On arrival at the main building site, I met the site agent, a gentle older Afrikaner who handed me the documents for the construction, with a quiet smile on his face. They were all in Afrikaans. Starting at that moment, I underwent a crash course in the language, finding that local Afrikaans speaking people had no idea what the meaning was of a whole range of technical terms in the documentation. Oom Piet, the site agent, was very necessary and invaluable. We made a fine team, controlling three sites where civil, mechanical and electrical engineering was involved, and where three languages were routinely required: Afrikaans, English and Funagalo, which is a patois used widely in the mines where labour is drawn from six or seven countries, which employs the basics of the Nguni languages.
My Head Office supervisor was based in Johannesburg, and he flew down every two to three weeks to inspect the sites and to resolve any problems that had arisen. Three months after starting work in the area, he asked me how I was progressing with learning Afrikaans ? I thought for a moment and then – in Afrikaans – said, “If I have to **** on a man’s head for something not done right, I can do it in Afrikaans.” It was grammatically accurate, as well. . . . . . My supervisor doubled up with laughter.
I digress to note that the area in which I was working, was where one of the last two Boer contingents, commanded by General Delarey, remained at the end of the Boer War. One dared not to speak a single word in English in this area. The first time I passed through Delareyville (named after the General), I stopped for a cup of much needed coffee – which I requested in English which was, at the time, one of the two official languages in South Africa. I only realised the error of my request when the coffee arrived, intentionally mostly spilled into the saucer by the stolid and scowling waitress.
Back to the work: The main building site lay beside the railway line in Wolmaransstad and to start, I took a room at the local hotel until Mary could join me with our first born who had arrived on cue just as we were changing jobs. The weather was HOT and, working on a building site, one became thirsty quite quickly. I returned to the hotel at one stage with a raging thirst and ordered two Coca Colas in the hotel bar, which I wolfed down one after the other. As this was my first foray into any bar in South Africa, I looked around and noticed that the bottles and glasses were held on an older and reasonably ornate wooden display, with one curiosity. It had a clock which quite obviously wasn’t working, so I asked why not ? “Agh, man, it hasn’t worked for years.”
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The Station Clock
The clock resembled typical station clocks seen on almost any rural platform In South Africa and in the UK which were functional if not dashingly beautiful. Knowing that Wolmaransstad was likely to have been active during the Boer War, I reasoned that the clock must have come from that era – so I asked whether I could have the clock if it didn’t work ? “Agh, man, no, it would leave a hole behind.” Simple logic, but I suggested that if I were to replace the clock with a suitable surround and an electric clock, he wouldn’t have to wind it, would he ? The deal was done and arrangements made. I was now in possession of another clock which didn’t work but had a movement so simple that any handyman could probably repair it.
The clock travelled with us to Britain when we emigrated and for around 20 years thereafter, remained in the kitchen of whatever house we occupied. The children grew up with that clock – and it even starred in a poem which I wrote for my son who went through a phase of being frightened of the dark. And in case you feared it, I am sparing you the poem – at least for the present.
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Ken Gibbs can be contacted via kengibbs1941@gmail.com
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