it? Looks a bit like a stork with a short beak."

"It's a secretary bird." Sarie turned round and slid the back window of the cabin open. "Shush man," she hissed to the guys in the back. "Tulla."

The bird held one wing open that it nearly touched the ground and walked around a thing that looked like a thick branch.

"Wow, he's got a cobra there,' Sarie said. That's why he's opened his wing. It's like a shield, the snake can't do anything to him"

The bird kept on circling the snake. The cobra spread its hood, and, with its errected body, followed the bird's movement. All of a sudden the snake toppled over. The bird lashed out a foot and, with a mighty talon, grabbed the snake just behind the head. The cobra whipped around and the bird nailed it to the ground with his other talon.

"Wow, I've never seen that before," Sarie whispered.

The bird tore his prey in 2 pieces and then looked around as if waiting for applause.

"He's splendid," I murmured.

The bird picked up one half of the snake and swallowed it one shot. Just when he picked up the other half, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a movement. 2 of the blacks had jumped off the back of the bakkie; they ran towards the bird throwing rocks at him.

"Bloody savages," Sarie yelled. She hit the hooter that it nearly broke. The bird ran a couple of paces, spread his mighty wings and flew away.

Sarie shot out of the car white with rage. She shouted at the 2 guys fit to burst a poepstring.

_Careful Sarie. These 2 are twice as big as you are. They'll beat you up_.

One of the men said something with indignation. Sarie only shouted louder. I was getting nervous.

She's crazy. The blacks will stick together. 4 grown men against 2 girls. We don't have a chance.

I looked around for a weapon but the tools and everything one could have used were in the back – with the guys. I wiped my sweaty palms on my shorts. We had the dog but he was still a puppy. They could kill him with one blow to the head or strangle him with their bare hands. We could lock ourselves in the car but they would smash the windows and anyway, Sarie was still outside shouting her head off.

The bigger one of the blacks raised his arm. He still held a rock in his hand.

That's it. He'll smash her face.

The black threw the rock in the veld and said: "Sorry Miss."

I couldn't believe my eyes – or my ears.

Sarie yelled: "Now get on the bakkie and hurry up."

The 2 men turned round and followed her orders like dogs with their tails between their legs.

Sarie climbed back behind the steering wheel. "These blooming barbarians. They'd kill anything that moves and eat it."

"Maybe for poor people it's the only way to get some food on the table. If you haven't got much to eat..."

"Rubbish," Sarie interrupted me. "Do any of them look starved to you?"

I had to admit they didn't.

"They get enough food as part of their pay," Sarie carried on, "but I'm telling you, these blacks are something else. When they see an animal they say: there walks _nyama_ – meat, and the animal has had it."

"And what about white hunters who shoot stacks of animals for trophies?" I said. "They just take the tusks or a horn and let the rest rot in the sun. That's also barbaric."

Sarie cast her eyes towards heaven and started the engine.

"I thought these 4 guys would beat you up and me as well, the way you were yelling at them."

"They'd never do that," Sarie grinned. "Sometimes it's just necessary to show them who's the boss."

*

After having dropped off the guys at the stretch of road where they were supposed to fill up the potholes, we raced back to the farmhouse.

"My friends from Zeekuievlei are already here," Sarie said as we drove up the driveway." She pointed to an African leading 3 horses to a camp. "Hezekiel is looking after their horses."

"Is that Hezekiel?" I asked. "I'd never have recognized him. To me all blacks look the same."

"Ag, come on," Sarie said. "They all look different, just like us."

"Except they've all got the same hair colour and the same hair style...and the same eye colour."

"Ja, but they still all look different. Hezekiel has got long legs and a round face, for example. I guess you'll get an eye for it after a while." She parked the car under a tree and explained to me, that the Leroux kids from the neighbouring farm and the Saida kids had known each other since the day they were born. Sarie and Hummel had been in primary school with them, and now the 2 boys, Morné and Jaco, went to boarding school in Bloemfontein, and their sister Chandré was a boarder in Ficksburg.

They were sitting on the stoep drinking ginger beer. One could immediately see that they were siblings. All 3 of them were big boned, broad faced, snubnosed, blue eyed and had the most amazing thick mops of nearly white hair. When they saw us they started to talk – in Afrikaans – all at the same time.

"Woa guys," Sarie cut in. "Mathilda here doesn't understand Afrikaans."

"Oh alrrright," Morné said, and everybody switched into English.

We spent quite a while sitting on the stoep chatting. Whiffs of Ma Saida's peach jam trailed through the air, some metallic blue-green birds called glossy starlings flew in and out of the pomegranate trees, and the dogs chased the lizards lounging on the sun drenched walls.

"Let's go to the river," Sarie finally suggested. "The foofy slide has been fixed up. I'll go and ask my ma for a picnic to take along."

I went with Sarie to find out how that delicious smelling jam was doing. In the kitchen Ma Saida had everything under control. Lena and Sannie were peeling and destoning peaches, fat Lorah was scooping the foam off the boiling jam and Ma Saida was sterilizing jars. A whole army of filled jars was already standing on the table.

"I think a picnic is a brilliant idea," Ma Saida said. "You can take some ham and droewors out of the larder, and there are rolls and half that apple crumble from yesterday."

"Thanks Ma." Sarie disappeared to get the grub.

"So you are going to the river?" Ma Saida asked.

"Ja, to the foofy slide or what ever. I don't quite know what that is."

"You'll see my girl, and listen," she put on a stern face, "don't you teach my kids this German nonsense."

"What German nonsense?"

"All these liberal German nonsense things."

_What the hell is she talking about_?

I stared at her and waited.

"You know, like taking all your clothes off when you go swimming. I want none of that on this farm, understand?"

Now I've heard it all.

A ribbon of willow and blue gum trees marked the course of the river through the bottom of the valley. It meandered in irregular bends through the veld and disappeared behind the slope of a long, flat topped mountain. We left the bakkie at the end of a track and walked Indian file on a narrow path along the edge of a ravine. The yellow and red shades of various geological layers shone like giant bands, squeezed and folded into an abstract pattern. Flowers and small bushes were clinging to narrow ledges and thorn trees hung over the chasm. At the bottom, the brownish water gurgled its way over smooth rocks and through carpets of watercress. A bright green-blue kingfisher perched on a dead branch suddenly took off towards a rockface covered with white streaks.

"Dassiepiss," Jaco commented and he pointed to a colony of dassies lounging in the sun on the opposite bank.

I thought of Dodger, Greta's pet dassie, and realized that I was missing the Winters, although my holiday with the Saidas was great fun.

Mebbe because with the Winters I really feel like a member of the family and here more like a guest.

I didn't want to think too much about it. I'd just make the best out of every moment.

Gradually the ravine petered out, and a green tunnel of willow trees shaded the river. After a while we came to a small dam surrounded by large blue gums. Trigger raced into the water.

Sarie dropped her basket. "That's where I'm going right now too; gosh, it's hot today."

Before I could blink everybody had taken all their clothes off and dashed completely naked into the dam.

Good old Ma Saida, she doesn't have a clue of what goes on when she isn't looking.

I got undressed and joined the others. The water was cool with dragonflies dancing above its surface and brushy stuff growing at the bottom. There were reeds with weaver birds' nests and fluffy white clouds had started to form in the sky.

Sarie emerged from a dive. "Let's try the foofy slide."

I still didn't know what a foofy slide was and followed hot on her heels.

"Rule number one," Sarie said, "girls have to wear a cozzy."

"Why's that," I asked.

"'cause if you don't you'll cry for 6 days."

"Huh?"

"You'll see. Sometimes it's a hard landing 'specially between the legs and you don't want to have your watchamacallit ripped out."

She put her bikini bottom on. "You don't need a top though. No danger for the boobs and it gives the guys something to look at.

_Fuck the guys_.

My costume was a one-piece job so I put my panties on, not because of the guys, but because it's unpleasant to run around in a wet cozzy.

To get to the foofy slide one had to climb up a blue gum tree. I was quite impressed at the speed Sarie raced up a couple of footholds that had been nailed into the tree to reach the platform. From one of the branches up there a cable stretched right to the other side of the dam. Sarie grabbed a handle attached to a pulley on the cable and jumped with a lusty yell from the platform. She quickly gathered speed; that made her yell even more until, all of a sudden, she let go and landed with a big splash in the dam.

_Gosh, that knocks Tarzan into a cocked hat, yell and all_.

I was even more impressed when I was standing on the platform myself. It was at least 5 m above the ground, which feels higher than it sounds, and one had to hold on for something like 50 m before one could let oneself fall into the water.

Jaco chucked a string at me with which one could pull the handle back to the platform.

"Go go go," he shouted climbing up the tree.

I grasped the handle and jumped.

_Heidewitzka, this is great_.

The sun was hot on my body and at the same time I felt a cold tingle where I still had drops on my skin. In my stomach butterflies were performing a crazy dance and the world flashed by in a gleam of blue and green.

We kept on foofy sliding until we were half starved. The guys pissed from the top of the platform, of course, and after each landing the girls took off their cosies to show off their lips, stuff we had done when we were in primary school or even before that.

"Come on Mathilda," Morné kept on shouting. "Show us what you've got in your brooks."

"Shut up, you idiot. You behave like some blooming kindergarden kid stuck in his Oedipus phase."

Morné's jaw dropped and he shut up for 30 seconds. His face turned as red as a cock's comb. "You know what you bloody German, it's _you_ who's got the problem. You are a bloody lesbian, that's why you don't shave your legs and under your arms."

Phhh, you ignorant poep.

"If you go by that there are about 20 million lesbians in Germany because German women don't shave."

"That's why they are so bloody ugly and that's why..."

"Come on man, shut your mouth and grow up."

The others were standing around grinning, which didn't help to restore Morné's hurt male pride, and for at least half an hour he didn't talk to me.

We had our picnic under the foofy slide tree. Jaco said that he wanted to go and check for birds' nests just now, but by the time we finished Ma Saida's apple crumble the whole sky was full of enormous clouds.

"There is a thunderstorm coming up," Sarie said. "We better go home."

While we were chucking our things into bags and baskets, a gusty wind whirled dust from the ground and ripped waves into the water. Within minutes the light changed and a dark, grey-greenish bubbling front moved through the sky towards us.

"Heere _,"_ Chandré looked up _. "_ We better hurry up. This is a big one."

We grabbed our stuff and ran.

The wind grew stronger. The air was cold and thick with dust. Willow branches whipped across our faces. When we got to the ravine the first flash of lightning split the sky. Thunder crashed and rumbled. Trigger disappeared with a squeal into some bushes. Sarie flung herself on the ground to get the puppy out, but she only scratched her arms on the thorns.

Morné pulled her up. "Come on Sarie. This is a hellsa storm. We must go _now."_

"Nooo, I'm not leaving my dooog. He's scared of loud noises."

Another flash of lightning zig zagged through the darkness, thunder clapped; some sacred ibisses drifted sideways through the sky. Then the storm really started. Morné grabbed Sarie's hand and ran. The universe was boiling and exploding and ripped apart by lightning flashes. Down in the ravine unearthly sounds rumbled and hissed and spooky shapes trembled in cold bolts of luminosity. We arrived at the other end of the ravine. And still there was no rain. And the wind grew stronger and stronger. Trees arched towards the ground. Some had broken like matchsticks. Something hit me across the face but I hardly noticed. A drop landed on my cheek. Chandré stumbled and fell; I helped her up and saw that she was crying. A mighty swish approached from somewhere and the rain started to fall. I had never seen anything like this. I could hardly make out Chandré in front of me. On the path up to where the car was parked, a wave higher than my ankles came rolling down the slope. An almighty roar made me stop in my tracks. I turned round and saw a wall of water higher than myself thundering through the riverbed, ripping bushes and trees from the embankment.

"Floodwave," Jaco screamed. "Run."

My legs had never been so wobbly and so heavy. But I still ran. The floodwave passed a few metres away from us and the bakkie. We all crammed into the cabin. For a while nobody moved or said a word.

"Jeez," that was a narrow escape," Morné was the first to get his speech back. "If we had left 2 minutes later that wave would have hit us."

Sarie started the car, sobbing about the puppy. We were all wet to the bone shaking and shivering. I heard somebody's teeth clattering and realized it was me. Water was running down the track, turning it into a mudslide. We skidded dangerously around a bend but Sarie quickly had the car under control again.

"You're a bloody good driver," Morné said.

I felt completely drained and miserable but I couldn't help grinning.

Well done boet – got over your macho pride after all.

The storm was slowly abating. Occasional flashes of lightning connected the earth to the sky and the thunder rumbled further and further away. Even the rain thinned out, although I could still feel it running down my head 'specially on the left hand side.

Strange, with all the windows closed.

I felt a headache creeping up my skull, me, who had never had a headache in my life.

"Good Lord," Sarie tramped on the brakes. "Look at that."

Before I could ask what, she had already jumped out of the car. We all got out. A ewe was lying next to the track, her legs up in the air, with a tiny lamb wriggling next to her. The lamb was covered in yellow mucus, splattered with mud, and his birth sac enveloped his hind half like a raincoat.

"Wipe its nose so that it can breathe," Sarie said to me, and to the boys: "We must turn the ewe over, she is having another one."

What do you wipe a lamb's nose with in the middle of the wilderness when everything is sopping wet and covered in mud?

We had lost our towels and all our stuff somewhere, just dropped everything while running.

The others tried to turn the ewe right side up again. A transparent globule was bulging out of her vulva. The lamb at my feet jerked and snorted weakly, mucus bubbling all across its snorkel. I just took my T-shirt off. It had psychedelic coloured spirals all over and Ma Saida didn't like it because it looked like a 'hippie rag'. I wiped the lamb's nose.

Sarie nodded and shouted: "Clean it all over, the mother's still going to be busy for a while."

I wiped the lamb with gentle strokes from the head to its tail.

_Strange. Little lamb is bleeding. But where_?

I wiped the blood off the lamb's body but there was more and more on his face and his little belly, bright red, mingling with the rain, running down its baby wool. I looked over to the ewe. She was lying on her belly groaning; the lump sticking out of her vulva was growing.

"Here are its feet," I heard Chandré say.

_Why have the guys disappeared? Oh, there they are, at the bakkie letting the tail gate down...and the lamb is still bleeding and I can't stop it and my head is going to explode_.

"Number 2, here we are," Sarie said far away. "Mathilda give us your shirt. The mother isn't doing anything, we must wipe this one clean too."

I felt like living in a slow motion picture when I handed her the wet sticky mass that was my shirt. I saw Sarie's eyes grow as big as saucers and heard a hollow"good heavens", and then "Morné, Jaco, come here fast."

"Jeez," look at that gash in her scalp," Morné took off his T-shirt. "Take this," he said softly. He helped me drape it around my shoulders. I just grinned.

Not so macho after all.

His T-shirt was yellow and wet and then it was red and wet. He took me to the car and put me inside. The rain had weakened to a soft drizzle. A ray of sun pierced through a hole in the clouds and turned drops into shafts of silver. The bakkie rocked and I heard voices. I slowly turned my head. The others had lifted the ewe and the 2 lambs on to the back. Sarie made a thumbs-up sign and laughed. When I turned round again a rainbow arched across the somber sky; a stretch of field glowed like a lake of jewels – and then it was gloomy again.

Finally the farmhouse appeared, tiny, under enormous dark clouds, rimmed by golden sunrays. On the drive, Ma Saida came running towards us, Alicia and several maids in tow.

"Thank God, you're back. What a terrible storm. Is everybody all right?"

"Ja Tannie Bertha," Morné said. "'xcept that we are all half frozen and Mathilda's got a big cut in her scalp."

"Goodness me, come inside quickly."

"Ma, we've lost Trigger," Sarie sniffed, and we've got a ewe and 2 lambs in the back. Hezekiel must put them in with Rommy and Juliet."

"Hezekiel's been knocked out by a sheet of corrugated iron. That storm blew half the roof off the small shed and old Hezekiel got hit. I think he has got a few cracked ribs. What a business!" She turned to one of the maids. "Lena, fetch Philemon. He can do the sheep."

We trooped into the kitchen where the ancient Magic stove turned out a lovely warmth. I felt totally _schlapp_ all of a sudden. Ma Saida inspected my head while Poppie made hot Milo.

"My goodness girl, how did that happen?"

"Dunno, I didn't even know I had it until Sarie told me."

"Well, looks to me like it needs a couple of stitches. Sarie get some dry clothes for all of you, and then I'll take Mathilda and Hezekiel to the hospital."

"Where is Pa, Ma? Sarie asked.

"I wish I knew," Ma Saida said. "I tried to phone Gran in Kneukelspruit to see if they popped in there but the phone is dead."

"Lightning hit the line," Jaco said, "or a tree fell across it."

Poppie poured Milo into mugs. My head was sore. The door opened and Lorah walked in with Christo in pyjamas. I wished I were in bed. Another shower of rain hammered the corrugated iron roof. Ma Saida told Lorah to run hot baths in all the bathrooms and a groan came from the storeroom next door.

"That's Hezekiel," Ma Saida said. "We put him in there on a folding bed. Sannie tell him we are going to the hospital just now."

I vaguely remembered from somewhere that people with head injuries must never be given food or drink until there is a clear diagnosis, so I refused the Milo. Alicia had evidently stopped her hunger strike because she grabbed my mug and said she could do with a second helping.

Sarie came back with a pile of clothes. "Here we go, dry outfits for the drenched storm victims."

"Thanks, my girl. Mathilda you change right here in the kitchen where it's warm." Ma Saida handed me some garb.

"Boys out," Alicia said. "A lady is taking her clothes off."

Ha ha they've just seen me kaalgat.

"Morné and Jaco you go and have a bath in the green bathroom," Ma Saida ordered. "You girls use the pink bathroom, and Chandré, you better first radio your parents. Ask them if you can spend the night here. I don't like the idea of you kids riding home on horseback after this storm."

Ma Saida got a cloth out of the cupboard and wetted it under the tap. "Let's clean your head, Mathilda. Good heavens, all that blood in your hair." She wiped around the gash. "What ever hit you, you're lucky that it didn't hit you in the eye. Good Lord, and we are responsible for you while you are here."

"Things like that can happen to anybody at any time. It's nobody's fault."

"Ja, it's an act of God," Alicia said. "Like earthquakes and pimples, can I have some more Milo please, Tannie Bertha?"

"No no no Alicia. You've already had more than anybody else and I don't want you to be sick, so..."

The door opened and Chandré stormed in. "Guess what. The whole of Kneukelspruit is without electricity, the school's under water..."

"And it has to happen during the holidays," Alicia sighed.

"...and my ma said Morné, Jaco and I should stay here for the night and...ah ja, Oom Sidney phoned my folks, their phone still works, and he and Hummel and Hein and Debbie are all sleeping over at Ouma Saida's, 'cause somewhere near the location the road's been washed away and nobody can get through."

Here we go. African adventure. Wounded in the wilderness. Cut off from civilization.

I found it quite exciting.

Ma Saida plonked down on a chair. "That means we can't go to the hospital."

"'n Boer maak 'n plan," Christo piped up.

That was enough to get a smile back on Ma Saida's face. "All right. Mathilda, those stitches will have to wait until the road is fixed. Now I want to get that blood and muck out of your hair." She got stuck in cleaning me up. "It's nearly stopped bleeding. Is it sore?"

"Not really. I've only got a bit of a headache."

"What you need is 2 aspirins."

Here we go, South Africa's universal remedy. You got a hang- over or a broken leg, first thing you do is to take 2 aspirins.

Ma Saida sighed above my head. "You know what, my girl, I think I'll have to cut some of your hair. There is stuff I just cannot get out."

"Huhhh," Alicia gasped. "That will destroy your hairstyle."

"I'd rather have no hairstyle than an infection close to my brains."

Ma Saida put her cloth down. "I could do with a shot of buchu brandy." She took a bottle from the topshelf and poured herself a tot of brownish liquid. "Mathilda, have some too. It'll do you the world of good."

"What is it?"

"Old Boere muti; leaves of the buchu shrub in brandy. Soothes the nerves and every thing else. Have a kelkie."

The Boere buchu burned down my throat and into my stomach. "It sure tastes jolly potent."

"Yuk, it smells terrible," Alicia said. "I'd rather have some more Milo."

"No you won't."

Ma Saida took some scissors out of a drawer and started to cut my hair. "Your hair is only shoulder length so it won't take too long to grow back like it is."

"What's a hairstyle in life, I find it's not of major importance."

Alicia stared across the table with big eyes. "My Ma says hair is a lady's most precious asset. Mathilda, you'll look like my dog when he had mange. My Ma..."

"Stop talking nonsense," Ma Saida was getting exasperated. "Go and tell Sannie to tell Hezekiel that we are not going to the hospital after all and to give him 2 aspirins.

"D'you think Hezekiel will be all right?" I asked.

"Oh ja, he hasn't coughed blood or vomited so it doesn't look like he's got any internal damage. The only thing is that he's got to keep breathing and that is sore with broken ribs." She snipped another strand of my hair. "The good thing is that these blacks are tough as nails. When we pass out they don't even say peep yet."

In the morning the world looked fresh and sparkly and the sun was shining on the remnants of the storm. Broken branches and thrashed leaves covered the lawn and bands of washed away soil meandered like immobile rivulets on the ground.

I felt nearly like new but Ma Saida insisted on going to the hospital the moment the road would be open again.

Morné, Jaco and Chandré left after breakfast. "Use your brains and don't do any dangerous things and radio us as soon as you get home," Ma Saida said to them while they got on their horses.

"Ja sure Tannie Bertha. "Don't worry. Totsiens everybody. We'll see you at the barndance."

Sarie wanted to go and look for the lost puppy but Ma Saida said that that was totally out of the question until the river was down to a normal level. We went to check on the new lambs instead. They were suckling at and wiggling their tails in a frenzy. On our way back to the house we came past Apie's residence. The monkey was sitting at the bottom of his pole, busy defleeing Sheba, the dog. Sheba lay absolutely still, eyes closed, sighing little noises of contentment.

Just before the one o'clock news Pa Saida's Land Rover appeared on the horizon.

"Thank God, here they come," Ma Saida said. "Mathilda, get ready to go to the hospital."

I wiped the dirt off my bio sandals and washed my hands and joined the welcome back committee at the garden gate.

Pa Saida and the kids had had a most exciting trip back from the dentist. They had encountered hail, high water and fire and the washed away road close to the location.

*

"You can't let Hezekiel travel in the back," I protested. "He's got broken ribs. Let him sit in the front."

Hezekiel climbed on the back of the bakkie.

"Don't worry, Mathilda. He'll be all right," Pa Saida said. "The blacks are as tough as old shoes."

_These people are total monsters_.

"If Hezekiel sits in the back, I'm also going to sit in the back."

"Calm down, my girl, and climb in," Pa Saida opened the passenger door for me. "Maybe one day you'll understand that oil and water don't mix. The bakkie is the ideal apartheid waggon. Whites in front, blacks in the back. Everybody has got their place and everybody is happy."

"Except white people sit on upholstered benches inside and the blacks on bare metal in the wind, shine or rain or whatever."

Ma Saida, behind the steering wheel, turned the key in the ignition.

"Get in Mathilda," Pa Saida was getting irritated.

"But..."

Ma Saida revved the engine and said completely exasperated: "Mathilda, you are _not_ going to travel in the back. If you want to do Hezekiel a favour you jump in as fast as you can, that we can get to the hospital at last."

_They will never change their minds, bloody racists. Phhhhh. What can I do? No use to fart against thunder_.

I felt shit all the way into town.

At the location a roadgang was still busy fixing up the road.

"Quite a thing, hey?" Ma Saida commented. "I've seen this piece of road washed away several times in my life but not as bad as _this_."

_I'm not talking to you, racist cow_.

Ma Saida gave me a sideways glance, shrugged her shoulders and shut up. Just after the location it struck me that Hezekiel would have to go to the 'black' hospital, of course.

_Bloody hell. This hospital trip is making me feel sicker than that gash in my head_.

Ma Saida was staring straight ahead saying nothing, probably just as pissed off with me as I was with her.

I decided to do my bit for a better world and opened my mouth. "Where's the 'black' hospital? Let's go there first. Hezekiel is much worse off than I am."

Ma Saida's chest heaved with the start of a sigh but then she shot an amused look at me. "You don't give up easily, do you?"

"Depends on the cause."

Ma Saida smacked a stray insect with her hand against the windscreen. "The hospitals are right next to each other. We'll first come to the 'white' entrance so we'll get you organized, and then I'll take Hezekiel to the 'black' side. Makes sense, no?"

"Mmh."

15 minutes later we pulled up under a seringa tree on the hospital's 'white' parking lot. In the storm battered hospital garden 2 garden boys were leaning on their rakes, talking, and a third one was cleaning up one of the many flower beds.

The hospital was a smallish single storey brickbuilding with a corrugated iron roof. It looked quite ancient with its brookie lace on top of the gable and its cottage paned sash windows. Inside it had wooden floors and the walls in casualty were painted a sickly green.

Ma Saida seemed to know everybody and introduced me to nurse Griet, a voluptious blonde who spoke Afrikaansed English and took down my details. She said that Drrr van Tonderrr was busy with an emerrgency rrright now, but he wouldn't be long. I told Ma Saida that I was quite capable of waiting by myself, but she insisted that I was her responsibility and wouldn't budge. We sat down on plastic chairs in the Afrikaaners' favourite colour – orange. I had a doubtful look around the old fashioned interior of the place. Was this joint up to scratch? It resembled what I had seen on photos of a hospital where my grandfather had worked after the Second World War.

Ma Saida seemed to have read my thoughts. She lowered the _Rooi Rose_ she had chosen from a pile of mags and said with an encouriging smile: "Relax, you are in the country where the first successful human heart transplant took place."

I grinned back and stopped myself from replying that that heart transplant hadn't been done in Kneukelspruit.

Dr van Tonder was middle-aged and fat with a ring of wild curls around a bald head. He greeted us with a benevolent "middag", and asked a couple of questions in Afrikaans. Then Ma Saida left – at last. The doctor took me through to the treatment room, and confided in laboured English that some of his ancestors had come from North Germany and that he was baaie trots to have German genes.

"What does that mean trots?"

He frowned. "As a Gerrman you should understand Afrrikaans. The languages have got the same orrigins."

"Ja well, they aren't _that_ similar these days."

He asked me to sit down on a chair that looked as ancient as the hospital building. "Trots means prroud. I am prroud to have Gerrrman blood in my veins."

I plonked down on the chair. After having been told all my life that the Germans are the bloody pits because they had started 2 world wars and killed off 6 million Jews, the doctor's point of view was not so easy to assimilate.

A red haired nursing sister with even more make-up on her face than nurse Griet, stalked in on long, thin legs. She walked straight towards a mirror on the wall above a spotless stainless steel table and checked her appearance. She moved her cap 3 mm to one side and, after a minute of hesitation, 4 mm back to the other side and fastened it to her elaborate perm. The doctor said something to her and she came over to undo the bandage. My "middag" didn't extract any audible reply from her. I could see in the mirror that her face looked about as friendly as the traditional carnival masks they use in the Black Forest to chase evil spirits away. The doc examined my head. I asked him for his diagnosis, but all he said was that I shouldn't worry my pretty head about it. I drew a deep breath to inform him that it was _my_ body and that I had a right to know, but before I could say a word, another doctor called him to quickly have a look at something. The nurse took a razor out of an enamelled metal cupboard and, without further comment, began to shave my head around the gash.

_Bloody hell_.

I nearly jumped off the chair. If there was anything I hated, it was people fiddling around my person without explaining what they were doing. Back home in Waldsee I changed my dentist twice for that very reason, until I found one who had he brains and sensitivity to tell a patient what to expect.

The nurse's bony fingers pinched into my shoulder as she pushed me down on the chair.

"Don't pinch me like that."

The nurse kept her mouth shut.

She either only understands Afrikaans or she is one of those Boere who hasn't forgiven the British for the Anglo Boer War and refuses to speak the taal of the enemy.
Fortunately she removed her claw before I had to do it. The doctor came back and I got a tetanus shot and an antibiotic shot, a local anesthetic, 3 stitches and a new dressing. They did a good job. I hardly felt any pain – but what a lousy ambiance. I couldn't get out fast enough.

I still had to collect my medicine. Nurse Griet told me, between 2 bites of a koeksuster, how to get to the dispensary.

The dispensary was at the back of the hospital in a separate building, set in a gap in a high wall. There was a small, unlocked gate. I peeped through to the other side. A sandy path led through a patch of veld to another brick building. I saw a black nurse in uniform and a guy with a plaster on his leg coming out of the building.

That must be the 'black' hospital. Now, is it a criminal offense for white people to go in there? Gee, to complicate a person's life these apartheid boys are really champeen.

The nurse and her patient were at least 50 metres away, but I could hear them chat.

I'll go and have a look at the place...like a field study thing. If it's a crime I can always say I'm an ignorant stranger with a blow to my head.

I walked down the path. There weren't any flowerbeds on this side of the wall and only one lonely tree. 2 black nursing sisters came towards me. All of a sudden I wasn't so sure anymore that being a stranger with a blow to my head would be a good enough excuse to escape criminal charges. The 2 nurses strolled past, interrupting their chat for a polite "meddag" and that was it.

_Seems to be all right...or blacks are not allowed to apprehend a white person_.

The 'black' hospital was newer and smaller than the 'white' one. I went in a side entrance where a maid was scrubbing an already spotless floor. The passage was painted in the same sickly green as the walls in the 'white' hospital. The wooden benches in the waiting room of the OPD were crammed. It looked like most people had put on their best clothes to see the doctor. The old men wore hats and some of them suits. Lots of the women wore dark blue calico dresses with geometrical patterns. The younger women had babies strapped to their backs. Small kids were crawling and running around bumping into knees and backs; nobody seemed to mind. Everybody fit enough to move their lips was talking. The bulky African nurse, who wrote down the patients' details at her metal desk, chatted incessantly, talking to the person she was dealing with as well as to the waiting crowd in general. The ambiance was certainly more cheerful than on the 'white' side.

I grinned at a little girl nibbling a mielie.

_In any German hospital this crowd would be ordered to keep the noise down_.

Everybody looked at me but nobody seemed to find my presence strange.

_Mebbe I'm treading on legal ground after all_.

A door opened and a young white guy in army garb, a white coat and with a stethoscope around his neck appeared. He talked in Afrikaans to the bulky nurse, then turned to me and asked: "Kan ek U help?"

"I'm looking for casualty."

"Oh...ongeval." He scratched his ear and produced a laboured: "You walk strraight to wherre the orrange doorrs is, and afterr this doorrs you turrn rright and you go in where the grreen doorrs is."

In the passage I came across another doctor. This one was middle-aged and black. He also asked: "Kan ek U help?"

"I'm on my way to casualty. I believe it's behind the green doors."

"Yes, that's right. I am the doctor on duty. Are you looking for a patient?"

I tried hard to look as if I'd never expected anything else than the black doc in the 'black' hospital in Kneukelspruit speak the English of the Queen.

"Eh yes... I'm looking for a man called Hezekiel...with broken ribs."

"Hezekiel Matabane. He has been to the X-ray department and I prescribed painkillers and an anti-inflammatory to reduce the swelling. I'm afraid there is not much more one can do in his case." The doctor seemed a bit intrigued with me as well. "Excuse me for asking, are you from Germany?"

"Yes, I am from Bavaria."

"A beautiful part of the country. We went on a holiday in the Alps once while I trained in Oxford to become a doctor. We also went to see the Passion Play in Oberammergau."

"I've never seen the play because it' so difficult to get tickets – and they are quite expensive too."

"You must definitely go and see it. They only put it on every 10 years, as you know. It's a very impressive experience." He smiled and looked at his watch. "Duty is calling, I'm afraid."

Hezekiel and another black man were the only people in casualty. They were having an animated conversation in Sotho. Ma Saida arrived half a minute after me. She had been in the Klopkloppie Superette to buy fly ribbons and a tin of shoe polish. She was slightly shocked to find me in the 'black' hospital but she only said: "I suppose it's your job as an exchange student to see as much as you can."

She turned to Hezekiel and asked him if he'd been to fetch his muti.

"No Missis.'

I got my prescription out of my pocket. "I haven't got mine either."

"Then let's go to the dispensary."

We took the path through the veld towards the wall separating the 'black' area from the 'white' area. Ma Saida and I walked in front and Hezekiel a couple of metres behind us.

"Who is paying for Hezekiel's treatment?"

"This is a provincial hospital so he gets it for free."

"And why don't they have flowerbeds here like on the other side?"

"That would be a total waste of money, Mathilda. The blacks don't appreciate that kind of thing."

She wanted to send Hezekiel to the 'black' window of the dispensary, but I said that I'd like to have a look. Ma Saida sighed, and then we all went. In the dispensary a white pharmacist was busy writing something into a file. A young white woman was supervising an elderly black man unpacking boxes.

The pharmacist handed the medicine to Ma Saida. "Make sure that he takes one Ipill 3 times a day and only after he has eaten."

Ma Saida put the medication in her handbag.

"Aren't you going to give it to Hezekiel?"

"Mathilda, you've still got to learn a lot about the blacks. Even if Hezekiel had collected his pills himself I would have told him to give them to me. If I leave these pills with him, he'll forget to take them, he'll crush them and he'll smear them on his chest. We are dealing with stone-age people here. For them a muti that you swallow can only be good for the stomach. They don't understand the concept of a chemical being transported in the blood stream to where you want it."

Mebbe that is the result of the Bantu Education Act. Keep people uneducated and then tell them they are stupid.

I didn't say it aloud because I had found out by now that with a lot of white people one couldn't really discuss apartheid. They'd always argue that you didn't know anything about these blacks; that they were a couple of 1000 years behind white civilization and that it is a law of nature that oil and water don't mix. It was like talking to members of that fanatic religious sect Friederieke's sister had ended up in. Once they had been brainwashed their brains stopped working and they'd repeat like parrots everything their doctrine dictated.

Ma Saida sent Hezekiel to wait at the car. She and I went through the little gate in the wall and approached the same dispensary from the 'white' side. The same pharmacist gave me the same painkillers as Hezekiel had got plus antibiotics and dressings.

"I'm glad we've done the hospital stuff." Ma Saida turned the key in the ignition of the apartheid waggon and we turned into the heat drenched mainstreet.

"I met 2 doctors in the 'black' hospital," I said. "A white one..."

"That's Frikki van der Walt, the youngest boy from the Bontebok Farm on the other side of town. He is doing his 2 year military service here."

"And then there was a black doctor who spoke the most amazing English."

"That must be Doctor Shabalala. He got his degree in Oxford. Took his whole family along. You should hear his girls. They talk with a British accent. I believe one of them is studying in Canterbury now and another one in London."

"Who pays for all that?"

Ma Saida grinned and said with a superior air: "We've got some very rich black people in this country. Your European propagandists probably forgot to tell you."

_One can't always shut up_.

"They only told us that a man like Dr Shabalala hasn't got the right to vote and isn't even allowed to use public toilets because they are reserved for whites."

Ma Saida sighed from the bottom of her heart. "You overseas people are all the same. Totally brainwashed. You haven't got a clue what Africa is all about and you think you know everything better than us, we who have lived with these blacks for centuries." She spared me the oil and water bit and said she would show me Dr Shabalala's house. It was on the edge of the location, the furthest possible away from the abattoir. One couldn't see much, just a red tiled roof sticking out behind a high wall.

"I believe he employs 3 maids and a garden boy and then of course a nurse or 2 because he's got his doctor's rooms in there too. So you see, Mathilda, there _are_ black people in South Africa who are better off than some whites."

*

When I went to my room that night, moths were circling around the lamps in the passage and the generator was thumping in the shed. I decided to try and sleep without earplugs because I didn't want to become dependant on artificial things.

I saw the lump under my sheet as soon as I walked into my room.

_Phhh. Hein and Ryno probably put a can of shongololos in my bed, the bastards_.

Shongololos were dark brown millipedes as thick as my little finger and as long as my hand. They were crawling all over the show outside and some of them had taken up residence in the house. They spent their time walking up the walls until gravity got the better of them and they fell with a dry plopp on the floor, where they'd roll themselves into a spiral. I was already working on a plan of revenge.

_Mebbe a dead frog down Hein's neck and a cow pat on Ryno's pillow...but that is only going to get me into trouble with Ma Saida_.

I carefully pulled the sheet back and couldn't believe my eyes.

During breakfast the next morning, Debbie said that it was about time to put the Christmas decoration up. Everybody agreed except Hein, who declared that there were more important things to do in life than to stick up glitzy stuff all over the show, to learn how to drive for example.

Pa Saida grinned. "My boy, your persistence will get you far in life."

"Does that mean you're going to teach me, Pa?"

"Ja, after you've helped me to put tick muti on the dogs."

"And after you've cleaned up all the drolls around Apie's pole," Ma Saida said.

"And after you've removed your stinky gum boots and that box full of beetles from the bathroom," Sarie grinned.

"And after you've put all your comics in the toilet into one neat pile, so that a person can go and have a wee without falling over the bloody things," Alicia added.

"Watch your language, my girl," Ma Saida frowned. "I don't want to hear any swearwords in this house."

"Are you going to wash Alicia's mouth with soap, Tannie Bertha?" Ryno asked with great interest.

"I hope I won't have to."

"Alicia could do Apie's drolls – as a punishment," Hein suggested. "It would also give her a bit of exercise, it's good for..."

Alicia's lower lip began to tremble.

"My boy, if you don't behave yourself you can forget about those driving lessons."

Hein dropped his half eaten toast on his plate and got up. "Ok ok, I'll do all them things right now."

Alicia produced a triumphant grin and grabbed another scone.

Ma Saida turned to her eldest son. "Hummel, you are very quiet this morning, and you've hardly eaten anything. Is your jaw still sore from the dentist?"

"Hm." Hummel sat there with red ears. I knew he was watching me out of the corners of his eyes, but every time I looked at him he stuck his nose deeper in his bowl.

_Ay ay ay, this is getting complicated_.

"I bet it isn't his jaw but his hormones," Sarie said with great authority. "Makes guys go all bananas. It's like when lambs start to grow horns and feel their balls for the first time. I read in the _Farmers' Weekly_ , that..."

Hummel got up and left.

"Sarie, don't talk like that about your brother," Ma Saida said. "It's not easy for a boy to be 14."

"Ma, it's not easy for a girl to be 15 either."

Pa Saida had finished his mieliepap. He took a cheeroot out of a little carved rosewood box and lit it. "I wonder if Hummel took a fancy to one of those chicks he saw in town?"

Hummel lay in wait for me in the honeysuckle hedge. He jumped out of there as I walked past.

"Hells bells Hummel, man. I nearly had a heart attack."

Hummel's ears were redder than ever. "Uh...how did you like it, Mathilda?"

Meine Güte, what are the right words to say to a love stricken little boy who puts gifts under your sheets?

"I liked it very much. It was just what I wanted."

_Shit, not too much encouragement_.

Hummel beamed. "The guinea fowl is made out of clay. I got it in that little Japsnoet shop close to the dentist. They sell home industry things and stuff. Its beak is a bit chipped off but I thought you wouldn't mind."

"No no, not at all."

"And I put it in a little basket full of blossoms 'cause it looks nice."

"Very nice. I think it's a great idea to have put it in my bed."

Inspiration struck.

"Hummel, where are you going to hide everybody else's Christmas gifts?"

It looked like Hein's driving lesson would not really be a great success. His legs were definitely too short.

"You can sit on my lap and take the steering wheel and I'll do the rest of the doings," Pa Saida suggested.

Hein pushed out his lower lip. "But Pa, I've been steering cars on your lap ever since I was born."

"It's that or nothing, my boy, except that this time I'll let you take the wheel all the way to the top sheep camp and back again."

Hein's eyes popped open as big as saucers. "Even up the S-bend over the rocks?"

"Even up the S-bend over the rocks."

Hein was reconciled with life. He asked generously: "Wanta come for a ride, Mathilda?"

"Thanks for the offer but I promised to help with the Christmas decoration."

"I'll come," Ryno said enthusiastically.

"All right," Hein was capable of true largesse. "I'm sure Pa will also let you take the wheel." He thought for a moment. "On a straight, flat piece of road of course, without corrugations and potholes – 'cause you are only a beginner."

Ma Saida opened a big blue steel trunk. "Here we go, all the Christmas tinsel. I want the 'smoking gnome' and the nutcracker on the side board in the lounge. And don't put too much of the stuff in your own room, hey Sarie, think of us other mortals too. Remember, Christmas is a time of sharing."

Sarie cast her eyes towards heaven. "Ja Ma."

"Last year Sarie's room looked like a disco," Hummel said. "She just left us one garland for the rest of the house."

"Shut your trap," Sarie snorted, "and get one of the boys to bring us a ladder."

"You do that yourself 'cause Philemon and I are going to put up the electric Christmas lights on the stoep."

"Children, Christmas is supposed to be a time of peace," Ma Saida said. "Now get cracking. I'll be in the lounge writing my very last Christmas cards."

Sarie told me that the nutcracker and the 'smoking gnome' were as old as the rocks and had been bequeathed from one generation to the next in the German branch of the Saida family. The nutcracker was a wooden soldier in a blue uniform and the 'smoking gnome' looked a lot like the one we had at home – a little man with a big coat, a long beard and a pipe. One could put an incense cone between his boots and the smoke would come out of his mouth.

"We call the 'smoking gnome' a _Räuchermännchen,_ I said. "Little smoking man."

"Oh, in English there isn't really a word," Sarie said. "We just made 'smoking gnome' up."

I found out that the English vocabulary concerning Christmas stuff was extremely limited. Everything was tinsel or Christmas decoration or bauble and that was it. I opened a box of red and golden spheres.

"But you must have a special word for these balls one can hang up."

"Not to my knowledge. But for you we'll call them 'hung up Christmas balls' from now on."

"Ha ha, very funny. I mean a real word like _Weihnachtskugel_. That's what we say."

Sarie screeched with laughter. "Kugel! That's great. Just go into a shop here and ask for a Christmas Kugel." She stuck a silvery pinkish garland to the wall and kept on grinning. "I'm afraid in Kneukelspruit you wouldn't have much luck in finding a Kugel. There seems to be quite a shortage of them in this part of the world."

"Come on, Sarie, tell me what a Kugel is."

"I thought a German would know."

"The only Kugels we've got are like...balls."

Sarie nearly fell off her ladder with laughter. When she got her breath back she panted: "Our Kugels have got all sorts of things but if there's one thing they haven't got it's balls."

"Stop taking the piss out of me."

"I'll give you a hint," Sarie chortled. "Your best chances of finding a Kugel in South Africa are in the northern suburbs of Jo'burg. Sandton and Hyde Park and so on, the larney places, you know?"

"No, Idon't know. Now what the hell is a Kugel?"

"Look it up in your dictionary."

"I didn't bring one."

"I'll tell you if you give me that T-shirt with the crazy coloured spirals."

"Your mother will have a fit."

"She'll get used to it."

Phhhhh

"I'll think about it.

When we had finished decorating, the place looked more like a venue for a carnival party than anything else. It was all quite glitzy and kitschy, except for the nutcracker and the 'smoking gnome'.

_It's about time the Saidas experience some real Christmas decoration, the genuine food for the soul sort of stuff instead of all that plastic glitter ersatz shit_.

I asked Ma Saida if they were going to have a Christmas tree.

"Ja sure, although I guess it's not quite the kind of tree you are used to."

_It's bound to be one of those horrible fold-up plastic jobs_.

"I could make the decoration for the tree, if you'd like that."

"I think it's a brilliant idea Mathilda, just tell me what you need."

"Can I have some more spinach, Ma?" Hein handed his plate to his mother.

Ma Saida was so surprised that she didn't even remind Hein, that only blacks and 'poor whites', like the ones living on the other side of the co-op, didn't know how to say please.

"Is it a bet or what?" Debbie asked. "Normally you hate spinach."

"It's because of my legs."

"Huh?" Even Alicia stopped chewing.

"Ja man, everybody says spinach makes kids big and strong, so if I eat a lot of spinach my legs will grow faster and then I can drive the bakkie by myself in the Easter holidays."

"And me too," Ryno pushed his plate towards Ma Saida.

"You've got it all wrong, guys," Sarie said.

"Ja," Hummel agreed. "If you look at Popeye, spinach goes straight into the arms."

"I've got an idea," Alicia pointed to an untouched helping of spinach on her plate. "I'll swap you all this for your puddings."

"Gee Alicia," Hein said. "If you carry on stuffing your mouth like this you'll be as fat as a pig before Christmas is over and you can join your mom in that German clinic, where they cut her fat rolls off."

Alicia screamed that it wasn't fair and stormed out of the room.

Pa Saida's fist thundered on the table that the crockery rattled. "No more driving lessons for you, Hein, until you learn to behave yourself."

"But Pa..."

"No buts, and as a punishment you'll clean out the old rondawel."

"But Pa..." Hein's lips trembled with the unfairness of it all.

"Did you hear me, my boy, or do I have to get my belt out?" Pa Saida roared.

Everybody held their breath.

"'kay Pa," Hein whispered with tears in his eyes and he got up from his chair.

