Steam locomotives captured my imagination long before I understood that my father was quietly shaping my own journey.
People often remember great cities for their skylines, their wealth or the opportunities they offered. I remember Port Elizabeth for something far less tangible. It remembered us.
Long before mobile phones and social media, a child could disappear on a bicycle after breakfast and return home at sunset without anyone panicking. Somehow every mother knew where every child had been. News travelled faster than bicycles. We belonged to one another, and that sense of community gave us a freedom that seems almost unimaginable today.
Some of my happiest memories begin before sunrise. I would paddle my surf ski into Algoa Bay as the first rays of sunlight pushed above the Indian Ocean. The sun seemed to grow larger with every passing minute until it burst over the horizon in brilliant shades of orange and gold. Occasionally a pod of dolphins would appear beside me, gliding effortlessly through the water as if welcoming another beautiful day. Those mornings remain among the most magical moments of my youth.
Port Elizabeth had a remarkable way of creating lifelong friendships. Decades later, despite marriages, careers, children, emigration and the passing of time, many of those friendships remain intact. There is an invisible thread connecting those of us who grew up there. Mention the city to another former resident and the years simply disappear. We are once again children sharing beaches, bicycles and endless summer holidays.
I have lived in many cities since then, and most taught me that “out of sight, out of mind” is often how life works. Port Elizabeth taught me something different. It taught me that the places that truly shape us never really let us go. They remain quietly woven into who we become.
The greatest influence in my young life was my father.
He was a train driver, a gentle man who found happiness in simple things. He loved his chickens, a few fruit trees, his tiny garden and, above all, his trains. He taught me that contentment does not come from having more but from appreciating what you already have.
One of my favourite memories was asking him to wake me before dawn whenever he was preparing for work. I wasn’t interested in the early hour. I wanted to watch him make tea.
To anyone else it was simply a pot of tea.
To my father it was a ritual.
Nothing was rushed. The teapot was warmed. The tea leaves were given time to infuse properly. Every movement seemed deliberate, almost ceremonial. As a little boy I watched every detail with fascination. Looking back, I realise he was teaching me something far more valuable than how to make tea. He was teaching me to slow down, to notice life and to find joy in ordinary moments.
When he left for work, he carried a heavy metal railway trunk filled with food for the journey—always including his beloved boerewors. I would stand at the gate waving until the taillights of his car disappeared around the corner. Every departure filled me with an inexplicable sadness.
Perhaps children sometimes know things that adults cannot explain.
Even then I feared that these precious moments would not last forever.
My father occasionally managed to smuggle me onto one of his steam locomotives. To a young boy there was nothing in the world more magnificent. Steam engines were living creatures. They breathed, hissed, sighed and roared. The heat, the smell of coal, the vibration beneath my feet and the rhythmic beat of the wheels created an experience that no aircraft, racing car or ship has ever equalled for me.
Years later I rediscovered some of that wonder aboard Rovos Rail. Although beautifully restored and infinitely more luxurious, it awakened exactly the same emotions I had experienced as a child standing beside my father in the cab of a steam locomotive.
My love of books grew alongside my love of trains.
While other children played endless games, I escaped into libraries and adventure stories. Books carried me to countries I could barely pronounce and introduced me to explorers, inventors and dreamers. They nurtured an independence that would define much of my adult life. Even then I longed to explore the world and to meet people who shared an endless curiosity about life.
Our family also loved the outdoors.
Without much planning, my parents would pack our old Volkswagen Kombi to the roof with camping equipment and announce that we were leaving for the coast or the mountains. Something important was almost always forgotten, the weather was frequently terrible, and erecting our enormous canvas tent became a family comedy performed for the amusement of neighbouring campers.
Eventually the tent would surrender and stand proudly before us like a castle.
Even today, the smell of damp canvas and the gentle sound of rain falling on a tent roof can transport me instantly back to those wonderful holidays.
As the youngest child and the only boy, I was thoroughly spoiled by my father. He was my hero.
Then, without warning, everything changed.
A blood clot lodged in his brain.
None of us imagined that such a strong, kind and seemingly healthy man would die at only forty-nine years of age. At nine years old, I could not begin to understand what had happened. I buried myself even deeper in my books, searching for places where fathers did not die and childhood could somehow continue forever.
I remember clinging to his safari suits because they still carried the comforting fragrance of his pipe tobacco. My mother could never bring herself to throw them away. She never remarried. I think she had already found the love of her life.
From his hospital bed, my father’s final wish was beautifully simple.
He asked my mother to buy me the little red chopper bicycle I had wanted so desperately for my birthday.
Even in his final days, he was still thinking about making his little boy smile.
Looking back now, I realise that Port Elizabeth did far more than provide the backdrop to my childhood. It gave me lifelong friends, awakened my curiosity, nurtured my imagination and introduced me to the quiet wisdom of an ordinary man who showed me that the richest lives are often built from the simplest moments.
That was the town that raised me.
This is a brief excerpt from Rubin van Niekerk’s upcoming memoir, chronicling the people, places and experiences that shaped his life from early childhood to later adulthood.
This is a brief excerpt from Rubin van Niekerk’s upcoming Memoir/Autobiography, titled Mentors, Family and Friends Matter, chronicling the people, places and experiences that shaped his life from early childhood to later adulthood. We all relate to this universal experience.
New chapters will be published regularly in the Magazine section of the landing page of Gay Pages website, alongside our favourite archived articles, as the journey unfolds. Chapter 2, “ The Immaculate Red Vespa and the Crybaby” follows.
