Tjieng Tjang Tjerries and Other Stories

by Jolyn Phillips

  I watch Felisa walk up the hill to Patrys’s house, very eagerly too, to go and watch TV. I wonder for how long that is going to last.

  The Legend of Tjieng Tjang Tjerries

  It is one o’clock in the afternoon and Katriena can-meisie and Skerul are sitting on the harbour wall with their backs against the dollosse. The afternoon is like every afternoon they have had since they’ve been friends. The echo of one of the skippers swearing at his crew and the seagulls swearing are similar if you sit from a distance. But they like it for the smell of fish guts and how open and blue it is here. It is a good place to dream.

  ‘Skerul, now why do they call you Tjieng Tjang Tjerries? Where did you get your name from?’ Katriena can-meisie asks him while he sips on his 750 ml Black Label.

  He looks at her while he wipes his mouth with his arm and smiles. ‘Seven up tjieng tjang tjerries,’ he replies.

  Katriena can-meisie knows he is not so stupid for a blik-kop. She has always known how to wrap him around her pinkie, but today Skerul is full of draad so she knows that that is all she will get out of him. But she likes that he is so strange. He has been like that for years.

  He would like to tell Katriena can-meisie tjieng tjang tjerries was the first three words he said after his first visit to the hospital. But he can never remember how he got there in the first place. All Skerul really remembers is waking up from a dream in the hospital in Standard 5 and then he could speak Japanese.

  Uncle Bos, his godfather, told him that sometimes he can see dreams with his eyes wide open that he sees differently than other people. But he knows that it has been Mr. Wong teaching him Japanese all these years. It was Mr Wong who came and taught him everything. The first time he met Mr Wong he wore black linen pyjamas and he had a long beard touching his toes. His eyes always make two thin lines when he smiles at Skerul. Skerul wasn’t always sure whether he was in a good mood or a bad mood. That has always been his face.

  He never understood why he would always wake up in the hospital after Mr Wong visited, and he hated the smell of clean in the hospital. Everything tasted like pills and his tongue felt heavy, sore like a stiff muscle. And every time when the sister in the hospital would ask him, ‘And how are you Mr. Swanepoel?’ he wouldn’t know what to say.

  The more Mr Wong comes to teach him these strange words, the more he loses the words everyone around him uses. It is like he doesn’t know how to speak Afrikaans anymore. It is like he can’t understand the people in Gansbaai anymore or the can-meisie who just spoke to him. He wanted to say Mr. Wong teaches him everything he knows, but Mr Wong said that if he won’t learn the language he is trying to teach him then he is keeping his language in jail until he passes Mr Wong’s test.

  The first lesson he got from Mr Wong was in Standard Five class. They didn’t have a real school then. The Standard Fours and Fives shared a class. That morning it felt like there was a brommer in his ear. Then his head started to buzz and made those cracking sounds when the radio breaks up. Like there was a million brommers in his head. And he started to bang his head against the desk and the laughter of the rest of the class made everything worse. That is when he saw Mr Wong for the first time. The noise in his head was so loud. The first time he heard him say tjieng tjang tjerries.

  The teacher made him come to the front of the class and he asked him to say all the books of The Holy Bible. ‘I’m not asking you again boy.’

  ‘Miester, there is bees in my head, I can’t hear you!’

  The class laughs and he can’t keep them calm.

  I won’t have you sin the Bible like that! What are the blooming names of the Bible?’

  ‘Genesis, Leviticus, Exodus, Tjieng, Tjang, Tjerries.’

  He searched for the answer in his head. Until he saw someone walking towards him in his head. He looked exactly like the Kung-Fu movies he watched on his Uncle Bos’ TV. ‘Tjieng tjang tjerries,’ he heard Mr Wong whisper to him in his ear.

  Miester Swanepoel took him by the collar toward the blackboard to stand in the vrot apple corner. He could hear everyone laughing and the noise in his head was really loud and he shouted ‘Tjieng tjang tjerries, Genesis… Exodus Tjieng Tjang…’ over and over until he woke up in the hospital.

  He wanted to tell her all of this, but these words only exist as thoughts. All he sounds with his voice is: “Seven up tjieng tjang tjerries’ because Mr Wong is keeping his words in jail. Those are the only words he has been able to learn. The others he has forgotten because he cannot remember the dreams. Mr Wong only allows these words because Seven Up is Mr Wong’s favourite chocolate made from biscuit, peanuts and chocolate, and tjieng tjang tjerries means ‘My name is’.

  Uncle Bos told Mama Kebous to take him out of school after Mr Wong visited him in the classroom. Skerul heard them. They think he didn’t hear them but he did hear them.

  ‘Maybe it is a bad spirit making him talk like that Bos. He thinks he can speak karate.’

  ‘No, Mama Kebous, he was born like that the doctor said. You know his mother did it to him, all those pills she drank to…you know…when she was pregnant. The poor boy. Don’t worry, Mama, I’ll look after your grandson.’

  ‘God bless you, Bos.’

  After that Skerul followed Uncle Bos everywhere. And when he was old enough he went to the harbour wall to catch haarders and red romans with his uncle. Uncle Bos taught him how to catch fish but he couldn’t handle the fishing rod properly so uncle showed him how to dig for worms to catch fish. He likes to dig worms and sell it to the skippers at the harbour and there everyone likes him and he knows when it is the perfect time to dig worms. When the moon looks like a circle of cheese, he knows the sea sand starts glimmering in the moonlight and the worms start itching under the sand blanket. All the skippers ask him how he gets hold of the worms, but he doesn’t show them. They come to him. He can talk to worms and they come to him when the water becomes dark. It is his secret. That is how he makes his money and how he can buy bottles and bottles of beer. It tastes like bread.