Sarie and I and 2 of the dogs were walking along the river to look for Trigger, the puppy. The water level was nearly back to normal but a thick layer of mud with stacks of broken branches covered the banks. We had to climb over fallen trees and walk around areas that were still swampy. The mozzies had half eaten me up already and Sarie pulled a tick off my leg. She crushed it with a rock. "I hope it was not an infected one. If it was, you'll get tick bite fever with the most horrible headaches you can imagine. Some people even die..."

"Can't we talk about something else? What's that story about Ryno and Alicia's mom having her fatrolls being cut out in a German clinic?"

"Ah, it's a big secret. Everybody is supposed to think that Alicia and Ryno are staying with us 'cause their parents are on a great holiday in Bavaria, meanwhile their ma is having a boob reduction job done and they're also going to cut a couple of kgs of fat off her tummy."

"Why does she go all the way to Germany? Don't they do that kind of job here?"

"I guess it's because nobody is supposed to know about it. And also, they've got stacks of bucks. She had the same thing done about 2 years ago. In the same clinic. You know, they could just as well take a heap of Rand notes and burn them, 'cause it took her only about 6 months to look her old, fat self again."

The 2 dogs ran towards a big heap of washed up vegetation. They wagged their tails excitedly and tried to climb in between the broken branches.

"Whatever is in there it stinks," I observed.

"Ja, it's something dead," Sarie was white in the face.

One of the dogs had disappeared into the heap and the other one tried to follow him. We removed some of the branches and peeped into the opening.

"It's a lamb," Sarie said after a while. "It's a little lamb that drowned."

"Come and fetch the Christmas tree with me, Mathilda," Hummel said for the umpteenth time.

"How many times must I tell you that I'm going to make the decoration for the tree this morning."

"But it won't take long, you can make the decoration afterwards."

"I'm going to start right now, Hummel. Why don't you get cracking so that the tree is here when we've finished."

Meine Güte. It's exhausting to have an admirer, 'specially one you have to watch every word with all the time if you don't want to be responsible for a childhood trauma that could fuck him up for the rest of his life.

In the kitchen, I explained to my host siblings and Ryno, that we would _bake_ the decoration for the tree. Hein was cleaning out the old rondawel and Ryno went to join him, letting us know that guys must stick together, and that baking was a girls' job anyway. Alicia refused to come out of her room. She had started a water and dry bread diet and didn't want to see anybody.

I mixed the ingredients for the dough like I had done in the Advent ever since I could remember. Adding some salt, I thought about the masses of snow they usually had in Bavaria at this time of the year. Sweatpearls were running down my forehead. At 9 o'clock the thermometer on the Mooifontein stoep had shown 21ºC already. Normally it was cool in the house, but the last couple of days the cast iron stove in the kitchen never had time to cool down, because Ma Saida and her team of maids had hardly stopped making preserves, chutneys, jams and cordials on top of all the Christmas baking and cooking.

While we rolled out the dough on the table and cut out stars, pine trees, angels and elephants, I told my host siblings about going to school on cross country skis with a torch attached to your head, because it was pitch dark when you left and not much lighter when you got there.

Sarie stuck an almond onto a star. "Don't you miss Germany and everything?"

I thought about it for a while. "Not really. I'd sometimes like to see my friends and my family, just to tell them about all the things I've been doing here, and I wouldn't mind a round of tobogganing this afternoon, but I'm not homesick if that is what you mean."

"I'd never go anywhere without my dogs," Christo piped up. "And I'd take my pony, and Lorah 'cause she's my nanny and Ma and Pa and my sisters and brothers and Vusi and Thabo 'cause they are my friends."

Lorah, who was washing up greasy pans and doughy bowls, laughed that her fat rolls wobbled. "Come here you good boy and give me a hug." Christo obliged smearing dough and icing all over Lorah's apron, while most of him disappeared between her huge arms and her enormous bosom.

When we had finished, Lorah and Poppie got stuck into the job we dreaded most at home – to clean up the place from the floor to the ceiling – because as sure as God made little apples, after a Christmas baking session there were pieces of dough and splashes of icing all over the show.

Hummel yelled through the house: "Come and look at the Christmas tree."

We all trooped to the lounge and there, between the fireplace and the desk on which Ma Saida wrote her eternal last Christmas card, stood the most extraordinary object in a galvanized iron bucket.

"I thought you'd gone to fetch a plastic tree," I said to Hummel.

"Never. We always have one of those. It's a real plant. We had the last one for donkey's years, but the other day Hezekiel smashed it when he drove the tractor out of the shed."

The plant went right up to the ceiling and had a straight central stem about as thick as a wine bottle. From there, single branches curved upwards in big intervals. There were no leaves, only seedpods on top of the stem and at the end of each branch.

"It looks absolutely gorgeous, like a giant candelabra," I said. "What's it called?"

"Sisal," Hummel said very pleased. "You have seen them outside. These stems grow out of spiky leaves, like pineapple leaves, only bigger.

"Do you know that these 2 cherry trees are in exactly the right distance to each other to put up a hammock?" I asked Sarie.

She spat a cherry pip into the grass. "You're right. One could lie in the hammock and the cherries would practically fall into your mouth. We've got some hammocks somewhere, let me think." She spat out another pip. "I got it. In the old rondawel Hein and Ryno are cleaning out. Let's go and have a look."

We took a narrow path from the orchard to the orphaned lambs' camp. The veldgrass stood hip high, dotted with orange poppies and little violet flowers on tall, thick stalks. Lizards sat like brooches on hot rocks and armies of ants criss crossed the path with great determination. On the other side of the river, huge cumulus clouds towered above the landscape, throwing their shadows on the glowing red mountains.

The old rondawel had a thatch roof and was surrounded by ancient loquat trees and a lot of khaki bush. Hein and Ryno had carried quite a lot of things outside and the stoep looked like a White Elephant stall. Sarie picked up a double steamer. Its enamel had chipped off in lots of places but one could still recognize the image of a crane flying towards a gnarled tree on each pot.

"Mebbe one could use them as flower pots. What d'you think?" She glanced inside and crinkled her nose in disgust. "This thing is full of mouse corpses."

"Let's see."

There was an adult mouse with 6 babies in the pot.

"All mummified. They must have been in there for ages."

"Ja," Sarie chucked the mice into the khaki bushes, "they probably have. The thing is that this rondawel never gets cleaned out properly. It's a hell of a job and nobody wants to do it, so we always get to do it as a punishment when we've committed a major sin. It's a kind of family tradition." She wiped a spider web off her face. "If you wanted to clean this place properly it would take at least a week, but we are normally forgiven after one day." She put the double steamer on top of a pile of drawers filled with rusty nuts and bolts, various pieces of string and ropes and some mouldy exercise books. "I think the last one to get stuck in here was Hummel about 2 years ago. His sin was throwing a bucket full of fowl shit onto Adrian van der Walt's car."

"Why did he do that?"

"Dunno. He never told us. Even when Pa said, Hummel wouldn't have to clean out the rondawel if only he could explain."

I picked up a wrought iron lamp with a broken glass pane. "If it was me, I'd bribe some blacks to do the job."

"You mean to tidy up this rondawel?"

"Ja."

"You could pay them a million bucks, they would never do it."

"Why not?"

"'cause of the snakes."

"Huh?"

"There are always snakes in here, normally completely harmless mole snakes. The blacks are shit scared of them – of any snake. They'd never come near this place."

We looked in a plastic bag under a couple of springbok horns, as well as in a big drum between a stuffed elephant foot and a pile of old motorcar tyres. We only found dusty curtains and several mildly fucked up mosquito nets and we didn't see any snakes.

"It'll take ages to find those hammocks and I don't feel like going on," Sarie said and sneezed for the umpteenth time. "Where are the guys anyway?"

There was no trace of Hein or Ryno anywhere near the rondawel.

"They had better come back soon to carry all the stuff from the stoep back inside in case it rains," Sarie frowned. "Anyway, that's their problem. Do you want to go to the spruit? It's not far away from here."

There was quite a bit of water in the spruit. It gurgled down the mountain in its narrow bed, bordered by grasses and shrubs and a couple of trees here and there. Sarie, who led the way, stopped dead in her tracks all of a sudden and pointed to a group of springbok, drinking on the far side. We watched them until they turned and disappeared into the veld. A bird had started a repetitive 3-note song. Sarie said it was a Piet my vrou and when you heard a Piet my vrou sing it would rain before long.

We were just turning to go back when we got a whiff of a strange, burny smell. Sarie sniffed and searched the horizon. "Can't be a veld fire at _this_ time of the year."

"I think it's coming from those trees over there," I pointed to a group of shrubs and thorntrees further up. "We should go and check."

Sarie pulled a face. "Chances are that there are some muntus smoking dagga."

"Dagga. What's that?"

"I think you'd call it marihuana," She bit her lip. "When the muntus get rooked up _,_ they normally also get pissed and anything can happen."

"We could sneak up there without anybody seeing us, and mebbe it's something completely different, a piece of glass setting leaves on fire or something."

"Ok," Sarie agreed unenthusiastically. "But let's be careful."

We crept slowly towards the trees, taking cover in the high grass. The smell became stronger. There was no noise except the Piet my vrou and the soft crunching of our shoes on the ground. The last few metres I hardly breathed. I crawled behind a tree, and Sarie hid in some bushes.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" Sarie's voice exploded into the silence.

Hein and Ryno, perched on a rock, nearly fell into the water beneath them.

"Gee man Sarie, you gave us a fright," Hein groaned green in the face.

"What are you hiding there behind your backs?" Sarie was merciless.

"Nothing," the boys said in unison.

"Bullshit. What ever it is, it smokes and it stinks."

"Promise not to tell Pa," Hein said.

"And don't tell Tannie Bertha either," Ryno said horrified by the thought of it.

"What is it?" I asked intrigued.

"You girls promise not to tell?" Hein insisted.

Sarie winked at me. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

"All right." Hein stretched his right arm out in front of him and revealed what looked like a huge home-made cigarette, consisting partly of a piece of newspaper.

"You're lucky Pa didn't catch you," Sarie said. "He would make you clean that rondawel until the last speck of dust has disappeared, and he would only start giving you driving lessons after you've turned 18 – if at all. Did you pinch Pa's tobacco?"

Hein shook his head, turning greener by the second. Ryno didn't look so good either.

"You didn't pinch it from the shop, did you? Cause if you did I'm..."

"No man Sarie, we didn't pinch anything. It's only horse shit."

I felt my jaw drop. "You guys are smoking horse shit?"

"Jeez," Sarie sighed. "Boys! I can't believe it!"

"What does it taste like?" I asked.

"The first one's all right...sort of herby," Hein said. "But after 2 or 3 they loose their flavour. I think I won't even finish this one. Do you want it?'

"Keep that shit stick as far away from me as you can," Sarie shrieked.

Ryno dropped his cigarette into the spruit _._ Hein glanced thoughtfully at his.

"I'll give it a go," I said quickly.

He looked at me with big eyes.

"Mathilda, you're disgusting," Sarie screeched. "You told me yourself that your Pa is a founder member of the German anti-smoking league. And now this! You're crazy."

I took Hein's ciggy. "That's what I like about it. It's a bit crazy. Mebbe it's my only chance in life to smoke horse shit wrapped into the local rag. I just don't feel like missing it." I took a cautious pull.

"What d'you think?" Hein asked eagerly.

"It's not unpleasant...tastes a bit like burning grass."

Hein and Ryno grinned while Sarie turned her eyes towards heaven.

"You kids have done a great job," Pa Saida walked once more around the Christmas tree. "A bit unusual but I like it." He screwed up his eyes and took a closer look at Christo's baked aeroplane, dangling from one of the top branches. "Let's take some photos. Hummel get the Polaroid."

Ma Saida lit the candles. There were only 3, because out of her German inheritance she had only 3 special Christmas tree candle-holders left, and these candle-holders, which one could clip to a branch like a peg, were, south of the Mediterranian, as rare as rocking horse shit.

Pa Saida liked a thourough job, so half an hour later we had a whole pile of photos. There was the Christmas tree with its baked angels and African wildlife and Christo's 20th century machines plus Hein's and Ryno's 'Christmas birds from outer space' made of pine cones and guinea fowl feathers. Pa Saida couldn't take his eyes off a shot of Sarie's baked Land Rover. He decided to send it to Rover In England to let the guys there know that their cars were highly appreciated in South Africa, something that would surely cheer them up in that lousy grey weather of theirs.

The photo I liked best showed the Saida family arranged in front of the tree like figures out of a game of chess. In the back row, blond and blue-eyed Ma and Hummel stood between ravenhaired black-eyed Pa and Sarie, and in the front, fair Debbie was sided by Hein and Christo with their dark complexions.

Alicia complained that one could see a pimple on her nose on a shot of her and Ryno. Nobody commented because they were gatvol of having to apologize and clean out the rondawel.

"That's nice one of you, Mathilda," Pa Saida pointed to a photo of me and Amarula, the cat. "Send it to your parents that they don't forget what you look like."

"D'you think they'll like your new hairstyle?" Alicia asked.

"Ja, I guess so. I quite like it myself. Marietta has done a great job."

The photo showed the hairdresser's oeuvre, mainly aimed at integrating the patch of bristles around my stitches. She had cut everything extremely short 'but still feminine', as if it was a question of life and death.

*

The next day Ma Saida took Alicia and Ryno to their aunt and uncle with whom they were supposed to stay for a while. All the Saida kids had to come along for a duty visit. "It's going to be the most boring day of my life," Hummel said to me. "You're lucky that there isn't enough space in the car for you to come along as well."

Pa Saida, who had been up all night to deliver twin calves, had gone back to bed. I went for a swim in the reservoir near the big shed. On the top the water was warm with bright green algae floating like clouds, but deeper down it was real cold. I splashed around and watched the dragonflies and practiced walking on my hands. After about half a dozen mozzies had bitten me, I decided to go back into the house.

The parents Saida's bedroom door stood open. Pa Saida was lying in bed reading a mag. He put the mag on the floor and called me in.

"There is nothing like a good snooze, my girl. Makes you feel like new, especially after that hell of a night I had." He scratched his hairy chest. "Mathilda, come and sit here," he patted the bed.

"I've got a wet cozzie on."

"That doesn't matter. Poppie can change the sheets. Seen the calves yet?"

"Ja, a little bull and a heiffer. They're cute."

"Come and look what we had to do last night." He took a book from his night table and opened it on his belly. I sat down tailor fashion next to him on the bed. The book had drawings of twin calf embryos in it and the different stages of distangling and rearranging them in the womb to get them safely out.

"Well, the boys and I did a good job," Pa Saida sighed satisfied. "The calves look all right and the mother's ok." He put the book back on the night table and reached for the mag he had been reading "Ever seen one of these before?" He tapped his index finger on the cover.

_A_ _Playboy_!!

This was totally unexpected.

"Yeah sure," I played it cool. "In Germany the bookshops are full of them."

Pa Saida opened the mag. "Mmh, but I mean have you ever really looked at one?"

_Heidewitzka. This is going to be an interesting little conversation_.

"Ja, the guys in my class sometimes get hold of one and the biggest kick we get out of it is that it is absolutely completely against the school rules because we are still minors, so everybody looks at it."

"And do you also read the stories?"

"Sometimes."

"And what does it do to you?"

I couldn't believe my ears. I nearly got up. But it was like a game now and I felt like playing it – just a little bit longer. "It's like with all other stories. Some are good and some are shit."

"I think most of them are brilliant," Pa Saida turned the pages breathing fast. "And how d'you like these photos, Mathilda?"

_Ho ho ho. Mebbe I should leave right now. How far are you going to go, Pa Saida? Just a little bit longer_ ...

I stayed. There was a double page of kaalgat girls in all sorts of weird positions nobody in their right mind would take. A typical total macho set up.

"They are degrading women, turning them into pieces of meat."

"No, you've got it all wrong," Pa Saida said with a strange look in his eyes. "It's a form of art. These shots can get your emotions going. You can't tell me they are not doing anything to you. Come a bit closer and tell me what you feel."

_Hells bells. That's it. I'm going_.

I could see that something was moving under the sheet, right there between his legs. I stared at the growing bulge.

Hell, I better go and look into the mirror. I seem to be in big demand here. Mebbe it's the hair under my arms that does the trick.

I got up and left. Before I reached the door, Pa Saida snapped back into his normal self. "Mathilda, I didn't mean it. Forget that it ever happened. Holy Mother of God. Mathildaaaa, don't tell anybody about it."

Phhh. You think you can get into my pants by showing me some pictures of kaalgat girls...It'll take a bit more than that, my boy.

The next few days Pa Saida was a worried man. He turned pale under his tan every time I opened my mouth and he tried to be invisible most of the time.

_Hope you learn your lesson, slimey_.

*

Hummel was a different kettle of fish. He followed me like my shadow, except he was even there when it was dark. One night I woke up with someone tapping my shoulder. My knees turned into jelly, otherwise I'd probably have jumped right through the ceiling with fright. The first thought that sprang to mind was that Pa Saida had crept in on a secret visit, the bastard. I got ready to kick him in the knaters, when I heard Hummel's voice. "Mathilda psssst; Mathilda wake up."

"Hummel, you idiot, what d'you think you're doing?"

"Shhhh, the others will hear you. Get up quick. I want to show you something."

"Gee man. It's the middle of the night. Can't it wait until tomorrow?"

"No, hurry up. Otherwise we'll miss it."

I drowsily fished my bio sandals from under the bed and put on a sweat-shirt over my night gear, which consisted of a T-shirt and boxer shorts.

"Put your hat on," Hummel whispered.

_Heiliger_ _Bimbam_ , _the guy's gone mad._

"Come on Hummel, one normally doesn't get sunstroke from moonlight."

"Put your hat on, you'll see better. It's an old hunters' trick."

I grabbed my hat and sleepily followed Hummel through the door.

_This had better be good_.

Outside, the air was cool and the grass was covered in dew. The stars trembled liquidly in the sky and the half moon dipped the landscape in a silvery light. The scent of cut grass rose from the garden, small bats shot around in acrobatic circles and the crickets enveloped the world with their chirping. We walked up the slope behind the house, towards a grove of blackwattle trees. An owl hooted softly in the distance and nightjars pierced the darkness with their screeching cries. Hummel rushed like a sure footed goat along the narrow path and never slowed down a second. When we got to the grove I was totally out of breath. Hummel stalked carefully now. The seedpods of the wattles crunched underneath our feet. Hummel turned round and put his index finger up to his mouth: don't make any noise. I could feel my heart beat in every cell of my body.

_What on earth is this guy up to_?

Before I could think about it any further, Hummel signalled me to stop. All of a sudden he switched his torch on and shone into the branches. 4 pairs of small red eyes gleamed in the beam of light. They belonged to a family of furry animals who looked like miniature monkeys.

"Bushbabies," Hummel whispered. They had enormous ears and long tails and sat there like statues. After a while Hummel switched the torch off. "Come." He set off at an amazing pace. I stumbled over roots and fallen tree trunks and nearly had my eyes pierced out by low branches. Hummel didn't give a damn. He didn't even look back once. We got to the edge of the grove and all of a sudden Hummel was – gone!

_Hells bells, if this is supposed to be a joke it's not funny_.

I looked around to try and locate the farmhouse when a long, high pitched howl tore the night. It was answered by a similar howl, only this one sounded much closer.

_Good Lordy_.

I searched the horizon for that bloody host brother of mine and could not make out any trace of him. Judging by the howls, there was a whole pack of wild animals closing in on the grove. Goosebumps popped up on my arms. I stared into the night trying to work out how to get back to the house.

Ssssssssst

The hiss nearly made me jump out of my sandals.

Ssssssssssssst

My heart stopped beating. My brains still worked 'cause I thought bird or snake?

"Ssssssssssssssssst. Mathilda!"

_The little shit. Where is he? I'll kill him_.

"Up here, Mathilda." Hummel switched on his torch for 2 seconds. He was sitting just about above me on a platform up in a tree. "Climb up the ladder." He shone the torch down the tree trunk.

"Gotcha, hey?" Hummel grinned when I got to the top.

"Ha ha. This is the lousiest joke anybody has ever thought of."

"I thought you'd appreciate a bit of adventure."

We were both whispering.

"Now you can tell your friends in Germany that you were lost in the middle of the night in the African wilderness, with stacks of wild animals roaming around you." Hummel moved over and made space for me on the platform. "You don't have to tell them that it was only for 5 minutes and your rescuer was only 3 metres away."

"Very funny. If you do that again I..."

Hummel put his index finger up to his lips and pointed with his other hand towards the open veld. "Here they are," he murmured barely audible.

I scanned the slope for _them_ , having no idea who _they_ were. I wanted to ask Hummel but mebbe it was better to make no noise. The moon was behind us throwing the shadows of the trees on the ground. The veld stretched ahead, silvery black, without a ripple, and the moon shadows split dark, bottomless gashes into the krans. Birds screeched and the croaks of some big frogs rolled hollowly through the valley. Hummel's eyes were glued onto something I couldn't see. He hardly breathed; he was so absorbed in his observations. I took my hat off and screwed up my eyes. The old hunters were right. With a hat on and some of the moonlight screened out, one could see a lot more details. I was just putting my hat back on when the treetops around us exploded in raucous cries and the roar of a thousand wing beats. A cloud of guinea fowls rose into the sky...and Hummel was still staring into the veld _._ All of a sudden I spotted _them_ too, not even 20 metres away.

"Jackals," Hummel whispered.

A whole family of them was trotting through the grass. One parent in front, the other one at the back and 3 little ones in between. From up on the platform they didn't look threatening but wild and beautiful, and when they howled again and other jackals answered from all around, it was like being transported into a different time when animals had ruled the landscape long before man arrived.

"I'm half starved," Hummel said on the way back.

"Me too. We must have been out for hours."

The moon was hanging far down in the sky and it was much darker than when we had set out.

"Wanta bite of this?" Hummel dug some stuff out of his pocket. "It's Turkish Delight." He passed me the bar.

"Hmm, that's my favourite."

"I know. That's why I bought it."

Oy oy oy pasop, Mathilda. Is that supposed to mean something beyond the choc bar level?

We strolled down the hill in companionable silence. In the back yard Cookie and Sheba, the dogs, came to greet us. We let ourselves in through the kitchen door. The genny was switched off, so Hummel lit a paraffin lamp.

"Let's have something to drink." He went to the gas fridge. "There is nothing like Ma's ginger beer when one is dying of thirst."

The lamp threw a sphere of yellow light into the room. After the starry outdoors it felt stuffy inside the house. One of the dogs was snoring at our feet under the big kitchen table.

"So how did you like it, Mathilda?"

"It was absolutely out of this world. Fantastic; really special."

Hummel beamed.

"To see bushbabies and jackals so close," I marvelled. "Real wild animals doing their thing in the wild, without even a fence between them and us, that was tremendous. I'll never forget it."

Hummel's smile deepened. "Ja, life on a farm in Africa can be real great." He drank his ginger beer in slow sips, pondering some thing or other. "You know Mathilda, I'll inherit Mooiwater one day, 'cause I'm the eldest son."

"Good for you." I stroked the snoring dog under the table with my foot.

"You know Mathilda, I'm only 2 years and 4 months and 22 days younger than you. I know 'cause your birthday was on that form from the hospital."

_Heiliger Bimbam_. _Where is this leading to_?

Hummel stared at his glass. "You know Mathilda, there'll always be a place here for you." He looked up. His ears were as red as strawberries. "Always."

_Meine Güte_ , _this little guy is making something like a proposal to me._

I smiled at him across the table. "That's very sweet of you, Hummel. Mebbe I'll come for a holiday every now and then."

The corners of Hummel's mouth dropped. "That's not exactly what I meant."

_I know_.

"Listen Hummel, it's great to know that there is a special place waiting for me here in Africa and when I'm back in Germany it'll really make a difference...and one day we'll sit here and tell your wife and your 7 kids about the night we watched the jackals."

Hummel turned out a hint of a smile. "Jaaa, mebbe..."

I went back to bed wondering what to do about Hummel. These Saida males sure were a sticky lot. Fortunately Hein and Christo were still a bit young to get involved with girls, otherwise they'd probably also be hot on my heels.

I needn't have worried at all. The next day Ma Saida called me into the Saida parents' bedroom. She straightened out the bed cover and cleared her throat. I stood next to a chest of drawers, wondering what this was all about. Ma Saida stretched above the headboard and wiped some non-existent dust off a print showing the Madonna and Child. She cleared her throat again. Finally she turned round and looked me in the eyes. "Mathilda, I've got to talk to you."

_Ja, I gathered that much. Just come to the point, Ma Saida_.

She took a deep breath. "Hummel has asked me not to tell you his maths and science

marks."

"Oh." I waited.

"So I don't want any of this German nonsense."

"Huh? What have Hummel's marks got to do with me?"

Ma Saida sighed. "He wants you to have a good impression of him. Come on my girl, you are not stupid. You know what it means when a 14 year old boy all of a sudden cleans his fingernails all the time and voluntarily washes his feet every day and uses his sister's pimple cream...he is still so young...and you Germans are known to...uh...grow up very fast..."

_Where on earth does she get her information from_?

"...so just leave the boy alone."

"You know Bertha, I haven't got a clue what Hummel is doing with his feet and I don't give a hoot about his fingernails. This whole thing, if there is one, is in Hummel's head and it isn't exactly reciprocal. He's my host brother and that's it."

Ma Saida plopped into a rocking chair next to the window, relief smoothing her face. "I thought you would be reasonable, my girl, but Hummel's head is full of nonsense. I think I must find a job for him to keep him out of your range."

_Brilliant idea, Ma Saida, it'll make my life a lot easier_.

When I heard what the job was, I felt sorry for Hummel, though. He had to help clean up the little farm graveyard. In this heat! The thermometer had climbed to 37ºC in the shade for the last 3 days, and the National Weather Bureau had announced that the heatwave would still carry on for the rest of the week.

Hummel was completely disgusted and said it was a total waste of time; there wasn't one single Saida buried on that graveyard because they were all buried in Bloemfontein, and the Wessels, whose bones had probably all rotted away by now anyway, hadn't even been Catholics.

Ma Saida didn't fall for it and told her son to show more respect for the dead, Catholic or not. After all, God would under certain conditions sometimes also accept Protestants into Heaven, so there was a fair possibility that Hummel could meet up with some Wessels in his afterlife, and now was his chance to prepare for that.

I asked who those Wessels were and Ma Saida explained that they had been the previous owners of Mooiwater. They had made some money during the gold boom in the Freestate in the 1940s, had sold the farm to the great-grandparents Saida and moved on to some bigger place in the lowveld.

Sarie took me on a guided tour to the graveyard, a tranquil place at the end of the valley. A wrought iron fence and huge pine trees hemmed a small square. The gate hung lopsided on its hinges, the pathways were overgrown and about 15 gravestones were sticking out of khaki bush and veld grass. Normally the Saidas had the graveyard cleaned up on All Saints Day, but Sari said that this year they could't do it, because the huts in the 'black' compound of the farm had burned down on the night of the 31st of October, and all their laborers had helped to sort out the rubble the next day. The cause of the fire had probably been hot ash somebody had chucked out of their mbaula right next to bundles of thatching grass – these blacks did't have any brains when it came to the most basic safety precautions.

Some of the inscriptions on the gravestones had weathered away but Sarie translated the decipherable ones from Dutch into English for me.

Henrietta Wessels had died in childbirth in 1859, and Ignatius Wessels hadn't survived his injuries from the battle of Majuba during the first Boer War. Other members of the family had succumbed to malaria and snake bites while hunting in the Limpopo valley. There was one stone commemorating Magdalena Wessels and 5 of her children, who had died in a British concentration camp in Winberg in the Freestate during the Anglo Boer War. I was surprised. I never knew that there had been concentration camps before the Second World War. Sarie showed me a row of small gravestones in remembrance of kids; none of them had survived their third year. There weren't any blacks buried in this graveyard. Apartheid applied also to corpses.

After he had finished in the graveyard, Ma Saida found another job for Hummel. He said he had heard that in certain first world countries child labour was illegal; why wasn't South Africa a civilized place like that? Ma Saida told him just to concentrate on painting the window frames; one day when he would take over the farm, he'd be glad that the house had been looked after.

"Gee Ma," Hummel sighed. "D'you know how many windows this house has got? And they are all cottage pane windows. It'll take a guy a whole year to paint that lot. Why can't a couple of our blacks do it?"

"Because, my boy, there are certain jobs blacks can't do properly. There would be more paint on the glass panes than on the frames. You just have to look at the painting job they did in the horse stable. Shocking. You'll have to learn that there are things white people in this country have to do themselves if they want to keep up certain standards." She gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. "Today you only work half a day anyway. After lunch we'll get ready for the barndance."

The dans only started at 5 pm but the preparations turned out to be a major enterprise. Petrus had made a fire in the donkey boiler like every morning, and he had been told to ferry 3 extra wheelbarrow loads of wood to be prepared for elevated demands of hot bathwater. After an early lunch, the 2 bathrooms were permanently occupied for 3 solid hours. Everybody had an all over scrub and hair wash, and Pa Saida trimmed his 3 sons' hair to an about 2 mm stubble with an electric hairclipper. Ma Saida and the girls put rollers on their heads and spent about another hour with the hair dryer. I was only glad that with my new 'short but very feminine' hairstyle, there was no question of any alteration. When everybody was finished the whole house smelled of deodorant, hairspray and footpowder and Poppie and Lena came to clean up the mess.

I thought my outfit looked all right for a dress; it was blue – my favourite colour – with a round neck, a high waist and very simple. The Saida women looked all a bit too dolled up with their frills and bows and golden shoes – but to each her own.

Ma Saida inspected me critically from all angles. "Your scar is healing nicely, Mathilda. In a couple of weeks you won't even remember that it's there." She made me turn and frowned. "Isn't this dress a bit baggy? I wonder if Tannie Dalene is getting too old. Normally she only gives 5 cm extra for movement."

I didn't intend to let Ma Saida know that I had asked Tannie Dalene to make an exception for me, and that she had agreed to a compromise of 10 cm, after I had told her, that the latest fashion in Europe allowed for an extra 15 cm – which had always been true for dungarees from the hardware shop.

Ma Saida's look travelled downwards and her eyes widened in shock when she came to my feet. "You don't plan to go to the dance in these bio sandals of yours, do you?"

"Uh Bertha, under this dress nobody will notice, and anyway, the only other shoes I've got here are takkies and the velskoene I got at the co-op the other day."

"Good grief, my girl. Everybody will think you need orthopedic footwear." She sighed. "Your feet are quite big, so none of our shoes will fit you. I suppose you'll just have to go like that."

Sarie wanted to talk me into applying some make-up. I refused. To paint my face was all I needed; having to wear a long dress was enough for one day.

While Sarie smeared her eyelids with silvery orange, she said: "Mathilda, you don't know how lucky you are to be light skinned and blonde. You can't imagine what it is like in this country to have black hair and a brown skin like me."

I thought she was exaggerating. I thought Mediterranian types were very attractive.

It took us nearly an hour to get to de la Rey's farm gate and another 15 minutes to reach a big shed. It was built of rocks with a green corrugated iron roof and everybody called it 'the barn'. An African was there to show us where to park amongst the other cars under the blue gums.

"Look there are Ryno and Alicia with their ma and pa," Hein yelled as we got out of the Land Rover.

"Hardly anything left of Charlene's boobs," Pa Saida observed.

_Figures that that is the first thing he notices about her_.

Ma Saida punched him in the ribs but it was too late. The words were out. Everybody grinned except for Ma Saida, who said with a stern face that nobody was to make any remarks about Charlene Groenewald's changed figure – she didn't want any of her family to put their foot in it. She slammed her door shut and shot, as fast as her high heels would allow, towards Alicia and Ryno's mom and congratulated her in a voice that could be heard half a kilometre away on her successful operation!

Can you believe it?

Because they had just come back from Germany, I had to make small talk to the Groenewalds. Pa Groenewald's outstanding memory was that of a beer hall waitress, who had carried 3 _Mass_ – that's 3 full one litre mugs of beer – in each hand. He just couldn't get over the muscle power of that slip of a lady. Ma Groenewald couldn't get over the lekker German chocolates and the delicious _Knödel_ and the mouthwatering cold meats. No wonder she needed her fatrolls removed every couple of years. When she got to the scrumptious cakes, I was saved by Touki, the Greek chemist.

He had a big jar of olives in his hands and 2 bottles of ouzo sticking out of the pockets of his hunting jacket. He kissed all the ladies on the cheek. He gave me the olives to carry, took the bottles out of his pockets and grinned. "Like this it looks a bit more respectable, what d'you think?" He didn't wait for an answer and started to tell me about this real gifted sculptor called Jim Bafula he had discovered. Jim had come into the pharmacy to get some diarrhoea medication for his daughter and because he didn't have any money, Jim had offered him this incredible bird like object, made out of wood, wire and clay. At the moment – surprise, surprise – black artists weren't recognized in this country and didn't get any support. Touki let off a major sneeze and put the bottles back into his pockets to wipe his nose. "Bloody hayfever, hits me every summer." He sneezed again and greeted a family with 5 kids. The father and the 2 older sons were carrying revolvers in their belts. It nearly made me puke, especially when I noticed that they were not the only armed people around.

This is supposed to be a dance, hells bells.

Touki took the bottles out of his pockets again and said with a lower voice: "Mark my words, Mathilda. One day, and it won't be too far in the future, the black majority will take over this country and then you'll see what a lot of talent has been trampled into the ground; not only African talent but everybody's because in a totalitarian state the expression of creativity is not a very valued thing, except when it matches the party line... Let's get a drink – that's my party line."

In front of the barn, above an enormous bed of embers, 2 sheep were being turned on spits by 2 blacks wearing white coats over their overalls. A short white guy with silvery hair and a boep that nearly burst his shirt was in charge of the braai.

He lifted his can of Castle Lager. "Meddag Touki."

"Hi Sarel, meet Mathilda."

Sarel nodded in my direction. "Aangename kennis _,_ meisie."

I knew that the correct answer to this was 'aangenam Oom', but I just couldn't bring myself to call that guy 'Uncle', the respectful way of greeting your male elders in Afrikaans.

" _Guten Tag_ ," I replied.

Sarel's face split into a pleased grin. "My magtag meisie _,_ jy is duits jou lekker ding."

That was a compliment. Somebody had told me that the Boere loved the Germans because of their mutual dislike of the English.

"These sheep smell bloody nice," Touki flared his nostrils. "I happen to know what the best pieces are. So just stick around when the meat is done, Mathilda."

Inside the barn people were sitting in a big circle on strawbales. Inside the circle about a million kids were running around. Most of the boys had already taken their shoes off. The little girls were parading in silver sandals and golden slippers. They wore long dresses with frills and bows and everyone above the age of 3 looked as if they had had curlers in their hair.

There were farm implements standing against the walls and a vehicle hoist transformed into a bar, was laden with bottles and glasses. Next to it stood several long trestle tables with food, and in between them zinc baths filled with ice and cans of beer and cooldrinks. Boeremusiek was blaring out of several loudspeakers, sounding quite similar to Bavarian folk music.

Touki put his bottles down on the bar and introduced me to Braam de la Rey, small, thin and grey, and his wife Marlou, the fattest human being I had ever seen in my life. I left Touki discussing the benefits of Entressdruppels in cases of indigestion and headed for Sarie and the Leroux siblings. I only recognized Morné, Jaco and Chandré Leroux by their incredible mops of white blond hair. The last time I had seen them, they had worn shorts and T-shirts and at the foofy slide they had been kaalgat anyway. Now they were dressed up like the rest of us. Even the babies here had fancy outfits, and they observed the tradition in the Vrystaat: pink for girls and blue for boys.

"How's it Mathilda?" the Leroux grinned in unison. We talked about foals that had been born on their farm and the _Springboks_ latest rugby matches. Everybody was scandalized when they realized that I didn't have a clue about rugby rules and didn't even know the names of the national team.

"It's every South African boy's dream to be a member of the _Springboks_ ," Morné explained to me. "They are national heroes, real manne; the whole country is proud of them."

The young white doc from the black hospital and his brother Derek, who was responsible for the music had joined us and they heartily agreed. I had my doubts that the blacks would agree with them – blacks weren't allowed in _Springbok_ teams – but when whites talked about 'us South Africans', it never included the non-white population.

I finished the mango juice Touki had organized for me. Hummel grabbed my glass. "Can I get you another drink, Mathilda?"

"Uh thanks, but I can get it for myself."

He shot a perplexed look at me. "No no, I'll get it for you. It's us guys who get the drinks for the ladies."

Heiliger Bimbam. They are at least 3 generations behind here, with their etiquette.

I knew a couple of 'ladies' at home, who'd have kicked him in the bum and done their own thing, but it is no use to fart against thunder, and when in Rome do as the Romans do. "I'd like a gin and tonic."

Sarie and Chandré burst out laughing.

_What the hell is so funny_?

"Us youngsters, we are not allowed to have booze," Sarie giggled. "Just imagine Oom Braam if Hummel came along and ordered a round of gin and tonics for us." They collapsed laughing. When Hummel got his breath back, he said with a big wink: "What about another mango juice?" And he and the doc disappeared towards the cooldrinks, digging each other in the ribs.

Derek, the disc jockey, put on a record of energetic concertina-violin boeremusiek and the dancing started in the strawbale circle. There were still stacks of kids hopping around and running on the sidelines, and in the centre a few couples performed what in the taal is known as langarm _._ Langarm looks like 2 cops embracing each other with their arms extended on one side, as if to direct the traffic. A few kids imitated the adults, and I grinned at some little girls sticking their bums out exactly like the ladies, who wanted to keep some distance between themselves and their partners.

"Here you are! Girls you look gorgeous." Grandma Saida kissed us on the cheek. "Blue really suits you well, Mathilda. Brings out the colour of your eyes." She gazed over my dress. "You should eat a bit more, my child. I'm sure you've lost some weight since the fitting." She complimented Jaco on looking so grown up and Derek on his brilliant choice of music.

"When did you get here, Gran?" Sarie asked. "Pa's been looking for you."

"You won't believe it. The Therons gave us a lift and their car broke down near the Zeekooivlei bridge. We had to wait for somebody to come past and the Oosthuizens picked us up. What a business! The men are organizing something to get the car going again."

"You must be thirsty, Tannie," Jaco said in his most gentlemanly manner. "Can I get you a drink?"

Gran Saida nodded gratefully. "Thank you, my boy. A granadilla juice would be nice. I"ll sit down there on a strawbale." She gracefully floated away, looking like an oriental queen with her pinned-up thick, black-grey hair, her gold jewellery and a most elegant dress of deepsea green and ruby red.

Doc and Hummel came back with our juices, big grins on their faces and a couple of young guys and girls in tow. Frik was 22 and divorced already. 2 other couples, barely older than myself, proudly showed their engagement rings. I took a schluck of my juice, wondering why anybody would want to get married before the age of 20. I planned to lead a life of travel and adventure and certainly would not tie the knot before 30, if at all.

The juice had a funny taste. I sniffed at it and took another sip.

_Wragtig, these guys have doped my drink_.

Doc and Hummel grinned at me from one ear to the other. After Frik had finished telling us about the size of the barbel he and the guys had fished out of the Rietvlei Dam, Hummel came over and whispered: "It's mango juice and Witblits. That's the closest we could get to gin and tonic. Do you like it?"

"Mm, it's quite a pleasant combo."

Hummel grinned even more. "Doc's got a couple of bottles in the car. Just let me know when you need some topping up."

The dance floor filled up with couples moving their outstretched traffic cop arms up and down as if pumping water. Under a glitzy garland with _Geseende Kersfees_ and Merry Christmas on it, a large group of women was sitting, drinking coke and rooibos tea and minding stacks of babies. On the other side of the barn the men had gathered in a cloud of cigarette smoke, beer cans and cokes in their hands. The scent of the braaing sheep floated through the air and an army of maids carried dishes to various tables, collected dirty glasses and brought more rooibos tea in huge enamelled teapots.

My host siblings and the others went outside to have a look at Frik's 'new' second hand bakkie, but I wasn't really interested. That Witblits was burning in my guts and what I wanted was some grub.

Touki was still standing at the bar, giving medical advice to a fat guy who complained about gout and poured half his glass full of brandy, before he added some coke and waddled off to join the manne in their cloud of smoke.

"Shouldn't he stop boozing if he's got gout?" I asked Touki.

"Of course he should but he won't. Coke and brandy is the Afrikaaners' national drink, and you'd easier find a virgin in Bethlehem than a Boer without brandy in his coke." Touki sounded as if he'd had a goodly amount of his ouzo down the hatch. He passed me the olives. "Have some of those; good for girls."

"Thanks...I don't quite understand where the virgins and Bethlehem come in."

"Oh, Bethlehem is a little dorpie south of here, and there the girls scream _nee, nee, nee_ while they open their legs double fast – and I can tell you that from my own experience." He spat out an olive pip. "Bethlehem's claim to fame is of course that it carries the same name as the place where Jesus was born and that makes it the number one dorp in the Freestate, as one can see on the number plates."

"How do you mean? The number plates on the cars?"

"Ja, you see, Bloemfontein is the biggest city in the province and it's the capital. A division of the Supreme Court is there and the University of the Freestate, and the president of South Africa has got one of his residences there, so logically Bloemfontein cars should have A on their number plates, but no – Bloem only gets the B because a little one horse town is more important than all that, just because of its name."

Touki pulled me a bit away from the bar. "You know Mathilda, I've got a theory about coke and brandy and Afrikaaners."

"Oh."

"Ja, in my opinion coke and brandy is the expression of the essence of the Afrikaaner character."

_Gee_ ...

"You see, the Kerk says drink comes straight from the devil, and you get the real conservative Boere who never touch a dop _;_ but _,_ like the rest of us, the Boere are only human beings and most of them like a dop but nobody must know. So you mix coke and brandy and nobody knows what's in your glass. It always looks like coke anyway, and everybody is happy – and that's exactly the point."

"Oh."

"Ja, as long as you keep up the appearances everybody is happy. You go to church on Sunday mornings and in the afternoon you fuck the maid in the garage, where nobody can see it, and during the week you don't forget to shout at her and treat her as a bloody Kaffir, and everybody is happy."

"Except the maid."

"She doesn't count. Ja, as far as I'm concerned there are no bigger hypocrites than the Boere." Touki let off an almighty sneeze, blew his nose and said: "Let's dance."

"Uh, I dunno. I don't know these dances."

"I'll show you. It's very simple." He pulled me past the strawbales onto the dance floor. "Look here...," he grabbed me round the waist, "this is _fastrapp_ ...quickstep...laa ladda li da ladda...simple." For a guy who had the build of a bear, he moved with an amazing lightness. The floor was packed and the air space between the partners had been considerably reduced in most couples. With the next tune Touki threw in some Greek steps; stuff where you cross your feet and kick up your heels. The kids found that hilarious and some of them joined us, until Touki ran out of steam and collapsed laughing on a strawbale.

Suddenly the music stopped. The metallic _biiing_ of a tsimbi resounded through the barn and everybody fell quiet. Oom Braam announced that the food was ready. I expected a rush towards the laden buffet tables but nobody moved, not even the kids.

Oom Braam cleared his voice and said: "Kom ons bid." Everybody bowed their heads and Oom Braam proceeded into a lengthy prayer with the powerful voice of a man, who knew that he was part of God's chosen people in Africa and nothing could go wrong. After the 'amen' all hell popped loose. The men stormed to the bar to top up whatever they were drinking and the ladies jogged to the buffet. There was no way of getting to the grub without doing battle, so I went outside and watched Oom Sarel and some manne disect the second sheep.

The moon had risen behind the blue gum trees, the evening star shone brightly through the latticework of a windmill tower. Orion and Sirius hung upside down in the sky. I decided to go for a walk until things had calmed down in the barn.

Strolling through the parked cars, I soon realized that I wasn't the only one who had left the heat of the battle. Between an old Merc and a big Ford some real young teenagers were passing round a bottle and having a fabulous time. A bit further on somebody else was also having a ball. The whole bakkie was shaking with it. Through the steamed up windows I could hear an unconvincing _nee, nee, nee_.

Mebbe the girl is from Bethlehem.

When I walked back into the barn people were sitting on strawbales and serious eating was going on. The crowd around the buffet tables had thinned out and so had the food. A file of maids refilled the dishes and carried dirty plates away. It only took me a few minutes to get to the front line. A bulky Tannie in front of me piled a heap of meat on one plate and veggies and pap on another one. At the breadbasket she grabbed 3 rolls and said: "My man has got a good appetite. I always dish up 2 plates for him."

I found a vacant strawbale and looked around for familiar faces. Ma and Pa Saida were chatting to the Groenewalds and my host brothers and sisters were hopping around the dance floor with Doc, the 3 Leroux and Ryno.

To my right, a very thin and very old Ouma was gnawing on a big piece of fat. To my left, an elderly man with a beard down to his chest and a plaster around one arm was sucking on a cigarette and having an animated discussion with a beer gulping guy in his 30s, who had a chubby face like a baby, except for a moustache in which the beer foam kept getting stuck. Not far away the bulky Tannie from the queue sat next to a man who was probably her husband, because he got stuck into 2 plates of food one shot. He reminded me of the Saida's fattest sow, the one who looked like she needed a skate board under her belly to be able to move. I wondered how anybody could possibly tolerate that repulsive heap of blubber in their bed, let alone make love to him...yuk!

