Steve laughed. “That will never happen. Right, Simon?”
“Never say never,” Simon replied.
Steve went on, “Riggght. Never. Never. Never.” He looked back toward Peter and emphasized, “Never ever!”
“Oh! There’s Uncle Charlie’s! Simon, we should stop there. I’m starving, and I bet your two American friends are as well.”
Simon let out a bit of a moan. “I don’t know…”
Chad spoke up. “Hey, I’m exhausted but ravenous as well. Sounds good to me if you want to stop for a bite, Simon.”
Simon said, “Very well, but I should warn you … well, there are not many places like this Uncle Charlie’s and not many characters as unique as the man the place is named after either.” That said, he pulled into an empty car lot.
“A burger, fries, and a Coke sound good to me. And a little local color is always entertaining,” Chad said.
Obviously, Uncle Charlie felt no need to impress his patrons or anyone else. His establishment was remarkably unremarkable. Mismatched folding tables and chairs cluttered the large, one-room diner. Its bare walls and floors offered nothing to soothe or to excite one’s senses. Certainly, no effort had been expended to entice any diners back. Maybe the cuisine itself woos people to return, Peter hoped, but the vacant parking lot gave no evidence of that.
Uncle Charlie, who they presumed the lone worker to be, (besides the two Blacks mopping the floor), approached their wobbly table. Quite obese, indicating that at least he enjoyed his own food, he grunted as he walked toward his customers, as if each step was a Herculean effort. He spoke with a gruff Afrikaans accent: guttural, sharp, staccato. He took their orders quickly, with a very pronounced don’t-bother-me cadence, and headed back to the grill mumbling and grunting.
Simon went over the plans for the next few days. “Have a rest tomorrow. In the evening, we will have a braaivleis with the church people and a few of the neighbors in the area. Saturday, we meet at the church with a few of the youth leaders. Steve will be one of them. You will have an opportunity to brainstorm, discuss ideas they’ve been thinking about and ideas you have been thinking about and preparing. Sound reasonable?”
Unable to absorb the jumble of words Simon had thrown together, the weary two simply nodded. Simon looked at his friends and nodded back with a pleased smile. This produced a wave of anxiety in Peter, What the hell am I doing here?
Chad returned Simon’s smile, but his eyes remained fixed on three twenty-something women who had slipped in to buy cigarettes. The burgers, fries, and drinks arrived, with Uncle Charlie doing the honors.
After the first bite of his hamburger, Chad winced and said, “Man, this tastes odd, a little bit like ham. You think they take the name literally or something?”
Peter picked up a French fry, and it fell over, limp. He nearly spewed the fry out of his mouth. “My God! The ketchup … it’s like … sweet, and thin as water.”
Chad politely asked for ice, hoping to salvage what was a warm Coke. The proprietor again mumbled and grunted his way back to the counter; ice never came.
As they left the diner, Chad said, “You were right, Simon. Hopefully there are not many like Uncle Charlie around.”
Peter chuckled and added, “Wow. Our first taste of Africa.”
***
They arrived at Simon’s hometown, a modest city of about 40,000. Vanderbijlpark remained a quiet and unassuming, old-style South African town. A strong Afrikaner influence permeated the city through its simple architecture and a propensity to name streets after famous Afrikaners. It was indeed a place well isolated from the trouble, which the world portrayed as running rampant in all of South Africa.
Simon’s neighborhood looked like those Chad had seen on trips to Florida: stucco, single-story houses, some with green or yellow paint, but mainly white. Most had cozy front yards enclosed by small, friendly fences, and a few had garages. Most homes had friendly gardens, adding some color. The neighborhoods lacked any formidable trees like those that Chad and Peter had grown up climbing in their neighborhoods when they were young.
Simon’s rented house was half of a duplex. The neighbors on the other side owned the duplex. They were members at his dad’s church and rented it out to Simon for a very reasonable rate. Inside, the house looked more traditional: copper-plated etchings of elephants, giraffes, and zebras were scattered around the walls. Two Springbok hides hung proudly over a small fireplace. A large zebra hide served as a rug in the living room, breaking the monotony of the red tiles that covered the whole of the house. The tiling gave the house an unsettling echo that the newcomers would have to get used to. The bungalow had one, thankfully large, bedroom, and a large den that included a dining area on one side. The tiny kitchenette had room enough for only three people at a time. Though small, modest, and simple, Simon’s abode would be a nice place to call home.
