Читать книгу The Long Way Home - Dana Snyman - Страница 10

I head for Touws River, the next town along the N1, to experience an AllPay day for myself. Perhaps there I’ll find a young girl who has one or more babies for the extra money.

Isn’t this what this country does to us? Force us to think the unthinkable? The child support grant is R250 per child. Would someone really have a child for a mere R250 a month? Or three for R750 a month?

The road climbs the Hex River Mountain, and when you get to the top the landscape changes to Karoo veld: wild rosemary, bluebush, nenta bush; here and there a clump of karee.

The bakkie’s radio is tuned to Radio Sonder Grense. The presenter is reading the financial indicators; the American dollar has dipped slightly against the euro and the British pound, but the rand is performing consistently on the markets.

Then my cellphone rings in the nook next to the gear lever. It’s Pa, from his cellphone. I pull over. He’d called early that morning too, from his bed. He sounded a little tired then, but his voice is stronger now.

He did get up eventually, he says, and is eating an orange at the kitchen table.

He’s in the old house in Ventersdorp, at the table with the oilcloth, the church calendar on the wall behind him. Some oranges, usually with three or four overripe bananas, are in a wooden bowl on the table, next to the portable radio that has a wire coat hanger for an aerial. He always sits on the chair that faces the window, with a newspaper or a magazine close at hand, usually open at the crossword he’s busy doing. His pocketknife with the narrow sharpened blade will be there too, with the long unbroken orange peel, because Pa believes an orange should be peeled with a knife, around and around carefully, without nicking the membrane.

“Where are you, son?” he wants to know. “Will you be sleeping in Franschhoek tonight?”

A few days ago I tried to explain to him over the phone what I’m going to do: that I want to drive around the country for a while, without any real plan, that I am tired of feeling out of place in our country. That I want to start where the Snymans’ story in South Africa began, on the farm outside Franschhoek. But I don’t think he understood much. For him, even on family holidays when I was a child, travel is just a way of reaching a destination. You drive from A to B. And when you’ve done what you wanted to do at point B, you return to point A.

“I’ve passed De Doorns already, Pa,” I say.

“I thought you said you were going to Franschhoek.”

“I’ve already been there, Pa.”

“Why did you go there again?”

It had felt right to start my journey on the farm at Franschhoek. I felt I wanted to say to Christoffel, the first Snyman: “I’m at peace about who Oupa was. Wish me luck for the long road ahead.” But I don’t tell Pa that. I decide that this isn’t the time for discussing Christoffel, our coloured Snyman ancestor, with him. We can talk about it around the kitchen table when I am there with him. So instead, I say: “I just wanted to see what it looked like, Pa. I’ll come and show you the photos.”

“Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight, son?”

“Maybe in Touws River.”

“Touws River? Why Touws River?”

“I’d like to be there tomorrow when the people get their pension money. To see what it’s like.”

As soon as the words have left my lips I realise it was the wrong thing to say. It sets him off instantly: “If you want to see what it’s like, you must come here. Every month there are queues outside the post office as they wait for their pension money. They drink and make a noise and make a mess on the pavements. You should see what it looks like. I don’t know what this government is doing …”

I don’t like talking politics with Pa any more. He gets too excited, and his heart is worn out. One of the chambers has calcified and some of the arteries are blocked. He’s too weak for an operation. Some days he doesn’t even get out of bed. There’s nothing the doctors can do, except prescribe more medicine.

Twenty, thirty years ago, Touws River was one of the country’s most important railway towns. It used to be known as the place where steam locomotives were brought to be repaired. But the workshop closed for good long ago. Some of the people who used to work there are probably living on AllPay now.

Even the Moedhou Farm Stall just outside town has admitted defeat and closed its doors.

In the main street, opposite the Sonstraal Crèche, I see an ANC poster left over from last year’s general election: W r in tog th r w c n d m e.

Most of the houses in town are railway houses – railway houses without railway people. For the last few years, Transnet, the old South African Railways, has been selling them to whoever wants one. The country is littered with railway houses like these: red bricks up to the windowsill and then cream-coloured paint up to the roof. Tin roof. Red stoep. Straight garden path. A letterbox with a pitched roof next to a silver garden gate.

I drive down the main road with its Spar, Indraf Café, China shop and the Touws River Pharmacy. I stop and get out. The pharmacy’s windows are covered with stickers and posters. It’s as if the advertisements reflect the fears and dreams of an entire community: heart problems, ulcers, impotence, obesity, wrinkles and rough skin. Looking for burglar bars for your home? Call Piet’s Welding Works. Want a coffee mug with your or your children’s photo on it? Call Bertha Bredenhann. Another poster invites Touws Rivier’s residents to write down any complaints they have about their town and hand them in here at the pharmacy.