Touki sat down next to me. "Want some Retsina? For me it's the most delicious wine. Here they don't like it. They go for the sweet stuff. Late harvest..."

The wine tasted of resin, strange really, something completely novel for my taste buds. I had a couple of sips and decided it must be an acquired taste like for coffee or _Eisbein_ and _Sauerkraut_.

Touki told me about the Greek island his ancestors came from. How fantastic the olives were and how incredibly sweet the grapes and about that amazing presence of centuries gone by, soaked into the landscape and locked into rocks that had once been temples and houses. "In Africa you don't get that, but you get those extra ordinary wide open spaces here and real wild untouched nature."

"So you were born there on the island?"

"No, my parents came from there. I was born in Tulbagh in the Cape and then I ended up in this dorp because there was no pharmacy, so it was a good place to start one, and my wife's family owned some ground and a house here. That's how life goes."

"Then why do you speak with that heavy Greek accent? I mean one would expect somebody like you who's grown up in this country and gone to local schools, to speak proper South African English. Young kids have got that gift of totally picking up a new language, even if their parents still speak Greek or whatever."

Touki refilled our glasses and emptied his with one gulp. "You know Mathilda, living in this county with my complexion and dark and curly hair, people easily take me for a coloured. That's not as bad as a black but it's way below whitey. So ever since I was a little boy I emphasized my accent because as a Greek you are still white – only just – but you are white, and you can do things the blacks and coloureds can only dream of." He poured himself some more wine and carried on. "For the Saidas it's the same. They are white but only just. Why do you think we were invited tonight? It's not because the Kneukelspruiters like us or we are really part of their community. It's because half the dorp buys on credit and wants to keep good relations with us. It's the money that does it, sad hey?"

"Ja."

"You know that South Africa has been ruled by the Nats since 1948 _?"_

"Ja."

"Its official name is _Nasionale Party_ and 99% of its members in parliament are Afrikaaners. They are the guys who put the apartheid laws on the statute books. I'm not saying that in the rest of the world people don't get discriminated against, but nobody does it in such a...well...boorish way as the Boere. I read a very interesting theory the other day. It says that the complexity of a people's language is an indication to this people's stage of evolution. If you look at Afrikaans it's completely basic. And if you apply this theory, it means that the Afrikaaners as a people are still in their nappies."

I was speechless.

The volume of the music increased and the dance floor filled up again with langarming couples. Touki excused himself and went off to check out what had happened to the broken down car of the Therons.

Heidewitzka! I am really and truly in a strange country.

_Touki speaks like a waterfront Greek to be white. Girls in the back of parked cars yell nee nee when they want more. The name of a dorp like Bethlehem means more than all the institutions of a city like Bloemfontein put together... What a privilege it is to be an exchange student – my education explosion_.

Somebody tapped on my shoulder. It was Hummel with half a dozen cans in his arms. "Here we go, Mathilda, "he passed me a cider. "At the bar everybody is sufficiently pissed now to hand out booze to us youngsters."

Most couples on the dance floor were moving closer together to what is called _binnebout._ One couldn't have put a polony skin between them from their shoulders to their knees. Ouma was searching the dance floor with beady little eyes, chewing spit with her false teeth, shaking her head with disapproval. "Dis wragtig die werk van satan." Ouma left when Derek put on _Mama Thembu,_ a song out of _Ipi Tombi_ , the only South African musical with a black story line and a black cast that was acceptable for most whites. Ouma said that to have to listen to monkey music was more than one could expect from a person of her age, and what was the world coming to anyway?

On the dance floor anything was ok now. Langarm _,_ binnebout and individual improvisation. The grandparents Saida glided past us in the most strikingly elegant manner. They were by far the classiest people of the evening. The buffet tables were nearly abandoned. One lonely guy ladled left overs onto a plate.

"See that bloody shit face there?" Hummel said pointing at him.

"Ja," I was surprised at the outburst.

"That's Adriaan. I once threw fowlshit all over his bakkie."

I remembered that Sarie had told me about that, and also, that nobody had ever found out why Hummel had done it.

Hummel took a big sip from his Hunter's Gold. "Wanta know why I did it?"

Of course I did.

"That shit face Adriaan came to the farm one day to buy a suckling pig. He asked Pa for the price and then he said he wanted to talk to his boet and mebbe also get a piglet for him. So he went to his bakkie and switched his radio on. He couldn't see me because I was round the corner of the shed, but I could hear every word he said. He told his boet the price of the piglet and then he said, 'this Lebanese Kaffir, he won't give it to us for less'." Hummel was white with anger. "Then he went back to Pa to make the deal and I chucked as much shit on that bloody prick's bakkie as I could." Hummel finished his cider with one indignant gulp and stomped the empty can flat one shot. "Of course I didn't get away with it. Pa thought up a major punishment for me – spending the holidays cleaning the old rondawel, mucking out stables and stuff like that. He said if I could give him one good reason why I had done it, he would think again, but I couldn't tell my pa that somebody had called him a Lebanese Kaffir, so I had to take my punishment."

I saw my host brother in a completely new light. "You are a total hero, Hummel."

He grinned faintly. "You really think so?"

"Absolutely. 100 percent. I won't tell anybody – and thank you for telling me."

The men hadn't managed to fix up the Therons' car but they finally worked out who would travel with whom. The Therons, Ma Saida, Debbie and Hummel would go with Touki, and the grandparents Saida, Sarie, Hein, Christo and I with Pa Saida.

It wasn't midnight yet but quite a lot of people had already left. Touki said that parties in South Africa finished at a time when they would hardly have started in the Mediterranean countries. He wished us a merry Christmas because he was going to leave for Greece the next day. I was a bit sad when I climbed into the Land Rover. Touki was the nicest guy in Kneukelspruit.

The moon, high up in the sky, dipped the landscape into a mysterious sheen. The dark backs of the mountains stood stark in the boundless veld and the barren band of the road stretched straight ahead going on forever. There was not a single light hinting of a house. I felt a bit tipsy and drowsy, like in a dream. Grandpa Saida's melodious voice floated through the car. He was talking about the Seven Wonders of the World. Gran Saida had fallen asleep on his shoulder. Christo was snoring gently, stretched out across Sarie's and my lap. The beams of the headlights caught a stooping owl and later on a hare. Grandpa Saida was just saying something about St Paul's visit to Ephesus, when a uniformed man appeared out of the nothing and waved us to the side of the road.

"Oh hell, a roadblock," Pa Saida said between his teeth.

I was wide awake within the fraction of a second, because just before Pa Saida switched from bright to dim I spotted _them_ between the blue gum trees. Goosebumps rose all over my body and although I was sitting, I could feel my legs go all wobbly.

Pa Saida wound the window down. The cop approached and said: "Engels of Afrikaans?"

"English please," Pa Saida replied. While the cop checked the Land Rover's license, my eyes adapted slowly to the moonlight. I felt goosebumps even on my scalp, something I had never experienced before, but then I had never seen anything comparable, except mebbe in movies. Hein opened our window and I wished he hadn't; now the last little barrier between _them_ and us was gone. It seemed there were hundreds of them out there – all uniformed and armed, in between the trees and around huge armoured vehicles with guns, like straight out of a nightmare.

"Your ID book please, Sir," the cop said. He leafed slowly through it and asked Pa Saida a couple of questions. Then he scrutinized every single one of us with his torch. I felt Sarie tensing up beside me. Christo awoke from his sleep and gaped bewildered into the beam of light. I hardly dared to breathe.

_What is he looking for? This is a totalitarian state. Anything can happen_.

The cop wanted to see the grandparents Saida's ID books.

I noticed 2 young soldiers, who were standing close to our window. They pierced us with a hostile, superior stare, their rifles firmly clutched in their hands.

"These Coolies are in deep shit," the taller one said in a low voice. "They'll all go to jail."

The smaller one poked his colleague in the ribs. "Heere, they've got a wit meisie with them."

The tall guy looked even more disgusted than before. "I hope to hell they throw the key away after they've locked that bunch up."

I figured that _wit meisie_ meant white girl, but the rest of their conversation made no sense.

The cop glanced over us again and finally gave the ID books back to Pa Saida. "All right. Move on."

Pa Saida pulled back onto the road. For a while nobody said a word. Beyond the blue gum trees the world was limitless and silvery again.

"What was that all about?" I asked into the silence.

"A roadblock," Grandpa Saida explained calmly. "They are looking for terrorists and illegal arms and stolen cars..."

"And that talk about coolies? Why did these 2 guys..."

Sarie snorted. "This afternoon when I told you that it's not always easy to live with a brown skin and black hair in this country you didn't believe me, did you?"

"I thought you were exaggerating a bit."

Sarie made that snorty noise again. "Look around you, sister."

It suddenly dawned on me that there were only dark members of the Saida family in the car.

"Touki mentioned tonight that people sometimes take him for a coloured," I said. "But you don't look like coloureds...or do you? Can coloureds have that dead straight hair? I always thought...phhh, I don't know anymore."

"People sometimes take us for Indians," Gran Saida said.

"Oh, but what does that have to do with a road block?"

"Indians are not allowed to spend the night in the Freestate."

"What?"

"Any Indian who enters the Orange Freestate must leave it before nightfall. It's a law. If they catch Indians after dark they'll arrest them and put them into jail.

_This place is much crazier than I thought_.

"But that means Indians can't live in the Freestate."

"Exactly," Grandpa Saida said patiently.

"But that is totally ludicrous. How can they have a law like that?"

"You must look at it in its historical context. After the Anglo Boer War the Union of South Africa consisted of 4 provinces. Each of these provinces was quite autonomous and the Freestate Provinsiale Raad decided they didn't want any Indians because they saw what was going on in Natal.

"Why? What was going on in Natal? I know they imported Indians to work in the sugar cane fields."

"That's right. And when their contracts ended these Indians stayed on and went into business and all sorts of other things, and the Freestate said: we don't want that."

"But what's wrong with Indian business; aren't the Indians supposed to be good business people?"

"Wrong question, my girl," Grandpa Saida said. "The question you should ask is: why do the Australians try to keep their country white? Why did the Germans want to get rid of the Jews? Why were there Pogroms in Russia? Why did the Americans put the Red Indians into reservations?" He sighed. "It's this terrible thing called xenophobia. People like to stick to their own kind. Then they know what to expect. But differences in looks and beliefs and traditions and cultures make people feel threatened." He sighed again. "Ja, this whole issue of different cultures is a big challenge for humanity. I'm afraid mankind hasn't progressed very much in that area."

*

Pa Saida turned up the volume of the radio and listened attentively to the weather forecast. After the speaker had announced a fine hot day in the Freestate, no rain expected, a happy grin spread over Pa Saida's face. "Today is the day," he announced.

"Yeahhh," Hein yelled excitedly and my other host siblings joined in.

"What's up?" I asked. Everybody knows that the weather is important for farmers, but I was astounded to see such an outbreak of enthusiasm because of another fine hot day.

"Today is totally special," Debbie said. Today we are going to have the Christmas party for the blacks."

Sarie, Debbie and I were given the job of packing the Christmas boxes for the labourers and their families. There were clothes and sweets for the kids; sugar, oil, canned fish, tobacco, tea and enamel mugs and plates and a huge bag of mieliemeal for each family, and a new uniform for each maid, which I found wasn't really a gift.

At 10 o'clock Hezekiel loaded 2 cages with fowls and ducks on the bakkie. Lena and Sannie brought folding chairs and tables and Poppie and Lorah picnic baskets. Pa Saida dropped Sarie, Hein and me off at the dam behind the horse stables and turned back to fetch some more stuff. We arranged the chairs and tables under a tree.

In the dam, 3 guys were busy erecting a contraption consisting of 2 trestles connected by a 5 metre long metal pole. Submerged to the top of their thighs, shouting and laughing at the top of their voices, they fixed the metal pole horizontally, about a metre above the water on the trestles. A boy called Twala yelled his contribution to the conversation from a place ashore, where he had built a big fire.

"That's where they are going to braai their meat," Sarie told me. "Look, here's the bakkie."

Hummel, Christo and Debbie jumped off the back and Ma Saida climbed out the cabin balancing another picnic basket. Pa Saida called Twala and Lazarus to come and help. They unloaded innumerable cases full of wine bottles.

" _Heidewitzka_ , who is going to drink all that?" I asked.

"Us and them," Pa Saida said grinning. "It's party time and it's part of the tradition."

Christo pulled at my shorts. "Why do you say 'hide your whiskers', Mathilda?"

"Huh?"

"You just said: hide your whiskers, who is going to drink all that."

Everybody burst out laughing.

"Oh, you mean _Heidewitzka_."

Christo nodded.

"It's a German word, or mebbe it's Bavarian. It's an expression of..." I scratched my head because I had never really thought about it. "It's an expression of...uh... amazement...or surprise. I don't know where it comes from. I just like the sound of it."

We could hear the Africans' voices while they were still 500m away, walking up the blue gum road.

"Ja boetie, these guys can talk," Pa Saida said opening a wine bottle. "And when they talk it's with maximum volume. I was told it comes from walking in a file in the bush; you have to speak up if you want to be heard." He took a schluck of vino and let off a sigh of contentment. "That's the life."

When the 3 boys had finished setting up the pole in the dam, Pa Saida waved to them to come over. They waded out of the water, sopping wet, and Pa Saida gave each of them a bottle of wine. "If you want more you bring the empties back."

"Ee Baas."

I couldn't believe my eyes. Just the other day Pa Saida had kicked Lazarus out of the shed, swearing and shouting that he wouldn't tolerate a drunken muntu at work, and if it happened again he'd give Lazarus a whipping, he would remember for the rest of his life. As if he had read my thoughts Pa Saida turned to me and said: "Today is a day to drink, eat and to be merry. Read Ecclesiastes."

"Looks like they are all here now," Ma Saida scanned the crowd of blacks who had gathered under the trees. There were about 100 of them; everybody from grey haired old September whose job it was to herd the turkeys, to Poppie's teenage daughter with her baby strapped to her back. Children ran around excitedly, some of the smaller ones looked with big eyes from behind their mothers' skirts.

Pa Saida gave an ultra short speech in Sotho. The only word I understood was _kissimusi_ ; Lorah had explained the other day that we were baking Christmas pies for little Jeesaas, who was born on kissimusi day. After the speech Pa and Ma Saida proceeded to hand out the kissimusi boxes, sticking strictly to the hierarchy of the workforce. First came the men because in this part of Africa the blacks lived in a totally patriarchal society. Ma Saida had told me, that the male farm workers would not always listen to her orders because she was a mere female; there was nothing one could do about it, just to accept it and keep one's sanity intact.

The boss boy collected his gift with a big grin, followed by the tractor drivers and the ordinary labourers. Each one clapped his hands once, then turned the right palm upwards and supported the right forearm with the left hand – one of their gestures to show respect – and with a brief nod of the head took his kissimusi box and a bottle of wine. The women, led by fat Lorah the chief maid, did the same plus a little curtsey. It took a while until the other house maids, the milkparlour maids and the field girls had had their turn, and by the time the last box was handed out, everybody had got stuck into their booze.

"Now comes the best," Sarie said. "I just love it."

Everybody else seemed to love it too, standing expectantly in a circle around Pa Saida. Pa Saida ceremoniously held up an empty jute bag that had once contained 50 kg of mielies. The crowd cheered. He folded the bag solemnly, more than 100 pairs of eyes hanging on his every movement. When he had folded the bag 4 times, he put it into another similar bag and presented the thing triumphantly to the spectators. The crowd cheered at the top of their voices. Pa Saida repeated the whole process with 2 other bags. It looked like the execution of some weird ritual, although for the life of me, I couldn't work out the significance of the old jute bags. I had just turned to Hummel to ask him what the whole procedure was all about, when Pa Saida threw the bags into the crowd and all hell popped loose. All the grown up guys got into a scramble, while the women and kids encouraged them, hollering and yelling with earsplitting vigour. From then on the racket never stopped. Elias and Lazarus emerged with one of the bag things each. They ran as fast as they could towards the dam, followed hot on their heels by the other men and, at a more moderate pace, the rest of the compound population. Elias, full of wine and out of breath, got knocked over by a tall thin guy, who snatched the bag and chased after Lazarus, who was already up to his knees in the water. The crowd shouted 'Lazarus, Lazarus' and 'Johannes, Johannes'. Johannes was the first one to arrive at the pole contraption. By the time he got to the top, the dam was churning with competitors. Lazarus, half way up the pole, gave Johannes one big klap with his bag and Johannes fell into the water like a stone. Lazarus let out a victorious yell, climbed up like a monkey and sat astride the pole. Some guy grabbed Johannes' bag and got stuck in hitting Lazarus with full force. The bags were sopping wet by now and quite heavy. Lazarus took one mighty swing, missed his adversary and got carried into space by the momentum of his bag. Some other guy took over. The crowd collapsed with laughter every time somebody fell off the pole and all the Saidas were in stitches. I didn't really think that watching guys klobber each other was _that_ funny but I was in total convulsions too.

Pa Saida wiped some tears off his cheeks and croaked: "They are supposed to sit in pairs on the pole and hit each other off with the bags. The idea is that the winner of the final round gets the first prize." He suppressed another laugh attack and snorted: "And all they ever do is create total chaos. It happens every year."

The pole contraption filled up with guys kicking and punching in all directions. Some were hanging upside down, one couldn't see which limb belonged to whom, and in a quick succession most of them crashed into the water. There was a short but dramatic fight between Twala and Zachariah from which Twala emerged with a bleeding nose and Zachariah as the triumphant champion. The crowd went bananas, hailing the victor until he reached firm ground again and received the first prize: 4 ducks on the hoof in a cage, handed over by Pa Saida with a hearty handshake.

There was a bit of a break during which most of the blacks exchanged their empty wine bottles for full bottles. Some of the women started to sing and clap and fell into a stomping dance. I went over to the folding tables, where Ma Saida was cutting a banana loaf into slices. Of all parties I had been to this one was definitely the most tumultuous and spontaneous. It was lekker fun, but when I saw Hein and Christo taking turns to sip at a wine bottle, it got me wondering where all this would end.

I sat down and watched the women line up about 100 metres away from the dam. The men shouted in Sotho and laughed and clapped their hands on their thighs. Pa Saida yelled something like 'ready, steady, go', and the ladies galopped towards the water. Instantly the crowd burst into ebullient cheers again. A young, lithe milk maid took the lead, Poppie and 2 of the field girls not far behind. For the first 20 metres fat Sannie managed to keep up with the bulk of the racers, then she fell back, her voluminous figure wobbling like a big piece of jelly. I looked out for Lorah, who was twice as broad on the beam, and spotted her at the braai fire, to which Twala had returned with his bleeding nose, placing big chunks of mutton on the coals.

The milk maid dashed into the water lifting up her skirt. The guys went wild; Lena fell flat on her face. Poppie overtook the milk maid and was the first one to make it round the pole contraption. On the way back a field girl caught up with her. When they stumbled ashore every thread of their clothes was clinging to their bodies. The guys went even wilder, waving their wine bottles, yelling, whistling and swigging as if the world was coming to an end. Fat Sannie, who had stopped running half way down the veld and leisurely watched the race from dry ground, turned round and moved her bulky frame amazingly fast to the finishing line. She got there 3 seconds before the field girl, and she claimed the first prize.

"Holy Virgin, Mother of God," Ma Saida put her wine glass down. "There's bound to be a fight, damnit."

Although not a regular churchgoer, Ma Saida normally insisted on everybody in her surroundings to stick to the third commandment and not use the Lord's name in vain. But on the day of the kissimusi fete, none of the habitual rules seemed to apply. Even swearing was ok, and Ma Saida, who hardly ever drank any alcohol, poured herself another glass of wine and didn't notice, that her youngest kids got stuck into a second bottle.

"I like the fighting part best," Hein burped.

"I wish we had one kissimusi party without a bloody fight," Ma Saida sighed.

At the finishing line things were hotting up. Sannie and the field girl were shouting at each other. Both of them wanted the first prize; the 2 hens, who were scratching around in their cage, oblivious to the drama they were about to cause. As soon as they got their breath back, Poppie and the milk maid joined in the shouting competition. A few guys joined in as well, gesticulating wildly. Pa Saida yelled something but nobody listened to him. He shrugged his shoulders and began to pick up empty bottles. There were lots of bottles lying around so I went over to help him. I soon wished I had stayed away. The fight was getting scary, looking totally out of control. The women were screaming and throwing stones. Johannes and Zachariah had a go at each other with sticks they had picked up. The other guys were standing in a threatening circle waving sticks in the air.

"You are the boss here. Why don't you stop them?" I asked Pa Saida.

"How?" he growled. "They are at maximum decibels, you can't get through to them, and anyway – it's like trying to stop a dogfight, you'll get bitten."

2 other men got into a stick fight and the first blood was flowing.

"Let's get these bottles away from here fast," Pa Saida urged, "before they use them as weapons."

I carried a load to the bakkie and stayed there. I was really getting nervous. Another pair of stick fighters got stuck into each other; the women screamed and lashed out like they had gone totally bezerk. There wasn't much difference between the combatants and the spectators anymore. Everybody had got involved in one way or another. Most of the kids had dashed off into the veld _._ I had never seen anything so uncontrolled and wild and I didn't like it.

_Somebody will get killed_.

Pa Saida came with another load of bottles. He didn't seem perturbed at all, only mightily pissed off. "If you asked them now, nobody would remember what this fight is all about." He struck a match and lit one of his cheeroots. "Anyway, there is nothing we can do. They'll just have to sort themselves out." Pa Saida stuck the cheeroot in his mouth and that was when it all happened. Zachariah picked up a rock and smashed it into Lazarus' head. Lazarus' legs buckled and he fell flat on his face with blood squirting all over the show.

"Here we go. One guy out. They'll stop now."

Pa Saida was right. Everybody calmed down a bit, the screaming diminished to loud talk, the kids reappeared, and Lazarus' wife came and tried to help him sit up.

Pa Saida got a little bag out of the bakkie. "All right, let's go. Isn't your pa a doctor?"

"Ja. Why?"

"I might need a hand."

"Huh?"

_Good Lord! What's he talking about_?

Pa Saida didn't answer. He presented the field girl with the first prize. Nobody objected. The women gathered their kids and walked off to the braai.

Pa Saida had one look at Lazarus and said: "Ok girlio, now we'll see what you are made out of." He passed me the little bag. "Take a needle and put some cotton in it. Make it quite long. Old Lazarus has a hell of a gash on his jaw and I don't like to fiddle around with short pieces."

I couldn't believe my ears. "Are you going to stitch him up with a normal needle and some old sewing thread?"

"You got the idea," Pa Saida grinned. "And you are going to hold the edges of the wound together."

_Du lieber Himmel. Why me_?

I looked around for somebody who would be better suited for the task. Ma Saida and the kids were slumped around the tables and looked completely useless. The blacks had gathered around the fire and were grabbing pieces of meat. Lazarus' wife stank of booze and could hardly stand.

"Lazarus, sit up you drunk poep," Pa Saida shouted and at the same time poured half a bottle of wine over the wound, washing it clean. "Ok girlie, now hold these forceps like this...that's right..." And before my very eyes he started stitching, every now and then pressing on the wound with a rag to stop the bleeding.

*

The next 2 days on the Mooifontein farm were spent recovering from kissimusi and getting ready for Christmas day. After she'd got over her hangover, Ma Saida disappeared into the kitchen to do all the last minute things required for a decent Christmas dinner for 20 people. She was helped at all times by 2 maids, and every now and then by my host sisters and myself. Poppie and Lorah had to get the house ready to accommodate the overnight guests. I was asked to move into Sarie's room, and also to design and make the place cards. Ma Saida had come up with the idea of a sitting order because some of the expected relatives had to be kept apart at all costs, lest a catastrophe would pop loose, the last thing one wanted on a holy day.

Pa Saida's responsibilities included the preparation of the place where we would sit and have the dinner. He got 2 boys to trim the lawn and to rake the ground under the jacaranda trees, the traditional Christmas dinner site. Hummel and Hein helped him to wind kilometres of little fairy lights around the garden vegetation and to rig up a cable with big multi coloured bulbs. They fixed the back rests of some chairs, liberated a table they got out of the barn from spiderwebs and rat shit, and Pa Saida sharpened gigantic knives to be used to carve the meats.

For some reason Debbie got away with only a few minor tasks. She spent a lot of time on the telephone, listening into other peoples' conversations on the party line, and kept us up to date with the happenings in the neighbourhood. The hottest news was that the Dreyers from the Skrikkeljaar Farm had kicked their youngest daughter out, because she had decided to marry an 'Englishman' from Cape Town. The 'Englishman' turned out to be a 6th generation South African, but Pa Dreyer had been heard to say, that he'd rather see his Karina marry a muntu than a bloody rooineck. The rooinecks were just arrogant smart arses, and most of them did not even know the 10 commandments, and hadn't they killed off thousands of innocent Boere women and children in their bloody concentration camps not even a century ago?

"I think Old Dreyer has got a point there," Pa Saida declared when he heard the news.

Intolerant poep.

"Why has he got a point?" I asked. "You are a Lebanese South African and Bertha's got German ancestors and you 2 got married and it looks like it works out well. So why shouldn't that guy from Cape Town marry a boeremeisie?"

"Because marriage between different cultures is not an easy thing."

I was baffled. "But if _you_ can make a success of it, why shouldn't _they_ be able to do the same? I'd actually have thought that a Boer and an English speaking South African have got more in common than a Lebanese and a German."

Pa Saida thoughtfully lit a cheeroot. "Ja, I guess one could come to that conclusion. After all the Boere and the British came from the same continent, their languages are related somewhere along the line..."

"And they've made up most of a white minority in a black country for donkey's years," I said. "They should be good pals."

Pa Saida grinned and tapped the ash off his cheeroot. "You know Mathilda, when I did my research about Oom Kruger's millions I came across some highly interesting stuff about South African history in books you don't normally get to read in this country." He winked. "I didn't only learn that the Xhosas were already living round about where the Transkei is today, when old van Riebeeck arrived at the Cape of Good Hope in1652, but I also learnt a bit about the white people who settled here." He took a luxurious puff and exhaled. "One mustn't forget that right from the start the Boere and the British didn't have much in common – on the contrary. They were often fighting over the same territory and, although the Boere gave the Brits hell during the 2nd Anglo Boer war, the British always won in the end. A lot of Boere haven't forgiven them for that yet. And in 1820, when a huge wave of British settlers arrived in Port Elizabeth, they came from the most advanced country on the planet, the first country to go through the industrial revolution. Here in Southern Africa they came across the Boere _,_ who could hardly read their bibles and had spent more than a hundred years trekking around the place and farming under the most primitive conditions, completely isolated from the rest of the world, backwards like you cannot believe and not interested in progress at all." Pa Saida flicked some ash off his stompie. "The British have always been the more sophisticated ones with the brains and with the money. The Boere are slow and conservative as hell. They still believe they are God's chosen people and that the earth is flat, especially the ones up here in the Freestate and in the Transvaal. The Cape Boere accepted British rule and didn't walk off to do their own thing. In the Cape they are generally a bit more open minded too."

Hell, this country is complicated.

"If the British are so smart, then how come that a totally Afrikaans party like the Nats has ruled South Africa since 1948?"

"Ahaa," Pa Saida exclaimed with gusto. "This is a very interesting question. I'll tell you why. Because they were very clever about one thing – whitey's national angst about the Swart Gevaar. You see, the whites were always shit scared of the blacks and long before the Nats even existed there were already pass laws, and with a few exceptions the franchise was restricted to white people, and there was a _Native Land Act_ limiting African land ownership. Then the Second World War came along and a lot of our black guys went to fight in Europe and all over the show. They saw that there were places where blacks weren't treated like _Untermenschen_. When they came back to South Africa, they didn't want to be underpaid labourers of white bosses anymore. They wanted equality and they wanted it in all domains of life...and that led to all sorts of things." He took a pensive puff. "Let me tell you about the biggest scandal in our dorp just after the war. In those days everybody used to stand in the same queue. So Mevrou van Jaarsveld was waiting for her turn in the post office, when the black guy behind her grabbed her arse. She couldn't do much about it because the majority in the queue was black, but incidents like that really got whiteys panicking about their future. If the blacks were getting bold enough to grab a white arse, what would they do next? And then the Boere came along with the solution: put the blacks in their own areas and keep the races separated – everywhere and by law. They gave it the name of apartheid. Apartheid means separateness. Once they were in power, they entered the entire population on a central register, and classified people as white, black, coloured or Asian; they came up with a ban on mixed marriages and even...uh...relationships between whites and other races; they allocated separate areas to different population groups – forced removals and resettlements and all. And so it went – from a place that used to be like lots of colonized countries to a totalitarian state. They had some excellent people doing the propaganda, and whitey, including the English speaking crowd, didn't ask too many questions, as long as the Swart Gevaar was kept under control."

I was quite impressed with Pa Saida's historical knowledge. I had thought that all he ever read was the _Farmers' Weekly_ and the _Playboy._

"I still don't understand why that guy from Cape Town and that meisie from the Skrikkeljaar Farm shouldn't get married," I said.

"Because if you look at the daily lives of Afrikaaners and English speaking South Africans, you'll see that they still haven't got much in common. They speak different languages, they go to different schools and they go to different churches. The Boere say man is made for the Sabbath, and the English say the Sabbath is made for man. The Boere love rugby, the English play cricket. The Boere read Afrikaans newspapers telling them that the government is doing everything right; the English read English newspapers telling them that the government is doing lots of things wrong. There are hundreds of thousands of Afrikaaners working for the state, in the police, army, post, prisons, railway and harbours and game reserves. You won't find an Englishman there with a telescope – and why? Because if you don't speak the right language and don't go to the right church you just don't get in. And so it goes. The Boere say the English are _soutpiele_ – one foot in England and the other one in South Africa and the cock hanging in the sea – and the English say that the Boere are just too...boorish. It's 2 different cultures. Sometimes one could think they come from 2 different planets. I wouldn't'be surprised if Bertha and I had much more in common than that guy from Cape Town and that girl from the Skrikkeljaar Farm."

*

On the 24th of December at 8 o'clock in the morning it was already over 20ºC in the shade. I thought of Riedberg and my family sitting in the central heated dining room, eating gingerbread men and _Stollen_ for breakfast, accompanied by Pachelbel's canon, my mother's ultimate Christmas music. I looked at the glaring African sky and battled to work up a Christmas feeling. In the kitchen one could hardly breathe with the cast iron stove and the gas stove going full blast. The most extraordinary scents were floating through the house, but they were as unfamiliar to me as the American ersatz- Christmas-music, with only the news and ads for a break. Fortunately Ma Saida only wanted Lorah and Sannie in the kitchen, everybody else made her nervous. My host siblings and I spent most of the time swimming in the reservoir. Just before lunch Pa Saida called Hummel to a difficult calving, thank God, that gave me a breather from my host brother's intensive interest in my lower body regions.

In the afternoon I couldn't help thinking of my family in Germany going for their pre coffee-time tobogganing session. This was a tradition founded by my Rosicrucian grandmother, who was also an expert in breathing matters. Tobogganing, she said, was the ideal activity to benefit body and soul. First, climbing up the slope, you had to make your muscles work and your heart rate and breathing increased automatically, oxygenating even your most peripheral cells in the process. On top of the hill you were rewarded with a sense of achievement and a beautiful view. The ride itself provided an excellent opportunity to exercise balance and coordination – and to experience the closest one could get to flying, without having to pay for it.

I smacked a mozzie on my leg and thought how nice it would be if I could go home just for an hour or 2. Before I could get too sentimental, Hein called me to the phone.

"Dumela," Julie said. "Learned any Sotho yet?" After that I got the news of the Winter clan. They had a new maid because Opheibia had vanished with all her things plus the Winters' kettle and some of their pots without saying anything. Nobody knew where she was – and who knows, maybe Opheibia would pitch up again in a year's time with a baby strapped to her back, ready to take up where she had left off.

Greta told me that Dodger, the dassie, had bitten her face while she was sleeping and they had given him to the zoo. Joshua said the dinghy was nearly finished and he would take me for a sail before the holidays were over. Lolo said she and Mrs Vleega had learned to swim.

When it was Ludwig's turn he asked: "Wat gaan aan in die Vrystaat?" And then he said: "There is some fucker listening in."

I heard a soft 'click' and after that there was less echoing on the line.

"That's better," Ludwig laughed. "Listen Mathilda, there was a card from the post office in our box. They've got a parcel there waiting for you."

"Wow. Where is it from?"

"Doesn't say. We'll go and fetch it as soon as you are back."

"Ja, in 4 days."

"Hm." There was a short pause. "How are you enjoying the great outdoors, my girl?"

"Oh it's lekker. I've seen bushbabies and real wild jackals and been in a storm and to an authentic Boere barn dance."

"That sounds good. Well, happy Christmas and we're looking forward to having you back, Mathilda."

I put the receiver down without telling Ludwig how much I was missing him and his whole family, totally bewildered by the force of my emotions. What was it that made me long for the Winters while I was having a most fantastic holiday in the African veld?

The first of the guests to arrive was Auntie Elspeth, a widow in her 60s, from Ma Saida's side of the family. Auntie Elspeth was a vegetarian wearing flat leather thong sandals and flowing flowery cotton shirts with matching blouses. She looked like an athletic dormouse with bright brown eyes shining under the rim of a huge straw hat she wore at all times. Debbie said that Auntie Elspeth had a bald patch on top of her head and that was why she never took that hat off, not even when she was sleeping. Auntie Elspeth was accompanied by a tiny bitch dog, which was not a vegetarian.

Next, a big Ford pulled up under the blue gums. Out climbed a pale, sandy haired man, a stylish, busty matron and 4 kids.

"Phhh, the shitty snooty Turvy-Johnsons," Hein growled without much enthusiasm.

"Hein! One more word and you'll spend Christmas giving an extra clean up to the rondawel. Welcome your cousins and show them to their rooms." Pa Saida hurried to embrace the busty matron, who was his sister Jesseye from Jo'burg. The sandy haired guy was her husband William, an attorney 'with a very respected firm'.Their eldest, Philippa, was plump and 14, Charles was fat and 12. Robert, 9, looked like an angel and carried the biggest plastic gun I'd ever seen in my life, and Daphne, 5, said: "Yuk, I can smell a cow," as soon as the soles of her patent leather shoes touched Mooifontein ground.

Sarie turned her eyes towards heaven and whispered: "You see what I mean, Mathilda." She had told me that the Turvey-Johnsons only attended family gatherings because it was a tradition with the Saidas, and Jesseye didn't want to loose her part of the inheritance, once the grandparents Saida kicked the bucket.

"They are a bloody pain in the butt," Sarie said. "And they've already got stacks of bucks, you just have to look at their car; and they've got a holiday house in Knysna and they go skiing overseas every year, and our cousins go to the poshest schools in the country, that's where they get their larney accent from."

The maids carried the luggage in and the Turvey-Johnson kids conversed politely with the adults, saying thank you at the end of every sentence. About every 30 seconds Robert exploded into an earsplitting shooting round with his plastic gun, not at all impressed with his father's "stop it my boy". Daphne moaned that the ground was too dusty for her precious shoes until her mother piggybacked her into the house.

I couldn't believe my eyes.

_Hopefully the other guests will be a bit more normal to dilute this crazy lot_.

When the next visitors arrived, I knew immediately that the 'do' wouldn't be boring. A barefooted, elderly guy with folds of tanned skin hanging from his bony frame was introduced as Uncle Roy from Rhodesia. In his time Uncle Roy had been a professional hunter but now he concentrated on his cattle ranch close to the Hunyani River. Uncle Roy's most out standing feature was a luxuriant moustache, which branched like 2 enormous, long used brushes across either side of his face. The Saida men, big and small, surrounded Uncle Roy as soon as he had got out of his mud, dust and shit covered Land Rover, and started a discussion about weapons. Uncle Roy immediately produced a Webley, whose handle he had personally carved and decorated with a white painted bullterrier. A pretty, red-blonde young woman appeared from the passenger side. I first thought she was Uncle Roy's daughter but she was his girlfriend. She wore designer hippie clothes and lit a cigarillo or something before she even said hello. Her name was Deirdre. She fiddled around in her brightly coloured Indian bag and presented everybody under 15 with a lolly. "Does anybody want a Guinness?" She asked the rest of us. "We've got plenty in the cooler box."

The guys couldn't tear themselves away from their discussion about weapons, and the maids were cleaning up the bathrooms after the Turvey-Johnsons, so Sarie and I helped carry the luggage in.

"And here is your room, my dear," Ma Saida proudly opened a door.

Deirdre looked around. "Lovely. I like old fashioned furniture and little flowers on the wall paper...uh...isn't the bed a bit small for 2 people?"

"This is _your_ room, my dear," Ma Saida said with determination. "We are a good Catholic family. I don't want any of that sinful nonsense in my house. Roy will sleep in the orchard rondawel."

Deirdre looked like a cow when it thunders – as they say in Bavaria. I did my best not to burst out laughing. Sarie held her breath.

Finally Deirdre broke into a grin. "All right, all right." She fished another cigarillo out of her bag. "May I smoke in my room?"

"You do anything you like, my dear, as long as you do it by yourself."

It didn't take long for all hell to pop loose. While Uncle Roy grudgingly settled down in the orchard rondawel, Lazarus reported to Pa Saida that Robert was throwing eggs against the wall of the shed.

"Well pal, I guess it's your job to sort out your son," Pa Saida said to William. "I would have thought that fancy boarding school you send your boys to would teach them more respect for God's creation and other people's property."

William's ears were getting redder by the second. "How do you know that your black labourer is telling the truth? He could be making it all up because _he_ dropped the eggs."

"Listen pal, this black labourer of mine hasn't dropped an egg in all the 20 years he has worked on this farm, especially not against the wall of the shed." Pa Saida's ears had turned crimson as well. "And don't you teach me anything about truth. You lawyers are known for specializing in taking the truth and twisting it to suit your fucking purpose."

"Sidney!" Ma Saida said wringing her hands.

William got up and left the room pulling the belt out of his khaki shorts.

"A thrashing will only make the boy more rebellious," Aunt Elspeth shouted after him.

Deirdre put her Guinness down. "I hope there are enough eggs left to make some decent egg nogg. Can't have a decent party without a good shot of egg nogg."

Over supper Auntie Elspeth started a major discussion about the vices of eating meat. I had heard most of the arguments before, but a new one was, that people who eat 'dead flesh', sooner or later look like the animal they consume.

Uncle Roy, who had never in his life spent one day without eating meat, fell around laughing. "Hell woman, where do you get that nonsense from? Look at me," he hammered against his chest like Tarzan. "Do I look like a buck, hey? I've been brought up on venison, and still now on the farm I regularly shoot an impala or a blesbuck for the pot." He speared a piece of steak with his fork. "And look at Mathilda here. She's German. Germans eat a lot of pork. Does Mathilda look like a pig?"

"Roy!" Pa Saida banged his fist on the table.

"No offense meant, my girl," Uncle Roy grinned at me. "On the contrary."

Deirdre said: "These guys who have lived in the bush half their lives – you can't teach them any manners."

"It's the meat that brings out the savage in them," Aunt Elspeth declared.

"I dare say," William began, "since the dawn of civilization..."

"What do _you_ know about civilization?" Jesseye whined. "To belt a child! My poor darling Robert. I'll bring him some food."

The Saida kids grinned at each other. That little shit Robert had been banned to his room after his hiding. Served him right!

After Jesseye had exited to feed her poor child, Ma Saida managed to steer the conversation to more neutral grounds, but still, by the time we went to bed I was completely knackered.

Mein lieber Schollie, as an exchange student one sure gets a glimpse into what really goes on in people's lives.

In the morning we had the giving out of the presents. Sarie's gift shot out from behind the sisal Christmas tree.

"A puppy!" Sarie picked up the tiny copper coloured furball squealing with delight. "Marietta's Cappucino had a litter of 13," Ma Saida said. "They are all over her Haarsalon. We thought you would like to have one of them."

"Thanks Ma," Sarie beamed and then her face crumpled. "Do you think Trigger's dead?"

"It's very likely, my girlie," Pa Saida put an arm around his daughter and gave her a squeeze. "But life has got to go on."

The radio was blasting American Christmas carols while I unwrapped a mug with 'Kneukelspruit' written on it from Debbie, a small pocketknife from Hein, a bracelet made of heart shaped tigers' eyes from Hummel and a blue scarf from Sarie. The scarf was more like a swap than a gift because I had given her my T-shirt with the brightly coloured spirals for it, the one Ma Saida called the 'hippie rag'. The Saida parents gave me a book about the Freestate and I gave them a book about Bavaria. Robert got a set of little golf clubs from his father, and Uncle Roy couldn't stop himself from presenting Aunt Elspeth with a packet of his home made buck biltong. "You vegetarians are all anaemic," he said. "Keep this as an emergency ration; it might save your life one day."

Uncle Roy's gift for Deirdre was wrapped in pink paper with little hearts on it. Sarie nudged me in the ribs when Deirdre opened it.

"Gee Roy, another one! I've already got more than a dozen," Deirdre said, holding up a sexy half-transparent nightie.

"Looks like it's more a gift for Roy himself than for Deirdre," I said to Sarie. "What do you think?"

"Uh... I dunno...I find it's quite romantic, but my mother will hit the roof if she sees that thing."

Sarie needn't have worried. Her mother was totally engrossed in examining the greatest gift of them all, a TV set the Turvey-Johnsons had brought for their country cousins. William explained the various buttons to a raptured audience. I watched the audience. I had never seen anybody so fascinated by an ordinary thing like a TV set, but then, the Saidas had never seen a TV set in their lives.

"It's about time that South Africa joins the rest of the world," Uncle Roy said to me. "Weird place this. They've got the most advanced mining technology on the planet but the government keeps TV out of the country because it's 'evil'. Who can fathom their logic? I've never heard of a bigger load of crap. In Rhodesia we've had TV for the last 10 years and we've got less evil up there than they've got here."

"Switch it on, switch it on," Christo shouted excitedly.

"You still have to wait for 2 weeks," William said. "They only start to broadcast on the 6th of January."

"Our TV set is much bigger," Daphne announced, "and I've already watched TV overseas."

"Stupid show-off," Hein hissed.

"Children, stop fighting," Ma Saida said. "Today is Christmas."

Daphne smoothed her pink dress, looked at Ma Saida and said importantly: "It's just that rich people have got...things."

"Hell, and that brat isn't even at school yet," Uncle Roy barked. "Let's go and get some fresh air, Deirdre."

Breakfast was peaceful because the Turvey-Johnsons were in the lounge listening to the Anglican church service, and also because Uncle Roy hadn't seen Aunt Elspeth distribute his buck biltong to the dogs and to the blacks. That's how it was done in this country. Things whitey didn't want went to the dogs and to the blacks.

Hummel, Debbie, Hein and I went for a quick swim in the reservoir. The Saida kids couldn't stay long; they had to listen to the Catholic church service at 11 o'clock.

One of Ma Saida's big projects in life was to get her family to midnight mass one Christmas, but she postponed it from year to year because the nearest Catholic church was more than 100 km away. Ma Saida was sure that Mary, Holy Mother of Jesus, would understand that the next best thing the Saida family could do was to dress up, burn some incense and listen to the service on the radio. She had mentioned at breakfast that she would throw in a prayer, that next year the service would be broadcast at a more convenient time; this business of having it in the middle of the day interfered with her preparations for the dinner.

The grandparents Saida arrived in the early afternoon accompanied by Sidney's sister Helen, her husband Luigi and their 3 months old twin girls.

The dinner table, set with Ma Saida's best china, looked absolutely splendid. The maids had spent long hours folding the serviettes into flower-like configurations; paraffin lanterns cast small circles of light onto the immaculate white table cloth, and the coloured light bulbs glowed cheerily under the huge canopy of the trees. The crickets had started to chirp and night jars were calling. The only breaker of the peace was that damn generator thumping in the shed.

I was sitting between Aunt Elspeth and Luigi. Ma Saida had done her best to keep conflicting people as far away as possible from each other, so Uncle Roy was nearly out of earshot. That didn't stop him and Aunt Elspeth to get into a heavy discussion about hunting.

"I think we should call our newest calf Jesus 'cause it was born on Christmas day," Hein said out of the blue.

Jesseye crossed herself and looked at Pa Saida. "You should teach your children more respect for Holy things, Sidney. This is a severe case of blasphemy."

"What about teaching _your_ kids more respect for human beings?" Uncle Roy grumbled.

Jesseye didn't hear him. Roy was sitting too far away and his speech was getting more and more slurred.

"Jesus seems to have been an extremely tolerant man, Jesseye," Luigi said quickly. "He'd probably be more open minded about the subject than you."

"Jesus was a vegetarian," Aunt Elspeth announced.

"Well, we know he ate fish," Grandpa Saida said.

"He also drank wine," Uncle Roy said pouring himself another glass. "And what's that nonsense about giving a calf a bloody name. You give names to horses and dogs; they are a man's best friends, but a calf..."

"It's a special calf," Hein insisted. "Not everybody is born on Christmas day."

"Not even Jesus," I said.

"I don't believe this," Jesseye crossed herself again.

I don't want any of that German nonsense in my house," Ma Saida said.