Chad plopped himself down on the settee and proclaimed, “Africa! Can you believe it? We’re in Africa!”
Peter smiled, nodded, and sat beside him.
Simon went into the kitchen to fix a pot of tea. Chad and Peter promptly fell asleep.
CHAPTER 6
Master, Master
Between the jetlag, the drastic time difference, and their dried up adrenaline, the next morning came too soon for the travelers. Their body clocks could not determine whether it should be ten a.m. or three a.m.
Still exhausted and a bit disoriented, Chad and Peter sat on their beds deciding what should come next when they heard a noise in the kitchen. They quickly threw on some clothes and slowly opened the door.
A soft voice echoed across the tile flooring, “Master?”
Neither responded.
With increased emphasis, the voice again called out, “Master?”
Peter and Chad look at each other, shrugging their shoulders.
A gracious and warm black face, accentuated by an oversized grin, peeked around the door. “Master, would you now want your room to be cleaned? Or, will I prepare a breakfast for you both?”
Peter and Chad sat speechless for a moment before Peter mumbled, “No, no, that’s fine. Geez, sorry … hi … hello. I’m Peter, and this is Chad.”
“Oh yes, yes. Now, finally, you are here. I am Themba. I will be pleased to fix you a breakfast. Shall I prepare eggs, with perhaps some bacon?”
“No, that’s fine. Really,” Peter said.
Chad shook off the remains of sleep and said, “Oh yeah! Eggs, some bacon, and toast. That would be terrific. Do we have any orange juice?”
“Yes, yes, Master. That is fine. It shall be very good for you both.”
Peter said, “Please, Themba, please don’t call us that. I’m Peter and this is Chad. Feel free to call us by our names.”
Themba’s smile slipped into a guarded grin, and her eyes became puzzled. She nodded as she turned and went back to the kitchen.
“Why would you say that? You upset her.” Chad’s tone exuded both irritation and embarrassment.
Peter spoke emphatically. “What? Are you serious, Chad? How you could you let someone call you … my God, call you that of all things? It’s just not right. It’s so ... so wrong.”
“Geez, Peter. It’s what she’s comfortable with. It’s not a big deal. You shouldn’t make an issue of it. It’s not like she’s a slave. She’s just being polite, like calling you ‘sir.’”
Peter went and closed the bedroom door. “It’s not the same at all. Absolutely not.”
Chad’s frustration grew. “It is to her. It’s her culture. She was just being respectful, and you made her feel awful.”
“It made me feel awful.”
Chad started to make his bed. “It's okay. This is Africa. It’s not supposed to be like home. Just get used to it.” He paused from his bed making for a moment. “Hey, we don’t have to make our beds, do we? We have a maid. And you want to complain? My parents had money, but we didn’t have a maid. I like it. You need to lighten up, Peter. Rel
ax. God! You make everything so damn difficult.”
Peter quickly made his bed. “It really doesn’t bother you? It just doesn’t seem right to me to have somebody waiting on me hand and foot, picking up after me, and stuff like that – especially calling me ‘Master.’ It’s too strange.”
“We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto – or Oklahoma, as the case may be. This is Africa, my friend.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Africa. Wow.”
***
The aroma of grilling meat and billowing smoke from burning charcoal greeted Peter and Chad as they walked into the courtyard behind St. Stephens Presbyterian Church. The braaivleis, South Africa’s equivalent to America’s backyard barbeque, was well underway. Fifty-plus curious individuals, couples and families, had gathered, anxious to welcome and to scrutinize the two young Americans.
Peter closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of smoldering briquettes cooking a variety of marinated meats; he was transported back to barbeques at Lake Eufaula in eastern Oklahoma, when in early autumn, the annual McKnight family reunion was religiously held. He opened his eyes and surveyed the crowd: He felt all eyes focused on him. He took two slow breaths and told himself, Just pretend to be an extrovert.
