I missed the regular mischief Kevin and I got up to, but we were both getting older. Somehow, we had managed to keep a friendship alive since birth despite attending different schools.
Kevin attended English schools, while I went to dual-medium and Afrikaans schools. My two eldest sisters, however, had been educated by Irish nuns at a convent primary school, giving them beautifully refined English accents compared with our rough local speech. Thanks to them our family became comfortably bilingual—everyone except Dad, who consistently murdered the English language.
Port Elizabeth grew into a thriving industrial city built by settlers from many European countries who arrived in 1820 with HMS Chapman. Many locals had some English ancestry even if they were from Afrikaans or other descent.
Living in this charming beach town as kids had advantages, as the city only had a population of 640 000, meaning entertainment consisted of finding something to do outdoors or going to the movies once a month. Shopping centres hardly existed, and we shopped at small open-air centres and always bumped into friends who also knew who the owners or at least the managers or cashiers of various shops. We treated them with respect and cared about their wellbeing like they did with us. If you forgot your wallet, no problem, as we trusted each other. I still like small centres supporting mom and pop stores.
Beach activities were popular and could be done all year round due to the mild winters and warm ocean. No internet meant you sometimes hung out with bored monosyllabic friends who had conversations like the cockney accented vultures in the movie “Jungle Book”, just before they meet Mowgli. Their conversation went something like this, “What are we gonna do? I dunno, what do you wanna do?” And so on…
This was before the digital era, which neither Aldous Huxley in his book published in 1931, “Brave New World” nor George Orwell with his sci fi book, “1984” predicted well. Anyway, we did not have the internet or social media and physically connecting with friends could be challenging at times due to domestic tasks or bad weather. Luckily, as a pre-teen bookworm I learned to live with books, my own company and my chopper bicycle.
I needed more pocket money when I turned twelve and wondered whether there might literally and figuratively be an appetite for freshly baked milk tarts and apple tarts. My mother admired my entrepreneurial spirit. She did most of the baking while I supplied the labour, making dough and delivering the tarts on my red chopper bicycle. As demand grew, I started baking much earlier so I could cycle to customers further from home. My customers saw me outgrow my chopper bicycle way too fast. I often wonder if mothers now would not fear for the safety of their 12-year old cycling at dusk to deliver food. Turning 13 changed things and I became intrigued with all the zooming 50cc motorcycles owned by 16-plus-year-old boys. I had no idea then that Honda’s first South African employee, Roger McCleary, had started the country’s small motorcycle revolution in 1963. Decades later he would become my motoring mentor, but at thirteen all I knew was that I desperately wanted a Japanese motorcycle.
Roger taught me one invaluable lesson, to never stop enjoying life and never stop doing what you love. He still works every day. By the late ‘60s just about everybody had a bike or scooter or knew someone who did. Scooters became as popular as bikes and they were everywhere. Flashing back to the late ‘70s, a thirteen-year-old could obviously not be on the road legally, but nothing stopped me from driving a small motorcycle off-road, if I could find a cheap one. So, a quest started that changed my life when I found an old Suzuki scrambler for R80.00 that needed tons of TLC and a miracle to keep it going. It was a wreck that seemed to consist of mismatched parts. After several determined kicks it finally burst into life with a belch of smoke, then backfired loudly amid intermittent crackles and pops. The big 17-year-old very squint boy who owned the Suzuki struggled to look me in the eye, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt with his eye alignment issues. My mother was furious with my lack of judgement skills when the Suzuki predictably failed to start shortly after I pushed it home. Maybe I was just too small at 13 to kick start it properly. Luckily, I knew another 13 year-old boy named Stephen who lived close by, who convinced his dad Gilbert to fix the oil leaking Suzuki that required a miracle. Gilbert insisted to be called just Gilbert as he disliked formality. Stephen’s dad loved laughing contagiously and amused us with hilarious jokes when he had too much Castle Milk Stout. This lubrication, however, inspired him to work on the bike which now had a dismantled engine with many mysterious parts. It was worrying, but Stephen had a stunning treehouse which made me feel like Tom Sawyer on a forbidden new adventure. We became very close friends as young teenage boys and we helped Gilbert find engine parts and tools that he misplaced after Castle Milk Stout indulgence. Maybe it was just myopia. We were all covered in oil and between Gilbert, Stephen and me, I learnt almost everything about how not to repair a motorcycle. Certainly not, “Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance” yet!
