The 125

Our friend V. from next door was very aware of his masculinity even from the word go. At cricket practice after school when dropping the ball the teacher shouted at him: “Jou Koei!” (You Cow!). He dropped his pants right there in front of everyone and shouted back: “Ek’s nie ‘n Koei nie! Ek’s ‘n Bul!” (I’m a not a Cow! I’m a Bull!)

Gunpowder

He always loved bombs and explosives and fire-arms and such. I’d read in our encyclopaedia about gunpowder, said to be a mixture of sulphur, saltpeter and carbon and the given proportions. V. said we should try it out and not long we had all measured and blended in great anticipation. Our gunpowder didn’t work- instead of the desired explosion the stuff just burned like smouldering really not impressive.

When I left for home for me all was forgotten, this disappointment.

Meanwhile his brother had the great idea to mix this with a same measure of swimming pool granular chlorine. Only much later I heard about this, and the chlorine hadn’t been a roaring success either.

Soon, all of us, all was forgotten and he’d put the big glass jam bottle in a safe place and left it.

We attended a local primary school senior pupils by then. Sitting outside on the grass playfield chatting a fire brigade lorry came wailing past, he in good cheer shouted: “I wonder whose house is burning down!” After school walking home we soon realised something was amiss- got a “sniff in the nose” as such.

So he had to explain to his father how his wooden bunk had caught fire. The smoke got so bad their domestic had to flee and had phoned the fire brigade from our house, the smoke was so foul and poisonous the firemen had to use gas-masks to go inside. Luckily the damage itself wasn’t that bad.

It was an instance of spontaneous combustion underneath his bunk and our explosive’s blend proved to be not so bad after all.

For once I hoped he got a good standard caning from his father, and all I thought was “Serves him well”. But the uncle didn’t touch him on the pretext that he might kill my little friend.

V. liked fire-lorries as well.

The 50

In high school he told me in class his dad just bought him a new 50cc motorbike I must come round after school he’d show me.

Smoking a cigarette, that afternoon he showed off his first bike, the new 50. Well it wasn’t that battered but I don’t think it was roadworthy he was never much bothered with stuff like roadworthy and speedcops and that.

Their swimming pool was up on a slight terrace with grass lawn right around.

Now he was to start the bike for the first time. Braggingly sitting he kicked the little engine to life. “Watch!” opening the throttle and dropping the clutch headed straight for the pool ramped and splashed in the water. So when his dad got back after work he found the new 50 on the bottom of the deep end of his swimming pool.

Honda 125

When he was old enough V. convinced his dad to get a 125 cc Honda motorbike. It proved to be a mistake. The bike wasn’t fast it had a four-stroke engine but these were incredibly reliably machines. In those days it was the standard delivery bike. His was in a an excellent condition.

The law had to catch up sooner or later and he was pulled-off with my brother on the bike too with no helmet and got a stiff fine. He and J. put up notices everywhere for donations to help bail them out and the kids proved very generous both of them very popular at school.

We had a great time with the bike. His favourite stunt was gate-crashing the snobby kids’ parties. He would just pitch up. They told me once he arrived on the bike starkers well maybe they didn’t really mind so much he had the head girl ‘round the block a couple of times on that 125.

The Rivvie

The stream. This is where we went to escape the insanity family life. This is where we got our education. Every single weekend almost. Saturday and Sunday. From dawn to dusk. It was relatively safe but these days only the police would dare go there.

There were Barber, now and then Kurper, smallish Yellowfish, and there were Carp. They got really really big for such a small river. Fish of over 20 pounds were caught quite often. The Carp are meek, shy, sly, cunning. The usual thing- they tangled up your tackle in the roots and branches of trees growing close to the water. There were others- we had different theories. Now and then something took the hook and just ran with it straight up the river breaking you line with impunity not even slowing down. Seldom but it happened. “Steam trains”.

The Rivvie is infested with crabs. We discovered an easy way of cooking these. Usually there was a fire going for coffee or so. When we reeled one in- every now and then- just chucked into the flames. They get a reddish colour and one can pick the insides and suck out the legs. Not much meat but quite good it tastes like chicken.

V. and JP made up the regular crowd. W. was there almost every day weekdays too. But he preferred his own company. He was the smallest boy in the class but he’s dynamite nobody hardly ever tried him.

We played truant there a few times too burning our schoolbooks and so on. This stopped for fear of my life after once we were caught.

There are many stories, many of which I cannot relate. Some because of the law, others horrific and best forgotten. Some others must remain unsolved mysteries.