Phhh, some people just don't want to know the facts of life.

The food was out of this world although in the weak glow of the orange bulb above me, I couldn't always work out what I was eating. Aunt Elspeth seemed to have the same problem.

"What are these hard little things in the vegetables?" She asked me crunching several specimens between her teeth.

"I don't know. I've been wondering myself. Mebbe it's some kind of roasted Lebanese seed or something."

I asked Luigi.

"What little, hard things? I haven't got any. Are you...?" He stopped in the middle of the sentence and stared at the orange bulb.

"What's the matter?"

Luigi stared at my plate and then at the bulb again, murmuring: " _Mamma_ _mia_."

I followed Luigi's stare. A small beetle hit the bulb head on and crashed into my plate. Luigi put his index finger over his mouth for me to be quiet. Aunt Elspeth was also sitting under an orange bulb. Orange seemed to be the beetles' favourite colour. We watched another one knocking himself out. He landed slap bang in the middle of Aunt Elspeth's beans.
PART III

I flew back to V.B. in a turbo prop. Julie and the kids came to fetch me from the airport. The first thing everybody commented on was my hairstyle. Greta said I looked like a boy. We went to the post office to collect my parcel. It came from Germany and was as big as 2 shoe boxes and quite heavy, and it made a funny sort of muffled metallic sound when I shook it. I had no idea what it could be.

"I want the stamps," Joshua said.

"And I want some of what's inside," Greta said.

"Me too," Lolo crowed.

"Children," Julie sighed exasperatedly. "When you talk to people you don't say 'I want', you ask 'may I please'."

"But Mathilda isn't people," Joshua said.

"Oh." A slight grin unfolded on Julie's face.

"No," Joshua screamed. "She is our...big sister." He nearly suffocated me with a big hug.

"Jaaa, our big sistaa," Greta and Lolo yelled plastering my face and my neck with wet kisses.

_Gosh, it's good to be back_.

In the Winters' kitchen a new, young maid was washing the dishes. She was small and slender, except for an unbelievably big bum.

"This is Nohandbag," Julie introduced her.

_What a name_!

Ludwig came in, covered in sawdust from working on the boat. He wrapped his arms around me and smiled: "Welcome back, my girlie."

It was like coming home.

Ludwig poured drinks, leaving a trail of sawdust behind him, while I unwrapped my parcel.

"Wow," Greta and Joshua exclaimed with one voice when the gift appeared.

"This is beautiful," Julie said.

"You think there is a treasure inside?" Lolo asked.

"Treasures don't come in the post," Greta said.

I lifted up the metal box and showed it around. It was silver and had a medieval castle painted on its curved lid. I still didn't have a clue of what could be inside it. I opened the lid.

"Yuk!" Greta pulled a face. "This looks like big squashed dog turds in plastic packets."

Ludwig leaned over my shoulder. "It sure isn't pleasing to the eye."

I took one packet out and grinned. "It's actually very nice. I dug out another packet that looked even more horrible and opened it. "These are my favourites." The kids watched with eyes like saucers as I helped myself to a piece.

"Mathilda," Lolo crinkled her nose in disgust, "You are not going to eat _that_?"

"Watch me."

"I'd also like some," Julie winked at me.

We each took a big bite and collapsed laughing.

"The temperature in the post office must have been phenomenal over Christmas," Julie giggled when she got her breath back.

"What you see here," I held up a packet, "is first class German ginger bread with chocolate and marzipan filling and divine thick chocolate coating. Unfortunately it lost its shape in the African heat."

We finished half the contents of the box while exchanging the latest news. Nohandbag tried a piece and said: "Too nice."

"How d'you think she got her name?" I asked when she had gone to do some ironing.

"I guess her mother just liked the word handbag," Ludwig said.

"Ja, but why then call her Nohandbag? If you like a thing you don't say no to it. She could have just called her Handbag."

"This hasn't got anything to do with the English word 'no'," Ludwig said. "They are Xhosas, you see, and in Xhosa girls' names start with 'No'. You get Nomonde and Nogu and so on. So to make a girl's name out of handbag you've got to put a 'No' in front of it. With boys it's different. I've known guys called Hygiene and one Isuzu. He got his name because he was born on the back of an Isuzu bakkie.

We spent a couple of days giving the final touches to the dinghy. Joshua wanted to call it _Spray IV_ , but the rest of us voted for _Dabula manzi,_ which in Xhosa means 'tear apart the waters'.

On the morning of the launch the weather forecast on _Calling_ _all_ _Farmers_ announced a fine day, no rain expected, maximum 30ºC and a South Easter blowing at 15 knots.

Alpheus helped to put the dinghy on Ludwig's home made trailer. Joshua loaded the _Spray_ _II_ and _III_ into the car _,_ Lolo her Mrs Vleega and Greta a big bag in case there were any special rocks around.

The Bobbejaan River was about an hour's drive away from V.B. Once we left the last suburb we were right in the African wilderness; bush covered hills as far as the eye could see, each rise revealing a view even more spectacular than the previous one. On the edge of a sandy riverbed, blue vervet monkeys were chasing each other and in a gorge, where trickles of water spun silvery threads down the rocks, baboons were sitting on sunny ledges. In the south morsels of dark blue sea cut into the green of the bush, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. I taught everybody to sing _Eene_ _meene miste es rappelt in der Kiste_ and Julie taught us _Un kilomètre a pied ça use les souliers_ ... We were getting quite good at it when the Bobbejaan River appeared.

Heidewitzka

I stopped clean in the middle of _souliers_. I had expected something like the Murmelfluss at home in Riedberg, but this here looked more like the Zambezi. The river was about half a kilometre wide, brownish water flowing between sandy banks. A long island sat in the last huge bend before the river mouth, where the waves of the Indian Ocean were rolling onto a big sand bank.

We wound our way down the hill on a narrow dirt road. The kids shrieked every time they saw monkeys. Greta wanted to take one home to replace Dodger.

"No ways," Julie said. "Monkeys have teeth like daggers even worse than dassies."

We found a gorgeous grassy spot near the bank. Some few 100 metres downstream some people played a ball game and still further on, the roofs of a few summer houses peeped out of the bush. I couldn't believe how empty the place was in the middle of the holidays!

"You are in South Africa," Julie grinned. "Wide open spaces, sunny skies and braaivleis _,_ 10.000 km away from the civilized world."

The dinghy wasn't very heavy. Ludwig and I carried it from the trailer to the water's edge, helped by Joshua, who couldn't keep his fingers away from anything that had to do with boats. We put the mast up and tied the lateen sail to the yard; then Ludwig sent us 'kids' to get the anchor line, the anchor and the life jackets out of the car. Joshua fished the rope out of the boot but we couldn't find any trace of the anchor.

"I and Mrs Vleega are not going in a boat without an anchor," Lolo announced. "Not even with our life jackets on."

"What's taking so long?" Ludwig shouted from the shore.

"We can't find the anchor," Joshua shouted back.

Ludwig let fly a couple of swearwords and came to look for himself. "Bloody hell," he grumbled after a thorough inspection of the car and of the trailer. "We left the damn thing at home."

"It doesn't really matter," Greta said.

"Are you crazy?" Joshua snorted. "Do you know what can happen if you go sailing without an anchor? Have you never heard that story of that Australian sailor who..."

"We just take a rock," Greta said, "and use that as an anchor. There are some big rocks up there on that ledge."

"That's my girl," Ludwig smiled. "Very good thinking."

Greta beamed. "I'll choose a nice one, Dad, you come with me to carry it."

"Everybody ready for the baptizing ceremony?" Ludwig poured the last drop of sparkly into his plastic mug.

We all nodded.

"You know the procedure," Ludwig carried on. "One schluck for you, the rest for the dinghy. Here we go."

We raised our mugs. "Cheers. To the boat!"

Joshua produced a major whistle through the gap in his teeth. I saw Lolo pull a face when she swallowed and Greta take a second sip. Ludwig pushed the boat gently into the water. Julie held the rope. Joshua's cheeks were burning with excitement. He stepped into the Bobbejaan River. "I herewith name you _Dabula manzi_. May you go strong for ever."

We all yelled and chucked our remaining sparkly at the dinghy. It was an amazingly emotional moment.

"Looks like it floats," Lolo observed after a couple of minutes.

"Ja, it does," Ludwig said proudly. "Who is coming on the maiden voyage?"

"Meee," Joshua, Greta and I shouted in unison.

"Mrs Vleega and I are going to watch," Lolo said cautiously. "Mebbe we must come and rescue you."

"Never", Joshua shook his head. "Forget it."

"I'll be the coast guard," Julie said.

"Are you sure?" I asked. "If you want to go Julie, I..."

"No no, jump in. I'm not only the coast guard but also the chief photographer of this memorable event. I'll take some lekker shots from here."

Ludwig set the sail he had made out of a bed sheet and it unfolded in all its burgundy red splendour. He and Greta sat down on the back seat and Joshua and I on the middle bench. The front seat was taken up by the rock-anchor. The wind blew into the sail and we set off. I had never sailed before, and I knew from the very first second, that this was something I would love for the rest of my life. I could feel the river all around the hull and yet we seemed to be flying, gliding like seabirds, just above the surface of the water. The breeze still felt cool and smelled of salt and of the bush and it carried the sound of African drums. The river reflected sparkles of silver into a world without bounds.

"Take the sheet," Ludwig passed me a rope, "and just keep her like she is."

The rope was fixed to the back corner of the sail and it pulled gently in my hand.

"Our course is towards these 3 African huts on the hill there," Ludwig shouted handling the rudder. "Like that we'll stay clear of the island."

"Can't we go and explore it?" Joshua wanted to know.

"Ja Dad, let's have a look, mebbe we'll find a treasure," Greta said.

"I don't think so," Ludwig replied. "This whole island is one big swamp. Let's go past its point and tack." He explained what everybody had to do. My job would be to handle the sail.

The point was a tangle of greenery, with white birds sitting on low branches and herons stalking, their long beaks submerged. The beating of the drums on the hill was accompanied by singing now, and the sun shone hot from an immaculate sky.

"Everybody ready to tack?" Ludwig shouted.

"Aye," Joshua yelled.

"Aye," Greta and I echoed.

Just as we turned it happened. The rock-anchor fell from the front seat and hit a hole in the hull. Brownish water gurgled into the dinghy at an amazing speed. Greta sat speechless, staring with enormous eyes. Joshua jumped around screaming: "Leak! Leak! We are going under."

Ludwig growled: "Bloody hell," and something incomprehensible. He told Joshua to sit still, positioned the rudder and the sail and said: "Mathilda, put your bum on that hole."

"What?"

"Put your bum on that hole and do it fast, otherwise we'll sink."

The water in the dinghy was already more than 10 cm high. When your life may be at stake you don't ask too many questions. I got down to the bottom of the dinghy. One cheek of my bum was just big enough to cover the leak.

"Joshua, take that beaker and bail out."

Joshua grabbed the mug that had half an hour ago contained some sparkly baptizing-wine and got down to the job. I sat there, feeling my pulse rate going up to about 300. Greta still hadn't moved; her eyes got bigger by the second. Joshua bailed as if he had never done anything else in his life. Ludwig, stern faced, kept the boat on course. I tried to remember all the life saving manoeuvres they had taught us at the Waldsee swimming club. They sure hadn't told us how much energy a real emergency takes out of a person's system. An eternity passed while I was sitting there with the Bobbejaan River tugging at my bum. I was just wondering how far sharks swim up into rivers, when Ludwig's face split into a grin. "I think we are all right now."

Joshua had bailed nearly all the water out, nobody had panicked and the shore was getting close. Looked like we were going to survive after all.

Ludwig turned to me. "Mathilda, now you know where that Scandinavian legend why women have cold bums comes from. The lady involved was very much in the same situation as you are now."

"It's not fair," Greta whined. "Everybody has a TV set and tonight everybody is going to watch the first ever TV shown in South Africa, and we have to sit here with your boring grown up friends and have a braai _._ "

"The mere fact that some of our boring grown up friends are going to join us tonight already shows you that not _everybody_ is going to watch TV tonight," Julie said.

"And not everybody has got a TV set because South Africa is amongst the countries with the highest TV prices in the world," Ludwig said. "Lots of people just can't afford one."

"In my class they've all got TV, or they know someone who's got one, and when school starts again I'll look like an idiot 'cause I'll be the only guy who's never watched TV," Joshua moaned. "And Auntie Mary said tonight is a historical event and she would not miss it for the life of her."

"Ja, you're depriving us of our education," Greta said. "If Auntie Mary didn't live so far away we could go and watch at her place."

"Mary has got sparrow brains and she only bought a box because the Joneses have also got one," Ludwig said. "Let me tell you something. I've lived for more than 40 years without a box and I'll be damned if I get one now, to watch a stuffed Afrikaans rabbit. And the Nats are going to use it for propaganda anyway, same as the radio"

For the next few weeks everybody was imitating the voice of _Haas Das_ , the stuffed Afrikaans rabbit, South Africa's first TV star. Kim told me that she had watched the country's first broadcast at her cousin's place. There had been 18 people altogether and it had been great, except for Prime Minister Vorster's boring speech. Auntie Mary phoned and said that TV was fantastic. She watched everything from the test pattern to the end of transmission when they played the national anthem and waved the South African flag. What a pity that there was no broadcast on Sundays.

*

School started again and nothing much had changed, except that I had been promoted to matric without having written one exam.

"Everybody should be so lucky," Peggy said enviously. "I worked my backside off to get where I am, and look at you – no swotting, no sweat and the result is just the same. It's not fair."

"Don't forget," I said to her, "that when I go back to Germany I'll still have to go to school and get my _Abitur_ , while you guys will enjoy the bliss of university life."

This, and the thought that then she would finally be able to shave her legs to look like everybody else, cheered Peggy up tremendously. She even shared a packet of liquorice with me, which kept us busy all the way through Mr Cuthbert's math's lesson.

Ludwig went to the auditions for _A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum_ and got the part of _Miles_ _Gloriosus_. Once the rehearsals began, he was out just about every evening.

Julie spent a lot of time painting. She wanted to participate in V.B.'s annual amateur painters exhibition – for the sake of the art, but she also had her eye on this year's first prize: a return flight to Paris including a one week ticket for the Louvre.

Art had always been my favourite subject at school, so I told Julie that I also wanted to expose myself. She roared with laughter.

"I don't paint _that_ bad," I said indignantly.

"Go and get your dictionary," Julie managed to say before she collapsed again.

We looked up 'to exhibit' and 'to expose' and I also grinned.

_The best way to survive in a country where they don't speak your mother tongue is to keep a good sense of humour_.

Kim and her brother Julian had got surfboards for Christmas and we went to the beach as often as we could. I didn't know when Kim did her homework, because in the evenings she and her mom were involved in making the sets for the 'Funny Thing'

"Do you want to come to the rehearsal?" Ludwig asked me one evening. "Meet some interesting people and see how it's all done."

I went with him to the Victoria Theatre, an impressive Victorian building, in the old part of town. It was surrounded by a formal garden with palm trees and flowerbeds. The foyer resembled the ones I had seen in South African hotels, red carpets, heavy crimson curtains and darkish furniture from about 3 decades ago.

From inside the auditorium came the sounds of a piano, interrupted by hammering and various voices. We went up some broad steps and walked through an ancient wooden door right into the mysterious guts of the acting world. Even as an outsider I could immediately see that something was not quite right.

The lady at the piano in the orchestra pit didn't seem very concerned, but on the stage a slim woman was pulling her hair out and talking in a distressed voice between mighty puffs on a cigarette. I recognized her as Joelle Gorman, the lady Ludwig once had introduced me to as South Africa's best director. About 20 people were grouped around her, looking as if catastrophe had struck. When she saw Ludwig, Joelle threw her arms up and said: "My darling, you won't believe it. Hilary is in hospital with pneumonia."

"I can't possibly play twins by myself," an angular dark blonde woman said with a weird accent. "We need a second Gemina."

"I've already asked everybody I can think of," Joelle said. "Nobody wants to do it."

"I don't see a problem," Ludwig said calmly.

Joelle's eyebrows jumped up to her hairline. "But Ludwig, we are 5 weeks into rehearsals. Only 3 weeks to go until opening night!"

"Some 6th sense told me tonight to bring along just the person we need," Ludwig grinned unperturbed. With a theatrical gesture he pointed at me. All of a sudden everybody looked in my direction.

_Oh no, not me_!

"Meet Mathilda from Germany," Ludwig introduced me cheerfully.

I hate being stared at.

"I'm sure Mathilda wouldn't mind taking over Hilary's part," Ludwig grinned happily.

_Ever heard of asking people before making big announcements_?

I was furious.

Phhhhh

I didn't want to kick up a fuss in front of all his friends...and they all looked at me so expectantly.

"I don't think I'm a good actress," I protested weakly.

"Ever done any acting before?" Joelle asked with a glint of hope in her eyes. Everybody hung on my answer.

"Ja." I thought with horror of our family tradition, which demanded a play being performed by all her grandchildren every year for my grandmother's birthday. My biggest part had been _Frau_ _Schlippermilch_ in _The_ _Herb_ _in_ _the_ _Chickenbroth_. After that I had concentrated on doing props.

"The Gemina is a nice little part with a bit of singing and dancing," Joelle said enthusiastically.

_Hell, this is getting worse by the minute_.

"You and Lucy would make a perfect pair of twins," Joelle pointed to the angular dark blonde.

I could just feel that there was no way out. "Okay, I'll try." I wished I had never put a foot into that damn theatre.

After I had met the members of the cast and some other people involved in the play, I felt a bit better. There seemed to be some quite interesting characters around and the ambiance was good – energetic and creative. The only person I didn't like was an arrogant he-man in his 30s called Douglas, who thought the sun was shining out of his backside.

Joelle quickly explained to me that the 'Funny Thing' was a musical farce set in ancient Rome. "And you are one of the concubines," she finished zealously.

I grinned skeptically back at her.

_A whore! This exchange year is definitely broadening my horizon in all respects_.

On my way to the toilet, I came across Kim, dressed in overalls splattered with paint. She was walking in a kind of trance and only woke up when I said: "Hey, you'll never guess what happened." I told her the events of the evening, but the fact that I now was part of the play only arose mild interest in her. She kept on grinning into space like an idiot.

"What's up?" I asked her. "You haven't taken any dope, have you?"

Kim produced a super sigh and asked: "Have you met him?"

"Who?"

"Dougie." Sigh.

"You mean that arrogant arsehole with the crew cut and the big feet?"

This woke her up properly.

"Mathilda, you only say that 'cause you don't know Dougie. He's the most gorgeous, intelligent, talented guy walking on this planet." Sigh. " He's so cute."

_I don't believe this. Another crush! For that poep_!

"Isn't he a bit old for you? He must be at least 35."

"I adore mature men." Sigh.

"Most mature men have got wives and kids and..."

"His kids are at boarding school and Dougie said his wife is not a problem."

"And you believe that crap. Kim, you're crazy. This guy is using you, all he wants is a one night stand."

"Can't be. We've already made love twice. I'm telling you, Mathilda...," she was so overwhelmed by her memories that words failed her and she just collapsed into a series of sighs.

If that poep was the last guy on the planet I'd take my bicycle and shove off double fast.

"He's simply the best," Kim said with that far away look in her eyes.

"Let's talk about it in a week again. In the meantime I'll buy you a big box of tissues. I guarantee you, you'll need them because by then you'll cry your eyes out."

Since the beginning of the term my school life had got heavily on my nerves. School was bad at the best of times, but to just sit out my time not getting any credit for it in Germany was the pits. I wasn't really an actress at heart but at least the play gave me something constructive to do, especially after I also joined the set makers. It was much more fun to saw planks and to paint than to hop around on the stage. After 3 days I learned that 'darling Dougie' had fucked about 60% of the female cast and crew, but Kim still refused to kick him in the butt.

One morning I went with Jack, the main set builder, to collect sheets of plywood at some theatre lover's place. We went onto the south coastal road and turned into a narrow dirt track winding its way through the bush. Monkeys sat on the fence poles of smallholdings where people kept horses, made cheese or ran tennis schools. Down the hill, the Indian Ocean flung enormous white crested waves at rocky reefs and sandy beaches. We turned into a plot where a couple of domesticated plants raised their heads amongst the indigenous vegetation. Abstract sculptures lined a potholed drive way. At the end, a newly white washed but clearly ancient house peeped out of a mass of flowers, Norfolk Pines and casuarina trees. We walked up some trodden out steps onto a wide stoep. Chinese bells rang in the wind; a black cat was sleeping on a much-used sofa. Jack knocked at the front door, nobody answered. He said: "Harriet Fenessey never locks anything," and opened the door. Inside it was all Oregon pine floors, not quite straight pressed steel ceilings, stacks of paintings of any imaginable period and style, a piano with blue candles in candleholders, shelves crammed with books and a side board stacked with beaded calabashes, Indian traami and Japanese Reiki things, and another cat in one of the big, comfortable looking armchairs.

Jack called: "Anybody at home?" but the only sound in the house was the tick tack of a clock on the mantle piece of a fireplace.

"Let's look in the garden." Jack led the way through lemon trees and hibiscus bushes to a fenced in swimming pool. In the shallow end of the pool a tall, trim, greying woman in her late 40s was teaching 3 small kids how to swim. It looked like nothing extraordinary really, except that this was South Africa and 2 of the kids were black.

It's probably a major crime to have black kids in your swimming pool.

Jack took in the scene, shrugged his shoulders and sighed deeply. "This is Harriet, a hell of a nice person. The only trouble is that one of these days she'll get herself in a big lot of shit." He opened the gate to the pool and shouted a greeting. Harriet turned round and I nearly keeled out of my bio sandals. Here was the woman who had given me _The_ _Dark_ _End_ _of_ _the_ _Rainbow_ book on the bus.

She said, "Morning Jack," and then looked at me. After a couple of seconds her smile broadened. "What a surprise! My young friend from the bus. How did you enjoy the book?"

We had tea on the stoep. After they had each eaten a slice of the surprisingly tasteless cake, the black kids disappeared with a maid called Seraphina. Jason, the little white boy, fetched a box of coloured chalks and got stuck into drawing on a blackboard on the wall. Harriet, Jack and I talked about theatre, marathon runners, the Black Sash and mulberry jam, all subjects close to Harriet's heart. I had never heard of the Black Sash before. It seemed to be a white women's organisation foundet in the 50s, fighting for the rights of the blacks. The women wore black sashes while they were in action, that's where the organization got its name from, and they did silent protests.

Harriet said she knew the Winters because Ludwig was her main supplier of banned books. She lit her umpteenth cigarette and asked if we'd like to stay for lunch. She was expecting 4 other people but there was enough stew for everybody, she would just tell Seraphina to make more rice and potatoes.

"Thanks Harriet, but unfortunately we can't," Jack said. "We have to get the set finished."

I was disappointed. I would have liked to stay on. Harriet looked like the kind of person one would never have a dull moment with.

"We'll arrange some other time." Harriet fished with long, bony feet for some well-worn sloffies. "Let me show you where the plywood is."

A gardener called Mastermind helped us load it on the bakkie _._

"Thanks for everything," Jack said when we left. "Here are 2 tickets for the opening night and you're welcome to stay for the after party.

Harriet said she wouldn't miss that for anything, and she and Jason waved until we were out of sight.

"Gee, don't you girls look gorgeous," Kevin the flautist whistled, when Lucy and I walked for the first time in our costumes onto the stage. The 3 Proteans whistled; Norm, the technical director dropped his notes, and Gerald, the publicity and advertising guy, stood there with his mouth wide open. The girls giggled. Lucy wriggled her bum provocatively and Douglas, the slime, drooled over her. I watched that lot and thought that for a country in which it was a crime to leave display dummies naked in shop windows, our costumes were probably quite risqué. All we wore was a see-through sort of veil, tanga panties and golden stars stuck to our nipples. With the back-lighting the audience would be able to see all the hills and valleys; I didn't give a damn. What pissed me off was that sick South African attitude about nakedness and sex. Douglas and the other guys were going more bananas by the second with their comments and gestures. The girls still giggled.

_Phhhhh. Looks like the guys need to prove that they are real males_.

If this lot were let loose on the nudist island where my family spent holidays every year since I was born, the guys would drop dead with a heart attack and the girls would die of embarrassment.

When the set was finished, I had learned a mighty lot about the use of tools and my vocabulary in that field had improved by about a 1000 per cent. The closer we got to opening night the more everybody plunged into last minute preparations, improvisations and half serious nervous break downs. How the others managed to carry on with their normal day jobs was a total mystery to me. We hardly ever left the theatre before midnight. I hardly ever went to school. Ludwig seemed to thrive on the pressure. I hadn't thought it possible, but he was even in a better mood than in normal times, and I had never seen him in a bad mood yet.

The cat Doodles had 11 kittens in Joshua's cupboard. Greta swapped 5 of them with the neighbour boys for the right to watch 5 hours of TV. That was the day when my host parents decided to get their own TV set.

During our very last rehearsal Kim caught Dougieboy _in flagrante_ with the fat girl who played Vibrata.

"In the wings!" Kim howled. "With _that_ cow! I'm going to kill the bastard."

"Just wait until the show is over," Joelle said business like, "and get on with your job as a callboy."

Ma Jameson, the only one ignorant of her daughter's and Dougie's affair, slumped into the ancient sofa in the dressing room and stayed there completely immobile for 10 minutes. Then she got up and left without a word. A short while later she was back with a bottle of whisky. She summonsed Kim to the empty box office to talk.

Rehearsals went ahead with Douglas playing it cool and with everybody listening for sounds coming from the box office. Vibrata, who only had a sparrow brain at the best of times, got nothing right and didn't give a shit. Joelle lit one cigarette after the other, tore her hair and carried on about actors and discipline, and that you can't be one without having the other, in spite of all the stories about artists leading excessive lives.

The door of the box office opened exactly at the start of the interval, which was the best timing of the whole evening. Mother and daughter Jameson came out arm in arm staggering slightly, and got hold of Douglas just before he could escape into the men's loo.

"Listen, you child rapist," Ma Jameson said with fire in her voice. "Don't you dare come near my daughter again." She nearly killed Douglas with her eyes. "And prepare yourself for a charge of having sex with a minor."

For once Douglas lost his arrogant stance and a grimace of dread spread across his face. The Jameson women turned round and left. Nobody said a word. I watched Douglas' jaw drop and then I ran after Kim and her mom. They were already in the street when I caught up with them. Kim grinned for half a second and made a guarded thumbs-up sign, invisible to her mother. Ma Jameson came to an unsteady halt under a street lamp and slurred: "There ish noshing like a vul' mlomo."

I wanted to ask her what a vul' mlomo was, when 2 smartly dressed couples came round the corner. They took one look at us and crossed over to the pavement on the other side, the men gallantly walking between their women and us. It dawned on me that I was only wearing my Gemina costume, and it shot through my mind that it was probably a criminal offense to be out on the street in a see-through outfit. The public might take me for the real thing. Ma Jameson was doing her best to aggravate the situation by waving her whisky bottle around and hollering about that bloody sex maniac. The 2 couples put a safe distance between themselves and us and kept on throwing curious looks our way.

"Let's go before they call the cops," I said to Kim. She grabbed her mother and the 2 of them went off towards their car. I just hoped they would get home all right.

Back in the theatre people were standing in little groups discussing the events of the evening. There was the whole range from 'serves the arrogant bastard right' to 'the poor guy has had it'. Vibrata was sitting in the auditorium eating chocolate bars, looking more than ever like a pink, ruminating cow. Dougie boy was nowhere to be seen.

I found my host father in the dressing room reading a sailing magazine.

"Ludwig, outside all hell is popping loose."

"Ja?" He wrote a note into the magazine. "You mean because of Kim and Doug?"

"Ja."

"I'm not interested. They both knew what they were doing. Now they just have to live with the consequences."

"But that Douglas is a total pig. He is married! He promised Kim all sorts of things to take advantage of her."

"That girl is not as naïve as people think. Douglas never raped her, but he's a stupid fucker. He should use his brains more than his prick and act more discretely. If they really lay a charge against him he's finished."

*

On the morning of the opening night a ship sank at Cape Albatros and Schnappsi drowned Mrs Vleega in the swimming pool. Mrs Vleega was saved by Alpheus, who fished her out with the swimming pool net. Drying on the washing line Mrs Vleega quickly regained shape. Some of the sailors were not so lucky; by lunch time 2 of them were still missing. Ludwig said that the South African coast was one of the most dangerous in the world and that the sea bottom was covered with wrecks of 4½ centuries.

After lunch Nohandbag brought the coffee tray. I poured for Julie and Ludwig.

"Aren't you having any today?" Julie asked me.

"No thanks, coffee makes me nervous."

"It hasn't ever made you nervous before."

"It's not every day that I dance and sing in front of 250 paying spectators. In fact, tonight is the first time in my life."

"Mathilda has got stage fright," Greta said knowingly. "She's running to the loo every 10 minutes."

"No reason to be nervous, my girl," Ludwig said. "You know your lines, you know your moves; during rehearsals you did a bloody good job. Drink that." He poured me a mug of coffee. "It'll do you the world of good."

To get my mind off things I went for a ride on my bike. When I came back home, the reader of the radio news said that there had been riots in the township. Ludwig and Julie were busy studying a pile of telegrams that had arrived during the afternoon.

"Our love and best wishes for _A_ _Funny_ _Thing_ _Happened_ _on_ _the_ _Way_ _to_ _the_ _Forum_ , Uncle Hendrik and Wilma," Ludwig read out aloud. "Tons of luck for a wonderful run. Wish we were there. Mum and Dad. Here is one for you, Mathilda: Enjoy the funny thing happening on the way to the forum, love from all the Saidas."

"Let's see," I grabbed the piece of paper. It had proteas, lilies and aloes printed in a circle and there in the middle was the message for _me_.

_Wow! This is really getting exciting_.

An hour later we were on the road. Ludwig was driving, Julie sitting next to him; Greta, Joshua and Lolo, all freshly bathed and in their pyjamas, were in the back with me. The caravan hitched up behind us made a creaky noise when we went over the humps in Bokmakierie Road.

"Opening nights are one of the best things in life," Greta sighed, contentedly hugging her favourite rock to her chest.

"Ja, it's nearly as exciting as going sailing," Joshua agreed.

"It's Mrs Vleega's first time," Lolo said, "and she nearly drowned today. Mom, I think she needs another candy bar to keep up her strength."

Ludwig parked the caravan under a tree in front of the theatre. The kids wished us good luck. Julie was going to read them a story and tuck them into their bunks.

In the theatre, the actors' notice board was covered in telegrams. Everybody was checking if there was something for them. Ludwig collected his 8 and there were 2 for me. One from my first host parents Hannes and Marieke and another one from Fred Collins from the Rotary Club.

In the ladies' dressing room Tintinabula sat wailing in her chair. That morning she had broken out in a rash covering her whole body. "I can't possibly go on stage looking like the underside of an octopus." She was totally upset.

"Calm down, dear," Joelle puffed on her cigarette. Nobody will see a thing. Put your make-up on your face and the rest of you is covered by your costume anyway."

Lucy stuck a golden star on one of her nipples and said to me: "I wonder what they would do if _we_ broke out in a rash."

A screech from Panacea nearly made me drop my veil. "Hells bells," she howled, crouching under the make-up table.

Hysterium, who was forever hanging around the ladies' dressing room whistled. "Nice bum."

Gymnasia kicked the door closed.

"Good grief, I have to go home," Panacea cried.

"You won't have time for that, sweetie," Philia mumbled putting on her lipstick. "What's wrong anyway?"

"I can't find the photo of my kitten Socks. I have to have it. I always stick it between Table Mountain and my parents' wedding picture." She crawled out from under the table and pointed to the only empty space on the wall around her mirror.

"But sweetie, you've already got about 50 photos there. Isn't that enough?"

"Oh no. I need Socks." Panacea was totally distressed. "It's for good luck. Every picture has to be there on the wall in its correct place." She moved a shot showing a guy under a baobab 3 mm to the left. "If I do this right nothing can go wrong tonight."

"Where is Kim?" I asked while painting my toenails with deep madder nail polish. "Shouldn't she be here by now?"

"She won't come," Gymnasia said brushing mascara on her eyelashes.

"But she has a job to do. She's the callboy."

"I believe Jack has taken over that job."

Domina arranged for the umpteenth time her wig around her ears. "I hear that Kim's father hasn't taken this whole Dougie thing as...uhm...calmly as her mother. I hear Kim is gated for a while."

If there is anybody in the world who should be separated from the rest of mankind, it's Mr slimy Douglas.

The dressing room loudspeaker hissed and the stage manager announced: "This is your 15 minute call. 15 minutes to curtain up."

A monumental lurch grabbed my guts and my brains stopped working. I went to the toilet to have a last pee. In the passage I met Ludwig clad in his Roman outfit.

"How's it going, my girl?"

"I've never felt so dreadful in my life."

"Happens to all of us. That's the adrenalin going. Some people can't handle it and they never come back. I always try to turn it into something positive...a kind of rebirth."

The loudspeaker hissed: "Beginners on stage, please."

We trooped up to the stage and took our places, looking at each other through air charged with electricity. It was the most incredible sensation. The overture playing, the audience murmuring out there like one big hungry thing, waiting to destroy us or love us. Thank God I had a strong sphincter – I now knew why people said they peed themselves with fright.

The curtain went up and the real world ceased to exist. I was one of the Gemini. Connected to something infathomable – bigger than myself. There was no space for anything else.

After the break Douglas had a scene where he was sitting at the edge of the stage with his feet dangling in the orchestra pit. At the end of his song he got up – and fell flat on his face. The audience went into hysterics. We in the wings fell around laughing, except for Joelle, who swore under her breath: "How the bloody hell could this happen? He is not supposed to do that." Douglas, white with rage under his make-up, shot a furious glance towards the members of the orchestra. They carried on as if nothing had happened. We never found out who had tied Douglas' shoelaces together.

We got 3 curtain calls and then it was over. Everybody fell into everybody else's arms and told each other how great they had been.

Ludwig gave me a big kiss. "For somebody who said she can't relate to acting you did a bloody good job, my girl."

Joelle walked around smiling happily, puffing on her cigarette, graciously accepting compliments.

"I must say Douglas handled his fall quite quick wittedly," Senex grinned.

"What did he do?" Peter from the orchestra asked.

"Oh, he just took his shoes off as if it was part of the act." Senex looked around. "Where is the guy anyway?"

Probably fucking somebody in the wings.

"Did you see that chick sitting in the front row?" I heard Hero say. "All over her boyfriend, her dress nearly up to her waist, lace panties sticking out like a signal lamp."

The wardrobe department ripped our costumes off us and we all met in the foyer. The committee had put up tables laden with snacks and champagne corks were plopping. Jack told me that I had been fantastic. Some press photographer took photos of Lucy and me. Julie said she never knew I had such a sensational voice; maybe I should start singing professionally. Somebody gave a short speech and we raised our glasses. More people congratulated me, half of them I didn't even know. We had more champagne and, basking in that camaraderie and glory, I felt really great – even better than the day I had broken the Bavarian record in 100m breast stroke in my age group.

Harriet waved with bony arms from the stairs grinning like a Cheshire cat. I ploughed my way through the crowd and met her half way between the snacks and the bar.

"Well done, great show," she planted a sticky crab-mayonnaise kiss on the corner of my mouth. "You must meet Denzil." She looked around. "Where is he? Denziiil."

She sure has a carrying voice.

Some people turned their heads in our direction. A tall, lanky guy emerged from behind a pillar. He had dark blond corkscrew locks and bony hands. When I looked into his eyes I felt a lurch in my guts that made all my theatre lurches feel like a mild itch.

"This is my son Denzil," Harriet said. "Denzil, wasn't Mathilda absolutely fabulous?" She downed her champagne and licked some crab-mayo off her thumb. "Oh over there is my friend Nanda. Nandaaa." She grinned at us, turned round and disappeared into the crowd.

I looked into Denzil's eyes again and he looked into mine; I knew without a trace of a doubt: this guy and I are meant for each other. The earth stopped turning and the universe carried on without us – or mebbe we were right in the centre of it. I didn't know and it didn't matter. A smile exploded in my belly and spread over my whole body and soul.

"Should we go outside?" Denzil asked seconds lasting aeons later. "There are too many people here."

He had a slightly hooky nose, broad cheeks, an angular chin and generous lips. "I know an absolutely terrific place."

We climbed up some narrow back stairs and a ladder, clambered through a dormer window and ended up on the roof of the theatre. A warm, moist wind was blowing in from the sea and the lights of V.B. blinked from the surrounding hills. The dark hinterland merged with the black of the night. The stars were singing, the planets were trembling and a nearly full moon threw her silvery trail onto the Indian Ocean.

We just sat there for a while with 1cm space between us and felt the heartbeat of the universe.

When _my_ heart threatened to explode, I asked: "How did you know to get up here?"

"I'm studying architecture. Second year. I did a project on the theatre."

I couldn't see much of him but I knew he smiled at me, and I smiled back.

"It feels like a... very special place."

"Ja," he said. "Not many people know about it."

We closed the gap between us at the same time. I felt goosebumps jumping up all over my skin. I had never felt so alive in my whole existence. Denzil took my hand and the universe danced.

We rejoined the party just before midnight. The foyer was still packed with people and celebrations were in full swing. Some members of the orchestra started to play a tango and Harriet and Norm, our technical director, tangoed cheek to cheek across the floor. Vibrata and some burly guy were lying semi conscious on a settee, half empty champagne bottles clutched in their arms. Douglas and a curvy blonde occupied another settee, clutching each other. Tintinabula walked around lifting up her blouse, showing everybody that her rash had miraculously vanished, and Erronius demonstrated to a rapt audience how to drink out of a champagne bottle without popping the cork.

"Jack, Jaaack, anybody seen Jack?" Joelle called on top of her voice. "He's supposed to get the pulls from the newspapers."

"Maybe he's already gone," a guy standing next to me said to Domina.

"I doubt it," she replied. "He's a hell of a nice guy but as queer as a 3 Rand note, and you know how they are...not always reliable."

Julie tapped me on the shoulder. "How do you like opening night parties?"

"I think this one's absolutely great."

"Hi Denzil," Ludwig said. "You look like you just hit the jackpot, pal."

"Even better," Denzil grinned.

_Lurch. Could that have something to do with me_?

One of the front house guys approached us and said to Ludwig and Julie: "I've just been checking on the caravan. Everything's fine."

"Is that your caravan outside?" Denzil asked. "I was wondering what it was doing there. Why do you schlepp a caravan around town?"

"Our kids are sleeping in it," Julie explained.

Denzil's grin changed to an expression of disbelief. "What? Aren't you worried something could happen to them?"

"No, they are safe,"Ludwig said. "The front house people are checking up on them all the time."

"I don't know," Denzil said thoughtfully. "There have been riots in the townships."

"That's in the townships," Ludwig said. "It won't happen here."

Lucy spotted Jack picking flowers off a tree outside the theatre and reminded him to go and fetch the pulls.

"I wonder what that old fart from the 'V.B. Dispatch' has got to say this time," Lycus said. "Since he has seen _La Traviata_ at the MET he thinks the sun is shining out of his arse and he sets higher standards than the rest of the world."

Tension mounted. More champagne corks plopped. The orchestra let rip some hectic tune from the 20s. Denzil and I joined the dancing crowd. Denzil moved like a cross between a panther and a secretary bird and looked absolutely gorgeous. By the time Jack returned I had taken my shoes off and rivers of sweat were running down my body. Jack stormed up the stairs waving the pulls. The orchestra stopped like one man.

Norm grabbed the pulls, jumped on a chair and cleared his throat. Everybody looked expectantly at him. Denzil took my hand. I nearly died.

"The 'V.B. Mirror'," Norm shouted holding up the pages. "Curtain up for Musical Farce. Joelle Gorman's production of _A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum_ was characterized throughout by strong performances, competent singing and witty stage craft..."

The crowd applauded and whistled. The critique went on in that vein. The main actors were lauded for their natural drollery and gift of mime, the concubines for their voluptuous bodies. Denzil frenetically squeezed my hand at that part. I personally had never thought of myself in that term before.

"Jack Muller's set, as always, is a work of art," Norm carried on reading. "The lighting is cleverly used to enhance the effects of a farce, and the orchestra, conducted by Trevor Wallis, does a professional job."

The foyer trembled in jubilation. Norm raised his arms to calm the crowd and read the last paragraph. "A local production of this calibre compensates for our missing several touring shows this year because of the introduction of television. It is reassuring to see that the show is booked out to the last seat, and that V.B.'s inhabitants still go out to enjoy a night at the theatre instead of couch-potatoing in front of the box."

We raised our glasses and cheered.

"Now 'The Dispatch'." Norm pushed his specs up on his nose. "What's so Funny on the Way to the Forum? V.B.'s amateur theatre group put up its zaniest piece yet. It did actually raise a few laughs – in between lengthy stretches of glutinous ridicule."

"Pompous old fart," somebody shouted.

The old fart tore the whole production into pieces, except for the imaginative costumes and the adequate lighting.

What's new? was the general opinion. The old fart has never got anything positive to say. He should stick to the bloody crime statistics. Walks around as if he has trodden in dog shit every day of his life. His own kids take the piss out of him and call him 'Happy'.

Norm banged a tray and shouted: "Silence. Listen to 'Die Suiderkuis Speel'."

It was all in Afrikaans; reactions around me were mixed. I didn't understand everything, but I did understand that the guy was going on about _naaktheid_ , which means nudity, and that he found it _lasterlik,_ which means scandalous.

He's probably referring to Lucy's and my costumes. Ah well, what else can one expect from somebody who has grown up in a culture in which it is a sin even for 2 year old girls to walk on the beach without a top on.

Norm climbed off his chair, the orchestra resumed a lively tune. Denzil looked at me and smiled a smile that penetrated my whole body. Hand in hand we walked slowly through the crowd, moving in a galaxy of our own. Outside, under a casuarina tree his lips touched mine in a soft, unhurried kiss, totally different from my sloppy first smooch with a guy from Waldsee's swimming team, centuries ago.

*

The following day nothing much was expected of me until it was curtain up again. I woke up after 10, with Denzil in my thoughts and a smile on my face.

Julie was busy working on her oeuvre for the exhibition. It was called 'The Portrait of a Mensch' and showed our neighbour, Pop Millar, at his ripe and wrinkly age of 82. Various scenes and symbols in the background alluded to his life. Pop Millar had been born the son of a fisherman and had never put foot into a classroom. In the early 1900s school was not compulsory in the Cape, not even for the whites. Most of the right bottom quadrant of the painting was taken up by a harbour scene, because Pop Millar joined the harbour service when young, and worked as a stevedore all his life. He had hands like a crocodile's foot and he had one passion: fishing. He knew everything there was to know about any fish in the Indian Ocean. In the painting leervis and mullet surrounded his hands, and close to his left ear a burnt siena coloured loaf of bread contrasted with a turquoise background. Pop Millar never said much, but he would turn any conversation onto the subject of fishing, culminating in the statement: "To hell with them fancy bait things. I can catch you any fish with a piece of bread."

Maria Callas was singing _Si, sorr'essi alzai la punta_ while Julie put the last touches to her painting. She mixed some red with yellow and said: "This whole acting business sure put a spring in your step, Mathilda. Won't you bring me a cup of coffee? And tell Nohandbag to make lunch, macaroni cheese or something like that."

I contemplated phoning Denzil but he would be at university, and also – hadn't that whole thing last night only been a dream?

"Now you look like a wet rag," Julie said when I brought her the coffee. "You know Mathilda teenagers are a total mystery to the rest of us. Don't believe anybody who says your teenage years are the best of your life. Let me tell you from my own experience, once you are 30, married and settled, life becomes much easier. You must choose the right husband of course."

I decided to go for a bicycle ride to get some fresh air and think about things. It was a beautiful day, the vegetation bursting in the lushest colours. After a fire, Pretorius Street was open again for the traffic. Big blue gum stumps were still smouldering along the road, and on the blackened ground towards the location not one blade of grass had survived the blaze. I rode down the curve where the railway line crossed the road, and for the second time in my life I saw a tank right in front of my eyes. My heart nearly stopped. It was too late to turn round, the soldiers had already spotted me. One of them stepped out onto the tarmac to stop me, his gun ready for use held in front of his body. On each side of the road, hidden in the shadows of the trees, soldiers stood waiting at the ready. I braked like an automaton, my mind empty but wide open to anything that might happen. I climbed off my bike and waited.

"It's not safe here, young lady," the soldier said. "There has been trouble in the township."

A fat, young police officer approached and put on an important face. "Lady, this is not a place for a lady." His eyes wandered over my bike, then from my feet to my face. "I'll arrange for the police bakkie to take you home."

Du lieber Himmel. Julie will have a heart attack if she sees me being loaded off a cop van.

"Thank you, officer. I think I can make it on my own." I turned the bike round as fast as I could and pedalled up the hill at maximum speed. At the Chinese shop my stamina left me. I got off the bike and staggered through the shop to the shelf where they kept the sweets. I bought 3 bars of Turkish Delight and a packet of liquorice. As I walked back into the sunlight, ready to take a big bite out of the Turkish Delight, a terrible thought hit me.

_Sweets promote pimples and I don't want Denzil to spot a pimple on me_.

