Читать книгу Going Back to Say Goodbye - Kenneth de Kok - Страница 8

The fathers of my friends go underground every day, but I don’t say that my dad thinks it’s boring work. He’s a metallurgist, and he likes the reduction works and the mills and the chemicals so much that my mom sort of laughs and says he prefers the plant to our house. If someone asks him what he does, he says, “I’m in the mining game.”

Stilfontein has three mines: Stilfontein, Buffelsfontein and Hartebeesfontein. Four, if you count Zandpan, but it belongs to Harties. They belong to different companies but we all live in the same town, plonked down between the Old Potch Road and the railway line that goes from Joburg to Kimberley. Headgears, rock piles and slimes dams are all around us, except for the veld on one side. It goes on forever, most probably all the way to Rhodesia.

The back of Dad’s cigarette box always has rows of numbers written in pencil, and he uses an adding machine that also subtracts when you turn the handle backwards. The whole family has to keep quiet when he works at his desk on the weekend; otherwise he makes a mistake and starts yelling. He invents. Mr Smook, the mill foreman, showed me a small machine that measures something and said, “Your father thought that up and had it built by a tool-maker!” Now he’s writing a paper about machines called “cyclones”. They’re called cyclones because they spin very fast and separate gold or uranium, I can’t remember which.

He’s always talking about pumps, tanks and flow charts. Everything is pumped: from one building to another, from tanks to cyclones, and, at the end, all the way to the slimes dam. If a pump breaks, he’ll get a phone call, even in the middle of the night and he gets up and drives to the mine and then comes back furious at some “bloody idiot” or “shoddy workmanship”.

“It’ll set production back by days,” he moans to my mom.

Once he got a call late at night and went to the plant and only came back at breakfast, stubbly and with red eyes. He whispered something to my mom, and after he went to sleep she told us that two men had been killed and others badly hurt when scaffolding on the side of a new building was blown down by a strong wind. She said that only a few days before she’d seen an owl flying in the garden and had a premonition something bad was going to happen, just like she did before Grandad died.

When there’s an accident on the mine, either underground or on the surface, you hear the siren. You can hear it all over town and it goes on and on and everybody looks at everybody else. You get butterflies in your stomach. You even wonder if your friend’s dad is dead. Grown-ups tell kids to pipe down or shut up and then whisper to each other. The phone keeps ringing. Someone always asks, “How many?”, and after they get the answer they ask, “And Europeans?”

When you drive near the mine the first things you see are the concrete headgears and the black flywheels on top, turning one way to bring up rock or men and the other way to lower the empty skips or take the next shift below. Then you see the huge corrugated-iron buildings for the mills and tanks and crushers and the smelting works.

There are steep mountains of waste rock piled in the veld. Across the road the shunting yard is always full of freight cars painted like toys. Cynamid is written across lots of the tankers. Mostly what comes in is chemicals and dynamite.

You can walk around big, open tanks with slowly turning arms mixing up stuff. There are pipes and thick hoses running through pools of oily ground water. Natives in overalls and gumboots are everywhere. Usually a foreman is standing close by telling them what to do.

The scariest place, except for underground, is the sorter station. You climb up winding stairs for ages and come to a long narrow shed that slants down, high up above the crushers. If you look out, all you see is veld.

Everyone shouts because of the noise. A black rubber conveyor belt carries the rock along. Natives sitting on both sides pick out the pieces with no ore and throw them down the waste chutes. It’s scary because the gangway is made of metal full of holes. You can look between your feet and see the ground way, way below. It’s like walking on air and if you stop someone always says, “Don’t look down!” My knees lock and I put my arms out to feel steady.

Cyanide is for gold and sulphuric acid is for uranium. There’s a vinegary smell in all the buildings. I like standing in front of the big drums slowly turning towards me with spraying water and the uranium oxide peeling off and dropping in big slurpy bits into the trough. They call it yellowcake and it’s not dangerous until it goes to America and becomes atom bombs. Grown-ups say if you ask too many questions about uranium the police “pay you a visit” to find out if you’re a Russian spy.

They smelt the gold in a special furnace. When it’s molten the smelters first pour off the stuff called slag into a special flask and then the gold into moulds shaped like slanted bricks. The gold bubbles and splatters and spills, but the smelters wear fireproof suits and special helmets and use long tongs to hold the crucible. Afterwards they sweep up everything on the floor and save it to smelt the next time.

Every month the gold bars from the three mines are stacked in a special train that waits at Machavie Station or Koekemoer. Police with guns are locked inside a bulletproof carriage with the gold and they stay there all the way to the Rand Refinery.

Now and then on a weekend my dad takes us to the plant to show us “how it’s coming along”. Gillian and Hilary are too small to come, and stay with Linda, our babysitter. On our way there we drive past the open field where they have the mine dances. There’s a wooden stand at one end where we sit and watch. Different tribes have different costumes and their own special dances. Pondos, Xhosas, Basutos, natives from Mozambique and Rhodesia. The Zulus are the scariest. They hammer the ground with their bare feet and move slowly towards us, swaying, singing and waving assegais.

Today we are going to see real Bushmen. Recruiters found them in Bechuanaland and brought them here because scientists say they can see green better than anyone else. They can spot small bits of gold ore in the rocks and save the mine tons of money.

I’ve read about them and my dad has told me lots. Long ago they painted pictures in caves all over South Africa, but we and the native tribes hunted them like animals and pushed them into the Kalahari Desert. They run all day following the spoor of a buck that’s slowly dying from a poisoned arrow and they’ve got ostrich eggs filled with water buried all over the place. They remember exactly where they’re hidden. Now they’re slowly becoming extinct.

We climb up to the sorter station. There are rows of natives sitting at the conveyor belt and they stare at me and Ingrid, but Mom says they are not being rude. She says it’s because they don’t see their children for the whole year that they work on the mines. They have to leave their families behind when they come to work here.

I look for Bushmen but can’t see any. You can’t hear anything above the noise of the rocks and the crushers so I tug my dad’s arm. He points to the end of the station. There’s only one of them and I can hardly see him because his helmet is miles too big. He’s tiny and his face is like a Chinaman’s.

He sits there in his overalls with huge rubber pads on his hands and stares as the rocks go by. All the time we stand there, he doesn’t look up once.