My grumpy mother disliked how her naïve, piano-playing bookworm of a thirteen-year-old had turned into an oil-covered grease monkey every second day. She would shake her head while trying, with little success, to rescue my permanently stained clothes. I spent many wonderful afternoons with Stephen, who despite being from a different school became my best friend. I escaped with Stephen where our imagination had free rein. I longed for these enchanting days in the treehouse when I did not have any milk and apple tart deliveries. Eventually the rattling Suzuki scrambler was repaired with different coloured parts, and I sold it at a loss as I got tired of being scolded for making such an oily mess on my clothes. The hunt for a decent replacement started with great urgency and lo and behold I found a little Honda C70 3-speed semi-automatic scooter in great condition. My mother was pleased and impressed that I learned from my expensive lesson. She did not know how much joy my Tom Sawyer escapism and Gilbert’s Milk Stout humour gave me. She worried that I would drive on the road, but our house had a big backyard and front garden so I would have some space to roam around. A couple of hundred metres from us were natural vegetation and footpaths so I would explore those when my mom was distracted. Soon I became overconfident and drove about 2 kilometres from the house on a desolate dust road, when in the distance, I saw the unmistakable silhouette of a motorcycle traffic cop approaching. My heart started hammering. I was driving without a helmet, and my fluffy blond hair was dishevelled making it obvious that I’m way too young to be on the road. Instinctively I tried to race away and escape onto one of the little footpaths that were close.
My desperate attempt to escape at 40 km/h was hopeless against the gleaming Honda 650, its blue lights flashing and siren wailing. The speedcop towered over me and seemed slightly amused but still intimidated the hell out of this now 14-year old boy. We were on lonely dirt roads in the middle of nowhere. His sudden appearance was the last thing I expected. Neither the scooter, nor I had a license and I had no helmet, so this was a disaster of note. This, scary intimidating motorcycle cop confiscated my scooter which he drove home himself after a sour colleague arrived in a blue-lighted Ford Escort to take the little criminal home. The two sinister cops who seemed determined to administer the severe punishment that they promised awaited me. My older sister was furious. She dated a police officer nicknamed “Piet Spiere” (Muscle Pete) in a flashy unmarked car who happened to be visiting her when we arrived. At least I was not handcuffed while now facing three scary cops and my fuming older sister. After about an hour I was released into her custody as my mother fortunately was not home. At least I would not have to face the promised consequences that I visualised so vividly. I fled to the sanctity of my room when they thankfully left eventually without arresting me, giving me a hiding, nor fining me.
At fourteen I couldn’t have explained why that afternoon affected me so deeply. It wasn’t only the fear of being caught.
Somewhere inside the confusing chemistry of adolescence, danger, authority and uniforms stirred feelings I didn’t yet have the language to describe. At the same time, I was hopelessly attracted to my gentle, elegant German teacher. It would take years to realise that human attraction is often far more complicated than teenagers—or adults—like to admit.
That afternoon became my first lesson in dealing with authority. I discovered that panic only made matters worse, while keeping calm and showing respect often changed the outcome. Only years later did I appreciate the irony. The terrifying motorcycle policeman who had confiscated my scooter had been one of my favourite milk tart customers all along. Hidden behind a white helmet and a stern expression was the same attractive man who had always welcomed me with a cheerful smile when I arrived on my red chopper bicycle carrying fresh milk tarts. He recognised me immediately. It took me much longer to recognise him.