I wrapped the Turkish Delight up again.

I'll give all these sweets to the kids. Denzil looks like a guy who is worth some sacrifices.

Later that day it was in the news: 2 necklacings have taken place in Jabulani Township in V.B.

"These blacks are barbarians," Julie commented. "To do that to their own people."

"What exactly is a necklacing?" I asked her.

"They force a motorcar tyre over a person's head, pinning his arms to his sides, pour petrol on it and set it alight. It's a horrible death."

"Hell, why do they do that?"

"It's got to do with the black freedom fighters, the ANC and the PAC and so on. It's their way to get rid of collaborators."

"And what do the cops about it? The ones I saw today were outside the location. Do they go in there and make arrests, or do they just say, if the blacks want to kill each other it's their own indaba?"

"I think it happens both ways," Julie said. "I also think we don't know half of what's going on in the country, and honestly, I think I wouldn't really want to know."

The Jamesons' telephone was engaged for half an hour before I got through, and then Coral told me, that Kim wasn't allowed to speak to anybody or to see anybody because she was gated for the rest of the month. 10 minutes later our phone rang.

"Hi," Kim said. "What's news?"

"Gee Kim, your sister just told me you are totally gated.

"There are ways around things," Kim said. "I've worked it all out. How was the party?"

I told her. For some reason, not quite clear to myself, I didn't mention Denzil.

"I wish I could have been there," Kim sighed. "Instead I had to sort out the junk in our guest room. All because of that bloody Dougie."

I refrained from saying that I had told her right from the start that Mr Douglas would cause her grief. I didn't feel like discussing the poep, so I changed the subject.

"What do these African words mean your mom said the other evening? Vula momo or something."

"Oh, _vul' mlomo_. It's Xhosa. It means 'mouth opener'.

"Mouth opener?"

"Ja, it's a black custom thing. My mom knows about that stuff because she grew up in the Transkei. Anyway, before the blacks get married each of their clans sends a representative to discuss the _lobola_ , that's the bride price the groom has to pay for the girl, and to facilitate the discussion, they drink vul' mlomo, in the form of Kaffir beer."

So the vul' m'omo is some kind of booze _?"_

"Ja, I think my mom needed some the other day; that ...uh...Dougie thing came as a bit of a shock to her."

"I think she was great. At least she tried to talk to you."

"Ja, she was all right. But my dad!" Kim sighed. "He nearly flipped his lid. I half expected him to get out his belt like when we were kids. This bloody gating business was his idea. I find it's totally over the top." She sighed again. "I don't know, men are weird. They somehow lack subtlety."

A picture of Denzil jumped into my mind. To me Denzil looked like the most subtle human being walking on this planet. "Mebbe it depends on the guy," I said to Kim.

For the next 2½ weeks we had one performance per weekday night, 2 on Saturdays and a break on the holy South African Sundays. I never got over my nervousness, nor did anybody else, but contrary to me some people seemed to thrive on it. Ludwig was in super top form. He was radiating enthusiastic vigour, hardly needed any sleep and spent his spare time in the boat shed working on a rudder based on Polynesian principles.

Denzil watched just about every show. I got him in for free through the stage door. He also came visiting at the Winters. We fixed up the roof of the tree house and painted the furniture in my room sea green and turquoise with traces of crimson madder.

On the second Sunday I was waiting for Denzil to pick me up when Ludwig called me. He and Julie were in their bedroom. Ludwig held a little box in his hand. He opened it and took something out.

"Mathilda, do you know what this is?" He held up a condom.

_Of course I know what that is. Where do you think I've been living all these years, on the other side of the moon? What's next – if I know about the birds and the bees_?

I put on a pensive face and took the French letter.

Let's see how you are going to explain this to me.

I shook my head. "No, I don't know. What is it?"

Ludwig and Julie exchanged a glance. I studied the wrapper. It was blue and white with the expiry date in the middle, 04.06.77.

"According to Rotary rules exchange students shouldn't have any love affairs," Ludwig said, "but I guess one can't suppress human nature. This, my girl, is a condom. You and Denzil seem to hit it off quite well and getting involved with another person needs responsibility. In my experience it's always the woman who sets the pace and I don't want any unwanted pregnancies here. So, if you want to fuck you use condoms. You can have as many as you like." He passed me the box. "And one other thing if you want to fuck, do it in this house. Don't do it in the car somewhere in the woods. It's not safe. Now let me show you how these things work." He grabbed a wrapper, tore it open and said to Julie: "Pass me your hairbrush, please." And he rolled the condom over the handle of the brush.

I watched – stunned. I hadn't expected such a straightforward demonstration in prude, ole South Africa, not even from Ludwig.

He examined his work with satisfaction, smiled at me and asked: "Any questions?"

"Ja. Why do you say fuck and not make love? Fuck sounds so unromantic."

Ludwig pulled the condom and let it snap back with a crack. "I make love all day long," he grinned. "In everything I do I make love. And on top of that is that extraordinary thing of making love to a woman." He smiled at Julie and Julie smiled back. "And I like to call it fucking – it's got a lekker zesty sound to it."

Denzil owned a massive old bakkie, a green one tonner Chev that had rubber buckles to hold the bonnet down. In the cabin there was one long comfortable seat, a basic dashboard on which one could read the speed in miles per hour, and a cubby hole, whose lid when opened, could be used as a table, with 2 special round depressions to hold glasses.

I liked that bakkie because the cabin had windows all around and one was sitting so high up that one could see things one would never see from a normal car. Denzil liked it because it was so simple.

"Look at the air conditioning," he said one day while we were heading for his place. He pulled a lever at his feet. Air came gushing in through an opening in the bodywork. "You've got the same on your side."

I pulled the leaver and a minor gale including small pieces of vegetation and sand whirled around our lower legs. Denzil said this was a minor inconvenience. He'd rather have a jalopy on which he could repair just about everything himself, than some fancy car that needed a qualified mechanic after every 10 minutes on a dirt road. He carefully negotiated some big casuarina roots crossing the sandy lane and said proudly: "I bought this bakkie with the very first money I earned."

A snake wriggled across the road and disappeared in the undergrowth. Denzil put his hand on my thigh. The earth shook. I put my hand on his knee. The universe shook. I thought of the condoms in my bag and also that I didn't really feel ready to use them. Or did I? Mebbe.

In a casuarina grove overlooking the deserted beach, we had a major kissing session. At first I was still aware of the roar of the breakers rolling up the shore and of the shrill cries of the sea birds and of the scent of resin and salt in the warm, moist breeze. Then I only felt Denzil's firm body all around me and his tongue between my lips, gentle and purposeful, and my body aching and opening, expanding and exploring, every cell wide awake, stunned, and filled with some ancient knowledge of how to give and how to receive.

When we got our breath back we raced like 2 puppies towards the sea and jumped into the waves with all our clothes on, yelling with the delight of living.

Harriet didn't seem the least surprised when we walked sopping wet onto her stoep _._ "Hello my darlings," she planted kisses on our faces and then carried on placing blossoms into a water filled crystal bowl.

"Isn't the jasmine gorgeous this year?" She held a jasmine twig under my nose. "I'm having a...uh... meeting here today. What are you 2 planning?"

"We haven't planned anything yet, Mom, but I've got to go to the university to get some stuff."

"Well, you can't go there dripping all over the show. You better get changed."

"I didn't bring any spare clothes," I said.

"No problem," Denzil said sticking the jasmine twig behind my right ear. "You can have some of Bianca's stuff. I reckon her things fit you."

"Who's Bianca?" I asked when we walked down the darkish passage with Oregon pine boards creaking under our feet.

"Bianca is my sister."

"Gee Denzil, I didn't know you had sisters."

"I've only got one. Bianca. She's studying medicine at Wits up in Jo'burg. She's 24; 5 years older than I."

I took his hand and said: "Denzil, what's next? You are a total mystery man."

I had hit the nail on the head but I only found out much later what kind of a mystery man Denzil really was.

The Fenessey house was ancient with a couple of built on parts, which were also already ancient – at least by South African standards. It was filled with paintings and objects of foreign places; a lacquered cabinet from India with copper and brass ewers for barley beer; low chairs from central Africa with masks and animals carved into the wood and _djambas_ from Yemen, with curved blades and intricately patterned handles. The main feature in Denzil's room was a detailed 1 by 2 metre relief on the wall next to the window. Denzil had made it in a pottery class while in standard 8. It had taken him 2 terms and it showed an entire goldmine with headgears, cages in the shafts and workers and cocopans underground.

In front of the window stood a drawing board scattered with photos. They showed Le Corbusier's Chapel of Ronchamps, The pyramids at Gizah and a huge steel contraption, which, Denzil said, had a perfect parabolic shape and was the Gateway Arch at St. Louis, Missouri. He had taken all the photos himself while travelling with his mother and his sister. His father paid for one overseas holiday each year; that was part of Denzil's parents divorce agreement.

Denzil dived into his chaotic cupboard to find some shorts and a T-shirt, and from inside there his voice drifted muffled across the room: "I'm completely starved."

In the kitchen, which had one wall built of wattle and daub, Mastermind, the 'boy', dressed in a smart white uniform, was organizing lunch. He filled up little saltcellars and cut bread into slices, while Denzil searched for food for us.

Harriet stuck her head through the door and asked Mastermind to set the table for 4 people.

"Which table, Madam?" Mastermind asked with a rebellious undertone.

"The dining room table, of course," Harriet said.

Mastermind let fly a disgusted snort. "Madam, Kaffirs belong in the kitchen and not in the dining room."

"You do as you are told, Mastermind, and set the table in the dining room," Harriet said with a stern voice. "Do you understand?"

"Yes Madam."

Denzil and I sat down for an enormous brunch on the stoep.

"What was all that kitchen and dining room table business about?" I asked.

"You'll see," Denzil said between 2 bites of a sickly pink looking vienna.

"And why does Mastermind who is black himself call other blacks Kaffirs?"

"Indoctrination." Denzil gulped down some guava juice.

I swallowed a spoonful of paw paw. "Why d'you eat so fast?"

"One year and 21 weeks in a posh boarding school," Denzil munched. "If you didn't hurry up there you never got seconds."

"It's bad for your digestion."

"My digestion is fine. Pass me the butter and a hot cross bun, please."

"What happened after one year and 21 weeks at your boarding school?"

"They kicked me out."

"Why?"

"Because I used my brains. They didn't like people using their brains there." He knocked back half the bun and grabbed a chicken leg.

"Did you like that school?"

"Not particularly."

"Then why do you allow it to run your life?"

"Huh?" Denzil stopped abruptly to dig his teeth into the chicken.

"You are eating at a speed here as if there was no tomorrow, just because some years ago you happened to be at some school where one couldn't get seconds, if one didn't wolf it down. Just think about it. If you don't stop it now you'll still eat like that when you're 80. That place has conditioned you for life. Is that really what you want?"

Denzil looked at the chicken leg in consternation. "Hell Mathilda, I think you're right. I never thought about it that way." He put the chicken leg on his plate. "Do you reckon it really makes a difference? I mean if one eats fast or slowly."

"'course it does. One can actually enjoy eating – taste the flavours, feel the textures, roll the stuff around in one's mouth...it's not only getting some food into your body, it's a sensual thing..." Like making love, I thought, but I didn't say it.

We packed Denzil's surfboard and other beach gear into the back of the Chev and set off to Seagull Bay.

"We better first pop in at the university to get the stuff I need," Denzil said driving out the gate.

3 blacks, 2 men and a woman, came walking up the road towards us. They were dressed in the bright green cloaks of an African Christian Church with broad white sashes around their waists.

"Sambonani," Denzil greeted them.

"Sambonani," they replied smiling.

Denzil leant out of the car window and had a short conversation full of clicky words with them.

"You speak their language?" I asked when we drove on.

"Ja, Xhosa. My mom always said you can't live in Africa without speaking at least one African language."

"Makes sense to me, but not many white people seem to think that way, except on the farms maybe. They don't even teach African languages in the white schools."

"Boetie, don't say that to an Afrikaaner. They say Afrikaans _is_ an African language because it's spoken nowhere else in the world than here. They even feel it's so African that the government now insists on black schools using Afrikaans as a medium of instruction. That's a new thing. Crazy hey?"

"Ja, what d'you reckon the blacks think?"

"They say it's the oppressor's language and they won't accept it."

"Do they have a choice?"

"Not a legal one."

We came across several traffic signs announcing horses crossing, and several groups of riders trotting along the sandy lanes. At the golf club, white players followed by black caddies were busy hitting little white balls around, and in the suburbs primly dressed people came out of churches that looked like normal houses.

The university was a conglomerate of modern concrete blocks strewn over a vast, flat area bordering directly onto Seagull Beach. Broad stretches of cadmium green lawns cut through the dense bush and connected the various buildings and sports fields. The department of English Literature, where Harriet worked, was situated between the swimming pool and the cricket field. The Faculty of Architecture sat right at the back of the grounds, surrounded by an immense parking space and a row of trees with pink blossoms.

The parking was deserted except for us and some silent seagulls. We went in a back door to which Denzil had a key and climbed up some broad, spotless stairs, our steps echoing from the grey concrete walls. After a long passage with a public phone and notice boards announcing lectures and advertising second hand books and drawing boards, Denzil unlocked a storage room full of shelves stacked with manuals, and big tables covered with piles of plans and cardboard models of buildings. The musty smell of infrequent use hung in the air, specks of dust danced in a sunray. In a corner stood the 2 boxes Denzil wanted to collect. We looked in silence at the blue stripe of the sea sparkling outside a bull's eye shaped window.

Denzil touched the jasmine twig still tucked behind my ear. "You know what that means in Tahiti?"

"I haven't got a clue."

"When a girl in Tahiti wears a flower above her right ear it means she is available."

I felt goosebumps spreading. "You're kidding."

"No, I read it in some social anthropology book."

He put a hand on my breast and stroked it gently. My innards melted and I stood on shaky legs while my nipples hardened. Denzil stuck his other hand into my shorts on my bum and a glowing ball swelled somewhere in my belly. I drew him close, close, and suddenly froze.

_Shit, the condoms are in the car_.

Denzil's hand wandered between my legs and every single cell in my body exploded into some strange atavistic intensity.

_I want more. Now. Fuck the condoms_.

I grabbed Denzil and rubbed against him and...the telephone in the passage rang and broke the spell. We stood there looking at each other breathing hard. The phone kept on ringing.

"D'you think it could be for you?" I croaked when I got my breath back.

"I doubt it, but I better go and check."

I could hear him shout, "put your money in" several times.

"It was somebody who doesn't know how to use a phone," Denzil said when he came back.

*

On the beach a few scattered groups of students played volley ball and touch rugby and the smoke of 2 or 3 braai fires curled up into the sky. A couple of people were swimming and a group of divers in full gear waded out of the sea.

Denzil waved at 2 guys building a big sandcastle. "Architecture students at their best," he grinned. "Let's join them."

We dropped our stuff next to their braai fire and 3 well oiled chicks, who were tanning on bath towels. Denzil introduced them as Sue, a draughts woman, and Charlize and Ann, girlfriends of John and Richard the sandcastle builders. None of the girls felt like a swim and the guys were at a critical stage with a star shaped turret, so Denzil and I hit the sea by ourselves. We tried to do a bit of surfing but the waves were small, and we ended up horsing around clinging tightly to each other. When we came out of the water the turret had collapsed due to a wrong weight to height ratio or something like that and Richard and John were fortifying themselves with Castle Lager. The girls hadn't stirred and were still busy working on their tan.

I opened a bottle of Tassenberg _,_ which raised the girls' interest enough to lift their heads; they accepted a plastic mug each.

"I feel like joining the sandcastle gang," I said to Denzil.

"Ok, let's do that."

We threw some wood onto the _schlapp_ looking fire and took a second bottle of wine to the sandcastle. Denzil, Richard and John got stuck into reconstructing the turret, throwing scientific sounding formulas around. I did my own thing outside the fortification walls.

The sand was fine and white with little shells in it; small birds scampered on long legs along the water's edge and the silvery waves rolled with a soft murmur. The sun burnt hotly out of a perfect sky and I suddenly remembered to put sun block on.

The girls had moved into the shade of a beach umbrella and were discussing why they shaved their legs up to or also above the knee – what a fascinating subject!

I dug the sun screen out of our basket and listened how they changed the topic to the most efficient methods of fighting wrinkles.

Phhhh

They all agreed that imported stuff – especially from France – was the best, and that it was worth paying a packet to keep one's skin youthful. I could have told them the number one measure against wrinkles is to stay out of the sun and, that according to my gran, cucumber peel worked better than any lotion; but as I didn't give a shit I kept quiet.

"Gee Mathilda," Charlize suddenly cast a critical eye on me. "You look like my kid brother when he's been playing for too long in his sand pit – pale in front and burnt on the back. Come and sit with us."

"I first want to finish what I'm doing."

The 3 chicks shrugged their shoulders in total incomprehension.

"Tell the guys to get cracking with the braai," Sue said to me. "We'll butter the rolls in the meantime.

Hells bells. It must be so boring to be a tame, leg shaving, wrinkle fighting, roll buttering chick.

I added a bit more of the fine, white sand to my oeuvre, strengthened it with seawater and stuck shells on significant points.

The guys planted a flag made out of a Tassenberg label on top of their tower and invited me to celebrate the triumph of architecture over the natural elements. We finished the wine and went over to my creation.

Richard whistled. "Nice curves!"

"Altogether very arty," Denzil said.

"I like the boobs best," John declared.

A fat tannie with 2 small kids walked up to the sandcastle. "Dit is baie mooi..." They admired the sandcastle from all angles and then approached to have a look at my opus. When she saw what it was, the tannie's smile dropped, and hissing a disgusted "sis man" she grabbed the kids by the shoulders and turned them round. Her last comment was something about 'unbehoorlik eksibisionisme' and 'polisie'.

"What does that mean?" I asked the guys.

"It means if you don't cover up the 'indecent' parts of your creation, she feels like reporting this to the cops."

"Hell, I've never heard of a mermaid with a bra on," I said.

"No bare boobs in this country," John said. "Especially not white ones – mermaid or not. The only acceptable bare boobs around here are black boobs on postcards for tourists."

We didn't stay for the braai because Denzil had 'stuff to do'. I was glad. The chicks were now discussing the best method to weave bands of cotton wool between their toes to beautify their feet, and it didn't look like they were interested in more thought provoking matters.

Back at the Fenessey house we carried the 2 boxes from the university onto the stoep _._

"Mighty heavy," I observed. "What's in there?"

"Books," Denzil said.

After the glare outside it seemed dark inside the house. In the dining room 4 people were sitting around the table having an animated discussion. One of them was Harriet, and the other 3 the men and the woman dressed in the gear of the African church, who we had met in the street.

I couldn't believe my eyes. During all the time I had spent in the country I had never seen white people having black guests.

_Gosh, this must be highly illegal_.

I felt an uncomfortable sensation creep up my spine, similar to the feeling one has travelling in a train without having bought a ticket. This feeling shocked me even more.

Bloody hell. Some months ago I was falling around laughing hiding banned books in Ludwig's book shop and now I get the creeps because of this. What has happened to me? Bloody apartheid! Fucking Nats!

I nearly stomped on the floor.

_You damn fascists won't get me_.

I was angry, mainly with myself. I took a couple of deep breaths to calm down. I realized that back then, it hadn't quite sunk into my brains yet, that people in South Africa really went to jail for loving the wrong people, for painting 'ANC propaganda' on their tea mugs and for simply being at the wrong place at the wrong time. I also hadn't known that a high percentage of prisoners met their death by slipping on bars of soap, falling down stairs and by jumping out of windows during interrogations.

I looked inquiringly at Denzil. He didn't seem worried. He grinned and went to greet the guests. They had all got up to shake hands with him.

"Hello Agnes," Denzil said. "How are you Moses? Nice to see you Julius." He turned towards me. "Meet Mathilda. She is from Germany."

They shook hands with me. It was all quite formal. Moses said he had a brother studying agriculture in Germany, in Dresden – had I ever been there?

"I've got family near Dresden but I can't go there," I said. "Well, maybe I could but it would be extremely complicated. "

"Why is that?" Agnes asked.

"Because I'm West German and Dresden is in East Germany. I would have to apply for a special permit and that takes at least 6 months, and you never know if you get it, and if you do you can only stay for a limited time..."

"I didn't realize it is so difficult," Harriet said.

"Well, Germany lost the war."

"We are still fighting ours," Julius murmured. And I wasn't quite sure if I had heard correctly.

Harriet gestured towards the table, which was laden with notebooks, ashtrays, teacups and a cookie tin. There was also a bible. "We'll go on with our meeting," she said. "If you 2 feel hungry, there are plenty of leftovers in the kitchen."

We had some amazingly tasteless stew with lumpy rice. Whoever did the cooking in the Fenessey household was certainly no born chef. I noticed that Denzil, in his effort to eat more slowly than during his boarding school days, managed to chew his food for a few nano seconds longer.

"I didn't realize your mom is churchy," I said.

"Mmh, my mother has a broad range of interests."

I sprinkled a layer of pepper on my grub. "Couldn't she get into trouble for having black guests in her house?"

Something like a tortured smile crept up on Denzil's face.

I swallowed a spoonful of stew; it still tasted shit. "You know, I've never seen any other whites inviting blacks."

Denzil's weird expression intensified.

"Why does your mom..."

The back door opened and Mastermind came in. When he saw us he stopped dead in his tracks. "Hau! Mybobo! The world she is upside down. The young Master and the white Miss are eating in the kitchen and the Kaffirs are sitting at the dining room table. "Aish!" he shook his head. "Hau!"

I looked at his disgusted face.

_I'll never understand this country_.

Mastermind had a drink of water and asked Denzil for a box of matches and he also wanted to borrow some sugar, because his own matches were finished and his sugar was finished and his money was also finished.

"All right Mastermind," Denzil got up. "Just remember to..."

A blast of shattering glass shook the house. Denzil froze. Mastermind's eyeballs nearly popped out of his head. I choked on a piece of meat. Somebody screamed in the dining room. Denzil leapt through the door. I followed – much more hesitant.

_What the hell is going on here_?

One big pane of the dining room window was lying in pieces all over the floor. The frame with the ragged bits that had stayed in it gaped like the mouth of a shark. Blood from a cut was running down Agnes' cheek, dripping on her church cloak. Harriet's face was as white as snow. Moses and Julius stood expressionless, holding onto their chairs. Time stood still. Nobody said a word. My head was empty except for a bubble of dread.

Harriet broke the silence. "Are you all right, Agnes?"

"Yebo, I'm fine," Agnes replied with a faint smile.

"Let me have a look at you," Harriet got up. "Maybe you need a doctor.'

"No no, I'm all right."

Harriet bent over Agnes' face. "You were lucky, Agnes, it's only a small cut...we were all lucky that none of us got seriously injured."

"Praise the Lord," Julius said.

"What happened?" I asked.

"It was this thing," Moses pointed to a brick on the carpet. "Somebody threw it through the window."

"Who would do something like this?" I asked.

Harriet and Denzil looked at each other.

"I don't know," Denzil said.

We examined the brick from all sides but it was just an ordinary brick, revealing nothing.

"It is not wise for us to stay any longer," Moses said slowly.

"Why..." I had a lot of questions in my head, but suddenly I knew that this was not the moment to ask them.

"I'll take you up to the main road," Denzil said to the blacks. "Are you okay here, Mom?"

"Ja Denzil, don't worry."

"Then I'll take Mathilda back at the same time."

I nearly asked why nobody called the cops. But then I shut up.

_Mebbe the cops are the last thing anybody wants to rock up...or am I getting all schizo? Or what? Kids smash windows sometimes...but then_ ...

I didn't know what to think anymore, but I felt the bubble of dread burst and a major wave of being pissed off taking its place.

_Nothing is ever simple in this country_.

The blacks picked up their things and Moses said: "There are many bushes out there in the garden. People can hide behind them. Sometimes it is better not to have too many plants close to the house."

On the way out all 3 of them glanced at the boxes from the university.

"I'll drop them off at Victoria's," Denzil said to no one in particular.

_They_ climbed into the back of the bakkie. Denzil and I sat in the cabin. At the gate Denzil scrutinized the road for a while. There was no one to be seen. At the mainroad we dropped Julius, Moses and Agnes off. The sun floated like a huge red balloon on the western horizon, dipping the world in a mysterious glow.

"Did you know," Denzil said negotiating some heavy corrugations, "that glass is not a solid, but a molten liquid of sand with limestone and sodium carbonate added to it? In the old houses in the Cape you can see that the glass has sagged down over the centuries. In some places they are taking the windows out and putting them back upside down, so that the glass can 'flow' back again."

I put my hand on his thigh and could feel his hard muscles under his shorts.

"Denzil, it's a fascinating subject – and no, I didn't know – but right now I'd rather talk about something else. What was this whole window smashing business all about?"

Denzil shrugged his shoulders. "It has happened once before. The last brick had Kaffirboeties written on it – means something like nigger lovers. You know how some people are, they just can't stomach it when blacks are treated like human beings."

That night I lay awake for a long time debating with myself if I should tell the Winters about the incident. I was sure Ludwig had an explanation and I needed to know. I also knew that Denzil hadn't told me everything. That thought hurt as if someone had stuck a dagger in my belly. Did Denzil not trust me? Or did he want to protect me from something – but what exactly? I hardly slept. In the morning I had made up my mind: I wouldn't mention anything to my host parents. Mebbbe if they learnt that weird things were happening at the Fenesseys, Ludwig and Julie would not let me go there anymore.

After our final performance of the 'Funny Thing' we had a farewell party. Thank God the acting bit was over, but I was going to miss some of the people and the creative vibe of the theatre. This party was not as hyped up and full of adrenalin as the first-night do by a long shot. Everybody was relaxed and smiling and agreed that we had had a splendid run. Joelle and some of the actors were discussing the next play they would put on.

"It will probably be _Come Back Little Sheba_ in August," Joelle said.

It suddenly hit me.

_I won't be here for that anymore_.

I had to sit down to digest the thought. During the last few months I had grown roots here. I knew that I would have to go back to Germany one day, it was part of the student exchange regulations, but I kept that knowledge in some back recess of my brain. I sometimes wondered if it was normal that I didn't miss Riedberg or my family very much.

Ludwig said something about Doc in _Little_ _Sheba_ and exploded into one of his roaring laughs and everybody around him joined in. That made me even more miserable. I felt totally excluded. Shit! As far as I was concerned my life was here in V.B. now, but it felt like some glutinous current of bureaucratic regulations would carry me away, and there was nothing I could do about it. And what would life be like without Denzil?

Ludwig came over and sat down next to me. "Everything all right my girl? You are a bit pale around the schnorkel."

"I don't want to go back to Germany. I'm happy here."

"I'm glad you like it here. It's a great compliment to us, my girl...whoa, whoa, don't cry." He put an arm around me and pulled a hanky out of his pocket. "Take this."

I wiped my cheeks.

Ludwig smiled. "For somebody who just said she is happy here you do a mighty lot of crying."

"It's because I have to leave all this and everybody soon." Sniff. "I've only got a few months left."

"Ag my girlie," Ludwig gave me a one-arm hug. "We all get the blues every now and then, but you have a choice."

"No, I haven't. They won't let me stay longer than a year... and my ticket expires. It's all horrible and complicated."

"No, it's not."

"Really?" I straightened up a bit. "Why not?"

"Because you _do have_ a choice. You can either mope around for the next few months and feel sorry for yourself, or you go out there and enjoy every second of it. It's completely up to you. And remember, the only constant thing in life is change. Maybe you'll be glad to go back when the time comes, maybe not. Who knows? But don't live in apprehension. It's not worth it because it's all only in your head and might never happen. Just go out there and grab life by the knaters." He squeezed me and grinned. "Talking of knaters, here is the guy to cheer you up."

Denzil was walking towards us, his hair all tousled, with a big smile on his face. My heart lurched. I jumped up and kissed him with everything I'd got.

_Ludwig is right. I mustn't loose the tiniest little moment of it_.

*

With the play over I had to go back to school. Miss Pembleton was still sailing like a frigate through the corridors, Mrs Davies, the German teacher, still said _zack zack, Katastrophe_ or _verboten_ every 5 minutes, old Lettie was still swearing in 3 languages while pushing the tea trolley round about the place, and during Afrikaans Luciano still wrote _fados_ and his vocabulary in the taal hadn't improved one bit.

Kim was still gated. "This damn solitary confinement drives me bloody nuts," she sighed during the lunch break. "Last week I even went to the dentist to get out of the house."

Salvation came from an unexpected quarter. Mr Martin called me to his office and told me to prepare a speech about Germany and my exchange year, a _real_ speech this time. "Your English has much improved, Mathilda, and if you need any help, I'm sure your classmates will give you a hand."

"I'll ask Kim," I said like a shot.

"Yes, good idea. Kim has a gift for languages. She won the regional essay competition 2 years ago."

Back in Mr Green's history class I sent Kim a note: Got the answer to your prayers. Mathilda. Kim sat 2 rows in front of me. I watched her unfold the paper, turn round and with an expression of total puzzlement, breathe "huh?" I left her to stew through the Treaty of Ryswick and then the bell rang. Kim wasn't as enthusiastic as I had expected her to be. "Come hell or high water, my dad is never going to change his mind. To help you would mean I'd have to see you after school and that's against his gating rules." She sighed. "I won't even ask him. He has said no too often."

After school Ma Jameson was waiting in the bakkie to collect her brood.

"Hi Mathilda," she said. "How are things going?"

"Fine, fine. Life is lekker."

"It's nice to hear that from a teenager for a change." Ma Jameson could be quite cynical.

"Except for one little problem," I said.

"Here we go, nothing's ever perfect."

"Oh, it's only a minor problem. Very easily solved. Mr Martin told me how to do it."

"That's what a good school is all about," Ma Jameson said. "Lots of kids would say that their headmaster is causing them grief and at Protea High Mr Martin is there to help you."

"He is the best headmaster I ever had," I said winking at Kim. "My German headmasters can't hold a candle to him."

Ma Jameson sighed happily. South Africans always liked to hear that they were as good as or even better than the rest of the world.

"Not everybody agrees with Mr Martin's methods," Ma Jameson said. "But we've always supported him."

"Ja, he is really great. You know what he told me to do?" I gave her my best grin. "I've got to do a speech and it's not easy for me 'cause it has to be in English, so Mr Martin said the best thing I could do was to ask Kim to help me, because her English is absolutely fantastic; the whole province was proud of her when she won the essay competition, and I could learn a lot from her."

Ma Jameson's expression changed from smile to tight lipped to smile again.

"So I thought Saturday would be a good day to start," I said quickly. Denzil had told me that he had 'stuff' to do on that day.

Ma Jameson let fly an exasperated sigh. "I'm sure you know, Mathilda, that Kim is still gated and that she is not allowed to see anybody."

"Ja, but Mr Martin said that in the whole of South Africa Kim is the right person to do the job, and all we want to do is to work, so mebbe..."

Ma Jameson burst out laughing. "You girls! You don't give up so easily, do you?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "It's for a good cause."

"All right," Ma Jameson sighed with a grin on her face. "I'll talk to Kim's father."

In the evening after the 7 o'clock news Kim phoned to let me know, that Saturday was okay with her dad. "Can you believe it? It took my mom only 5 minutes and he said yes. We'll have a ball."

I had never heard anybody so enthusiastic about preparing a speech and I wondered if Kim was up to something. With her anything was possible.

As I put the receiver down, Ludwig walked in from work. He kissed Julie, stroked the kids' heads and waved to me. "Mathilda, before I forget it, I had a chat with James Leroux our Rotary secretary today. He would like you to give your speech to the club on the first meeting in May."

"Isn't it amazing," I said. "I just had Kim on the phone and she said that this coming weekend she can help me with my school speech. Now I can kill 2 flies with one klap."

Greta piped up. "There aren't any flies 'cause Mom sprayed the whole house today."

Julie and Ludwig chuckled.

"I think what Mathilda means is that she can kill 2 birds with one stone," Julie grinned.

On Saturday morning I packed my reference books in my bicycle basket, and also my costume and a _Linzer Torte_ I had baked the previous day. I was already nearly at the crossing with Baobab Road when I heard Ludwig's earsplitting whistle. It was his way of calling Alpheus, the dogs, the kids when they got lost in supermarkets, and anybody else who was out of earshot. I stopped dead in my tracks in case he meant me. I turned round and saw Ludwig standing next to a hibiscus bush on the grassy sidewalk, gesticulating wildly.

Phhh. Kim's dad has probably cancelled the whole thing.

But the reason for the whistle was that Julie had had a 'brilliant' idea. "I've just phoned Allison Jameson," Julie said. "She's prepared to take one of Doodle's kittens, thank God." Of Doodles kittens, 4 were still with us and my host mum was pulling her hair out trying to find good homes for them.

"I don't think it's a good idea to transport the kitten on the bike," Ludwig said.

"I guess you're right," Julie said. "I'll give Mathilda a lift in the car."

Lolo grabbed Mrs Vleega and announced that the 2 of them were also coming.

At the crossroads, where one turned into the north coastal road to go to Denzil and into the south coastal road to go to Kim, it started to drizzle.

"Mom, switch the windscreamers on," Lolo said from the back.

A troop of monkeys came out of the bush and we watched them hopping along the fence poles. A car came round the corner. My heart nearly stopped. It was Denzil's Chev. He was driving with a red haired woman sitting next to him. They were engaged in an intense discussion.

What the hell is the 'stuff' he's got to do today?

Denzil drove past us. He didn't see me. I told myself not to be silly. This woman looked like in her 40s. She could be Denzil's aunt – or a neighbour. Mebbe he had to help her with something, like take the dog to the vet. South Africans were forever taking their dogs to the vet. But why didn't he want to tell me that he was taking his neighbour and her dog to the vet?

At the Jameson's gate 5 enormous dogs were barking and wagging their tails. They followed us past the guest cottage, the horse stables, the workshop and the garages, all the way to the house. Julie parked the car next to the water tank, a contraption looking like a turret, overgrown with roses.

The front door stood open and we walked into the Jamesons' family room, a place Marieke and her crowd from the Kerk wouldn't have approved of. There was a pool table, a bar stacked with booze bottles, piles of horse racing magazines and a chart showing the meridians with their acupuncture points on the human body – all stuff straight from the devil. Next door was a lounge with a big fire place, followed by an enormous kitchen, from which an endless passage led past bedrooms and bathrooms to a hobby room equipped to do anything from sewing to printing.

Julie and Lolo, who had never visited the Jamesons before, were flabbergasted by all the animals occupying the place. A parrot whistled from a roofbeam, small dogs were growling from armchairs and 2 lambs and a hen with chicks were busy on the stoep. We shouted our lungs out to announce our presence, but there was no trace of any human being.

After a while, a maid with an empty wash basket ambled in from the stoep. She indicated with a generous, 300-degree sweep of the hand that the Master was 'over there'. 'Over there' turned out to be the pigpen where 9 Jamesons, including Granny and Grandpa, were assembled around Justine. Justine was just giving birth to the 6th piglet of her litter. Kim was sitting on a straw bale grinning, participating in the general 'oh how sweet' and 'aren't they cute'.

This whole gating thing of hers didn't seem _that_ bad to me.

Julie, Lolo and Mrs Vleega left after number 8 had plopped out, its little schnorkel wiped by Grandpa, and was placed at a teat. After number 14 the after birth appeared and Justine feasted on it with great gusto. Kim announced to the rest of the family that she and I were going to do some intellectual work now and didn't want to be disturbed. Pa Jameson nodded approvingly. We couldn't start immediately though, because in Kim's room a maid was kneeling on the floor brushing the carpet. Kim said it would be idiotic to stop her half way through the job and suggested we go for a quick swim.

"Isn't your dad going to explode if he sees that we aren't working?"

"Don't worry about him. I bet you he is in the shed, oblivious to the rest of the world, fixing up his Land Rover. He wants to use it to go on safari in his old age." She grinned. "At the moment it's all dismantled. It will probably take him until he's 100 to get that thing going."

At the pool a gardener was fishing leaves out of the water. Kim let off a yell. "I don't believe this." She tore the swimming pool net out of the garden boy's hand and raced to the other side of the pool." Look at that." She scooped up a little chick that had fallen into the water. "Lukas, you are standing there 5 metres away from a drowning chick and you do nothing about it."

"I didn't see it, Miss Kim," Lukas said with a vacant look on his face.

"Hells bells, what's wrong with your eyes, man? Wake up a bit."

She chucked the net on the ground. "The chick's still alive, mebbe we can save it. Let's take it inside."

"Acute hypothermia, poor little thing," Granny diagnosed.

Grandpa lit the gas stove, took the bird in his hands and warmed it up over the flames. "It's speed that counts," he growled.

"Don't roast the little blighter," Granny warned.

"I know what I'm doing," Grandpa moved the chick up and down. "So Mr Lukas didn't see anything, eh?" Grandpa shook his head. "These blacks have astounded me all my life with their lack of peripheral vision."

Within less than 10 minutes the chick was sitting on a hot water bottle in a basket. Granny put a dishcloth over the basket and the chick started to make little noises.

During lunch the whole conversation turned around the runners for this afternoon's horse races.

"I didn't even know you had horse races in South Africa," I said. "Isn't gambling totally illegal?"

"Ja, This is one of the crazy things in this country," Pa Jameson said. "Gambling is against the law. If you want to go to a casino you must go to Swaziland or Lesotho or the homelands and we haven't got a lottery either, but the government for some reason, has never banned horse races."

"And the day they do I'm going to emigrate," Grandpa got up. "I'm leaving for the race course in 15 minutes." He looked at his watch. "Today I'll put all my bucks on Golden Harvest. Who is coming?"

As soon as Grandpa's car was out of sight Kim said: "Everything is going according to plan. I was sure they'd all shove off to the race course. Freedom at last!"

"Gee Kim. What are you up to?" I asked.

"Nothing extraordinary really. I just want to get out of this bloody prison for a while. I thought of taking the horses for a ride on the beach."

I looked out of the window. At the bottom of the slope the hazy expanse of the Big Southern Ocean shone in an enticing blue. "Mmh, I guess that speech can still wait a bit."

"Of course it can."

"Just remember that I haven't got a hell of a lot of riding experience," I said.

The maid came in to clear the table.

"Sophie, just go and tell Lukas to saddle Tinkerbell and Skye, please," Kim said to her.

Sophie waddled out.

"Now let's quickly get the glass eye," Kim got up.

"What glass eye? What for?"

"You'll see," Kim grinned.

I followed her to her parents' bedroom. She took a key out of a flowerpot and unlocked a drawer containing other keys, a revolver, a broken silver bracelet and a glass eye with a light blue iris.

_Now I've seen it all. If you want to go horse riding the first thing you get is a glass eye_!

We went back to the dining room and Kim placed the glass eye on the table. "Here we go."

"What are you putting that glass eye on the table for?" I was totally amazed.

"It's for Sophie," Kim said.

"But Sophie's got her own eyes."

"This is a special surveillance eye," Kim grinned. "Sophie thinks it's watching her while we are not here. Without that glass eye she'd drink our booze, pinch our sugar, put her feet up and not do any work."

Tinkerbell was a 15 year old mare, who knew how to slide down the sand dunes on her bum and enjoyed a little laid back gallop in the spent waves. Kim rode as if Skye was an extension of her own body; she had started to ride at the age of 3. When we arrived at the far side of the bay my muscles were aching, and when we got back to the Jamesons' place the insides of my knees were raw. I could hardly get off old Tinkerbell's back.

"This is terrible," I groaned hobbling towards the house. "And it's going to be worse, _ächs_."

"I always thought the Germans are tough as hell," Kim said. "And now one gentle ride on old Tinkerbell takes the steam out of you."

"Boetie, I must have used muscles I didn't even know I had. My whole body is sore. What I need is a hot bath. My gran says that helps to take the surplus lacto acids faster out of your system."

"Oh, all right," Kim said. "And while you are in the bath we better start on your speech, otherwise we'll get nothing done."

We got comfortably organized in the 'girls' bathroom'. I lay up to my neck in hot water, and every now and then I stretched a hand through the layer of jasmine scented foam to grab a piece of _Linzer Torte_ or some other sustenance. Kim was sitting on the toilet a writing pad on her lap, shlurping chocolate milkshake and taking notes. Doodle's kitten snoozed rolled up on a towel somebody had thrown in a corner, and the parrot whistled from the roofbeams.

An hour later Kim put the pen down. "Here we go. I've just..." She let off a yell fit to make the window panes rattle and jumped with a major leap off the toilet.

"Pirate! Where is that blooming parrot?"

"2 spoons of sugar in the rooibos tea," Pirate croaked from the top of the cupboard.

Kim leapt to the bathroom door and threw it open. "Outside you useless bird and you better hurry up." She ran to a shelf, grabbed a feather duster and waved it in the parrot's direction. Pirate screeched like a metal cutter and disappeared into the passage.

"You know what that bloody parrot did?" Kim resumed her seat on the toilet. "He shat right on the notes; the paragraph about Berthold Brecht and Hermann Hesse.

"D'you think it's a sort of sign that one should change it?"

"No ways. We are not going to make more work for ourselves just because of some parrot shit. Are you nervous about that speech or what?"

"No, not really...mebbe a bit...but a long shot from how I felt a couple of months ago when Mr Martin first asked me to do a speech."

"Your English is much better now."

"Ja, and I've got the benefit of real stage experience."

"Good," Kim said. "I reckon we've done enough for today. How are your muscles?"

I shifted around in the hot water. "Much better."

The dogs barked, a hooter went.

"The clan is back," Kim said.

Car doors banged and everybody outside was talking at the same time. Jamie was the first one in the house. "Kim, Kihim."

"We are here," Kim yelled.

Jamie stormed into the bathroom, 3 of the big dogs hot on his heels. "Guess what happened."

"Uh...Golden Harvest got disqualified and Grandpa lost all his bucks," Kim guessed.

"No no no," Jamie shook his head vehemently.

"Grandpa won the jackpot," I said.

"How did you know?" Jamie stared at me.

"Oh, it's written on your forehead."

"Huh?" Jamie looked in the mirror but he couldn't see much because it was all steamed up.

"Jamie man," Kim said, "why do you always take the..."

2 shots went off in the passage. The dogs went bananas. Kim dropped the writing pad. I swallowed a mouthful of foam. Jamie roared with laughter.

"Calm down girls, they are only opening the champagne. We already had some at the race course."

"So you are not taking the piss out of us?" Kim looked at her brother. "Grandpa really won the jackpot?"

"He won the Pick Six," Jamie grinned.

"How much?"

"Have a guess."

"Uh...1500 Rand," Kim speculated.

"Naaaah," Jamie shook his head.

"2157," I said.

"Nope, but you are getting closer."

"Come on, tell us," Kim said impatiently.

Jamie put his index finger on the mirror and wrote: 11.364,26.

"Gee, that's a big one," Kim gasped from the height of her throne.

"Hey girls," Grandpa trumpeted through the house. "Where are you? Come and celebrate with your old grandpa." He stormed into the bathroom, a bottle of sparkly in his hand and the rest of the clan in his wake. "Have some bubbly." He passed me the bottle.

"Grandpa, for a lady you could pour it into a glass," Jamie said.

"As far as ladies are concerned most of them like some privacy in the bathroom," Ma Jameson observed from the door. "Come on Grandpa, leave the girls alone."

"Ah...pardon me...uh, I hadn't even noticed." Grandpa frowned. "Just as a matter of interest Mathilda, what are you doing in the bath anyway – with all these plates of food around you and sheets of paper all over the show?"

"Uh...writing a speech. Hot water...uh... stimulates the circulation in the brain."

"You modern kids," Grandpa shook his head. "All I know is that booze stimulates the circulation in the brain; so keep the bottle and get out of that bath fast, because we are going to have a major celebration."

"Really Grandpa, where?" Coral asked.

"Hm," Grandpa scratched his chin. "First I thought of a larney place like the Blue Dolphin Hotel, but on second thoughts I reckon we would have much more fun at a real down to earth place, like the German Club. Ja," he grinned all over his face, "lekker beer and an ordentlike _Eisbein_ and _Sauerkraut_ , and there is always that oompah band with that fat trombone player blowing his false teeth out."

"And me?" Kim said meekly. "D'you think I can also come?"

"Of course you can, my girl," Grandpa said with spirit. "If your father has any objections I'll disinherit him."

*

"Didn't it make you homesick?" Denzil asked me while he opened his side of the air con in the Chev.

"You mean that German Club thing last night?"

"Ja, that whole German _zack_ _zack, korrekt,_ umpah ambiance."

"Listen Denzil, we are not all the time _zack zack, korrekt_ and oompah. In fact we've got a word, _gemütlich_ , which I don't think can be translated into any other language, really. In English it would be a combination of comfy, friendly, informal...uh...cosy, pleasant, relaxed...and that is exactly like it was last night; and no, it didn't make me homesick. And you know why?" I put my hand on his thigh.

Denzil changed gears and asked: "Why?"

I warbled: "'cause life's a bowl of cherries and I'm much too happy here." I burst out laughing. Denzil put his hand on my knee and squeezed. I wished this moment could last forever. Denzil and I so close and sharing something special.