Chad leaned over and whispered in his ear, “You look like you want to run for your life. You’re frowning Smile! Don’t look so damn miserable.”
Peter forced his muscles to pull his mouth upwards. He shadowed Chad as his friend began to float from group to group like a politician buttering up potential voters. He had always envied how Chad was able to mingle so easily, but he was always content to let him take the lead.
They shook what felt like a thousand hands, heard a thousand new names, and had a thousand brisk and redundant conversations: “Pleasure to have you with us. How was your journey? Now, how is it you met Simon? Hope you do enjoy South Africa.” Many bragged about their South Africa, ensuring the Americans they were going to love their homeland and insisting, “Once you’ve been here, you always come back.” Most were of English descent, and some were Afrikaans, but none were Black, Colored, or Indian.
As Peter and Chad finished their first taste of the highly touted boerewors and mealie meal, the staple fair of any braaivleis, a couple approached them. The man said, “Ag lekker man, ja?”
The two looked at each other and wondered who might translate for them. Peter said, “I’m sorry. We don’t speak any Afrikaans.”
“It’s lekker. It’s nice. It’s very good. The boerewors, ja? This wonderful sausage, and the braai, it’s all nice, lekker, eh? Nothing better.”
Chad agreed. “Oh yeah, it’s very nice. Delicious. It’s laker.”
“Not ‘laker.’ Lekker. Lekker man.”
Chad tried again. “Lekker, yes. Lekker, very nice.”
The man introduced himself as Johan Van den Berg and continued to brag about the great tradition of the braaivleis. His dark brown eyes gleamed as the Americans pronounced approval of this first taste of a true South African treat.
“It’s really good. I like it. Best sausage I’ve ever had. What do you call it? Bow-row-vans?” asked Peter.
Johan laughed, “No, no. Boor-uh-vors … boor-uh-vors.”
Chad carefully pronounced the Afrikaans word. “Boor-uh-voooors. Well, I looovers ’em.”
Johan smiled. At thirty-eight, he looked much older. His worn face betrayed years spent in the African sun, as well as a lifelong love affair with cigarettes and alcohol. Johan proudly informed them that he worked as a supervisor for the public works department repairing roads across the Transvaal.
Peter remembered that Simon had warned them about a boisterous fellow who could become too friendly, too familiar, particularly at parties; they assumed this was the fellow. Simon also noted that his abounding friendliness was due partially to personality and partially to his proclivity for alcohol in any form. Now, no true Afrikaner would partake of alcohol on church grounds, but topping up beforehand was acceptable.
Peter thought, obviously, this Johan has had his top up on the way to church.
Johan introduced his wife, holding her small waist with a tight grip. “This is my Susan, mother of my children and joy of my life, but only on her better days.” He released her and slapped her firmly on her bottom.
Susan shook Chad’s hand with an indiscernible grasp, then leaned over, and gave him a quick peck on his cheek. She did the same with Peter. Peter and Chad furtively glanced at one another, both giving a very slight shrug of the shoulders. Johan cornered the two boys and began to interrogate them with full force. Susan eased back a step, allowing Johan his space. Susan smiled, occasionally laughing as she watched the three engage.
Johan showed an instantaneous interest in the ‘Yanks.’ Peter cringed when Johan began arguing with Chad about the superiority of American football over the purity of “the world’s only real football, soccer.” Peter had to work hard to feign interest; he had a passing urge to declare that he hated football of any version on any continent, as well as just about every sport. He tried to imagine what their response might be if he did blurt out such a statement. He took a half step back and decided to engage Susan in something that did not require balls and half-witted men running around senselessly. He apologetically said, “I’m not much when it comes to sports, I’m afraid. It’s like a foreign language to me.”
Susan laughed and replied with a polite, understanding nod. “I understand. Johan can indeed be a bore when it comes to his football and that darn rugby of his.”
“Oh man, Chad as well. He drives me nuts and never takes the hint that I couldn’t care less.”
They shared a laugh.
