The 2nd Great Trek that got under way in the 1960’s is showing no signs of abating. The ox-wagons of the 1840’s have made way to Jumbo’s. The bearded male leaders such as Johannes de Burgh and Piet Retief have been succeeded by equally fearsome females such as Irene Van Dyk and Charlize Theron.
Paging through the brilliantly compiled St Mary’s 40th anniversary yearbook on Gill’s class of ’69, it is striking how few of her classmates are still living in Johannesburg. Either they or their sons and daughters have moved and are now living all over the world. Here, not a day passes without meeting another ex-Gautenger now living in New Zealand. After 3 years here it’s quite fun for us as ou Voortrekkers to spook a newcomer with a rusty “Goeie MÔre” or a “Hambe Kahle”.
Christmas here was interesting. At least our Christmas presents were. Despairing of finding anything for the old farts that had done it all, seen it all, had everything, and had forgotten virtually everything, the family were out on a limb this year. To encourage me to accompany her on her travels, Gill gave me a broom. My daughter topped this with the flying lesson. When it came to her mum she stepped up another notch. Personally I would never have thought of the brown knickers, but then I would never have thought of a gift parachute drop either.
Leaving us a little dazed and nonplussed, she and her family then hightailed it away on a Kiwi camping holiday to South Island with our trusty Venter trailer in tow. Whilst they were away her animals seized their opportunity. The cats told us off in the local Meeow-ri dialect, the dogs insisted that we needed some exercise, and the fish tapped on the glass to let us know that this was not Napier’s Marineland. Having been dragged around the suburb of Akina at the end of a lead, my arms are now a good 50mm longer and I seem to have a grown a wig of cat hair.
The good news is that my medic says my blistered hands should eventually heal. The bad news, really bad, was the sweaty odour. Never at a loss my personal physician managed to find a deodorant where the usual warnings of “DO NOT PUNCTURE” and “HIGHLY INFLAMMABLE” have been expanded to accommodate the intellect of today’s man and now include the words “DO NOT EAT”. The original Voortrekkers would never have believed an underarm chocolate fragrance but then they would have rubbed their eyes at flying Jumbos.
Paging through the brilliantly compiled St Mary’s 40th anniversary yearbook on Gill’s class of ’69, it is striking how few of her classmates are still living in Johannesburg. Either they or their sons and daughters have moved and are now living all over the world. Here, not a day passes without meeting another ex-Gautenger now living in New Zealand. After 3 years here it’s quite fun for us as ou Voortrekkers to spook a newcomer with a rusty “Goeie MÔre” or a “Hambe Kahle”.
Christmas here was interesting. At least our Christmas presents were. Despairing of finding anything for the old farts that had done it all, seen it all, had everything, and had forgotten virtually everything, the family were out on a limb this year. To encourage me to accompany her on her travels, Gill gave me a broom. My daughter topped this with the flying lesson. When it came to her mum she stepped up another notch. Personally I would never have thought of the brown knickers, but then I would never have thought of a gift parachute drop either.
Leaving us a little dazed and nonplussed, she and her family then hightailed it away on a Kiwi camping holiday to South Island with our trusty Venter trailer in tow. Whilst they were away her animals seized their opportunity. The cats told us off in the local Meeow-ri dialect, the dogs insisted that we needed some exercise, and the fish tapped on the glass to let us know that this was not Napier’s Marineland. Having been dragged around the suburb of Akina at the end of a lead, my arms are now a good 50mm longer and I seem to have a grown a wig of cat hair.
The good news is that my medic says my blistered hands should eventually heal. The bad news, really bad, was the sweaty odour. Never at a loss my personal physician managed to find a deodorant where the usual warnings of “DO NOT PUNCTURE” and “HIGHLY INFLAMMABLE” have been expanded to accommodate the intellect of today’s man and now include the words “DO NOT EAT”. The original Voortrekkers would never have believed an underarm chocolate fragrance but then they would have rubbed their eyes at flying Jumbos.
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