On visiting
the magnificent (and magnificently poor and rather run down - in parts) Eastern
Cape recently, I was encouraged by my oldest son to take him through to Grahamstown
for the day. No he didn't want to visit
the Albany Museum, nor take in a poetry lecture at Rhodes University; instead he
wanted to visit about 5 'girl-friends' who happen to go to school there. It’s a long story, but I'll leave that for
him to write about one day. Being a
generous dad-sort, I obliged, and thought that the drive alone would
be good time spent together catching up on things one doesn't often get the
opportunity to share with a teenage son in this hectic lifestyle we appear to
have been sucked into.
Fortunately
for me at least, one of the girl’s dad’s, Justin, hearing of my pending
visit to his farm’s nearby town, arranged to meet me for a drink at the infamous Albany
Club. Now The Albany Club, for those who don't know, is the old ‘gentlemen’s’
club of old, steeped in tradition, wooden panelling, historical pictures
wall-to-wall and old taxidermied animal heads.
Heads of beasts that once roamed the area in their wild habitat, now
peering through glassy eyed stares at the thousands of events and boozy buggers who have propped
up the bar counter over the centuries.
It is a place that only relatively recently has allowed Jews, women and
non-white folk to enter the front door, let alone become members (although few seem to have taken up the
opportunity it seems despite Xhosa being a prominent language amongst the local white farmers who frequent the place).
An
incredible place, The Albany Club, in that despite being a Jo’burg born and
bred, and Cape Town based for a decade and a half, I knew virtually every
person in that bar that day. It was
wonderful, and only something that can happen in a small-town place like
Grahamstown. The familiarity of everyone
is intriguing, and yet despite nuances of ‘vibes’ both good and not so good being
evident between them, there was a general courtesy and banter even amongst the biggest rivals. I say ‘rivals’ purely because the one bloke
had stolen the other bloke's girlfriend from him at the age of 14 at Peps Palace in Kenton-on-Sea back in 1980, and the other had never forgiven the bugger. The latter term of which I don’t mean
literally, of course.
Whilst ‘kuiering’ (visiting and indulging) with these fine lads, a big brawly farmer, whom I hadn't seen in years, came up to
greet me, and flattered me like only a brawly farmer with hands rough and the
size of wickey gloves can do to a city slicker like me.
He said, “-ell Greg..”, with rolled accent on the ‘r’ you understand, this
is the Eastern Cape afterall, “..I see you’re quite the philosopher ol’ chap..”. To my surprise, not only to his complimentary meaning of ‘philosopher’ being attributed to me, but the fact that he is an
avid Facebook reader it seems. Reader is
the operative word, in that I have never seen him write a damn thing in return,
merely scanning the sites for updates on who’s doing whom and what around the world perhaps? I know that there are many of my vintage who do the same.
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