We turned into Forresters Hill, V.B.'s oldest, larniest suburb; all quiet streets lined by huge trees, wide grassy sidewalks with flower beds and hibiscus bushes, large houses behind high hedges in manicured gardens. Uniformed gardeners were walking pedigreed hounds on long leeches and other gardeners were weeding and watering flowerbeds and sweeping stately drive ways.

"I just want to drop off some stuff here," Denzil turned into a place that looked like a Tudor country estate except for the tropical plants and the tortoises on the lawn. 2 Great Danes stormed towards us and only stopped barking when we got out of the Chev and Denzil talked to them. There was a brass knocker on the front door. A maid in a black uniform with a white apron let us in. Inside, everything looked mighty classy and expensive; antiques and paintings all over the show, and I dug my toes into the splendid thick carpets. The maid led the way to the 'kitchen', an enormous space, where old fashioned utensils and Oregon pine furniture were tastefully combined with the latest gadgets. A kitchen boy was cleaning vegetables and a heavenly smell rose from some big pots on the stove.

"Madam," the maid called, and she said something full of clicks to the kitchen boy.

The Madam came out of what must have been the pantry, and I couldn't believe my eyes. Here was the red haired woman I had seen with Denzil in the Chev the previous day. She looked like out of a Botticelli painting, only more mature, and of course she had some clothes on. Denzil kissed her on the cheek and then he introduced us. "Victoria, meet Mathilda from Germany. Mathilda, this is Victoria my godmother."

_The mystery woman – his godmother_!

I felt like having a laugh attack but I pulled myself together, walked up to Victoria and also kissed her on the cheek. If Victoria was surprised she didn't show it.

Denzil said: "I've got some stuff in the car."

Victoria asked the maid to call Jordan to help carry.

Denzil went with the maid. Victoria stirred some herbs into one of the pots, checked the vegetables the boy had cut and turned to me, a big smile on her face. I grinned back at her, absolutely stunned. This was the first time I experienced a person from a painting moving around in flesh and blood. I was dying to know what Denzil and she had been doing the previous day; something Denzil called 'stuff' and didn't want to talk about to me.

Victoria said: "It's such a beautiful day, let's go out on the stoep _._ "

From the stoep one could see a row of casuarinas trees at the end of the garden, and behind it a stretch of beach and the Indian Ocean. Denzil and a black guy came round the back of the house, each of them carrying a box. They walked along the side of a tennis court, over a big stretch of lawn to a little white washed cottage, surrounded by enormous rhododendrons.

Victoria lit a cigarette and talked about her trips overseas. She had been to just about every country in Europe, except Iceland, where she planned to go in the near future, to see the aurora borealis. She asked me some questions about the status of the Turks in Germany, and, to my total surprise, she was better informed about the subject than I.

_How come a woman living in the lap of luxury at the tip of Africa knows so much about foreign workers in Germany_?

I was highly intrigued.

Denzil joined us and told Victoria that he'd put everything in the little backroom.

"Thank you, Denzil," she smiled at him. "That's very kind of you. Would Mathilda and you like to have lunch with me? You know Alistair is on a business trip in Johannesburg and I would enjoy company, especially yours." She turned to me. "Alistair is my husband. He goes on these business trips at least once a month. It sometimes gets a bit lonely with him and all the kids out of the house."

I looked at Denzil. What did _he_ want?

"You choose, Mathilda," he said. "And with Victoria you don't have to stand on ceremony. You sommer say what you want."

"Ja, I'd like to have lunch here."

_Because Victoria seems to be a highly interesting person...and mebbe I can find out something about Denzil's and her secret_.

"Okay," Denzil said, "that's fine with me."

Victoria smiled and seemed somehow relieved. "Let's see," she glanced at her platinum watch. "It's 10 o'clock now. I have to drop off some clothes at the orphanage and then I want to pop in at Larry's. He is lying in bed with flu, the poor man. And with the speed he reads, he needs a new supply of books every second day. Hm, I'll be back at about 12. Is that okay with you?"

"Ja, perfect," Denzil said. "We wanted to go to the beach anyway."

"Oh, you can go to the beach right here," Victoria said. "And there is the swimming pool and the tennis court, and I've got the latest jazz records in the sun room. Denzil, you know where everything is. Make yourselves at home."

She left in a swish of designer clothes, kissing us both on the cheek as if our presence really made a difference to her.

There was nobody else on the beach. Denzil and I hopped around in the waves, pausing for saltwatery kisses. The triangular sails of a yacht slid past on the horizon and when we got out of the water, a family of cormorants was drying their wings on a barnacle-covered rock. We walked up the beach hand in hand and stopped at the casuarina trees to look at the big Southern Ocean, an endless expanse of dancing blues reflecting the golden lights of the sun.

Denzil's body tensed against mine. "Let's go to the cottage," he whispered.

Goosebumps rose all over my skin. "What for?" But I didn't really need to ask the question. I already knew. I squeezed Denzil's hand and smiled at him, utterly amazed at myself. I knew exactly what I wanted and how to go about it.

We walked up amongst the flower beds. "I just want to get something out of the car," I said.

"Are you by any chance talking about...uh...this?" Denzil pulled a packet of condoms out of his pocket.

"Ja." I never understood why I felt so totally in control.

We walked slowly to the cottage. I felt Denzil against me and I wanted him as close as possible, merge, melt into each other, be one.

Later we chucked the used condom into the ocean like an offering and the current carried it away. I thought of my great-grandmother whose ashes had been dispersed into the sea. Life and death...an endless cycle...and now I felt as a part of it like never before.

Back in the house I checked myself in the mirror – I looked still the same. I thought the hype about the act of becoming a woman was largely exaggerated, but I felt different in my skin, ready to play my part in the world. There was also a new huge smile that welled up from somewhere inside me and radiated through my entire being.

Victoria walked in pale faced and shaking all over. She looked at us with huge eyes, not saying one word, and collapsed into one of the armchairs.

Denzil jumped up and darted towards her. "What's the matter, Victoria?" he put an arm around her. "What happened?"

"The cat...I opened the front door...and there was a dead cat with its innards scattered all over Larry's drive way...it was horrible."

Victoria looked into Denzil's eyes as if there she could find an answer, and Denzil looked back into hers – they were sharing something I didn't know about. I was sure it had something to do with their 'secret'.

_What on earth is it_?

"Is Larry okay?" Denzil sounded really worried.

Victoria bit her lip and sighed.

"Maybe I should get you a drink," Denzil suggested.

"Mmh," Victoria nodded, still biting her lip.

All of a sudden she straightened up. "Make it a double tequila – and forget about the lemon and the salt." She downed her drink one shot, put the glass down with a bang and said: "The bastards."

"That looks more like you," Denzil said. "Full of the fighting spirit."

"The bastards," Victoria said again. "I went to drop off those books at Larry's – he's feeling much better – and we had a good old chat, and when I left, there was...there was...that cat..."

"Shit," Denzil growled.

"How come the guts were all over the place?" I asked.

Denzil and Victoria exchanged another one of those glances.

"Somebody cut the belly open," Victoria said after a couple of seconds of silence.

"Hell," I was shocked. "Who would do something like that, and how did the cat get there?"

Another glance.

"Anybody could have thrown it there from the road." Denzil got up. "I've got some stuff to do. Mathilda, you keep Victoria company." It sounded like an order.

"Denzil, please be careful," Victoria said.

"Of course I'll be careful," Denzil said with an encouraging smile. Then he was gone.

Victoria sat all crumpled up in her chair, her eyes blinking with tears.

_What is going on here_?

I was totally perplexed. Nothing in my so-called education had prepared me for this. But since this morning things had changed. I got up and walked over to Victoria and took her in my arms. She cried and cried and I held her, feeling as old and strong as Mother Earth herself. I knew I could do anything.

When Denzil returned, we were sitting in the sunroom listening to Mozart. Victoria had told me that _The Magical Flute_ was good for her nerves. One of the Great Danes was lying at her feet and sunrays were painting radiant patterns on the potted palms.

"I buried the cat," Denzil said as he sat down next to me. "Everything is all right."

I wondered what these words could possibly mean.

We had a delicious lunch and talked about everything except what interested me most – the cat. Denzil and Victoria exchanged more of their mysterious glances and I started to get irritated. Denzil squeezed my hand and suddenly it dawned on me that for some reason, they were doing it for _me_. They too were dying to discuss the cat, but because I was there, we concentrated on our various travels and the whale that had been stranded on the beach.

I waited until Denzil and I were back on the road. I moved across the wide bench of the Chev until I was sitting so close to him that my knees were underneath the gearshift. "Denzil, can we talk?"

He turned his head. I looked into his eyes and I could see the pain in his face.

"Sometimes it is safer not to know."

"Do you know what it feels like not to know? Denzil, we have shared so much. Why can't you tell me about ...the cat?"

A sigh went through his body and his shoulders slumped.

"Denzil, this whole thing is driving me crazy."

There was another sigh before he slowed down and turned into a sandy track that led down to the beach. He stopped on a windblown, lonely parking spot. He stared out at the ocean and I stared at him.

"You've heard about the _Bantu Education Act_?" he finally asked.

"Ja, it's a special curriculum for black pupils. Most people say it's 'specially adapted to black culture as if it was actually a good thing, but some have told me that it is a curriculum to keep _those_ black kids who _do_ go to school as uneducated as possible. I don't know what to believe. It's like with so many things in this country. You never know where the propaganda stops and where the truth starts, and there is nowhere to check."

"Ja, I know. It must be confusing for somebody who hasn't grown up here and been indoctrinated from the day they were born." Denzil was still staring into the waves. "The long and the short of the _Bantu Education Act_ is that it is a limited curriculum for blacks to condition them to accept an inferior status in life. The government doesn't want them to aspire to anything more than to be labourers and gardeners and mine workers and maids. There is no black person in South Africa who has a superior position to a white, and the Nats – and I think most of the whites – want it to stay that way. There were a few excellent mission schools where black kids used to get a first class education; that was up to 1953 when the _Bantu Education Act_ came in." Denzil turned to me. "Now the Minister of Native Affairs can close black schools where they don't stick to that curriculum."

"What a crazy, destructive place this is...but what has the _Bantu Education Act_ got to do with the cat?"

"A lot," Denzil frowned. "Larry, the guy Victoria visited this morning, is doing his bit to support black schools beyond the official black curriculum. It's totally illegal, of course, and the Special Branch of the police has probably been watching him for a while. The cat was a warning. They do that every now and then. Strangle 'traitors'' dogs and hang them on the letter box, drive past the 'enemy's' house and shoot a couple of window panes out..."

Goosebumps crept up the back of my neck. "Denzil, if the Special Branch is watching Larry then they've seen you go to his place." Even though I was sitting I felt my knees going wobbly. "Are they...are they also watching you?"

"No," he replied with something that was meant to be a reassuring grin.

"And Victoria?"

"No ways." He squeezed my thigh. "They concentrate on the heavy guys. They can't watch every visitor. They haven't got the work force."

The next day I had Kim stay over after school. On Grandpa's lucky day Kim's gating had been lifted with the do at the German Club and things were back to normal. Shit shot Dougie got away Scot free because the Jamesons never laid a charge against him. We spent the afternoon polishing my speech.

"Here we go. Final sentence. Finished." Kim threw the pen over her shoulder. It landed on Doodles who took off like a shot.

"Hell Kim, have you got Russian ancestors or what? Because the Russians also throw things over their shoulders, 'specially glasses after they've finished a drink."

"As far as I know my ancestors came from Scotland and Austria with a couple of French thrown in."

I gathered my speech, which was scattered all over the table. "What do you know about the Special Branch?"

"Huh? The Special Branch?" Kim scratched her head. "They catch communists and Russians and subversive blacks and protect the country from underground movements and stuff."

In the evening I asked Ludwig. He put his sailing magazine down and said: "All I know is that the Special Branch was created to deal with political dissidents and that you don't want to get on the wrong side of them because they've got unlimited power."

All of a sudden a thought shot crystal clear through my mind: the brick at Denzil's place the other day – it hadn't been thrown by rebellious kids or by a neighbour who didn't like Kaffirboeties; that brick had been a warning – like the cat!

At the painting competition Julie got the third prize for her Chagallistic oeuvre 'A Real Mensch'.

"Looks like the jury is more into conservative stuff," I said to Ludwig while Julie, with a forced smile, collected a food hamper worth a 100 Rand.

The winner, a Mrs Delia Jackman, had produced a not very inspiring conventional landscape 'View from Settlers' Cross towards the Olifant Hills'. She pressed her voucher for 2 plane tickets to Paris to her stately bosom and kept on saying: "I don't believe it, I don't believe it."

The second prize, a booze hamper worth 200 Rand, went to Commander Gerry Hewitt for 'The Seventh Wave at Seagull Reef'. After the final thank you from the chairman of the V.B. Art Society to 'Johnson, Peter and Sons, Leaders in Leatherware', who had donated some of the prizes, everybody went for drinks and snacks to the tea garden of the museum. The tea garden was situated in and around the former mews of the property. In the museum pamphlet they were described as a magnificent example of the transition from Victorian to Edwardian architecture.

I went for a stroll through the museum to have a look at some art. The V.B. collection consisted of 3 paintings by English artists, a portrait of Henry the Navigator by somebody unknown and 2 water paints showing barges on the Seine by the French painter A. Douay, who had stopped over in V.B. during his circumnavigation in 1968. There were also some expressive animal paintings by one John Smith who had arrived in Southern Africa with the 1820 settlers.

When I joined the crowd in the tea garden, Julie had nearly digested the fact that she hadn't won the prize to Paris. She passed me a glass of guava juice and said: "Pity you didn't exhibit yourself, Mathilda," referring to my blubsh some time ago.

Ha ha

Instead of participating in the painting competition I had concentrated on Denzil – and I still didn't know what was going on in his life, nor what kind of 'stuff' he was busy with, even like this morning and every Saturday since we had met.

I drank my juice and went back to the exhibition. Puppies sleeping in their basket, a ship arriving in the harbour, the town hall in early morning light, kids playing on the beach, granny on her riempie chair...nothing depicting flying bricks and strangled cats.

*

The following Saturday Denzil again had 'stuff' to do and everybody else was busy as well. Julie had taken the kids to a birthday party, Ludwig was in the book shop and Kim and her clan were spending the weekend in Durban, mainly because Grandpa wanted to go to the races there.

The house was empty, except for Nohandbag, who was cleaning the kitchen. Alpheus had got himself arrested again, for drunken vagrancy; this time he had pinched one of Ludwig's special bottles of mampoer. Julie said it was about time to fire the guy for good, and, in an outburst of anger, Ludwig agreed with her – for about half an hour. Then he said this was Africa after all, and that Alpheus worked quite well on the boat when he put his mind to it, and to start all over again to teach a new guy naval terminology and how to use a saw just wasn't worth it, because there was no guarantee that the next guy would be any better. "That's why these blacks get away with their crap," Ludwig mumbled. "Because chances are that the next guy is just the same or even worse than the one who is causing you all the trouble."

I wrote a letter to Friederieke and put a newspaper article about muti murders in it. Several corpses had been found around Tzaneen. Some of their organs and body parts were missing, a sure indication of muti murders because witchdoctors used organs and body parts to make medicine.

Before I closed the letter I contemplated for half a minute mentioning Denzil to Friederieke, but then I didn't. In a way Denzil was my secret, even Kim didn't know much about him. Talking about Denzil would be like revealing a side of me that I didn't quite know myself yet.

There were no stamps in the house so I got my bike out of the garage to go to the post office. A fresh breeze was blowing in from the sea. A tinge of autumn lay in the air. The days were shorter now and the dazzling glare of the summer had changed to a silvery light, which was still a lot brighter than the strongest German summer sun. The post office near the Chinese shop was closed for renovations. Shit! Now I had to go all the way to the main post office in town – and the wind was getting stronger by the minute. I nearly turned round but then I thought, what the hell it's only downhill and I can catch a ride back with Ludwig in the car. I took the Old Ontdekkers Road, which went in several huge curves down the hill. Some of V.B.'s affluent suburbs were sprawled at my feet, roofs of various colours and the blue eyes of swimming pools shining between the shades of green of a million trees. In the location between the airport and the railway line there were hardly any trees, only rows upon rows of identical little houses and stacks of people going about their business in the sandy streets. The poor white suburb on the other side of the airport didn't look much better. Round the bend V.B.'s futuristic looking sports stadium came into sight – and the wind hit me with full force. I could see the CBD at the bottom of the hill. Somewhere, in amongst its ugly concrete towers was the main post office.

_Hells bells, with this wind I'll never make it there_.

I struggled on but it was absolutely pointless. A heavy gust nearly blew me into the vegetation.

Phhhh

I got off the bike and pushed. A bit further down a road turned into some kind of industrial area. It didn't look very inviting with its unkempt warehouses and heaps of rusty junk, but the road pointed roughly into the direction I wanted.

_Mebbe it's a shortcut_.

I decided to take it.

The area looked quite deserted. Lots of the sheds seemed to be locked up. Maybe because it was Saturday. I couldn't see anybody else in the road, but then, I couldn't see so well anyway, because the wind was whipping sand and dust into my eyes. The CBD was still miles away and I wished I had stayed at home. I trundled on past a mosque, which looked completely out of place in these surroundings. Suddenly I felt moisture between my legs.

_Du lieber Himmel_. _This is not my lucky day_.

A lorry rumbled past and I waited until it was out of sight before I stuck my hand in my brooks.

Phhhh

My period had started. The only good thing was that I had had the foresight to put a tampon in my bag. I looked around for a place where a person could have some privacy. I wanted to stick in that tampon as soon as possible and especially before I hit the more crowded parts of town again. There was a dead dog in the gutter and no spot with a guarantee that one couldn't be caught with one's pants down. God only knew who was hiding in the bushes or glancing through the windows of empty looking warehouses, or when the next lorry would materialize. There was only one thing to do: keep on pushing.

I was already half way down the hill and a little trickle of blood had started at the top of my thigh, when the door of a building opened. A middle-aged lady carried a miniature Doberman down some steps and put him on the ground. I shot towards the lady and asked, if there was a toilet I could use.

"Certainly. Go straight down the passage into the back yard. It's there on the right hand side, you can't miss it."

I put my bike in the passage, came past some deserted offices and a little kitchen and opened the back door. The toilet was there all right with LOO painted in big blue letters on its wall. I sprinted some paces towards it...and stopped dead in my tracks. Denzil's Chev was standing on the far side of the yard next to a clapped out 4 poster bed. I instantly forgot about my period.
_What on earth is Denzil doing in this weird place_?

I had to find out. I looked around me. There was no living soul in sight, except for some pigeons sitting on the roof of the huge warehouse on the other side of the yard.

_Mebbe he's in there_.

I took a deep breath and slowly crossed the yard. For the life of me I couldn't imagine what to expect, and I wasn't too sure if Denzil would be pleased to see me. There were no windows on this side of the warehouse, only a big roll up gate. It was locked. I went around the corner, onto a dilapidated concrete path squeezed in between a high wall with barbed wire on top and the long side of the warehouse. There were some burglar-barred windows. I hesitated.

_Will Denzil believe that this is all one huge coincidence? Mebbe he'll think I'm snooping_.

The pigeons took off from the roof with a mighty flutter. I nearly had a heart attack.

_I can still turn around and just walk away_.

But I knew that I wouldn't. I wanted to know what Denzil was up to every Saturday when he had 'stuff' to do.

_Why the hell has he got secrets from me in the first place? I've got a right to know_.

The windows hadn't been cleaned for years. Dust and grime covered the paint-splattered panes and generations of spiders had left their webby traces. I stuck my nose against a pane and saw a dim, cave-like space divided by decks into different levels, without any recognizable system. The decks were of various shapes and sizes, connected by rickety metal stairs and landings. The joint looked like one humongous labyrinth and was filled up to the rafters with furniture of all imaginable styles.

_A furniture depot_!

No trace of Denzil. Another 6 windows to the end of the wall. I moved on cautiously – there could be people around who wouldn't be pleased to see a stranger. There was more furniture all over the show, second hand stuff, kitschy, ugly and cheap, with a goodly lot of fitness contraptions thrown in and a whole range of wheelchairs that looked like invalids themselves. At window number 3 it looked like someone was moving between 2 rows of bar stools. I jumped back behind the wall.

_Jeepers creepers_.

When I felt brave enough to look again, the only things in motion were particles of dust glittering in a lonely sunray. At the second last window I was sure I heard voices. I strained my ears – silence.

_Phhh. I'm going bloody bonkers. One more window and I'm out of here. Looks like Denzil isn't here anyway. He's probably lent the Chev to somebody to haul furniture around_.

The thought that this expedition would be over in a couple of minutes gave me some spring back into my step. For some reason window number 6 was a bit cleaner than the others. I took a closer look... and froze. In amongst piled up chests of drawers, rusty bedsteads and other junk stood, like a little island, a group of non matching tables, and sitting on just as unmatching chairs, about 20 black kids were bent over books.

_Gosh. They are running a school here_!

A black lady wrote something on a blackboard...and there was Denzil, his back turned towards me, getting a box out of a shelf.

_This school must be totally illegal. That's why Denzil never wants to talk about what he is doing on Saturdays_.

Nobody had spotted me – yet.

_I better get away, chop chop_.

I shot a last glance at this unexpected scene when Denzil turned round and looked straight at me.

_Oyoyoy. Too late_.

Denzil came down the path with a frown on his face. "Mathilda, what are you..." Suddenly his chin dropped and his face turned pale. I thought he had seen somebody coming up behind me and looked over my shoulder. There was nobody.

"Good heavens, Mathilda. What happened to you?"

I followed his eyes down to my shorts. They were stained with blood. Denzil looked highly worried.

"It's nothing," I said quickly. "It's only my period."

"Oh...okay," Denzil grinned with relief. "I've got my swimming trunks in the car. You can put them on."

He gave me a hug and then his frown reappeared. "Mathilda, what on earth are you doing here? How do you know about this place?"

"Denzil, it sounds crazy but until 15 minutes ago I didn't know anything about this place. I was on my way to the post office..." I told him the whole story.

He sighed and didn't seem too happy, but he only said: "Ok, let's get you out of here. I'll take you home."

While I got changed in the loo Denzil loaded my bike on the Chev.

"That looks better," he said when I joined him again. "I'm just quickly going inside to organize things. You can wait in the car."

_No ways_!

"Can't I come with you?"

"Mathilda," he sighed exasperated. "It's not safe for you to be here. The less you get involved the better."

"But I _am_ here anyway, and I've seen that you run some kind of school. Why can't I go in there with you for just 5 minutes to have a closer look? Hell, do you know what Saturdays have been like for me since we met? All I knew was that you had always 'stuff' to do. I'm sick and tired of all this secretiveness."

Denzil, completely surprised by my outburst, said: "You don't realize how dangerous this is. We are in South Africa, a totalitarian state. I don't want you to get into trouble."

"We are sharing so much and this thing is part of your life. Don't you think I've got a right to know?" I was getting worked up. "I'm not stupid. I've put 2 and 2 together. That brick through the window at your house was a serious warning...and I guess there is some connection between this school and Victoria and the guy with the dead cat. Can you imagine what it is like to have weird stuff going on around you without anybody ever telling you anything? Just put yourself in my skin for a moment. If this school is at the bottom of everything I want to see it."

Denzil sighed again. "I sort of feel responsible for you," he said finally. "I'd rather keep you out of this." He bit his lip. "On the other hand...if it really eats you up..."

I grabbed his hand before he could change his mind.

Denzil shrugged his shoulders. "All right."

We entered the warehouse through a fire door. There was a smell of dust and mildew and it was even more chaotic than it looked from the outside. The roof was rattling in the storm, some birds' nests sat on the rafters, a mouse ran across a pile of drawers and disappeared in the cushions of a rattan chair. Denzil led the way through the labyrinth without hesitating once. We stepped through a gap between several old fashioned cupboards...into the 'classroom'. All the kids turned their heads towards us. Most of the younger ones smiled, but I got the impression that some of the older pupils scrutinized me with mistrust. Denzil made a thumbs up sign to the black lady I had seen from the outside. She said something full of clicks and the kids returned to their work. The lady looked vaguely familiar but I couldn't place her. She came over to us and Denzil said to me: "This is Agnes. You've met before." Suddenly the penny dropped. She was one of the 3 blacks who had been at Denzil's place when the brick came flying through the window. I looked at Agnes' face. She had a scar across her cheek. She greeted me with an enormous smile and then turned to Denzil. "I'm telling a story to the little ones. Your group is still busy with the experiment."

"Ok," Denzil nodded. "Mathilda, I guess you don't mind if I finish the experiment before we go."

"No no, not at all. Can I watch?"

On one of the tables stood a cardboard model depicting houses of various sizes. It looked like straight out of Denzil's architecture department. Also on the table was a wooden block, with a broomstick pointing vertically to the roof set in it. Fixed to the broomstick was a transparent pipe running all the way from the top down to the 'street level' of the model. From there the pipe branched out and each branch went up along a wall to the top floor of a house.

"All right," Denzil said to his pupils. "Have you put the colouring into the water?"

"Ja," the kids nodded eagerly.

They were quite a mixed group, boys and girls between the ages of about 10 to maybe 18 – some older than myself – dressed in their every day garb of well worn, non matching, ill fitting clothes.

Denzil grabbed a funnel and stuck it in the transparent pipe. "Hlubi, do you want to pour?" One of the bigger girls nodded. Denzil gave her a mug and she carefully poured the reddish water into the funnel.

"Ok guys," Denzil said. "This is our water tower. What can you see?"

"The water, she is running down the pipe," a tall thin boy observed.

"That's right," Denzil said. "What else?"

"The water, she is running fast," a girl with beads in her hair said.

They went on for a while until one of the girls hit the jackpot. "That water, she climbs to the same height in all the houses."

"Very good Nomonde," Denzil said.

The girl beamed.

"Now let's talk about why the water rises to the same level everywhere." Denzil began to explain the principles of pressure and gravity. The kids hung on his every word.

Agnes came over and asked me if I could help with the little ones. The little ones, aged between about 6 and 10, were as mixed a group as the big ones.

"I've just told them one of our Xhosa stories. It's about how the monkeys got long tails and the dassies got no tails at all," Agnes explained. "You know Mathilda, these children are taught nothing about their own culture in the state schools. How can they ever be proud of who they are when they don't even know where they come from."

The kids were now busy drawing wavy lines with crayons on pages of old newspapers.

"You know Mathilda, most of these children have never seen a crayon or used a pair of scissors before they came here. They are not like the white children who grow up with these things."

We distributed scissors to the kids and Agnes explained to them how to cut along a wavy line.

"Just help them a bit, will you?" Agnes said to me. "We are trying to familiarize the children with these basic things to make it easier for them to catch up with the rest of the world."

I helped to thread small thumbs and index fingers through scissor handles and watched a little boy so fascinated by a crayon, that he kneaded it until it was soft with the warmth of his hands. When everybody had cut their wavy lines, I rejoined the big ones.

Denzil was saying: "...and that is why water always finds its own level."

"In the location we haven't got a tap in the house," a boy observed. "The women go and fetch water at the tap in the street."

"I've seen a tap in the kitchen of my mother's Madam," a girl said. "Hot and cold water! When I'm grown up I also want a house with taps and hot and cold water, and I want a green car and a husband who wears a suit and works in an office like my mother's Master."

"I want as much pap and vleis as I can eat and a bottle of coke every day," a skinny boy said.

"I want 100 fat cattle and 4 wives and a lot of children."

"I want to be a soccer star."

"I want to be white."

"And I want my freedom."

I wondered if any of these kids would ever get their freedom. Probably not. Except if the lid blew off the pressure cooker within the next couple of decades.

I suddenly realized how little I knew about black people. As a white person one only ever saw them as maids, gardeners and labourers, out of their own environment.

The closest I had ever come to something like an African context was the black village on the Saida farm, and even there the white guys called the shots. It was always _them_ and _us_.

I looked at these kids and tried to imagine what lay ahead for them – lives as underdogs supplying cheap labour, kept apart in townships and homelands. I looked at Denzil totally on fire for teaching these kids and a wave of admiration for him hit me.

_What a great guy! One of the few who do something really meaningful with their lives. Kick the Nats in the knaters! Give a black kid a chance_!

Suddenly I could understand.

_It's worth it even if it means bricks flying through your windows and dead cats on your drive way_.

I couldn't't wait to join him and become part of it.

To get out of the warehouse yard, Denzil and I had to wait until the lady with the dog had checked the street for Special Branch guys. "I don't think they are watching us," Denzil said. "But one never knows." He told me to sit on the floor of the Chev and to keep my head down. "It's better nobody sees you."

The car seat pressed into my ribs and my left shoulder banged on the underside of the dashboard. It was the most uncomfortable ride of my life – and also one of the best. I pressed Denzil's calf and he grinned at me; he had shared his secret with me and I had a new purpose in life. We hadn't discussed it yet but I knew we would do fantastic things together.

My host family was still out. Nohandbag had gone to her room for her lunch break. The dogs greeted us wagging their tails and Doodles, stretched out on the kitchen table, opened a sleepy eye when we walked in. I gave Denzil a beer out of the fridge and took a mango juice for myself. We went to my room. I sat on the bed with my feet on Denzil's lap. He was sitting in an armchair opposite me. We took some sips in silence. Denzil caressed my feet.

"Now you've seen our...school," he said finally. "We call it _iSkolo_ ...Xhosa for school. So, what do you think?"

"Gee Denzil, I think it's absolutely amazing. Who are those kids? What do you teach them? How many teachers have you got?" I was bursting with questions.

Denzil put his beer down. "Before I tell you anything you must promise me to never ever mention a word about this to anybody."

"Of course not."

"Not even to the Winters or your friends or your family at home."

"I won't."

"All right," Denzil said stroking my feet. "Iskolo was started about 3 years ago by people you don't know. They organized courses on African culture – music, painting, history, literature – to give black kids from the townships a sense of identity and also the opportunity to express themselves. You know Mathilda, the townships are places that are generally not exactly conducive to creativity, although fantastic artists have come out of them, and some of these youngsters just shrivel up and die inside."

Outside, the storm was shaking the leaves off the trees and raindrops hit the window.

"I joined iSkolo last year and now we are also teaching normal school subjects after hours."

I was glued to Denzil's lips. "Do you teach them stuff that is not in the _Bantu Education Act_ curriculum?"

"Ja."

"And who exactly are these kids?"

"Anybody from the townships is welcome. Some kids only come a couple of times, others have been there right from the start."

"And I guess it's completely illegal."

"Ja," Denzil admitted. "Since I joined we've already moved 3 times. We got tip offs that the Special Branch was hot on our heels, but we got away every time."

"Hell Denzil, it must be totally nerve wrecking."

"It sure doesn't get boring," he grinned.

Denzil didn't seem too keen to tell me more about the school. He kept on talking about converting the Chev into a camper van and going scuba diving in Mozambique.

I still had lots of questions. "I see Agnes is teaching at iSkolo. Are the 2 guys who were with her at your place also involved?"

"We've got 5 sort of main teachers who take turns," Denzil said evasively.

"Mmh. And where do you get money from?"

"Donations. We don't need much. Everybody works on a voluntary basis and we don't have to pay rent. We spend a bit on books, paint and beads and stuff like that. Our biggest expense is for food."

"Food?"

"Ja, each child gets a peanut butter sandwich and a mug of milk every time they come. Some of them don't get much else to eat."

"I think you guys are doing a fantastic job."

After that I went into the bathroom to wash my shorts and I had a shower – hot and cold water out of a tap! I dried myself wondering in what capacity I could be useful to iSkolo.

_Mebbe teach geometry. I always liked geometry_.

I went back into my room to put some clothes on.

"That's what I like about you, Mathilda," Denzil grinned from my bed. He was lying there without even having taken off his takkies, propped up with cushions, a few _National Geographic_ s strewn around him. "Any South African chick would wrap a towel around herself but you just walk around kaalgat...and you look absolutely gorgeous."

"Thanks for the compliment." I put my hands on my hips and pirouetted around. "You don't look bad either even when you're dressed." I jumped on top of him shaking with laughter.

"Oh yes, come...come," Denzil grabbed me.

"No no, one kiss and then I'll put some clothes on. Julie and the kids or Ludwig can come home any minute."

We shared a long embrace, breaking it up reluctantly before we got too stirred up.

"Would you make love to me when I've got my period?" I asked. Apparently some guys and girls got switched off by the prospect.

"Ja, of course I would. I haven't got a problem with that. And you?"

"I haven't got a problem either." It was the first time I was confronted with the issue – with Denzil around I'd soon find out.

I put on some jeans and a sweatshirt. "Denzil, iSkolo is really a great place. It's so different from other schools. One can see that the kids enjoy being there but there is one thing I found really weird."

"What's that?"

"While I was there none of these kids asked a question. I mean how can they learn anything if they don't ask questions?"

"So you noticed," Denzil said a bit astounded. He sat up on the bed and leaned against the wall. "It's a cultural difference. In black society kids are not supposed to ask questions. If they do, they are regarded as disrespectful. We would like the kids to ask questions all the time, but we can't teach them behaviour that will make them outsiders in their own society."

"But how can anybody grow up without asking questions? Every child asks questions."

"It's just a different approach to bringing up children. The white man's way is not the only way, and that's the first thing we have to understand if we all want to live together in a free society one day." He put the magazines on the floor and said: "Come."

I snuggled up next to him.

_If only we could stay like this forever...close...safe_ ...

"Anybody at home?" Ludwig yelled through the house, interrupting my rêverie.

I let off a whistle, which after weeks of practice was nearly as good as his.

Ludwig stuck his head through the open door and greeted us with a hearty grin. "Saw your car outside, pal," he said to Denzil. "If you guys want some grub there is fish and chips from the Greek." He turned round to go, changed his mind and said: "If you guys need more condoms let me know."

*

On Sunday, Denzil had an important architectural project to do. I went to the Yacht Club with Ludwig and Joshua and the improved _Spray II._

The club house had changed quite a lot in the last months. The floor was tiled, all the walls shone with white wash and were decorated with sailing trophies. The stoep had a roof and walls going up to convert it into an office.

Sam, the architect, greeted us standing on the bar counter from where he was checking on something. "Guess what," he said between 2 puffs on his pipe.

"The harbour master has finally decided to close us down," Steve, the stocky restaurant owner, said.

"Don't be so negative," Sam said. "It's actually splendid news. It's got to do with a case of brandy."

"We got an official booze license," Ludwig guessed.

Steve frowned. "Didn't even know we applied for one."

"We didn't," Sam said, "but I reckon my news calls for a celebration, so get a couple of beers out of the fridge."

He kept us in suspense until everybody was supplied with a drink.

"You know what, Sam," Ludwig said, "why don't you come to the theatre for our next audition? I'm sure you'd make an excellent actor."

"The whole world is my stage," Sam grinned from the height of the bar counter. "Listen up guys," he raised his bottle. "I herewith proudly announce that the V.B. Yacht Club will be connected to the municipal electricity next week. Hip hip hooray!" He threw his head back and gulped down big schlucks of beer.

"Good show," Ludwig said. "Our little old generator wasn't always quite up to the job."

"I only believe it when I see it," Steve said. "That grumpy old harbour master never wanted a yacht club in the first place. Don't let people have fun has always been his motto. Why should he be cooperative all of a sudden?"

"That's where the case of brandy comes in," Sam said.

"But the old boy is an obedient member of the Kerk and doesn't drink," Steve pointed out.

"And the chief harbour electrician likes his dop better than anything else," Sam observed. "He wanted a case of brandy, he got it, and I don't ask any questions. It's his indaba now to get organized.

Heidewitzka! What else can one get for a case of brandy in this country?

"If he really does connect us up, he'll probably extort a case of brandy from us every month," Steve grumbled. He pointed to several bulging plastic packets. "Has anybody seen Gordon? I brought some grub for his animals."

"He's probably trying to fix up that sinking tub of his." Sam descended from the countertop. I offered to give him a hand yesterday and I wanted to lend him one of our black guys to do the heavy stuff, but Gordon refuses any help."

Steve took his glasses off and wiped them on his shirt. "Gordon won't make old bones. Mark my words; he's bound to drown in his sleep while his boat is sinking."

We spent most of the day on Sam's boat. It was called _Hakuna Matata_ , No Problem, in Swahili. While we motored out of the harbour Joshua explained to me that _Hakuna Matata_ was a 26 foot Bermudan rigged cutter.

Ludwig showed me 3 knots: a clove hitch, which can come in useful in lots of situations in life; a reef knot, which is used to reef a sail and a bowline.

There was quite a breeze blowing and the waves had white crests. We went for 15 minutes straight towards Antarctica and then turned parallel to the coast. I felt like one of those early explorers. There was only the sea and beaches, bush and mountains and us. Space seemed unlimited and civilization far away.

"Now you take the tiller," Sam said to me after a while.

I steered the little boat through the big ocean.

"You've got a grin on your face as if you like what you are doing," Ludwig smiled.

"This is great. I absolutely love it."

Ludwig spotted a school of dolphins. A group of pelicans in V formation soared effortlessly above a river mouth. By the time Sam suggested to have something to eat I was totally ravenous. Fortunately the rolls were already buttered; otherwise, without the trace of a doubt, it would have been my job to butter them, because I was the only female on board.

"Mathildaaa, your lover is here," Greta yelled through the house.

I grabbed my raincoat and raced to the Chev. By the time I got there half of me was sopping wet. The rain came down like a curtain. The windscreen wipers could hardly keep up.

"Quite a storm," Denzil said after he'd kissed me. "Out our way the lightning hit the power line." He drove past the Chinese shop and turned into the road to Victoria's plush suburb. All the cars had their lights on and were crawling. For once there weren't any blacks selling newspapers at the robots. Denzil told me all about his varsity project and then asked: "And how was your day?"

"Fine. I spent the third afternoon in a row painting Easter eggs with my host siblings. I'd never have thought they'd be so persevering."

"They are great kids," Denzil said.

"Ja, I know. They are a great family. I am really lucky."

"They are a total exception. I guess you've got the only host parents in this country, who supply their exchange daughter with condoms. Lesser mortals would freak out."

"Talking about kids," I said, "what could I do for iSkolo? I thought mebbe I could teach the basics of reading and writing to the little ones. I'm also quite good in geometry..."

"Mathilda, you've seen iSkolo and that's it. You are _not_ going to get involved."

"But I want to. I bet you can do with every bit of help you can get, and at the moment I haven't anything to do anyway."

"Hell Mathilda, that school isn't some airy fairy pastime for people who haven't got anything to do."

"But I really want to help those kids," I said hurt.

"You don't realize how dangerous it is. I've told you before, South Africa is a totalitarian state. If you get involved in subversive stuff anything can happen."

"Denzil, if you can do it, why can't I?"

"Because I've lived here since I was born and I know how to move in this society...oh gosh! Look at that!"

At the bottom of the hill, a tall palm tree hit by lightning exploded into a fireball. We travelled on in silence. The rain abated, burning pieces fell off the palm tree. Land, sea and sky melted into one dark boiling emptiness. It looked like I felt inside. For the first time in my life I could do something meaningful and it looked like I wouldn't get a chance. Hell, damn and blast.

At the big bend where the little stone chapel stood, Denzil put his hand on my knee. "I've been thinking. There are 2 things you can do for us."

"Oh ja," I was thrilled. "What?"

"Number one, you come with me to my pal Vincent's farm. I'm taking some stuff there for his little farm school. It's a totally harmless trip. Fortunately it isn't a crime yet to haul some boxes of pens and some old typewriters across the country. There won't be any danger, but you could keep up the morale of the driver and make it look like a lovers' trip." He squeezed my thigh.

"Wow, I'd love to come. I'm sure the Winters won't object."

"Of course they won't...and Ludwig will supply you with an extra large box of condoms."

We burst out laughing.

"And what's the second thing?"

"You could help make sandwiches."

"What?"

"You know, sandwiches for the kids of iSkolo. Wendy, who has taken on the job, stays close to your school.

That's how I became the most dedicated sandwich maker in the country.

Victoria was throwing a little party before going off to Paris. She had invited her daughter Catherine, Denzil and me, Harriet and Larry, the guy with the disembowelled cat. Victoria's husband Alistair had to attend an important business meeting and was going to join us later.

It was supposed to be just a simple do, but a simple do for Victoria meant caviar, champagne, crayfish and the whole tootie. 2 blacks in white uniforms hovered around us, offering snacks, refilling glasses and serving at the table. It was all very tastefully done with lit candles in silver candelabras, and classical music floating through the rooms. We talked mainly about travelling, the arts and Paris. I was amazed to hear that everybody had been there – except me.

Victoria was planning to eat some wild duck _au Chambertin_ in that 'charming little restaurant' in the rue des Belles Feuilles, and she wanted to go and see her favourite portraits by Velasquez in the Louvre. Denzil said there was nothing to beat _The Kiss_ by Klimt and everybody smiled.

"You'll never believe what old Lovemore did today," Larry said over coffee.

Everybody looked at him expectantly.

Larry put his cup down. "This morning I dropped off my car for a general service at the General Motors garage in Duncan Street. A colleague of mine was supposed to pick me up but he didn't pitch, so I went into the GM dealer and had a look at the new Chevrolets. In walks Lovemore with a suitcase in his hand and a big smile all over his face. He goes straight into the manager's office and 20 minutes later comes out with an even bigger grin and the manager at his side. The manager looks utterly non plussed. Lovemore greets me and asks if I'm waiting for something; I tell him about my lift and he says, I can have a lift with him. We walk through the exhibition hall and Lovemore stops in front of that brand new, top of the range Constantia and says: "Here we are, jump in." I think he is joking but the manager opens the door for him and wishes him all the best and safe travelling and so on, and off we go in that splendid vehicle. We have a marvellous ride with a little detour towards Cape Town, just for the hell of it, and then he drops me off. I thank him for the lift and he says: "You know what I had in that suitcase?" Of course I don't and he tells me: "It was full of bank notes; I bought this car cash."

Everybody clapped their hands and laughed and said things like: "Lovemore deserves it, I just wish more of them could do it."

I asked: "Who is this Lovemore?"

Harriet smiled and said: "Lovemore Nyati, a black businessman from the township."

While the others had cognac, Catherine and I went up to the top floor of the house to have a look at V.B. at night. The rain had stopped and a silvery moon hung between the clouds. The luminous strip of the town stretched along the bay, and out on the water the lights of some ships shone like a string of pearls.

Catherine told me how the town had grown since she had been a kid. Back then there hadn't been half the lights you could see now. We talked about dolphins and antiques and that Victoria would have a great time in Paris.

"I'm glad she's going away for a while," Catherine said. "It'll give us all some time to relax."

"Oh." I wondered what she was talking about. Probably a family matter.

"Ever since I was a little girl I was worried about my mother."

"Oh."

"Of course I only started to understand when I was about 10 years old."

"Huh?"

"You know Mathilda, the number of times I had nightmares that my mom wouldn't be there anymore in the morning..."

I just waited for more.

"And then of course there was always that suitcase...still is..."

_Everybody is talking about suitcases tonight_.

"Uh...what suitcase?"

Catherine lit a cigarette and took a deep puff. "Well, the packed black suitcase is the one she wants to take if the Special Branch arrests her." Catherine took another puff. "You know Mathilda, I've always admired women who have the guts to join the Black Sash, but it can really put an enormous strain on their families."

Victoria's husband Alistair only arrived when we were leaving. He was a big, grey haired man with glasses and a jovial nature. He kissed the ladies' hands, told a witty joke or 2 and persuaded everybody to stay for another drink.

On our way home I asked Denzil what Alistair was doing in life.

"He has a die casting factory. Makes alternator cases and handles for cars and fridges..."

"Seems to be quite a lucrative business."

Denzil looked at me for a second and then turned his eyes back onto the road. "It's not really supposed to be general knowledge," he said slowly, "but Alistair has got a contract for war material."

"War material! For what war?"

"Angola, Rhodesia, Mozambique."

"So he earns his bucks by making hand grenades and stuff like that?"

"Ja."

It took me a couple of minutes to digest that. "But that means Victoria is in the Black Sash fighting the government and at the same time it's government money paying for her lifestyle, trips to Paris and all."

"Ja."

"Hell Denzil, I don't know what to think anymore."

Denzil shrugged.

"And why doesn't the government klap Alistair because of her subversive activities?"

"I haven't got a clue."

I gave my speeches at the school and at the Rotary Club. It was no big deal. Maybe I was growing in confidence, or I had too many other things to think about – the trip with Denzil to Vincent's farm for example. Ludwig and Julie thought it was an excellent idea for me to go there; I would see a beautiful part of the country.

First there was the Easter weekend. In good German tradition I bought chocolate eggs for everybody and hid them all over the show in the house and in the garden. I hadn't reckoned with the dogs. By the time my host family was ready to start the big search, Clochard and Schnappsi had found most of the Easter eggs already.

*

Denzil came to fetch me early in the morning. Greta said it wasn't fair that I could go on a trip during the term. Ludwig consoled her saying that one day, when she was an exchange student, she would also enjoy privileges like that.

"I'll still have something like 9 years to wait," Greta was not impressed.

I wedged my rucksack between boxes and the spare wheel on the back of the Chev. Nohandbag had prepared an enormous padkos basket for us. I took it to the front and put it next to me on the bench, towards the passenger door – nothing between Denzil and me!

