Picture this:
It is a busy Thursday afternoon in the forest. We have just finished our hike to Jubilee Creek, and are heading back to the National Road in Mike Summers' 4X4. Mike is running low on diesel and we are sure we saw a small filling station somewhere around the intersection with the track leading off to Millwood.
The main road through the Tsitsikamma Forest is a dirt-track running from the National Road, past Jubilee Creek and Millwood Gold Mine, up into the hills and finally down to The Hell.
Right there at the intersection, at a clearing in the forest, is a general dealership with two dusty old fuel pumps out front.
As we get there, another 4X4 pulls up and the driver drops off two hitch-hikers - a local farmer, obviously, and the hikers look like Americans. There are two attendants lounging on the stoep, a brak who barks at everything that moves, another old bakkie with farm labourers and children spilling out of every opening.
And then we arrive, in a cloud of orange dust. We pick up the details as we go along. The one attendant, Gert, launches himself off his chair and in our general direction, determined to be of service. He is very, very drunk. The other attendant, Kleinbooi, has already started on the bakkie full of labourers, but he looks like a better proposition, although Gert is wearing something akin to a Caltex overall and Kleinbooi is in "civvies".
Mike gets nervous and gets out to take the pump hose away from Gert, who is jabbering all the while but hasn't managed to detach the hose nozzle from the pump rest, by the time Kleinbooi has finished with the bakkie. I get out too, in case Mike needs backup.
A young girl (whose name is unknown and remains one of the lasting mysteries of this tale) arrives on a bicycle with a flat wheel. Gert is distracted, abandons his attempts to win the pump back from Mike, seizes the air hose and hurls himself over the girl's bicycle in a froth of officiousness, so that he and the bike lie in a tangled heap in the driveway.
The girl is one of those humble country types who have obviously been taught (with the help of a whip, probably) to respect their elders, even if they are obviously and desparately drunk. She stands back mutely while Gert sweats and puffs his way out under the bicycle, to reattach the air-hose (which has by now unwound itself from its storage reel all around the driveway) to the bicycle wheel. Mike and Kleinbooi close in to wrestle the air-hose away from him, but alas! Too late! The over-inflated tube explodes like a pistol-shot, leaving the rueful girl standing indecisively with her useless bicycle, while this circus rolls on.
Somewhere in the mayhem Kleinbooi has got control of the fuel hose and has filled Mike's tank. Then he disappears with Mike's petrol card, only to reappear with a shredded piece of plastic to announce that "Die kaart werk nie, meneer ..."
Meanwhile, Gert has transferred himself to the diesel pump, which he is embracing like a bride, lovingly winding the air-hose round and round the thing, the hoses at its sides pinned back like the arms of a prisoner. Simone and Cindy, in the back seat of the truck, are laughing hysterically at the rolling comedy - and Mike, who usually has a short temper and is not to be messed with, is laughing at his shredded petrol card - which is just as well, because otherwise he might have killed Kleinbooi.
The problem now arises of how we are supposed to pay for the petrol, since the card has been destroyed: the manager is called, and Tannie Van Wyk, (measuring about 4X4 herself) appears in the doorway of the shop. Mike holds up the petrol card, explaining that Kleinbooi was too rough on the thing - but no problem, says he, he does happen to carry some paper vouchers which are usable, so long as she has one of those old credit-card machines. Yes she does ... somewhere ... under this counter ... no ... lets see ... ok mebbe here ... nope ... ah, there it is!
Unfortunately, its been so long since the credit card machine was used that the levers are jammed, so Tannie has to loosen them up with a hammer and screwdriver before we can make progress.
Then Mike tells the tale of the girl and the bicycle and Gert's misdirected efforts to help her. If Tannie could tell us the girl's name (she has disappeared in the interim), we will, just for kindness' sake, leave her the money to patch her tyre. No, Tannie doesn't know the girl's name. Maybe Gert ... ? Oh, no - we reply, definitely not Gert - well then Kleinbooi ...? We go outside and try Kleinbooi - but he struggles so with the question that it strikes me that he may have difficulty recalling his own mother's name. DOES ANYONE KNOW THE NAME OF THE GIRL WITH THE BICYCLE? - Mike yells in frustration.
"Girl? What girl?" The locals look at each other questioningly,
"Anyone remember a girl who was here trying to pump up a bicycle tyre fifteen minutes ago?"
"Here? Bicycle? Pump ...?"
We are not making progress here.
The American hitch-hikers move over to the other side of the road and look on nervously. I think they are looking for cover, in case of gunplay.
Time to go. Everyone back into the wagon. Have diesel, will travel. Leaving a trail of orange dust, two wary Americans, and a motley collection of assorted farmhands behind, we make our way out of the enchanted forest, back to a world we know better.
© Harry Friedland 1990
