On the outskirts of Vereeniging: a reflection
When I was in high school, I would spend some of my school
holidays working at a dog kennels and cattery in Vereeniging. Only 60kms from
my home in Johannesburg, the dog kennels were in the rural outskirts of the
city. Nothing much grew in that part of Vereeniging. This was not the
agricultural centre of the city. Any greenery or plant life was the sole
reserve of the residence or business itself, fed mostly from boreholes. No
rivers ran close enough for irrigation purposes.
The dog kennels were owned and run by Aunty Jean Aucamp, an old
family friend. She had taken her retirement savings and invested in this
business. Sometimes, I used to think, she bought it as a place to keep her cats
and whatever money came along as a result was a bonus. She was one of very few
people I have met that I can truly call a saint.
The house itself was very old. Creaky wooden floors, huge rooms,
ornate cornicing and carved ceilings. Wrought iron light fixtures festooned
most rooms, and the kitchen was gargantuan, large food preparation surfaces, a
central island and wrapped by windows on two sides, letting the morning light
come streaming in. Dust motes would play and frolic in the air, a questing
finger disturbing their play and causing momentary confusion as they found
their way back onto their own paths.
My room, empty save for a mattress on the floor, also had windows
on both sides and - being on the other side of the house - attracted the
afternoon sunlight. One set of windows looked out at the entrance to the
kennels itself. The reception area, and indeed the entire kennels complex, was
much newer than the house itself. What this house used to be I do not know and,
if I was once told, I no longer remember.
The only other piece of “furniture” in my room was my new
double-tape deck radio (sometimes called a boombox) and my suitcase. Much older
brothers and a sister had meant a very eclectic musical upbringing (they were
so much older that, by the time I was in primary school, they had all left home
already. You could argue that I had grown up as an only child). The strains of
Simon and Garfunkel, The Alan Parsons Project and the Bachman Turner Overdrive
still bring back memories of my formative years and the blue carpet of the room
I shared with one of my brothers but - by high school and by the time that I
was traveling to Vereeniging during school holidays - I was starting to
discover what music worked for me. It was for that reason that only two bands
came with me one three-week holiday, multiple albums on cassette tape from bands
I was just starting to explore, bands which would form the foundation for how I
viewed and judged music past that point: The Doors and Pink Floyd.
The work at the kennels was not hard. I would be up early in the
morning and out into the complex, pushing my trolley with stainless steel
shelves along as I placed bowls of dog food, one by one, into the cages. There
were perhaps five or six rows of cages and - as I ran out of food - I would
head back to the reception building were Aunty Jean would be ready with the
next batch for me. Once done, I would don waders and Wellington boots, trailing
a hose and broom where I would hose down and sweep out each cage, just behind
Aunty Jean as she scooped up and stacked the empty bowls on the trolley.
The morning’s work was usually done by eight o’clock, the sun now
starting to make a slight chink in the tremendous cold of early-morning winter
in rural Vereeniging. My morning ended with a walk through the chicken coop,
spreading chicken feed over the floor to entice them away from their nests,
from which I would snag up a few eggs and take them back to the house. By the
time I arrived the kitchen was already toasty with the oven firing, the thick
windows keeping out some of the cold and the dust motes just as grateful to
warm themselves in the glory that was Aunty Jean’s cheerful cooking.
The rest of the day, with the exception of the odd customer
dropping off or picking up an animal, was my own. I would repeat the morning’s
process in the evening and, once done and the evening’s obligatory TV watched
(an old, small, black-and-white set, on which Sunday morning was spent with
whichever televangelist was on at the time), I would retire to my room and
escape into new musical exploration, lights off and headphones on.
Was there much to do in rural Vereeniging during the hours I had
to myself during the day? No, there was not. With the exception of our house
and its gardens, the surrounding area was sand and lots. The closest shop to
get smokes was close to a kilometre away. I would trudge the sand-swept tarmac
and dusty pavements every second or third day. This was the “boy” part of town,
truck workshops and old, broken down, rusty hulks behind chain-link fencing,
junk-yard dogs patrolling the fencing and gazing at you out of the corner of
their lazy eyes. The other side of the road was bleak, nothing but more sand
and rolling hills, the haze of the city of Vereeniging seen on the horizon. On
a clear day, you could make out of the tops of the buildings.
In the other direction from the house was what could be called the
“town centre”, if by town centre you meant one swept road in the middle of this
dust bowl, with only five or six shops and a car dealership to its name. The
walk there was, again, approximately a kilometre, this time passing by a
workshop and dumping ground for large plant equipment: forklifts, cherry
pickers, graders and other assorted large machinery. I would do this trip more
often than the other, as this little town centre was the only place in the area
to get fresh milk. And that milk was bought from a colourful little place
called Oosies Vetkoek Den.
Oosies had large vats of milk in the back room. You would take
your containers and fill them up, paying at the front counter when done. That
counter was similar to a large bar counter, and you would often find dusty
workers nursing a cold beer or two, despite the constant, bone-numbing chill. I
would, from time to time, join them for a beer and a chat, my only social
interaction besides Aunty Jean. These are hard people, forged in the dust of a
hard place, moulded by the extremes of the winter cold and the summer heat.
They are practical people, quick with a “joke and a light of your smoke” and -
if you think underage drinking would concern these people - then you sure
haven’t seen ‘em around here.
This is where I would spend my school holidays, over perhaps a
two-year period. Some holidays were ten days, some (like the Pink Floyd
holiday) was three weeks. With nothing to do but sweep cages and trudge through
the dust in either direction, there was a lot of time to spend in your own
head. I recommend it.
I don’t know why I never went back, after what was to become my
last holiday there. Perhaps it was friends or circumstances, getting out into
the world more and not wanting to “waste” my time out in the sand. The
narcissism of youth can be ugly.
I don’t know what happened to Aunty Jean. I heard she died,
sometime along my path. I should have cared more to visit more and make an
effort but I did not.
I really should have. I would change that, if I could.
My name is Adrian, and #iamthestory.
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