Somewhere, among all of this, almost like a cry for help, is a photocopy of Psalm 23: The Lord is my Shepherd …

Across the street, a man is leaning against the door frame of a small restaurant that is nameless. He introduces himself as Parker. “Everybody here calls me that.” The plastic tables inside are covered with red-and-white tablecloths, and I can hear Abba’s “Dancing Queen” playing somewhere in the back.

“Ag no, man, you’re a day late,” he says. “We had AllPay yesterday. I think it’s Laingsburg’s turn tomorrow. It’s a whole roadshow, you know.” He whistles. “You should have been here yesterday. It was chaos as usual.” He motions in the direction of the Trans-Karoo Bottle Store further down the road. “They sat there the whole day, drinking.”

Parker goes to sit at one of the tables. These conversations usually start off with something specific – the chaos of AllPay day – before drifting off into the doldrums with corrupt politicians and the death penalty that should be reinstated. All the while, you join in the talk, you agree and tell about the time your house was burgled, and as you talk, you know you’re repeating hundreds of conversations just like this one, but still you listen and you rage against the government, and, since you’re at it, against Julius Malema and his R250 000 Breitling watch.

Parker doesn’t know of a matric girl with three children in Touws River. But he does know of a young woman with six children – six welfare children!

“How old is she?”

“I guess about 22, maybe 23.”

But he doesn’t want to say where her house is. “Find her yourself. I don’t want trouble.”

The Trans-Karoo was a passenger train that ran between Johannesburg and Cape Town for years, stopping at Touws River on the way. The name of the train has now been changed to the Shosholoza Meyl – but it rarely stops here.

The Trans-Karoo Bottle Store has remained, though, a sad reminder of the train with the same name. There’s a notice on the wall:

NO drunk persons allowed!!!

NO alcohol on credit!!!

NO sitting on the tables!!!

NO alcohol in the toilets!!!

The door is locked. Maybe they’re counting their money today.

On the corner, near the pharmacy, there’s a low white building with two doors. Above the one, a sign announces in black letters: Take Aways. Above the other: Joepie Fourie Funeral Parlour. Quality service and fair prices. Inside, an interleading door connects the two.

Maybe Joepie Fourie will know where to find the young mother of six that Parker mentioned. If anyone knows what’s what in town, it has to be the undertaker-cum-takeaway owner.

There’s no one behind the counter in the half that is the funeral parlour, but there’s a certificate on the wall next to the entrance: New Business Retention 2005. Awarded to Mr J. Fourie. An old issue of Men’s Health lies on the desk in the corner.

“Hello!” says a man’s voice. “Good mo-o-orning.”

A woman comes in from the takeaway side. “Have you been helped?”

“Hello. Good mo-o-orning.”

Only then do I spot the African Grey in a cage near the door.

Joepie Fourie isn’t here. He died a month ago. On a shelf behind the counter stands a wooden box with his ashes. “Mevrou keeps it there. I guess it’ll stay there till she dies, then they’ll put it in the coffin with her.”

“Hello,” says Joepie Fourie’s voice. “Good mo-o-orning.”

I ask at the office of the ACVV, the Afrikaans Christian women’s association, next to the railway line, but Hester Stander, who is in charge today, doesn’t know Parker’s young woman with the six children.

The ACVV employs a full-time social worker for Touws River, but she’s not at the office right now.

“Six children?” Hester asks in disbelief. “I don’t know about that.”

Schoolgirls with one baby, perhaps two, are another matter. In the Western Cape alone about seven thousand girls between twelve and eighteen fell pregnant in 2010.

The more I ask around town, the more improbable Parker’s story sounds. But there’s talk of a guy who pretended to have some mental disorder or other, and now gets a disability pension.

Some of the people I ask say they’ve heard of the young woman with six children, but then refer me to someone else who may be able to tell me exactly who she is and where she lives. Then they, those people who may know, refer me to others who may know. Eventually this brings me to oom Jan Stassen’s house in De Beer Street. I’ve been told he knows everything there is to know in Touws River, but even oom Jan just rests his heavy hands – hands that have punched tickets on the trains for over thirty years – on his silver garden gate and says: “Hell, no, my friend. This is the first I’ve heard of her.”

Oom Jan was a train conductor until the railways forced him to go on early retirement. He looks down the street. “They say you only cry twice here in Touws River,” he says, as if that will explain everything. “The day you arrive and the day you leave.”

It’s dark by the time I leave for Laingsburg – oom Jan agrees that tomorrow is their AllPay day. He knows because his brother-in-law lives there and he gets a disability grant.