Johan slapped Chad on the back after making an inaudible comment. He then burst into a belly laugh that intruded upon the church crowd and caused heads to snap his way.
Susan blushed and said to Peter, “I am sorry. He does get carried away.”
“Oh not at all. He’s quite fun. He’s certainly hitting it off with Chad.”
Susan continued to chat with Peter. She asked about his studies and his family and showed great delight in hearing about Peter’s life. In her company, for the first time that afternoon, Peter actually felt relaxed. Susan leaned over and quietly commented, “I do appreciate you bringing a little bit of calm to the buzz of the party. These things do wear me out. Old Johan, he thrives in these situations.”
Peter nodded. “Yeah, I get exhausted at this kind of thing. But … well, no, I mean this is great. I’m enjoying it.”
Susan smiled. “Oh don’t apologize, I understand perfectly. Sometimes we just do what we have to do in life.”
“Yeah. That’s very, very true.”
As their separate conversations continued, two young girls appeared. The younger whispered something in Susan’s ear. She laughed, then caught herself and gave both girls that knowing look – the look a mother perfects by the time her children become teenagers. It is that look a mother uses to communicate that such things are inappropriate, though she probably agrees with the comment.
Johan grabbed one girl under each arm and proudly introduced his daughters. Lisa had a pale complexion, blemished by a few pimples. With her pigtails and oversized shirt, she looked ten or eleven, though she was fourteen. Sarah’s long, dark brown, silky hair complemented her commanding, oversized brown eyes. She wore a tight white tank top shirt that accentuated her tall, genuinely female frame. She could easily pass for drinking age in any bar in the States, though she was only seventeen. A quick “Hello” was enough, and they headed straight back to their respective friends, both giving Susan a wink as they left.
A latecomer joined a dwindling crowd and made his way straight to the two Americans still preoccupied with Johan and Susan. Showing no concern for interrupting their conversations, he grabbed Peter’s hand and said, “You must be Peter.”
Peter looked at him with a dead stare and offered a feeble nod.
The man then reached for Chad’s hand. “Then certai
nly you must be Chad. Simon has spoken very highly of his Yankee mates. It is a great pleasure to meet you. I am Roger Bell, minister of Grace Presbyterian Church in Johannesburg.” Bypassing the expected questions Peter had found so tedious, he went on. “I am thrilled you can join the St. Stephens congregation and share in their work here. I am sure it will be very positive and challenging for the young church, as well as for you both.”
Peter nodded again. The man’s stature and abruptness intensified Peter’s own inadequacy.
Chad put on a confident smile and said, “I know it will be a great year for me. I am looking forward to it. It will be a wonderful experience, no doubt. Now, what’s that accent? You’re not a countryman of Simon. I would guess you’re English. It’s that lovely upper-crust, posh accent. I love it.”
“I certainly don’t think of it as posh, but six year’s study at Oxford did rub off. You wouldn’t know I grew up in a family of Geordies.”
Peter smiled. He assumed the comment was meant to be humorous but had no idea what it meant.
Chad responded, “Oh no, I wouldn’t at all.”
Roger continued. “I immigrated to South Africa seven years ago. This is my home now.” He went on about being instrumental in starting the St. Stephens church five years ago, noting he had been very satisfied with their progress. He then gave a brief history of his own church and bragged about his congregation. Roger’s unashamed bragging increasingly agitated Peter. He kept shifting his weight from leg to leg, continually folding and unfolding his arms, not knowing what to do with his hands.
Chad listened intently as Roger went on. Peter knew this interest was purely pretense. Peter tried to tune the man out, but his forceful and full voice commanded attention, and his height was more than intimidating; he stood half a head taller than anyone else in the courtyard. Peter wondered, How could this guy be a pastor? How could he possibly offer comfort to lost and suffering souls? Those poor parishioners.
Roger’s voice, all of sudden, seemed to increase in decibels, causing Peter to jump. “We have many young families and many young in faith. We are all eager to learn and venture into new things. You fellows are to come and visit my church and experience South Africa’s most famous city, one of the world’s greatest cities.”
The Smoke That Thunders Page 6