It was a fresh, sparkly day. The sun was quickly climbing above the silvery ocean. The road followed the coast for a while and then turned into the bush-covered hills. We spotted monkeys and hares and a caracal. Denzil said he'd never seen one in the wild before. We stopped at a small waterfall and had some biltong and sandwiches. Dassies were sitting on rocky ledges and more monkeys appeared out of the bush and raced along the river. Denzil told me that all the black schools in the country were in desperate need of material. "Just imagine, last year the Ministry of Education sent one single syringe as the 'total material' for science for 4 black high schools."

I thought it was great to be involved in a project to make the world a better place, and I was over the moon to be with Denzil.

We hit the road again. Mile after mile of bush. The vastness of Africa never ceased to astound me.

"Did Ludwig provide you with a big box of condoms?" Denzil asked with a wink.

"Ja," I laughed. "2 boxes."

We turned into a dirt road meandering down to a wide river. In a little dorpie, consisting of a hotel, a bottle store, a general dealer and a couple of houses, Denzil said: "We better buy Vincent a dop."

Vincent, Denzil's friend, had dropped out of university, got married and sired 2 kids in 10 months. He was going to be our host.

On the parking lot of the hotel 3 labourers were leaning on their brooms while the wind blew heaps of leaves apart. Next to a weed infested flowerbed, 2 gardeners were leaning on their rakes. Inside the off-sales 2 maids leaned on brooms and chatted with loud voices, while the boss, seated in a pink armchair, was reading the newspaper.

_Looks like a laid back place_ ...

We bought a bottle of cane and a case of beer and left the dorp in a cloud of dust. It felt like going to the end of the world.

"Have you ever been to Vincent's place before?"

Denzil shook his head. "No, but it's easy to find. When we see 3 giraffes we must turn left."

"Come on Denzil, stop taking the Mickey out of me."

"I'm not taking the Mickey out of anybody." Denzil changed gears. "What's that over there in the thorn trees behind the telephone line?'

" _Heidewitzka_ , 3 giraffes!"

We turned to the left into an overgrown dirt road. After about half a kilometre a house built of rocks with a huge thatch roof came into sight. A bunch of dogs tumbled off a big stoep, followed by a maid who had a white baby strapped to her back. She grabbed my rucksack and put it on top of her head, took Denzil's bag in one hand and the packet from the off-sales in the other and ambled off towards the house. We followed her into a lounge that looked like out of an old movie about Africa, with cane furniture and riempie benches, hunting trophies on the walls, an enormous fireplace and the genuine smell of Africa about it.

Vincent's wife Gilly, hardly older than myself, had curly brown hair, blue eyes an athletic built and didn't look very pregnant yet. She said it was great of us to come and stay with them and took us to a guest cottage that looked like a small version of the main house. The maid, whose name was Lerato, which means 'love', put our luggage down on the big double bed and then she and Gilly left.

Denzil plonked down on the bed and tested the resiliency of the mattress.

"I reckon this kipbox is at least 100 years old," he said. "Did you hear the springs creak?"

I expected to have a bonk right there and then but Denzil suggested a walk. That was also fine with me; we had a whole week to get cracking on the old kipbox. I still put a condom in my pocket. Life is full of surprises and it is always good to be prepared.

Around the farmhouse a landscape of rolling hills stretched up to the horizon. There were valleys with groves of orange trees, and cattle and sheep were grazing in the veld _._

A bakkie appeared in the distance, came round the bend and stopped next to us. There were 2 blacks and a cow in the back. The driver's door opened and a guy, not much taller than myself, jumped out. He looked like a red haired troll, beard and all.

"Vincent," Denzil shouted.

The troll greeted us with a big grin and big hugs. I found the revolver hanging from his hip a bit alarming.

"What do you need that thing for?" I asked once the guys stopped enthusing about how great it was to see each other again.

"This is Africa, you never know when you need it." Vincent said it like a Brit would tell you it's useful to carry an umbrella with you.

"It's a .375 Magnum." He took it out of its holster. "We had some cattle rustlers here last night. They pinched 10 animals, the bastards." He pointed to the back of the bakkie. "We found that cow there at the bottom of the valley. All the others are long gone across the border into the Transkei. Happens all the time; but as they say: if you can't take a joke you mustn't live in Africa"

In the evening we had a braai sitting around an acacia thorn wood fire.

"Now tell me broer," Denzil said, "What's it like to live out here in the sticks, after the excitement of varsity life?"

Vincent let off one contented sigh. "It's total paradise." He flung his arms open. "Where else can you have _this_?"

The first stars twinkled in the night sky; the air still felt warm from the heat of the day and smelled of orange blossoms, sheep, cattle, dip chemicals and the sweat of Africa; owls were hooting from the top of the roof, crickets were chirping... and the closest neighbour lived 5 kilometres away.

Vincent let off another contented sigh. "You know, I only started that architecture course because my father insisted on me doing a 'decent' university degree. So I did architecture for 10 weeks and I realized, I couldn't go on for 7 years studying something I don't really enjoy."

"For me architecture is the best," Denzil interrupted him.

"Good for you broer _,_ keep it up," Vincent said. "Everybody must do their own thing. Me, I was born a farmer. I knew that since I was 5 years old."

"But you grew up in a town," Denzil said.

"Ja, but that couldn't get the farming out of my genes."

The phone rang. Gilly counted. "4 rings, that's us." She plonked the baby on my lap and went to answer.

"This farm is a magnificent place," Denzil said to Vincent. "I imagine it's worth a fortune. Do you rent it or what?"

"I bought it," Vincent said matter of factly.

"Huh?"

"Ja broer, I wrote a porn book, got it published in the UK and made millions." Vincent kept a straight face for 5 seconds before he burst out laughing.

"Those were the Howeys, my neighbours from Umtata," Gilly said when she came back. "They sold their hardware shop and moved out of the Transkei last week... to East London."

"There aren't many white people left in the Transkei," Vincent said. "Only a couple of months to go before it becomes an independent homeland."

"I've heard about that," I said. "But what exactly does it mean?"

"It means that the Transkei will be a separate state with real borders and its own president and the whole tootie, but out of all the countries in the world only South Africa will recognize it," Gilly explained.

"Why? Isn't it good for the blacks to have their own place where they can do their own thing?"

"Ja it would be, but they won't do their own thing because they are totally dependent on South Africa. And the Transkei is only the start. The Nats are also setting up the 'independence' of Bophutatswana and Venda and..."

"Listen up guys," Vincent said with a grin on his face, "this is one of Gilly's favourite subjects. She'll tell you stuff that you'll never find in the official government version."

Gilly spat an olive pip onto the lawn and carried on. "There are 10 tribally based homelands in South Africa and they make up only 14% of the country. Every black person is considered to be a citizen of one of the homelands, even if he's never been there. When a homeland accepts independence like the Transkei now, all its citizens loose their South African citizenship. It's a way the Nats have thought up to get rid of a mighty lot of urban blacks. The plan is that the blacks concentrate on their own politics in their homelands and don't claim any rights in South Africa – but I tell you right now that it won't work because most of the homelands won't accept independence, and also because the homelands are not able to provide a decent living for the people there. Thousands and thousands of blacks are being forcibly removed to places where there is nothing...no food, not enough water, no sanitation, no hospitals, no schools, no transport, no work."

The baby began to cry and Vincent called the maid to put him to bed.

"And why are the whites moving out of the Transkei?" I asked. "Is there a law that they can't stay?"

"No," Gilly said, "but whites can't own businesses there anymore. My parents had 2 pharmacies in Umtata. They had to sell them – either to a black person or to the _Transkei_ _Development_ _Corporation_. The TDC is a South African organization buying up white owned businesses and reselling them to the blacks. My parents could have stayed on and worked under a black boss, but they moved to St. Lucia and opened their own pharmacy there."

"St. Lucia is a lekker place," Denzil observed.

We listened to some jackals howling in the distance.

"My parents like it in St. Lucia," Gilly said after a while, "but they also liked it in Umtata. My family's been living in the Transkei for 4 generations. My grandparents owned a hotel in Mazeppa Bay, my cousins had stores in Lusikisiki and Mount Ailiff, my great uncles started a holiday resort near Coffee Bay and their grand kids ran it until last year. And now all that is gone and everybody is living in South Africa or overseas, and why? Because these damn Nats rig up some stupid excuse to be able to carry on with their apartheid. And all that's going to happen is that a small ruling black elite in the Transkei will get rich; the people will stay poor, South Africa will be even more isolated from the rest of the world and the political tension within the country is going to increase."

The next morning a clapped out Ford Escort rattled down the drive and stopped in front of the shed. The car doors opened and out scrambled 2 black teenagers and a middle-aged black man dressed in a threadbare but perfectly pressed suit.

"This is Solomon, the headmaster of our farm school," Gilly introduced the man. "And here are Vusi and Thandi, 2 of the pupils." She unlocked the shed and the 2 kids started to carry boxes out, loading them into the car. Solomon handed Gilly a big envelope. She said she would look at it and that we would come to the school later this morning.

"That is what Solomon does just about every school day of the year," Gilly said over breakfast. "He drives 20 km from the township and picks up Vusi and Thandi because our neighbours to the north don't allow black kids to walk through their farms. They say the kids steal and start fires and they don't want any trouble because of some little black shits. So Vusi and Thandi are our only pupils from the farms in the north. Solomon can't transport more because he's also got to fetch all the boxes here.

"Ja, I was wondering," I said. "What's in those boxes?"

"Textbooks and exercise books."

"Don't the kids take them home?"

"Oh no, " Gilly shook her head. "You'd never see those books again."

"Why not?"

"Don't ask me. They'd use them to make fire or to roll cigarettes or forget them in the rain."

I didn't believe her.

"So Solomon comes every morning to collect the boxes and every afternoon he brings them back," Gilly carried on.

Lerato, the maid, put a platter of scrambled eggs and bacon on the table. The baby was sleeping strapped to her back.

Gilly moved Solomon's envelope out of the way. "This is Solomon's homework. We help him to get his matric."

I nearly choked on my bacon. "But...I thought he is the headmaster."

"Ja, he's the guy the government sent for the job. And he's very motivated. He wants to give his son a good education and that costs money."

After I had digested those facts I asked if there were any other teachers.

"Ja, 2 young women, they are both doing teaching courses." Gilly poured some milk in her coffee. "That's a bit of a problem, of course. Every time they have to go to their teaching college they can't come to school, and Solomon has to look after 80 kids all by himself."

To get to the school we had to drive for 20 minutes on a dusty dirt road winding its way round the hills. Halfway there we picked up the 2 lady teachers. It was almost 10 o'clock and classes were supposed to start at 7.30! While the teachers climbed on the back of the Chev, Gilly explained that they lived in a township 18 km away, and that there was no public transport to speak of, and that they had to hitch hike and walk every day, so one couldn't really blame them for being late. We also picked up a couple of kids. Gilly said that most of them had to help at home before they left for school, and then they had to walk up to 8 km, and also the African concept of time was different to what First World people were used to.

The school stood like a haunted building on the slope of a hill. There was veld and sky and nothing else. The first thing I noticed was that half the corrugated iron roof was missing.

"It's just after the holidays, not really a good time to come," Gilly said as we climbed out of the car.

I wondered why but she didn't elaborate. Denzil gave me a box to carry and we followed the teachers and the kids to the low, longish building.

The remains of 2 wooden doors hung skew on worn hinges, a third door was missing all together. All the windows were broken. I stepped around some turds of unidentifiable origin, my picture of the romantic little farm school totally shattered.

The schoolchildren were sitting outside on the bare ground in a semi circle looking at Solomon, who was writing on a propped up piece of plywood with a piece of chalk. We put our boxes down next to Solomon and unpacked 4 typewriters, several packets of typewriting paper, chalk and pencils, a stapler, books, and the things Gilly had especially asked for: a tin of black paint, buckets, brooms, leather gloves and a shovel. The kids pressed around us watching with shiny eyes, commenting in Xhosa. The biggest hits were the typewriters and the stapler, objects none of them had ever seen before.

Solomon pointed towards a drum and 2 clapped out car seats and asked us to sit down. My car seat was quite comfortable except for a spring drilling my bum. Everybody had a good look at all the stuff we had brought and then the kids and the teachers began to sing a clicky Xhosa song. They clapped their hands and stomped their feet; even the smallest kids moved with an amazing sense of rhythm.

Gilly, sitting on the drum said: "I learned that song as a kid in Lusikisiki." She jumped up and started to sing, clap and stomp next to Solomon, who, like everybody else, had a totally ecstatic expression on his face – because of some old typewriters, a stapler and a tin of paint! Their expressions alone were worth the trip.

It felt a bit stupid sitting there like dignitaries, so Denzil and I joined in the dancing. It was good fun although it was much more complicated than it looked. When the dancing stopped the sun was high up in the sky. The teachers assembled their pupils and got on with their teaching.

I asked Gilly if we could have a look inside the school building.

"Ja sure, but after the holidays it's always the worst."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll see."

We went in through the only intact door. I nearly shot out of my bio sandals. I looked around and couldn't believe my eyes or my nose. The stench was indescribable. The floor was covered in shit and pieces of glass. The bent remains of a metal shelf lay in a corner. A single wooden desk with 2 of its legs missing stood lopsidedly in front of a smashed blackboard.

"Hells bells," I said. "What happened here?"

"School holidays," Gilly said.

"Huh?"

"It looks like this after every school holiday," Gilly kicked an empty tin. "I'm getting tired of it. I've sort of managed this school for about a year now...organized school material and 2 long drop toilets, and until Christmas one of our tractor drivers used to bring a full water tanker every week, because there is no water here, only a little stream about a kilometre away... and then, just before Christmas, some idiots pinched the water tanker, maybe the same idiots who come in here and smash the place."

"Who are they?" Denzil asked.

"We don't know. Guys from the townships, maybe from the farms..."

"You mean black guys?" I asked totally astounded. "Why would they smash a black school?"

Gilly shrugged her shoulders. "Don't ask me. I've lived with blacks all my life and there are things I'll never understand."

The other 2 rooms looked not much different from the first one, except for carbonized debris on the floor and soot all over the walls.

"School started 2 days ago," Gilly frowned. "I wish Solomon had organized a clean up..." she kicked another tin, "but well, he didn't, same as last time."

Gilly got a clean up team together and asked us to draw a big rectangle on one of the walls in each classroom. Once the dust had settled somebody would paint them black with the paint we had brought. No use having real blackboards when they got smashed every couple of months. The clean up team never stopped chatting and laughing while they swept the junk in heaps and filled it into buckets.

"I see they don't wear school uniforms here," I said to Gilly.

"Their families haven't got the money," Gilly replied.

She turned to the kids and said something to them in Xhosa. "I told them to chuck all that stuff in the donga," she said to me.

"What's that?"

"You want to see?"

I nodded.

"All right. It's probably good for your education."

We walked with some of the kids about 200 metres on a much trodden path through the veld. There was not one tree in sight, nor any other plant than grass, nor anything else. The feeling of space was overwhelming and the barrenness of the landscape beyond belief. The veld petered out to red dusty soil. We came to a ravine-like tear in the ground, maybe 5 metres deep and just as wide.

"That's the donga _,"_ Gilly said. "The kids use it as a toilet."

"But I thought you had 2 long drops at the school."

"Ja," Gilly didn't look too happy. "But you don't want to go near those long drops. I've tried everything to keep them usable and it just doesn't work. One day I thought 'bugger that, I can't stand there all day checking if everybody has learnt to shit straight', so now they've got to use the donga – like their ancestors did."

I looked at her astounded. That didn't sound like the Gilly who had told us that Africa was in her blood, that she never wanted to live anywhere else and that the blacks were great people.

Gilly gave a grin and shrugged her shoulders. "I think I know what you think, but there is only so much a person can do. We've replaced the sheets of corrugated iron for the roof once, out of our own pocket. We haven't got the money to buy new window panes and doors and the government doesn't pay for that, only for a couple of books. But those blooming toilets got me beat." She sighed. "It can be very frustrating at times."

We spent the rest of the week fishing, hiking, horse riding and making use of Ludwig's condoms. Every afternoon Solomon came to the farmhouse to put the boxes with the school stuff in the shed for the night. Usually Gilly gave him, Vusi and Thandi something to eat and then Denzil and Solomon disappeared into the study to work on Solomon's matric, while Gilly showed Vusi, Thandi and me how to use a typewriter.

On Thursday afternoon we were sitting at the table on the stoep practicing the Ten Finger System, when a blue BMW came up the drive.

"Oh no," Gilly groaned. "Not _them_." Her face turned from red to white to dark red. Gilly didn't seem to like _them_ very much.

"Who are _them_?" I asked with interest, that somebody could evoke so much emotion in old Gill.

"Piet and Annatjie van Rensburg from Pretoria, the people we bought the farm from. They said they'd come one day to fetch some things that belong to them, stuff that has been collecting dust in the shed for a decade or 2."

The car stopped in front of the stoep and out climbed an incredibly fat woman and a beanpole of a man. They were both in their 60s. The woman was dressed in a long, floating outfit and she had a towering, false lock, orangey hairstyle. Her husband wore long socks, a khaki safari suit, a leather hat and a holster with some kind of a gun in it.

They said "middag" with a disapproving look at us, especially the 2 black kids, and stayed at the bottom of the steps. After a short chat in Afrikaans with Gilly, she introduced me as Mathilda, the exchange student from Germany. Piet screened me from head to toe and said in English: "I have always admired Adolf Hitler. He is one of the great heroes of the 20th century."

I had got up from my chair, but after that I sat straight down again. Speechless. I was glad that I was sitting because the next thing Annatjie threw into the conversation was: "This farm is a lekker plek. We stayed here lots of times while our son Daan was running it." She shot a piercing glance at Vusi and Thandi. "The men used to go out and shoot a couple of those black monkeys before breakfast. Ha ha ha."

I wasn't sure if it was supposed to be a joke. I just hoped that Vusi and Thandi hadn't understood. I looked at Gilly, who was now purple in the face. Before she or I could say anything, Vincent came out onto the stoep.

"I thought I heard a car," he said, and after greeting the van Rensburgs," would you like some tea or coffee?"

Gilly cast her eyes towards heaven. Annatjie leaned against the car and, looking at Vusi and Thandi, said: "No thank you. We don't socialize with Kaffirs."

"You know," Piet said to Vincent, "it was your choice to buy this farm and I hope you won't regret it, but those black okes will bugger up the Transkei in no time and you are right next to it. Let's face it, without us whites these blacks would still live like savages. Africa hasn't even invented the wheel, let alone the toilet, they still crap in the donga..."

That was when I got up and left taking Vusi and Thandi with me.

"But I thought she is a German." I heard Piet say.

"Ja she is," Gilly had found her voice again, "but that doesn't mean she agrees with you."

Later that night, after Denzil and I had made love and the moon was throwing its silver sheen across the universe, I put my head on Denzil's chest and said: "You know what disturbs me most?" He stroked my hair. "It's that Gilly who would do anything to help the blacks and that racist fart Piet van Rensburg say the same thing: the blacks crap in the donga."

Denzil stroked my nose. "In the countryside there is nothing wrong with crapping in the donga; the jackals take care of the drolls; that makes much more sense than flushing litres of water down a toilet on a continent where water is scarce."

Back in V.B. I got stuck in making sandwiches for iSkolo and also in organizing my birthday party. I decided to invite Denzil, Harriet, the entire Jameson family, Joelle the director of the Funny Thing, some kids from my class, my first host parents Hannes and Marieke, and Victoria. Julie said it would be politics to ask Victoria's husband as well, although in my opinion he was a pompous poep. In the end I did ask him but fortunately he said he couldn't make it. Hannes and Marieke couldn't come either; Marieke was feeling quite fit again and they were planning to visit their son in Cape Town. I had 2 weeks to organize everything and it felt weird – I was used to having my birthday in spring and not in autumn like here. At school we were back to winter uniforms and sometimes on my bike in the mornings I nearly froze my fingers off.

I went to Wendy every day to make sandwiches for the iSkolo kids. Wendy was 40, plump, red haired and always in a good mood. She was also a golfer and had a husband called Clive, who owned a shoe factory. I wondered if Clive also had a government contract like Victoria's husband, and if it was government money that paid for Wendy's golf trips all over the globe, but I never found out.

I spent a lot of my time at architecture lectures and on the beach. Denzil got it finally into his head that he couldn't keep me away from iSkolo I and helped Agnes with the small iSkolo kids. Protea High didn't see much of me and nobody said anything. Life could have been lekker if I hadn't had to go back to Germany in 9 weeks time. I arranged a special meeting with the president of my host Rotary Club _._ He was pleased that I liked V.B. so much but there was nothing he could do to prolong my stay. Rules were rules and after 12 months my exchange year was over and that was that. The Department of Home Affairs and the airline with which I had my ticket were of the same opinion.

Phhhhh

*

Greta, Joshua, Lolo and I were sprawled out on the lounge floor drawing dog-training machines. Greta and Joshua equipped their contraptions with flashing lights, trap doors, automatic whistles and spring-loaded bones on elastic bands. Lolo was busy with something that looked like a big brown rectangle. I was mainly watching, waiting for Denzil to pick me up to do some shopping for my birthday party.

"I'm finished," Lolo stuck her piece of paper under my nose.

"That looks very interesting," I said absent-mindedly. "What is it?"

"A smashed brown door," Joshua said.

"A skew table without legs," Greta said.

Lolo pushed her lower lip out. "Oh, you are so stupid. It's a piece of wood."

"Excellent," I said. "How does it work?"

Lolo sighed, exasperated with such an idiotic question. "I throw the piece of wood, the dog brings it back, so I've trained the dog."

"Brilliant Lolo, you..."

"Hi," Denzil stuck his head through the door.

_Something is wrong_.

"Are you ready, Mathilda?" His face was as white as snow.

"Ja." I jumped up and walked towards him.

Normally he would come and kiss me.

My legs turned to jelly.

_That's it. He's found another girlfriend_.

We walked to the car in silence. Denzil moved like a robot. I noticed his eyes were red.

_Maybe he's got the flu. Lots of people are having flu lately_.

My hopes rose.

We climbed into the Chev. Denzil took my hand. He stared straight ahead. I waited. His hand was cold as ice. 2 hadedas took off from a blue gum tree filling the sky with their cries.

"Victoria is dead," Denzil croaked.

I felt like a horse had kicked my guts out. Victoria dead! My brain couldn't take it in. Tears were running down Denzil's face. He put his head on my shoulder. I stroked him gently. 30 seconds ago I had thought anything would be better than to loose Denzil. But now...Victoria DEAD? All of a sudden everything stopped. My head was empty and the rest of the world didn't exist anymore. Only Denzil and me. Sitting on the bench in the Chev. Clinging to each other. And some kind of ache screaming 'Victoria' from somewhere deep inside.

I didn't know for how long we sat there. At some stage I felt strong enough to ask: "When did it happen?"

Denzil straightened up and blew his nose. "This morning."

"And...how?"

"Nobody knows. They found her car smashed up next to the Cape Town road."

"Were there any other people?"

"No, she was travelling by herself."

"I can't believe it. Just the other day she told me about her trip to Paris...the exhibition in the Musée de l'Homme...and that she went to see fireworks on the Montmartre..."

"Ja, she had a lekker trip.

"How did it happen?"

Denzil sighed. "There are all sorts of possibilities. She swerved because some animal crossed the road, a tyre burst...or somebody forced her off the road..."

"What d'you mean somebody forced her off the road?"

"Just that. And there are lots of places along that stretch of road where a car can hit a rock or roll down a steep slope."

"Denzil, are you saying that mebbe it wasn't just an accident?"

"At the moment one can't say anything. There aren't any reports out yet. You know, Victoria was on her way to a Black Sash meeting. It's just odd how many weird accidents happen to people who are against the government."

The funeral was on the Friday. A thick mist had blown in from the sea. V.B. looked like ghost city. I was sitting between Denzil and Harriet in the Chev. Nobody said a word. There wasn't much movement in the streets. When the weather was lousy V.B. people stayed at home. We crossed the whole town, each one of us wrapped in their own thoughts.

I thought about what my Rosicrucian grandparents had told us: when somebody dies it means that they've fulfilled what they were meant to do in this lifetime, and they were ready to move on; and one shouldn't be too sad because that would only hold the soul back on its journey. I remembered the few funerals I had been to. There were the ones in churches where everybody cried, and if you didn't, people thought you were a stone hearted monster that didn't give a hoot about the deceased. Then there were funerals in temples where nobody cried and people walked around with smiles that seemed to come from some other dimension. As a kid that whole funeral business had confused me, until I worked out, that religions are man made and are limited and none are absolute.

"Look at that," Denzil broke the silence.

Through the mist I could make out people on the pavement. Black people. Just standing there.

"There must be thousands of them," Harriet gasped. "They are bidding farewell to Victoria."

The little chapel was crammed with whites. Everybody cried. When the service was over, the fog had got even denser. While the coffin was being lowered into the grave I glanced around. At a 'respectful' distance hundreds of blacks were standing. I threw some petals on Victoria's coffin and wished her soul well on its journey. Shortly afterwards people started to leave.

Denzil was just putting the key into the Chev's ignition when we heard a kind of hum. It rose to a chorus of a thousand black voices. I felt goosebumps all over my body.

Harriet smiled for the first time that day. "They are singing a hymn for Victoria."

*

The morning after the funeral I woke up to the cries of the hadedas.

_Heute_ _ist_ _mein_ _Geburtstag! From 20 past 4 on I'll be 17_ ...

The kids stormed into my bedroom yelling: "Happy birthday". Greta plonked a fist sized parcel on my stomach. I undid the blue ribbon and the golden wrapping and found a milk white stone.

"It comes from the Bobbejaan River where we went to try out the dinghy. D'you like it?"

"It's absolutely fabulous."

Joshua was hovering with something that looked like a big box. "Look here Mathilda." He could hardly speak with excitement. "I got that 'specially for you." He pulled back a cloth and revealed a cage with 2 rats in it. "They are a male and a female and they'll have babies in no time."

"A great gift Joshua, thank you." I wondered if he realized that I would be gone – soon.

Lolo said her gift was in the kitchen, but I was only allowed to look at it later.

At breakfast I got a photo album from Julie and Ludwig. It was full of shots taken during my time with the Winters. I was very touched and sad. Soon it would all be over.

My birthday party was supposed to start at 12. I was quite apprehensive because most of the people coming had known Victoria, and not everybody had the benefit of Rosicrucian grandparents to help them deal with issues like death. I hoped the party would not be too sombre.

When all the guests had arrived Ludwig gave a very short speech. He said: "Life is for the living – let's have a lekker party," and I knew it would be all right.

People had brought salads and we braaied a heap of meat in a wheelbarrow.

"Fuck all these fancy new devices," Ludwig said turning the chops. "In a windy place like V.B. you need a braai you can haul around easily. I haven't seen anything that beats a wheelbarrow."

I got stacks of gifts. The best one was a mobile made by Denzil out of some special clay, glass beads and little bells. There were elephants and giraffes, monkeys and dolphins hanging from different coloured threads, and in the middle towards the top, 2 human-beings; one could immediately see that it was Denzil and me.

Harriet gave me a book by a black guy who had written down his experiences as a stopie in a South African gold mine.

Ludwig cast one look at the book. "You better not carry that in your luggage when you go home, Mathilda. This book is banned."

"No it isn't," Harriet said in a tone of utter conviction. "I've had it for donkey's years."

"Of course it is banned, Mom," Denzil said. "Maybe it's time you were a bit more careful."

Everybody stopped talking and I guessed everybody thought of Victoria.

The moment passed.

Julie asked Lolo to get her special birthday gift for me. Lolo went into the house and came back with Nohandbag carrying a huge, square birthday cake. I had never had a blue cake before and I first thought it didn't look like an edible thing. Where in nature is food blue – except blueberries, and even they are not really blue inside but if one wants to live life to the full one has to keep an open mind and the cake was really good.

Lolo announced proudly that she had decorated the cake with all the flowers and Hundreds and Thousands with the help of Mrs Vleega. The wind blew all the candles out before I had a chance. Coral said that it was a sign of good luck. All my projects during the next year would virtually accomplish themselves.

Ludwig and Denzil carried the dinghy to the swimming pool and Nohandbag brought the zinc bath she usually used for the laundry. Just about everybody did some boating and Kim's brother Jamie sank the zinc bath twice.

Kim only gave me her gift when everybody left. "Open it when nobody is watching you," she whispered conspiratorially.

I waited until I was alone in my bedroom. Wrapped in silky pink paper I found a pair of split panties!

*

"Hey Mathilda," Denzil shouted leaning out of the window of the Chev. "Come, I have a surprise for you."

It had been one of my rare days at school and I was just pushing my bike out of the school yard, talking to Kim about a horse ride to Cape Crab.

"A surprise, you lucky bean. I hope you can use your split panties for the occasion." Kim winked and walked off grinning, towards the Jamesons' bakkie.

"The best surprise is to see you," I said to Denzil. "What's the other one?"

"My sister Bianca, an ardent feminist and opponent of matrimony, phoned an hour ago from Jo'burg to announce her engagement to a guy called Paul, and she wants her brother and his lover to go and celebrate today. So we've got 50 bucks to spend on grogs and grub. What d'you say?"

"Wow, that's very generous of her." I helped Denzil to load the bike on the Chev.

"What do you think made her change her mind about getting engaged and married and all that?"

"Oh, who knows. All she said was that today is a good date because 6 is her lucky number."

"Mmh, today is the 16th of the 6th 76. She won't have a date with _more_ 6s in her lifetime."

We went past Ludwig's shop because Denzil wanted to order a book. Ludwig suggested we go and have dinner at the Three Sisters Hotel in van Riebeeck Street, where they made the most fantastic seafood and it also had a ladies' bar.

"What's a ladies' bar?" I asked.

"Well, as the name indicates," Ludwig said with a smile, "a bar into which ladies are admitted."

"So does that mean there are bars into which ladies are _not_ admitted?"

"Ja," Denzil and Ludwig replied simultaneously.

"I'd say the majority of bars in South Africa are only for guys," Ludwig said.

"Hell, have they never heard of the equality of the sexes and women's rights in this country?" I couldn't believe it. "And what's so special about a ladies' bar that the ladies are allowed to put their feet in there?"

"In a ladies' bar drinks may not be poured in front of a lady," Ludwig said.

"And there must be a carpet on the floor and no spittoons," Denzil added. He turned to Ludwig. "Do you really think I should take Mathilda to a bar? I mean she turned 17 the other day but she is still a minor..."

"One drink hasn't killed anybody yet, and _if_ they let you in, you could see it as a cultural field study. The job of an exchange student, after all, is to delve into the culture of the host country."

"I've never heard of a bigger load of crap than that ladies' bar thing. Looks like some sexist 18th century regulation. Why can't just everybody go into the same bars?"

"Don't forget that the women in Switzerland only got the vote in the 1940s," Ludwig said. "And about the bars in South Africa, it could have something to do with the fact that when places like Barberton and Jo'burg started during the gold rush, there were hordes of guys around and only a few ladies, and the ambiance was as rough as a goat's knee, so it was logical to reserve a special place for the ladies, where they could have some peace."

"That was something like 100 years ago. Times have changed."

"Not here," Ludwig said. "Not when it comes to ladies' bars."

From the book shop we went to Denzil's place to make a model of a library, a project Denzil had to finish by the end of the week. We didn't get very far because we mainly made love.

"Every day should be like today," Denzil said stretched out on his bed.

The last bit of the sun disappeared with a deep red glow behind the casuarina trees.

"Are you ready to hit the ladies' bar, Mathilda?"

The Three Sisters Hotel was one of those old places where the ox waggon drivers of yesteryear had popped in to have a dop. Nobody stopped us from going into the ladies' bar. There was a green carpet, no spittoons and the waiter disappeared behind a partition to pour our gin and tonics.

The place slowly filled up with people. 2 middle aged couples chose the table closest to us. Before the men had pulled out the chairs for the ladies, the taller guy said twice: "It's a total catastrophe."

The ladies nodded gravely and the smaller guy said: "The situation is alarming, but the Minister of Justice assures us that everything is under control."

"Well Lionel, I hope Kruger knows what he is talking about," the taller one replied. "10.000 people are no small matter even if most of them are only youngsters."

The ladies nodded gravely. Denzil and I pricked our ears up.

"The police sent their crack anti terrorism unit into Soweto," Lionel said lighting a cigarette," but they haven't called in the troops yet, so the situation isn't totally out of hand."

"Well, it's spreading all over the country..."

Denzil choked on his drink. When he got his breath back he turned to the men and their mute wives. "Excuse me, I couldn't help overhearing...uh...has anything serious happened?"

The taller man's eyebrows shot towards his hairline. "Don't you listen to the news, young man? The blacks are on the rampage. It started with high school kids who don't want to be taught in Afrikaans. In Soweto the police had to hurl teargas into the crowd, but that didn't stop those blacks. On the contrary, they began to throw rocks and other things at the police, so the cops had to shoot. Some people are dead and quite a few are in hospital."

"Oh," Denzil said, white in the face.

That's it. The pressure cooker is going to explode.

We left as soon as we had gulped down our drinks.

"We'll celebrate some other time," Denzil said racing to the car.

"What are you planning to do?" I could hardly keep up with him. "What can _we_ do about something that's going on in Soweto?"

"Those guys in the bar said it was spreading all over the country. I've an odd feeling..." He unlocked the Chev and never finished his sentence.

The streets were calm. Nothing out of the ordinary. We took Old Ontdekkers Road over the hill. The lights of the airport spread out below us and, beyond above the township, the sky was red with fire.

Denzil turned into the industrial area with screeching tyres. Tall orange lights illuminated the fronts of the warehouses; the rears disappeared into obscurity. The light in front of the furniture warehouse was broken. Denzil had a key for the gate. There was another car parked in the yard.

"Looks like Larry is also here," Denzil said.

"You mean Larry with the... cat?"

"Ja."

"Oh."

The last time I had seen Larry had been at Victoria's funeral.

Denzil took a torch out of the cubby hole. "Come."

Inside the warehouse at night, it looked even more chaotic than in daylight. The beam of the torch threw spooky shadows across piles of rusty bedsteads and pyramids of clapped out chests. After we had walked through a tunnel of shelves and drawers, a faint light appeared through the gaps in the junk. We turned at a row of cheval mirrors. I thought I could hear voices. Denzil whistled 3 notes and opened a curtain suspended between a cupboard and a fake marble column.

In the 'classroom' of iSkolo, stacks of kids were huddled on foam mattresses and mats. Fright and shock covered everything like a leaden blanket. It felt like walking into some underground bunker – the real horrors happened outside, but everybody's internalized horrors were concentrated within these walls and punched you in the guts.

Larry was busy pouring some hot stuff into tin mugs. It was cold in the warehouse and steam rose from the mugs towards the 2 bare bulbs illuminating the place. I saw Agnes, the black teacher, wrapping a bandage around a small child's leg and in the semi darkness on the far side, 2 black men were shifting furniture around and putting more mattresses on the floor.

Larry looked up and waved at us. "Great to see you," he said. "In the township all hell is popping loose. Look at all these kids seeking refuge here."

"How many are there?"

"About 50," Larry filled the last empty mug with soup. "And we've only got 10 mugs here."

"We'll organize some more just now," Denzil said. "But what the hell _is_ going on in the township?"

Larry opened a bottle of milk. "Apparently it all started in Soweto. High school kids went on a protest march; they refuse to be taught in Afrikaans because it's the language of the oppressor. The police went in and threw teargas into the crowd. The kids threw rocks at the cops. The cops fired shots and 3 black kids, 2 black men and 3 whites died. There were cars set alight all over the show and also something like 20 government buildings, and from what we hear, the situation is still out of control."

"That's not what we heard," Denzil frowned.

"Of course not. The official version is that the police are in charge." Larry topped up the soup in the mugs with milk. "The people of the V.B. townships also went on the streets to protest. It was supposed to be a peaceful march, but the cops tried to stop it with teargas and then the crowd set the Bantu Administration Building and a black high school on fire...now scores of people are in hospital and stacks have been arrested. It's a total fuck up."

"You can say that again...and there are more kids coming," Denzil pointed to the curtain.

5 dishevelled children walked in, none of them older than 10. One was bleeding from a graze in his leg and one was carrying a toddler on her back.

"Keketso and Noah," Larry said. "They've brought some other kids along. Let's get them organized."

Denzil got stuck in distributing food, and I took the injured boy over to Agnes. I noticed that the windows had been covered up with newspapers and that the 2 guys shifting the furniture around were Moses and Julius, who had been at Denzil's house when the brick came flying through the window. The ambiance was totally weird, like in a refugee camp with a whiff of holiday camp thrown in. Some kids were just sitting staring into space, some were crying, some were playing and some, especially the older ones, had an expression of anger on their faces so intense, that it made me shiver.

Agnes smiled her big smile at us. She inspected the boy's wound, took some gravel out with tweezers and applied Mercurochrome.

"We are running out of this stuff. We've been using a lot of it today." She shook the bottle as if she hoped that by doing so the bottle would miraculously replenish itself. "It's been a hard day," she said cleaning the tweezers. "A lot of those children are very traumatized. They've seen people beaten up and people being arrested. They don't know if their families are in hospital or in jail or in hiding..."

"Things like that shouldn't happen to anybody and they are only kids," I said. "But at least they could come to a safe place here, where they are being looked after and get a bite to eat."

"Ja," Agnes took one last disillusioned look at the Mercurochrome bottle and chucked it in the bin. "Ja, for sure." She slumped down on a chair. "I've been praying all afternoon that we'll manage. We need so many things – everything. Medicine, blankets, food – and nobody knows for how long we'll have to stay here."

"It'll be all right," I said, wondering how many times I had said and heard this during the last few months in the most unlikely situations.

"I'll get you a mug of soup, Agnes, that'll make you feel better."

After Agnes had had her soup we patched up 2 more new arrivals; a teenage boy with burns on his arm, who didn't say a word, and a little girl with a cut on her foot, who didn't stop sobbing.

Denzil came over. "How's it going, girls?"

"We are doing our best," I said.

"All the medicine is finished," Agnes sighed exhausted.

"Ja, just about everything is finished," Denzil answered. "Mathilda, we'll go and get more mugs and bowls and food. Agnes, what do you need?"

Agnes started with the Mercurochrome and rattled off a whole lot of things.

We made our way through groups of sleeping children, 3 or 4 cuddled together per mattress. Some older girls were looking after the little ones who were still awake. About a dozen teenage boys were sitting in a circle, talking in low, intense voices, raising their fists every now and then in barely suppressed rage.

Our first stop was a café in town. "We've still got 40 something bucks from Bianca. " Denzil inspected his wallet. "I reckon she'd appreciate us spending them on the kids."

We bought 15 loaves of bread, the last 6 bottles of milk and their whole stock of sausage rolls.

As we crossed the CBD the streets were quiet as on any other night. The suburb of Fairview didn't show any sign of disturbance. We turned into a drive way lined by rosebushes and stopped in front of an impressive 2-storey house. Several dogs approached wagging their tails and a young blonde woman opened the front door.

"Hi Bev," Denzil greeted her. "Larry says you managed to organize things for the kids."

"Ja, Bessy dropped off blankets, mugs and bowls and some bulk bags of biscuits, and John brought more blankets and food and I don't know how many rolls of loo paper, and you can have my electric kettle and the 2 hotplates out of the cottage."

"Great," Denzil said. "Do you have any plasters, bandages, Mercurochrome...?"

"Is anybody hurt?"

We gave her an update of the situation.

"I wish I could do more," Bev sighed. "But you know with my job and 2 kids I just can't."

"You're doing fine." Denzil grabbed a pile of blankets. "I think we must get going. They are waiting for this stuff."

"Okay," Bev said. "Just let me get our first aid box."

There were hardly any lights on in any houses when we left. V.B. had gone to sleep.

"It's getting late," Denzil said. "I better take you home. The Winters will be wondering where you are."

"But I want to help..."

"The best way to help is to behave as if nothing had happened. Not a word to anybody. Remember you are coming back from a delicious dinner of curried perlemoen."

"Hell Denzil, I've never had curried perlemoen in my life. I don't even know what a perlemoen looks like...and I never put a foot into the Three Sisters' dining room...and I'm a lousy liar."

"Hi guys," Ludwig was still sitting up reading _The Wooden Boat_. "I was wondering if you had fallen over the edge of the world. Not that I mind you staying out late Mathilda, but there has been trouble in the townships."

"Ja, we heard about that," Denzil said calmly. "But V.B. is quiet. We didn't see anything in the streets."

"Ja, the police are controlling the situation, but still, this is South Africa. One must use one's brains and not expose oneself to potential danger. This whole thing can flare up again any minute." Ludwig closed his mag and put it on a pile of other mags next to his armchair. "You're welcome to sleep here pal, if you don't want to drive out to the plots in the middle of the night."

"Oh no, thanks. I'd better get going." Denzil made a fast retreat.

"And I'd have thought the guy would jump at the opportunity," Ludwig murmured.

He locked the front door and said: "Tell me how your evening was, my girl. Did they let you into the ladies' bar?"

"Ja." This was safe territory. "We had a gin and tonic there. I still find it idiotic that women can't just go to any bar in the country. I mean I'm not going to faint if they pour a drink in front of me. And when it comes to carpets..."

"You can't fart against thunder. Places like that, you just go in there and enjoy. And how did you like the Three Sisters' seafood?"

"Oh, it was the best I've ever eaten. Curried perlemoen. Delicious." Already I felt cold sweat down my back with all that lying.

"I personally prefer their yellowfish with that lemon butter sauce...thinking of it, we haven't been to the Three Sisters for ages. What d'you think of their décor?"

"Uh...it's got a lot of uh...ambiance."

"Ja, and didn't you like that painting of the 3 sisters when they were young?"

"Which one?" Denzil hadn't told me anything about paintings.

"I thought there was only one. The big one hanging above the fire place. The girls walking on the beach with V.B. in the background. You can see the street in which the book shop is with all the little houses that were still there in the 20s."

"Uh...ja, very interesting." This was getting too complicated. I produced a humongous yawn. "I think I'll go to bed now."

"I'll also hit the sack. And Mathilda, don't worry too much about the riots. Most probably you won't hear or see anything of them except in the news."

"You're taking a mighty lot of sandwiches to school today, Mathilda," Greta observed at breakfast."

"Ja, I lost a bet and now I have to bring lunch for 5 people in my class." The real reason was that I planned to throw my weight in at iSkolo, where any kind of food would be greatly appreciated.

"It wouldn't do you any harm to eat a bit more yourself," Ludwig said. "After nearly a year in the land of the braaivleis and the melktert you still look like a skinny jumping stick."

"What was the bet about?" Joshua wanted to know.

"What bet?"

"The bet you lost and that's why you are making all those sandwiches."

"Oh, _that_ bet."

"You know, Mathilda, that nuts are good for your brains," Julie grinned. "Your short term memory, your long term memory, your ability to concentrate...all those things."

"So what was your bet about?" Lolo asked.

"It was about uh...how many beans make 5."

"Come on," Ludwig said. "As the suppliers of the prize we are entitled to the truth, don't you think?"

_Hell, how much does he know_?

"Ja, and don't forget to put bread, peanut butter and sandwich spread on the shopping list," Julie said.

"Okay. Uh...I bet...uh...I could walk 10 metres on my hands and uh after 6 metres Mrs Davies shot out of the woodwork and told me to stop immediately because anything that exposes bloomers to the public is _verboten_ and I didn't even wear bloomers..."

"Telephone," Lolo jumped up. "I'm going."

Ludwig looked at his watch. "Nearly time for the news. Mathilda switch the radio on, please."

"Dad," Lolo yelled, holding the receiver. "There's a weird man on the phone. He says he's a farter and he wants to talk to Mathilda."

"Let _me_ get that," Ludwig chucked his napkin on the table. "It's bound to be one of those wacky fuckers. Wait until I'm finished with him. Has anybody been bothering you, Mathilda?"

"No. No, not at all." I had no idea who the guy could be. I switched the radio on and some schmaltzy duetto floated through the room. Just when they got to their refrain Ludwig exploded into a monumental blast of laughter. He doubled up gasping for air and managed a faint: "It's for you, Mathilda."

_Who on earth can that be_?

" _Hier ist der Vater_ ," my father's voice sounded through the line. How are you Mathilda?" He didn't wait for an answer. "We hear the revolution has broken out in South Africa. You take the first flight back to Germany. Take _any_ flight out of South Africa."

"But Pa, there were a couple of marches in the townships. Where I am everything is okay."

"That's not what _we_ see on TV. They tell us the whole country is on fire. Entire streets where there are no 2 bricks left on top of each other, exploding cars, teargas all over the show, bullets flying everywhere. You can't stay in a place like that."

"But Pa I'm fine. I haven't heard any explosions or gunshots. I'm just getting ready for school like on any other day."

"No ways. You go straight to the airport, as long as there still is an airport, and get out as fast as you can, and..." There was a big noise in the line and then the engaged signal.

_Gott sei dank_. _Sometimes the imperfection of modern technology can be of great help in life._

"So who's the farter?" Lolo asked as soon as I put the receiver down. "Dad hasn't told us yet. He first wanted to listen to the news."

"It's my dad."

