http://www.weg.co.za go! Drive & Camp^ September 2019 |^137
When I asked him about this, he replied
bluntly, “It doesn’t work.” My father isn’t
gruff, but he is a man of few words. In my
five-year-old brain, these words meant that
the bakkie would never work. Therefore
the car was useless, and you are free to do
whatever you want with useless stuff.
THE NEXT MORNING I invited our
neighbours’ kids, Christopher and Shelly,
to come play at my house. The Ranchero’s
two-tone paint job – chocolate brown
below gold metallic paint – glistened in
the morning sun. The bakkie had been
stationary for a long time and the grass
that the lawnmower couldn’t reach
touched the chassis. No, this bakkie
definitely didn’t work, but my friends and
I would find a use for it on that fateful day.
To me, it seemed as if the Ranchero
knew exactly what was about to happen
and agreed that children’s entertainment
was of paramount importance. The long
bonnet and sloping windshield gently
beckoned: “Come and slide on me. Come
slide.” The stubby single cab and the long,
streamlined load bin pleaded: “Get up, kids.
Play on me.”
Christopher and I were powerless
against the Ranchero’s siren song. Shelly
wanted to confirm that we were actually
allowed to play on my dad’s bakkie, but the
boys were already in the load bin.
Christopher was the first to clamber
onto the roof of the cab. Somewhere in the
back of my mind a voice begged me to stop
him, but it was too late. Whoosh! Down the
windshield, over the bonnet and with a hop
onto the lawn. Christopher lay on his back
and cackled with delight. It was my turn
next. With a push I slid down the glass. I
saw the Ranchero’s dashboard zipping past
below me, then I hit the wipers, bounced
over the bonnet, flew through the air and
fell next to Christopher on the soft grass.
We howled with laughter in brotherly love
but quickly rolled out of the way when
Shelly flew over the bonnet toward us. The
three of us giggled hysterically and it was
the best day ever in my young life.
It wasn’t long before Tony, another boy
from down my street, came to see what
was going on. For the rest of the morning,
my friends and I jumped around like
mountain goats on that Ford Ranchero.
Four pairs of bums and feet bounced over
the bodywork and the bakkie got flatter,
flatter and flatter. The metallic paint
started to crack and flake, and with each
passing child, little flakes of paint merrily
floated down onto the grass next to us like
golden glitter.
Eventually, the roof had become so
beaten down and the bonnet so dented
that it was getting difficult to slide down it.
Somewhere in the leafy street where the
four of us lived, Tony’s mom called out to
him. He had to say goodbye because it was
nearly lunchtime and he still had to wash
his hands. But Shelly, Christopher and
I persevered and tried to get a last couple
of slides in before “the bakkie that didn’t
work” became truly useless.
I gave my best impression of Johnny
Weismuller’s Tarzan call and got ready to
jump onto the windshield one last time.
Suddenly, I heard an anguished scream.
I looked up and saw my mother, staring
at us with large eyes. A tray hung limply
in one hand and cooldrink cups and
sandwiches littered the ground in front
of her feet.
“What are you doing?” she hissed. She
took a long step over the spilled lunch and
slowly approached our handiwork.
“Daddy said I could!” I peeped, but I
could tell from my mother’s expression
that there may have been a slight
misunderstanding.MY MOM SENT CHRISTOPHER, Shelly
and me to their house. She wanted us out
of the way when my dad came home to
calm him down first. When she brought
me home later, my dad stood in the living
room with his arms dead straight down his
sides. I was clearly in big trouble.
My dad wanted to know just two
things: why and who. The first part of
my explanation made him nod slowly.
I detected suppressed anger simmering
within him, but he seemed to accept the
innocent mistake. When I listed the names
of my accomplices, my mom casuallyA Ford Ranchero may not
have been the most practical
holiday rig, but 1977 was the
days of disco and it was more
important to look coolremarked that Tony couldn’t possibly
have been part of the devastation because
he and his family were in Durban that
week. My “lie” triggered a lightning-quick
response in dad. He launched himself over
the coffee table like a lion and grabbed
me with those enormous hands. I don’t
remember much about the beating other
than my bum hurting like it was on fire.
Tony’s parents later confirmed they had
returned from Durban a day earlier than
planned, and that Tony had indeed come
to play at our house.
I would like to claim that this spanking
would cure me of future abominable acts,
but my hands would get spooned by mom
and my bottom caned by teachers for
many years to come.
My dad, however, never struck me in
anger again. He did grab me once or twice
thereafter when I did something stupid
that could have ended my life – like the
time when I persuaded my girlfriend
Donnelee to run away from home with
me. Our parents spent hours searching the
streets of Arboretum and eventually found
us near the shore of the Nundwane River- which was awash with crocodiles back
then. Unlike my Ford Ranchero walloping,
I clearly remember this one. My dad was
equally relieved and angry, and while he
paddled my butt like it was a bongo drum,
I stubbornly refused to cry.
And the Ford Ranchero? My dad sold
it, at a great loss of course, and it never
became our holiday bakkie. A further blow
was the death of Elvis Presley – my dad’s
favourite singer and idol – who died at the
end of 1977. It was not a good year for my
my father.
And so, the holiday bakkie project was
put on the back burner until we got a Chev
Nomad some years later. We took it on
holiday often until it rusted to pieces.
All of this seems a world away. I’m a
parent myself now, but my child is nothing
like I was at her age. She is considerate,
careful and thoughtful. I spanked her once
for giving her mom lip − coincidentally
when she, like me, was five years old − but
her reaction was gut-wrenching and I
vowed never to hit her again. She doesn’t
deserve this sort of punishment.
I don’t feel qualified to weigh in on the
teacher who slapped her pupil. Nor will
I judge a parent who practices corporal
punishment. We have to do what is best for
our kids, just remember to communicate
clearly, lest yours wreck your bakkie.