"Your dad! Why does he call himself a farter?" Greta giggled. "I've heard of old farts but usually it's other people who call them that."

"The German word for father is _Vater_ and to you guys it sounds like farter."

"I always told you the Germans are a weird bunch," Joshua said with a big grin.

On the South African news they reported that there had been more uprisings that had been suppressed successfully, with the rabble-rousers getting what they deserved and the government having everything under control.

The Chev was parked in front of the Chinese shop. Denzil was lying on the bench in the cabin, fast asleep. I knocked softly at the window. My lover didn't stir. After a lot more knocking and a guy asking me if I had locked myself out, Denzil woke up with a start.

"What's up?" He looked around not having a clue where he was. Slowly he put 2 and 2 together. "Hi Mathilda. I've been here since 5 this morning. I was hoping you'd come past." He rubbed his eyes. "If it's all right with you, we need you to do some stuff...which means you can't go to school today."

"I didn't plan to anyway. What do you want me to do?"

Denzil produced a tremendous yawn. "Cook food. We've got 80 kids to look after now...that was when I left this morning...plus about 5 adults...and everybody needs to eat."

"Ja sure, I can do some cooking. By the way, I've got a bag full of sandwiches here. D'you want one?"

Denzil dropped me off at his place. Mastermind helped unload a mountain of meat and veg and said it wasn't a problem for him to peel a bag of potatoes, and that it was always nice for people to have a big party with a lot of nyama.

"Where does he get the idea of the party from?" I asked Denzil while he got changed.

"I guess a party is the first thing that springs to mind being confronted with such quantities of food. Where is a clean shirt?" He rummaged around in his cupboard. "Shit, the last one's gone and the maid only comes tomorrow."

"Famous words of a freedom fighter." I passed him an acceptable sweatshirt from a heap of clothes on his desk.

Denzil stared flabbergasted at the uncovered model of the library. "Hell, I totally forgot about my project. I'll never get it finished."

"Maybe I can do it if you show me _how_ to do it."

"Ja," Denzil checked his watch. "Oh hell, I'll be late for my lecture, and then I'll have to leave early to collect lunch and drop it off at the warehouse. Mebbe you should get cracking in the kitchen, Mathilda. I'll see you at about one." He gave me a big hug and a big kiss. "You're sure you don't mind?"

"I'm sure." I gave him one last squeeze.

Mastermind and I spent the whole morning preparing chicken stew, listening to an African radio station. I nearly did my nut because there was not one sharp knife in the house. At 10 I tuned into Radio SA to get the latest news on the riots, but all they said was that the situation was under control. At 1 there was nothing new on the news.

Denzil had exactly 15 minutes to instill the finer details of one and a half years of academic model making into me. "You just have to stick to the scale on the plan, and to make a dome you draw a circle and cut it into triangles and glue them together...easy as pie."

I was in the middle of making the dome when the Chev pulled up the drive with screeching tyres. Denzil had said he'd only be back later that afternoon. My stomach turned into led.

_Something's gone wrong...the cops are hot on his heels_ ...

I ran into the lounge and, hidden behind a curtain, watched what was going on outside. Denzil parked the car in front of the stoep, got out, went round to the passenger side and unloaded a big box.

_Gott sei dank_. _They need more food, of course; he's come to drop off more vegetables and stuff._

Denzil smiled into the box and started to talk to the groceries.

_Poor guy. Total lack of sleep. He must take a rest. Otherwise he'll go bananas_.

Denzil grinned like an idiot at the vegetables. I was getting worried. I sprinted to the front door.

"Look what we've got here." Denzil shoved the box into my hands. "You better phone the Winters and ask if you can stay over tonight."

I had to look twice before my brain registered what my eyes were seeing. "A baby!" I gazed at the tiny sleeping bundle. "Gee Denzil, where did you get this baby from?"

"Somebody dropped it off with us. The mother got arrested yesterday. She is one of our pupils. _Her_ mother is in hospital with 3rd degree burns and the father of the baby has vanished a long time ago. There is no one to look after the little one and we can't keep him in the warehouse. We've got our hands full with all the other kids; there are more than 90 now...I thought mebbe you could do it."

"Me? Look after an abandoned baby?" The sudden onslaught of responsibility nearly knocked me off my feet.

"Ja, you know how to give a bottle and how to change a nappy."

"I got some practice 7 years ago when my brother was small."

"Changing nappies is like riding a bike, once you've learned it you never forget it."

"Okay, I'll do it." I had no idea if I was up to the task.

"I knew you would," Denzil smiled.

I phoned Ludwig at the book shop and asked him if I could stay at the Fenesseys' for 2 or 3 days to help Denzil with a project he had to finish; that was only half a lie.

"I know you are a responsible person, Mathilda," Ludwig said. "And I don't see any reason why you shouldn't stay there. Have you got enough condoms?"

The baby's African name was Tshepo and his English name was Jim. I covered him up with Denzil's thickest woolen jersey and put the box in which he was sleeping on the washing machine next to the stove, the warmest place in the house.

Mastermind didn't ask any questions about Tshepo. He was used to Harriet bringing black kids to the house and teaching them how to swim or give them lunch, things most other white people would never do. But when Mastermind saw the mountains of groceries Denzil had brought for another stew, he wanted to know what kind of party all that food was going to.

"A double wedding," Denzil said quickly.

"Hau! 2 wives one shot." Mastermind was amazed. "And I thought the white men can only have one wife, not 4 like us."

Denzil had to go to another lecture and Mastermind and I set about the stew. Tshepo slept until everything was in the pots; then he started to wail.

"Good strong lungs," Mastermind commented.

"Strong smell too," I said and took Tshepo to the bathroom to change the nappy.

I didn't have much time to work on the model. Tshepo howled for sustenance and I gave him the bottle. He wasn't used to it and howled some more. His mother probably breastfed him. He howled until he got the knack of the bottle and after his meal he wanted to be carried around. He had enormous eyes, little bobbles of hair on his head and the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet were pink. He was the cutest thing I'd ever seen in my life.

Tshepo was sleeping and the sun was setting dark red into a raging ocean when Denzil came back. The wind was howling around the house and whistling through gaps in the walls and the windows that the curtains were moving.

"How's it going?" Denzil passed me a big packet of disposable nappies. "How is our little man?"

"He's fine. He's much easier to handle than I thought. At first I wasn't quite sure how to hold him. He is so small; but it's easy. I gave him the bottle and we did the whole burp thing...he's so cute."

Denzil grabbed a basket full of baby clothes and formula and smiled at me. "I hope you're not getting broody, honey."

Mastermind had lit a fire in the fireplace in the lounge. Tshepo's snoozebox was on the settee. The curtains were billowing more and more, and single big raindrops plonked on the corrugated iron roof.

"It's lekker cosy in here," Denzil sighed falling into an armchair.

"I guess just now you have to go out into the big uncosy world again."

Denzil nodded. "I must drop the food off; but tonight I won't stay long, there are other people to look after the kids. By the way, here is a postcard from Wendy the sandwich maker."

"Oh, how is she?"

"All right I guess. Playing golf somewhere in Scotland."

"I find the kind of double life some people lead quite amazing. "

A log collapsed and a shower of sparks danced around the fire place.

"What do you mean?" Denzil asked.

"People who seem to be totally conformist, 'normal' people; somebody like Wendy for example. On the one hand she is an upper middle class wife, who doesn't have to go to work and travels the world to play golf and spends a lot of time at cocktail parties and telling the gardener how to trim the roses, and on the other hand she is in the Black Sash and she is an enemy of the state...quite similar to Victoria."

"Come and sit here." Denzil clapped his thighs.

I sat down sideways on his lap and he wrapped his arms around me.

"Mmmh, you smell good," I said nozzling his neck.

"Victoria's inquest is over," Denzil said holding me tight.

"Oh." A heavy lump sat suddenly in my guts.

"The police say her car hadn't been tampered with, there is no suspicion of foul play, and she probably fell asleep while she was driving and then hit a rock."

"And what do _you_ say?" The lump in my guts was getting bigger.

"I say it's weird that somebody like Victoria should fall asleep at 7 in the morning. Alistair told me she had an early night, and Victoria was a morning person. She loved to get up early and walk on the beach and watch the sun rise." Denzil's body got all limp all of a sudden and he whispered: "We'll never know the truth."

The ringing of the phone startled us out of our embrace and woke Tshepo. Denzil went to answer the call. I took Tshepo out of the box and carried him around in front of the fire place. It was dark outside now, and the wind was shaking the trees and hurling sheets of rain against the windows. We hadn't lit any lamps in the lounge and the fire was throwing eerie shadows across the room. Tshepo woke up properly and began to cry. I went to the kitchen to get another bottle for him. In the passage Denzil was talking on the phone. When I walked past him he smiled at me and stroked my arm. My heart lurched.

_How will I ever be able to live without him? I'll probably shrivel up and die_.

Denzil came into the kitchen with a serious face. "That was Bianca on the phone. Looks like up in Jo'burg the ambiance is much more tense than here. Bianca says some of her neighbours are afraid to go out in the street, and people have raided the shops for basic stuff like flour and sugar and gas bottles. Some are shit scared everything is going to collapse and the electricity will be cut off. And apparently all the whites have been evacuated from Soweto."

"I didn't know there were whites in Soweto."

"There are a few Bantu Administration officials and priests and doctors, who work at Baragwanath Hospital. Bianca did a practical there. It's the biggest hospital in the southern hemisphere."

I manoeuvered the teat of the bottle into Tshepo's mouth. "What do you think is going to happen, Denzil?"

"That's anybody's guess. All I know is that we are having the worst racial clashes since Sharpville, when the blacks protested against the passbooks."

We sat for a little while in front of the fire and watched the flames and listened to the storm.

"I'll be back round about 9." Denzil kissed me goodbye.

And then he disappeared into the night.

Outside all hell was popping loose and the house was full of noises. The rain was drumming on the tin roof, the windows rattled, and every now and then the whole place groaned and creaked while icy puffs of wind invaded the rooms. I put some more logs on the fire, switched on the 2 ostrich egg lamps and settled down on an armchair. Tshepo snoozed in his box and I dreamed of a life of adventure with Denzil, traversing the Australian outback on camels, discovering ancient wrecks in the deep blue sea...and making love every day. Tshepo began to wail the second the electricity went off.

_That's it. The revolution has started for good_.

I picked Tshepo up; my knees were shaking.

_Where is Denzil? Why isn't he back yet? It's nearly 10_ ...

I carried Tshepo around wondering if Denzil was all right. Tshepo didn't stop crying.

He wants a bottle, the little mite. No electricity – no lights, no stove, no hot water...phhhhh

I remembered the candles in the candle holders of the ancient piano. Mastermind must have used the last match in the matchbox at the fireplace, so I had to light the candles in the flames. There was a ready mixed baby bottle in the kitchen but it was ice cold. I warmed it between my thighs while singing German lullabies to Tshepo. He didn't calm down and he didn't want his bottle. It was only luke warm and probably not very appetizing on a cold winter's night.

_Where is Denzil_?

I ventured to the kitchen again, a candle in my hand, and looked for a pot and filled it with water.

_Please God, let Denzil be all right_.

I scraped together a heap of embers in the fireplace and put the pot with the water and Tshepo's bottle on top of it. Tshepo had 3 schlucks and then he started to cry again. I was in the middle of changing his nappy when the phone rang.

_Denzil...it must be him_.

I grabbed a candle and the baby, dirty bum and all, and raced to the phone.

"Hello," an unfamiliar voice said.

_Oh shit, it's not Denzil_.

"Who is speaking?" My nerves were shot.

"A friend," the guy said. "Denzil asked me to tell you that he won't be able to come home before tomorrow morning."

Oh hell.

"Why not? What has happened? Is he okay?" All I heard was a click. My legs were wobbly.

_Where is Denzil? Mebbe they arrested him...but then why would he say he'd be back tomorrow morning? Mebbe the Chev has broken down and he's sleeping in town...but then why didn't his friend tell me that_?

While I washed Tshepo's bum with the warm water out of the pot, my head nearly exploded with worry. On top of that the baby screamed fit to raise the dead. The temperature seemed to drop by the minute. The logs stacked next to the fireplace were nearly finished – and the piano candles too. Hells bells.

I found 3 candle stomps in a kitchen drawer. They would have to do for the night. The house was so chilly and damp, that I didn't even contemplate to sleep anywhere else than in the lounge, as close as possible to the dying fire. With all the blankets from Denzil's and Bianca's beds arranged into a kind of nest it looked quite cosy. I stuck Tshepo into the warmest romper I could find and took him into the nest with me. The storm was still raging with all its power; the fire died down to an orangey glow.

"Good morning, Miss. Sleeping on the floor, hau!" The maid woke me up after what seemed like 5 minutes. "Oh what a beautiful baby. Is it a boy or a girl?" She had picked up Tshepo already. "Do you want tea, Miss, or coffee? And what must I make for breakfast? Scrambled eggs, porridge?"

"I'll start with some coffee please, Nandipha." I surfaced with a frozen nose and icy ears.

The electricity was back on and I had a mug of coffee and about a litre of hot soup. The lawn was covered in leaves the storm had thrashed from the plants, and big branches had broken off the trees. The sky was blue again and the sea sparkled under a bright sun. It was a beautiful day – but where on earth was Denzil?

Nandipha washed the dishes and put the laundry into the washing machine with Tshepo sleeping strapped to her back.

I worked on the model of the library, concentrating mainly on possible phone calls or the sound of Denzil's Chev coming up the drive way. At 10 he wasn't back yet and I felt sick with worry. By 11 I had phoned Larry about 20 times and his phone just rang and rang and rang. There was nobody I could talk to. I was at the end of my wits.

After having cut out the elements of the library's spiral staircase incorrectly for the third time, I quit and went into the garden. Nandipha was hanging the washing on the line. Tshepo woke up and, from the height of her back, he bestowed a toothless grin on me.

"Nandipha, can you show me how to strap the baby on my back?"

"Hau Miss," Nandipha nearly dropped a shirt. "White people don't strap babies to their backs."

"That's because they are sometimes stupid. I think it's a sensible thing to do, but how do you get him up there without him falling off?"

"It's easy." Before I could say Cock Rubinstein she was holding Tshepo in her arms. "You bend over like this Miss," Nandipha sort of folded into a 90-degree angle in her hip, with her back parallel to the ground. "A small baby you can lift up over your shoulder and you put him on his tummy on your back, like this, and then you take a blanket and you wrap it around the baby and yourself, and then you fasten the blanket with a safety pin." Nandipha got back into an upright position. "When the baby is bigger, 7, 8 months old, you lift him up over the side and the rest is the same."

I was impressed. "And you pull the blanket quite tight?"

"Not too tight; otherwise they look like me when they are grown up." Nandipha laughed and pointed at her bandy legs.

With her help I had Tshepo on my back in 3 seconds flat.

"The children they love it," Nandipha said.

"I bet they do. It's so much more snug than to lie in a pram all by your lonely self."

I went on a tour through the garden telling Tshepo about fairies dancing on patches of moss and _Heinzelmännchen_ living in mushroom houses. I heard a car. My heart nearly stopped. Denzil? I hardly dared look in case it was somebody else.

It _was_ the Chev.

Denzil flashed an exhausted grin at me and waved like a madman. I ran as fast as I could. Denzil jumped out of the Chev and we had a major hug. I didn't know if I was laughing or crying.

"I see you are doing things the African way now," were Denzil's first words after we let finally go of each other.

Tshepo gave a happy gurgle and we burst out laughing. Denzil took my hand and we walked into the house.

"I had the most incredible night," he said. "You won't believe what happened."

I handed Tshepo back to Nandipha, who was busy in the kitchen cooking another stew. Denzil and I made ourselves comfortable on the ancient sofa on the eastern part of the stoep, where it was warm and wind protected.

"I thought I'd never see you again." I snuggled up to him.

"I know, it must have been terrible for you, but the only thing I could do was to ask Peter to phone you when he got a chance."

"So Peter is your mysterious friend? He didn't even mention his name. All he told me was that you'd only be back in the morning, but he never said why."

"He couldn't. He was in a major hurry using a phone that could be tapped."

_Du lieber Himmel_! _What's next_?

"So what happened? I thought the cops had locked you up. I dreamed they hanged you for treason."

"It wasn't quite that bad," Denzil said with a weak smile. "We got a tip off that the cops somehow found out about the warehouse, so we had to move as fast as we could." He squeezed my hand. "I spent the night ferrying kids in a clapped out old furniture lorry to our new place. Moses drove the other lorry." Denzil squeezed my hand again. "Relax baby, everybody got there in one piece. 99 kids, 3 adults and stacks of mattresses and blankets, all the cooking stuff and about half a ton of spare clothes."

"And where is that new place?"

"I would feel much better if I didn't tell you, but I guess you'll feel much better if I do." He sighed. "It's at the airport. In one of those disused old sheds they built during the Second World War."

"It must be cold in there."

"Ja, and we've only got one tap and one toilet."

"Good heavens. Mebbe we should organize some buckets. It's better to pee in a bucket than to kneip and stand in a queue for 3 hours."

"Ja, I think we'll have to do that. We can't even send the guys out to piss in the veld."

"There must be other people around," I said horrified. "Denzil, somebody will see you and then what?"

"We are right at the far end of the airport. Hardly anybody ever goes there. There is only one guy, 2 sheds away. He's building a boat in his shed and he's okay. He sometimes teaches science at iSkolo. It was his idea that we move to the airport."

"And how long do you think this whole hiding business will still go on?"

"Haven't got a clue. But things are moving. The cops have released Tshepo's mom. She is still a kid – only 16."

"That's younger than me."

"Mmh." Denzil produced an elephant yawn. "I'll take Tshepo back into town this afternoon, but first I need a snooze. I'm dead tired."

While the sun glided through the western sky, I went for a walk with Tshepo on my back, wondering what it must be like to have a baby at 16. I felt much too young to be responsible for somebody else, and then, what would happen to my life of travel and adventure? I sang _Es waren zwei Königskinder_ to Tshepo and thought that after nearly a year in Africa I didn't know much about African culture...and it was bloody difficult to get some non propagandist information about it.

The only time blacks and whites 'socialized' in this country was when they were small kids and lived on a farm, like Christo and his Sotho pals in the Freestate; Hein and Debbie had already been a little Baas and a little Missis.

My first host mother, Marieke, was convinced she had a great knowledge about Africa because she had a black maid and a black gardener, and everybody knew anyway that these blacks needed a kick in the backside every now and then, you just had to look at the rest of Africa, where they weren't so lucky as to have a whole lot of God's chosen people around to keep the place going. Marieke didn't even speak a black language.

Ludwig spoke Xhosa and Zulu and he had grown up on a farm where the blacks had given him a nickname, _Komiyahlaba_ – 'be careful, that bull pokes'. And Ludwig sometimes shook his head in disbelief: 'I thought I know the blacks but there are times when I think I'll never understand them'.

Denzil said, a lot of African culture had been destroyed by the colonialists, and that people, who have been cut off from their roots, with their social net and their values and their dignity shred to pieces, lived in extreme circumstances, and to learn something about black South African culture now, was like going into a British village during the time of the industrialization – when half the population had left and everybody's life was upside down – and to try and study their traditional agrarian lifestyle.

Tshepo crowed on my back. I went back to the house to finish the model of the library. Mastermind was raking the leaves on the lawn into heaps and Nandipha was cleaning the kitchen.

"Master Ludwig phoned," she said. "He wants you to phone him back."

"Hello Ludwig, it's Mathilda. How are you?"

"100 percent, my girl. Thanks for returning my call. I'm sorry to tear you away from your sweetheart but we absolutely need you to baby sit tonight."

Phhh. Now I can't go to the airport...

"Ja sure, I'll baby sit. Denzil can drop me off just now."

"Thanks, my girl. Can you be here before it gets dark? Julie is going to an Arts Council meeting and I've been allocated to do patrol."

"Patrol? That sounds like a war thing to me. What are you going to patrol?"

"I'll tell you when I see you."

I put the receiver down, flabbergasted. Were there new developments in the riots I didn't know anything about?

On the way into town everything looked normal. I gave Tshepo a last hug and Denzil a big kiss and waved until the Chev had disappeared round the street corner.

Julie had already left for her meeting. My host father was sitting in his favourite armchair in the lounge with a revolver in his hands.

"Gosh Ludwig, what do you need that revolver for?"

Ludwig turned the barrel and looked through the empty chamber on top.

"This my girlie, is a .357 Magnum. I'll take it with me on patrol."

"Oh, and what is that patrol all about?"

Ludwig took a cartridge out of a box and put it into the chamber. "We got phone calls from our kids' headmasters. Looks like the blacks are getting ready to burn down the white schools now they've burnt down their own."

"Oh."

Ludwig turned the barrel another couple of degrees. "The plan is to have a patrol car on each street corner around the schools so that one can watch what is going on."

"So you have to be there the whole night?"

"No, it's divided up in shifts of one hour." Ludwig smiled. "Don't look so horrified, my girl. It's no big deal. From 8 to 9 I'll sit there in my car and keep my eyes open, and then the next guy will take over."

"But if anything happens...would you really shoot somebody?"

"Damn right I would!"

When Julie came back from her meeting the kids were sleeping and I was writing a letter to Friederieke about the riots and Ludwig's patrol. I caught myself several times nearly starting a sentence about Denzil and his pals on the run from the cops with 99 kids in tow; but I had to absolutely shut up about the things that preoccupied me most. Instead I told Friederieke how astonished I had been to see on the box that amongst the police fighting the uprisings, there had been stacks of black cops. Why were they helping their oppressors fight their own black brothers?

"The black cops aren't very popular with the rest of the blacks," Ludwig had explained. "But they get a good salary and free housing. And South Africa needs black cops; it's a sheer matter of numbers. Less than 20 per cent of the population are white. And when the police want to arrest somebody in Soweto or in the Transkei they send the black cops. By the way, black cops are not allowed to arrest white people."

"But aren't the whites scared that the black cops will turn on them one day?"

"I don't see how they could. Only the white cops are armed. The black cops carry batons."

Julie fell into an armchair a glass of kir in her hand. "You won't believe what a bunch of idiots are sitting on our town council." She took a good schluck and put her feet up on a stool. "Can you imagine that those Philistines have now decided to knock down V.B.'s only art-déco building to make space for a petrol station. Can you believe it?" Julie was just about pulling her hair out. "Not that I'm a great fan of art-déco myself. I find it's a bit too...heavy' but still, it's an expression of human culture. Of course those bureaucrats couldn't give a hoot about subtleties like that." She downed her drink and stretched out her arm in my direction. "Would you pour me another one, please."? I took her glass. "A petrol station," Julie sighed. "Next thing they'll think up is to destroy the Art Museum and put a bloody censorship bunker in its place."

I passed her the kir. "Aren't you worried about Ludwig out there in the night armed with a gun, ready to confront people who want to burn down the school?"

Julie cast a quizzical look at me. "I'm proud he is out there," she said at last. "You see, our friend Lewis had to come and give me a lift to the meeting tonight, because since the riots started it's too dangerous for a woman to drive around by herself after dark. Who wants to live like that?" She put her glass down with a bang. "Ja, I'm proud that Ludwig is out there doing his bit for the country."

The next morning Denzil popped in on his way to varsity. He had spent the whole night at the airport with the kids and was exhausted. After a hot shower and some breakfast he flopped onto my bed a sigh of contentment on his lips.

"There is nothing like a real mattress, those thin sponge things are a pain in the butt."

"How's the ambiance in your airport shed?"

"Quite good. Looks like things have calmed down in the townships. Most kids are back home. We've only got 15 left. I guess another night or 2 and we can get back to our 'normal' lives."

"Until the next uprising."

"Ja," Denzil bit his lip. "South Africa is a bomb waiting to blow up. Last night I listened to the older boys. They are extremely angry and I think they are becoming more and more militant. They regard their parents as week-kneed and say they won't put up with the white man's shit. I hear that a lot of the pupils who took part in the riots belong to the _SA_ _Students_ _Movement_ – a black consciousness movement. I'm telling you the winds of change are blowing through southern Africa. Mozambique has got a black government now. That must do something for the self confidence of the black South Africans."

*

The winter holidays started, and for the first time in my life I found the last school day a bit sad. At the beginning of the next term I would be back in Germany, so I had to say good-bye to everybody at the school.

During assembly Mrs Davies, the German teacher, outdid herself by getting the standard 8s to sing _Wem Gott will rechte Gunst erweisen._ After they had finished the 3 verses, Mrs Davies explained that the lyrics mean: if God really loves you He sends you out into the world. She also said that it was a privilege for Protea High to be participating in an exchange program that brought youths of different countries closer together.

_Hopefully one day they'll manage to bring youths of different cultures of their own country together_.

I improvised a short speech telling everybody that this had been the best year I had ever had, and I thanked the school for letting me share their every day lives – and I really meant it.

Miss Pembleton stopped me in the corridor. "Well Mathilda, I'm glad you enjoyed your stay and I hope you've learned something during your time here. You know, we cannot take anything for granted and we are responsible for our own choices. Just remember that, and you'll be a lot wiser than most people on this planet." She threw an encouraging smile at me, turned round and sailed down the passage like a sturdy frigate out to conquer the world.

For a moment I pondered if there was more to Miss Pembleton than the pushy old bag I thought she was. Then Kim yelled that I should better hurry up and come to our classroom to receive my class's special farewell gift.

Brian, the prefect handed me a parcel. "We know that you're not into ladies' fashion," he grinned. "That's why we thought you might appreciate this."

I tore off the gift paper – a Protea High first rugby team jersey!

_Are they taking the Mickey out of me, or what_?

I still couldn't give a hoot about rugby and I still didn't know any of its rules. Everybody was standing there with a big smile, looking at me expectantly.

"Check the back," Jenny said.

I turned the jersey over. They all had signed their name on it. I was truly touched.

During the first break I was called into Mr Martin's office. The headmaster invited me to sit down in the leather chair opposite him.

"You know Mathilda, we had a couple of exchange students before you and they all stuck to the program – go to school every day, write exams; some of them even became prefects...but I wonder...I was a fighter pilot during the Second World War, in El Alamein...I got shot down. I returned to South Africa and became a teacher, then the headmaster of this school...life is a curious thing." He smiled. "We haven't seen you much around here lately, but I know the world is a vast place and there are things to learn everywhere."

He got up and I got up. We exchanged the usual farewell wishes. And I wondered. Who is Mr Martin? I would never know but he was quite a guy – for a headmaster.

The last thing I did at Protea High was to find Lettie, the swearing tea lady. I spotted her pushing the tea trolley towards the school kitchen.

"Lettie...Lettie!"

The coloured lady stopped in her tracks and turned round."Jirra, you gave me a fokken skrik."

"Sorry Lettie, I didn't mean to."

She eyed me from my toes to the top of my head. "They say you're going back home to a place which is like a deep freeze half of the year."

"Ja, and the other half of the year it's lekker lush and green and the cows are grazing amongst the dandelions and the lovely sound of bells is ringing through the air...and I wanted to give you this." I handed her the last of the 10 Bavarian cow bells I had brought as gifts. They had been quite popular with everybody and if one could believe Sarie, there was now a heiffer called Mathilda with a bell from Riedberg round her neck, right there on the Mooifontein farm in the Freestate.

Lettie examined the bell from all sides and also seemed to like it. "Very nice gift, baie baie dankie. The blerry nicest gift I had in a long time." She hung the bell on a hook on her tea trolley and ambled off towards the kitchen. The trolley rumbled over the old floorboards, Lettie mumbled something, but it was drowned by the full bodied sound of the bell. Looked like I had found the solution to 'Lettie's problem'. If Protea High didn't want to listen to the tea lady's flow of swear words anymore, they wouldn't have to.

The university also broke up. The kids of iSkolo were back with their parents. A couple of Denzil's volunteer friends were giving special classes 3 times a week. I nearly keeled out of my bio sandals when I heard where iSkolo had moved to.

"We are in V.B.'s only art-déco building now," Denzil told me proudly. "You should see those chrome light fittings all over the show, and there is a pink marble fountain in the middle of the dining room, and we've got 5 toilets and a huge kitchen."

"The Art-déco house is saved from the Philistines," Julie grinned happily when I asked her. "The richest man in the province put in a phenomenal offer and the town council accepted it. It's a pity that the place is staying empty at the moment. The new owner is away travelling and until he comes back nothing will be done to the house. It needs some fixing up – the sooner the better. Well, at least the rich guy's nephew is keeping an eye on the place. He seems to be quite a weirdo, some kind of long haired marine archeologist, and he's building a boat in one of the old sheds at the airport."

The Winters stayed at home for the holidays. Ludwig had to run the book shop and they were still patrolling the schools at night, although nothing had happened after the riots.

"V.B. _is_ a holiday town," Julie said when Greta complained that she was about the only girl in her class who wouldn't go anywhere, not even to the Kruger Park or the hot springs in Aliwal.

"Don't be so ungrateful," Julie said exasperated. "Lots of people from Jo'burg would only be too happy to spend a holiday here."

"Not me," Greta whined. "We haven't even got horses."

"We can go horse riding at Kim's," I suggested. "The Jamesons are still here for a week before they go to Umhlanga Rocks.

"I don't want to ride on Kim's stupid horses," Greta wailed. "And you see, they are also going away. It's not fair..."

"So you think life is treating you badly, my girl?" Ludwig asked.

"Yehes," Greta sniffed.

"All right," Ludwig got up. "Get all your pocket money. I want to show you something."

"Where are they going?" I asked Julie when Ludwig drove out of the gate.

"I haven't got a clue."

5 minutes later the phone rang. "Guess what," Kim said on the other end of the line.

"What?"

"We are not going to Umhlanga Rocks after all."

"But you have been talking about nothing else in the last few weeks. What happened?"

"You won't believe it. My gran slipped on the stoep and broke both her legs."

"Hell!"

"Ja. Now my grandpa doesn't want to leave her, of course, and my mom doesn't want to leave the 2 of them and my pa says he would never go without my mom, so we are all staying."

"I'm sorry for your gran but you know what?"

"What?"

"It will be good to have you around. It'll sort of enrich the last days of my stay."

Kim laughed. "To tell you the truth, I'm not that devastated that we are not going."

"Really?"

"Ja," Kim sighed dreamily. "You see, I met that boy..."

From wherever her father had taken her, Greta came back a changed person.

"How did you do it?" Julie asked Ludwig amazed, after Greta had offered to set the table, to clean the rat cage and said it would be lovely to go horse riding at Kim's.

"I took her to the Place of Safety and asked the matron to show her around."

Julie's chin dropped. "It's horrible there from what I hear."

"Ja, it looks like a prison and those kids have got nothing. They wear donated clothes, they eat slap pap every day and they never go on holiday. I told Greta to buy chocolates with her pocket money for them."

"It must have been a hard lesson for her," Julie said. "But it seems to have left an impression."

"Sometimes we need things in our lives to be put into perspective," Ludwig said.

The holidays were one formidable jol of being with Denzil, cooking up a storm at somebody's place, going horse riding at Kim's, sleeping over somewhere and watching films Ludwig took out at the film hire joint. Sometimes I nearly forgot that I had to leave. Sometimes the dread sat in my guts that I could hardly breathe.

And then the last day came. I walked around like a robot, watching myself trying to keep up a normal appearance, feeling totally empty inside. Denzil, the Winters and Kim took me to the airport.

Hugs and kisses.

Denzil's deep green eyes. His arms around me. His lanky body against mine.

He pulled a jasmine twig out of his bag, tucked it behind my ear and smiled: "We'll meet again."
About Gunda Hardegen-Brunner

Gunda Hardegen-Brunner grew up in the Black Forest and in Bavaria. She was first published at the age of 11 – a poem for the schoolmag – which was promptly closed down because of it.

Always interested in foreign countries and other cultures she spent a year (1975/76) as an exchange student in South Africa.

She studied ethnology at the universities of Heidelberg, München and Paris VII, later became a physiotherapist and lived for several years in France. After a serious car smash she returned to South Africa to recuperate and subsequently married her former host father, the actor Michael Brunner, to many known as _Skip_ in _Isidingo_ , _Seedling_ in _Jock of the Bushveld_ , _Dr Budlander_ in _Soul City_ and from dozens of other movies and TV series.

Gunda and Michael lived for 10 years on their smallholding off the grid with stacks of free range animals all over the show. They built a house using mainly local materials like the ground to make bricks, trees for roofbeams and veld grass to thatch the roof. They also built a traditional, wooden, 40 foot gaff-rigged cutter and lived on it for 3 years. When Michael's health began to deteriorate they moved to a farm with a retreat centre in the Overberg and camped in an ancient milkwood forest for one and a half years. In search for a new place they travelled southern Africa for a while and swallowed the anchor in the Karoo.

Michael died in 2012 and since then Gunda has been on an inner and outer journey, which her book _The Stars Beneath My Feet_ is all about.

### Contact Details

Email:  gundabrunner@gmail.com

Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/gunda.hardegenbrunner>

Other Books by Gunda Hardegen-Brunner

_THE STARS BENEATH MY FEET_ is a diary Gunda wrote for herself and to her husband Michael to share with him what happened to her after he had committed suicide. It's the story of an inspiring, very personal spiritual journey that touches on the universal question – what are life and death all about?

Michael Brunner was a well known South African actor, remembered by many as _Seedling_ in _Jock of the Bushveld, Dr Budlander_ in _Soul City,_ _Skip_ in _Isidingo_ and many more movies and TV series.

YET ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE

A novel about the hilarious, chaotic and creative every day life in a yacht club in South Africa.
Sample Chapters

THE STARS BENEATH MY FEET

We all felt it that day on the farm

Flint and I went for a walk. The first flowers dotted the veld with their bright colours – yellow orange purple – in between the bossies and the klippe. A winter wind was howling, blowing big grey clouds across the pale blue sky. The shadows of those clouds rode like phantoms over the glowing mountains, veiling the rusty umber of their ancient folds,

and there it was – your presence – all around, gentle & overwhelming, abstract & very real, connecting the sky the mountains the veld & us.

I drove home. I opened the door. Time stopped

the plastic packet over your head, the empty pill containers, the bandage around your neck, your hands peacefully on the duvet – but cold...oh so cold

your chest, concrete-like, no movement

the plastic packet, rigid, tight

doc came

cops came

the cat wanted to lie on your chest

there were stars in the sky

you weren't in your body anymore

I could feel you all around

doc said, 'here's a pill if you want it. You mustn't stay here tonight.'

Vilma came and took me back to the farm

I'm lying in a bed that is not your bed or my bed or our bed

it's cold except for 2 little wheat bags – warmed up in the micro wave

one at my feet, one on my tummy, the bed is soft

the wind hasn't stopped howling, the windows are rattling, the door is creaking, it is pitch dark

same dark if I close my eyes or open them

there are images jumping from my mind and from my guts burning into that space just between my eyes

The plastic packet, The plastic packet, The plastic packet

your hands peacefully on the duvet, almost like in prayer, maybe that is what you were doing – talking to the universe

YET ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE

Old Gordon, in his boat Flaming Lil, stroked the dog on his lap, looked at his favourite painting in the cabin and said to the pigeon sitting on his head, "You see Elvis, this is MAMI WATA the water spirit. She's lots of things: nurturing mother, sexy mama, healer of ills, embodiement of danger and desires, risks and fears, challenges, dreams and forebodings." He sucked a thoughtful schluck of mate through his bombilla and put the dog down on the sole. "Let's go." A cat jumped off the bunk and followed Gordon, the dog and the pigeon into the cockpit, onto the side deck and down a wooden staircase. Gordon liked his staircase. He'd made it himself about 20 years ago when he'd moved onto the land. In his personal opinion he occupied the best spot at the Pelican Island Yacht Club. Behind the casuarinas on Flaming Lil's portside stood the clubhouse with all its amenities only a 5 minute walk away and from the starboard side he had a fantastic view down the slope and across the Bay. His closest neighbours were the boats moored on A-trot. Nice to look at but far enough away for him to have some privacy. A man needed space, especially after having lived on the sea for 50 years. Gordon walked towards the beach. The pigeon on his head cooed softly. "What a beautiful morning, hey Elvis," the old man said to the bird. The first sunrays lit up the bougainvillea covering a boatshed. Gordon walked past the palm trees and the oleander bushes, slowly, carefully watching his step. When you were nearly 90 your bones weren't what they used to be and he didn't want to sprain his ankle again, like on his birthday when he'd fallen over a fender in the clubhouse, but that had been with half a bottle of Old Brown Sherry in his guts and he still wanted to klap the idiot who'd left the fender there; anyway, it was better to watch your step in your old age even when you were sober. At the jetty, 2 grey herons looked expectantly at Gordon. The old man took a piece of boerewors out of a plastic packet and broke it in half. Stretch took his piece first. He was the alpha bird. Gordon had found him 9 years ago with a broken wing. Lofty had been half starved with a piece of fishing line tangled up between her feet. That had been 5 years ago...or 6? Gordon scratched his beard. Mmh...it had been just before his boat had sunk...8 years ago. Gordon looked past the birds to the end of the jetty where his Wind Song had been moored. Ah ja, the good old days! But Gordon wasn't prone to reminiscence. He cast his eyes to the mangroves on the opposite side of the channel. Hundreds of egrets dotted the branches. It looked like a giant Iceberg-rosebush. Gordon squinted his eyes to improve his vision but it didn't help when you had cataracts; the only thing you could do was to have an operation but he'd be damned if he let anybody fiddle around with his eyes. At least he'd seen the planet before mankind had buggered it up; he'd sailed the Seven Seas when the oceans were still full of fish instead full of garbage and when you could go to Galapagos without having to apply for a visa and you could stay there as long as you wanted. Ja, his had been a good life and still was. The other day, Patti, who ran the pub at the yacht club, had asked him what he wanted for Christmas and he'd said "nothing". He was happy with his lot although during the last few days he'd been thinking...if there really was God the Creator up in the sky He could have arranged for old people to grow a third set of teeth. Ja, a new set of teeth was all he wanted in life.

On Timshel in D-trot Mathilda opened the hatch and climbed onto the bridge deck. She hit her head on the boom. Damnit! After 7 weeks on the boat it still happened. She pressed her hand against the growing bruise and, looking around her, immediately forgot the pain. The sun had just come up behind the bluff where red blossomed trees shone like flames in amongst the indigenous bush. A gentle breeze began to stir; the water in the Bay, still undisturbed, reflected the blue sky and the yachts; she'd counted them the other day, there were more than 40, their masts sticking up in the sky like trees of an outlandish forest. On the opposite shore at the dinghy jetty she saw Gordon feed his birds, that was what he did every morning. The tide was out and his dog and the cat were strolling along the beach towards the yacht jetty. On the lawn behind the beach somebody had unrolled a sail and further up the slope the clubhouse peeped out from behind the palms and casuarinas, hiding most of the container yard beyond the yacht club premises. Mathilda checked the neighbouring boats. Looked like on _Lucky Star_ on the opposite trot Louis and Sophie were still sleeping, no trace of Louis' sexy knee peeping out from the cockpit. On _Nukani_ Madeleine was up the mast working on the cross trees. Dal on _Solitaire_ was checking his fishing lines. All of a sudden the egrets took off from the mangroves in a mighty swish. Mathilda followed their flight down the channel, a swirl of white bodies and wings gliding perfectly synchronized past the fisheries and the turning basin towards the hills of the city.

A dinghy detached itself from a dark-blue ketch. A lean figure with long black hair wearing a straw hat and cut-off jeans was standing in it paddling at a leisurely pace towards the shore. A fish jumped. The reflections of the masts crinkled on the water. Here goes Joe, Mathilda thought. Joe, deep in thought, didn't notice much of what was going on around him. He didn't see the cormorant catch a mullet, or the pelicans hunting between the mooring lines. He sighed. Life had been easy – until last night. Fuck! He thought he'd left all the crap behind him. Hell! For the last few years, since he'd dropped anchor at the yacht club he'd been settled and happy. He looked after the moorings and sometimes he delivered yachts to exotic places. He had no worries in life plus the club had a pub, plus some lovely chicks. Sure, there were some smartasses amongst the members but he socialized with the sensible guys who realized that there was more to life than the rat race and status symbols. And now this. Hells bells! He couldn't believe it. Why did life have to be so complicated? Maybe he should just ignore the whole thing...
Interview with Gunda Hardegen-Brunner

When did you first start writing?

As soon as I could hold a pen and my father had taught me to write. I was about 5 and made illustrated stories about animals, flowers, witches, fairies and people.

What was the first book you remember reading?

Pippi Langstrumpf – Pippi Longstocking, while I was in primary school. From the first page it confirmed that my decision to never grow up and to do my own thing in life was the way to go.

What is the story behind Zebra Horizon?

Michael and I were living on our smallholding between Johannesburg and Pretoria with all sorts of freerange animal companions and we were building our boat, a wooden, 40 foot gaff-rigged cutter.

One day, it must have been the year 2000, I said to Michael, "I want to write a book."

He said, "I think that's a great idea. What's it going to be about?"

"About our life here in the sticks with all the animals and our eccentric neighbours and about how we built our house using local materials like the ground to make bricks, trees for beams and veld grass to thatch the roof – without any electric tools but a goodly bit of lateral thinking."

I started the book with how Michael and I first met – when I was an exchange student and he one of my host fathers – that seemed to be a logical beginning. And then the story took on its own life. It took unexpected turns and twists; new characters appeared out of the blue and made me laugh and cry. After 2 years I had a script that wasn't about our life on the smallholding at all but about Mathilda and her exchange year to South Africa in the 70s – a novel inspired by my personal experience.

I wrote a lot in Michael's dressing room at the SABC. The Isidingo cast and crew with their various backgrounds were a fantastic source of information about aspects of life in South Africa in the 70s that I hadn't been able to experience myself or get uncensored information about while I was an exchange student.

On days I stayed at home I wrote in the writing chamber with a view on the pond with all the ducks and geese, the garden and the forest. The dogs kept me company, the sheep walked around, the hens scratched the ground surrounded by their chicks, while Jingleballicks, the rooster, let off lusty cock a doodle dos. Sometimes Pegasus, the horse, popped in but only if the dogs would let him.

Michael was extremely supportive on all sorts of levels and on days I didn't spend on film sets his first question arriving home would be, "May I read what you wrote today?"

What is the greatest joy of writing for you?

It has often been said that writing is a lonely process. I disagree. When the words are flowing I feel connected in every way. The universe embraces me for being myself – the essence of Gunda, creating something unique, contributing my bit to the expression of life. It's the most extraordinary, exhilarating, enriching experience – I feel the rapture of being alive.

What are you working on at the moment?

A while ago I found 270 pages of Mathilda II on my laptop, a story I began to write in 2006, which I had totally forgotten about. Mathilda II (working title) is the sequel to Zebra Horizon.

In Mathilda II, Mathilda is back in Germany finishing her schooling. All she wants in life is to rejoin her South African boyfriend as fast as possible but Denzil, who is doing his bit for the Struggle – or is he? goes incommunicado.

Mathilda, mightily pissed off, leaves for Paris and works for Monsieur Gaspard, a wealthy philanthropist with a penchant for paintings and out of the ordinary cuisine.

Mathilda has an encounter that blows her clean out of her Birkenstock sandals and leads to the question – what is love all about?

That's how far I got 8 years ago. I have no idea what's going to happen next. At the moment I am doing research about France and South Africa in 1977.

What is your writing process?

I have an idea. I write down what comes up. I follow the story as it unfolds without interfering too much; I go with the flow...that's how Zebra Horizon became a book about Mathilda's exchange year instead about Michael's and my life with our animal companions on our smallholding off the grid in the bush.

I always first write by hand. I love the feel of my pen and my hand gliding across the paper, the little sound that makes and watch the words appear on the page.

I write whenever I feel inspired, which can be at any time of the day or the night for half an hour or 12.

The only time I had a dedicated desk was when we were living on our smallholding. After that it was the dinette on the boat, our only table in our camp under the milkwood trees and for the last 2 years on my lap in the bush or a table seating 14, depending on where the flow of life took me.

I sometimes carry a notebook with me and have one next to my bed; I often dream sequences of my stories.

When the muse isn't sitting on my shoulder I type my handwritten stuff onto the computer or I do research for my books. Doing research is one of my favourite pastimes – it takes me to all sorts of places and people in real life and on the internet. The Isidingo cast and crew answered questions like – Were there movie houses in Soweto in the 70s? – No, we went to Lenasia. – How do you strap a baby to your back so that it doesn't fall off? – Ma Agnes gave me a practical demonstration. For Yet Another Day in Paradise I needed someone familiar with the yachting world to do the cover and Lawrence Moorcroft, a fellow sailor and yacht club member, who was involved in the Asterix movies when they were drawn by hand in the 60s, did the artwork.

An important part of the process is to sit still or walk in the woods or gaze at the stars – for stories to be born somewhere deep inside me.

What do you do when you don't write?

I read. I spend as much time as I can in the wild. I paint – like mad for 3 months and then I stop for a year – or more – or less. I love to explore – places, people, different cultures, subcultures.

A great big thank you

to all those who made my exchange year possible

to Nathalie Shrosbree for her inspiring dedication to all things technical and the cover design,

to Jenny and Heather Metelerkamp for the YAY Jump cover photo

and to Jenny Gandar for the M & G photo