  Meanwhile the can-meisie is tugging at his shirt. She is im­patient now. She knows he is not going to give in so easily today. ‘Are you listening to me? Can I have a beer? Come on, you have three beers left. Don’t be so suinig man. Can I?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Okay fine. Be ma uitgevreet,’ she says. ‘You can forget getting a taste of this pie again,’ she says while patting on the front of her jeans and walking off with her bums dancing Maandag-Dinsdag­Aneweeken­Woensdag.

  He knows that can-meisie. He and Katriena have been friends since she started working at the fish factory. He likes her. She says she does something called koppies trek for the pilchards baas. She says she can pull pilchards’ heads off in her sleep. He likes Katriena can-meisie for her dancing boude. She told him that it is so big because Mamma sends her for flu injections at the clinic every three months because she was always a sick child and it makes her not become dirty by having babies. That Katriena, she is the woman for him, she can’t stay angry at him for long. He knows she will be back tomorrow. She likes him even though he just nods at her. She does all the talking for him anyway. But he cannot like her, Mr Wong said.

  ‘And another thing,’ she calls after him. ‘I am lekker telling your Uncle Bos what you are doing. I am telling. You should be home. You know you just came out of the hospital.’

  Skerul is not bothered with her threats, it is going to be a full moon tonight and the skipper promised him biltong and cigarettes. He is waiting for the water to become dark blue, sipping on his beer. The water is grey and the oil from the boats swims on top of it. Right now it looks like his coffee after he has dunked the Rama bread in there and the oil swims on top. He has been drunk since seven from yesterday’s worm money and there is still three beers left in his rucksack. To hell with Uncle Bos, he is not scared of Uncle Bos. He is not a child anymore. He grabs his green oilskin rucksack and checks one last time if he has everything. He has old newspapers and some fishing string to
catch some haarders for Uncle Bos after he is done sounding to the worms. He places the soil and the worms in some newspaper to keep them safe for the skippers. The fresher the worms the better the pay. Only the worms that want to go with him he takes from the sand. He would never take them from the itching earth under his feet without them giving the okay.

  Later when it becomes cooler he walks from the old harbour, where the fish factory is situated, to where the new harbour now lies, where the itchy sand is. Mr Wong doesn’t like the new harbour so Mr Wong usually waits for him by the fish factory in his black pyjamas. But today Mr. Wong wants to tag along. He says the moon is a bad omen today.

  Skerul rubs the side of his palm against his head. The inside of his head begins to buzz. He gets up and leaves Mr Wong at the dock smiling at him. Mr Wong follows him without feet, and the faster he walks the faster Mr Wong moves closer, with his eyes making lines and his hands holding the bowl of tea. When Skerul finally makes it to the shore, he feels like there is a thousand little bee wings buzzing in his brain no matter how he rubs. The itch and the buzz continue to bother him.

  ‘Mr Wong, please make it stop,’ Skerul pleads.

  Mr Wong is standing a great distance away from the shore. The sound of the seagulls and the fish factory on the left echoes louder and Mr Wong just stands there. Not saying a word.

  Skerul doesn’t like it when Mr Wong makes his visits. When Mr Wong comes, he makes him dream. But it is an empty dream with him at the old harbour, not completely there but alone, and it hurts him. Every time when Mr Wong comes his head feels like it is going to crack open. The last time Mr Wong made him swallow and swallow from his tea bowl and his tongue felt thick and later on it felt like he was swallowing his tongue and then Mr Wong left him and then he woke up in the hospital. Mr Wong has been with him since he was ten. But when the hair started growing on his face his uncle gave him his first beer and he has liked it ever since. Beer is better than Mr Wong’s visits.

  The water swims around his ankles very calmly so he knows it is going to be a calm moon. Maybe he will get some nice worms and more beer tomorrow.

  ‘Tjieng tjang tjerries Seven up Skerul,’ he hears and looks around. When he turns around he is in the dream again. The harbour is empty, not even the little fishing boat is floating next to the jetty. When he turns around he sees Mr Wong standing there in the water in his black pyjamas, calling him to the water. But today he doesn’t want to move from where he stands because he cannot swim that deep.

  Mr Wong shouts from where he is standing in the bay, ‘Tjieng tjang tjerries?’

  Skerul shouts back, ‘Tjieng tjang tjerries Skerul Seven up.’

  Mr. Wong is impressed with Skerul and smiles and walks towards him with a bowl in his hand. When he gets to Skerul he hands him the bowl to drink from. At first Skerul didn’t know how to say I’m full in Mr Wong’s words so he just shook his head, but Mr. Wong kept handing him the bowl and he drank and drank. It tasted a bit salty but it wasn’t tea. This time Mr Wong gave him beer and he drank and he drank and he drank.

  When Uncle Bos comes to the harbour to get his drunken nephew, he sees Skerul being pulled in by the weak waves. He splashes in the water with his worker boots and koofia and pulls his nephew out. Uncle Bos says it must have been God sending him to check on Skerul that day.

  When Skerul wakes up in the public hospital in Hermanus he knows that Mr. Wong’s visits are far from over.

  Porlock and Abacus

  Porlock and Abacus were arguing about Gansbaai’s name while vlekking the fish in the new harbour.

  ‘Gansbaai is a stupid name for a fisher’s village. I mean there is no geese here except for Oom Hannes the sewage trucker’s geese that think they’re dogs,’ says Porlock and he runs his knife over a juicy, fat snoek’s scales.

  ‘No man, Porlock. You don’t know nothing about this place. Abacus knows about everything,’ Abacus says.

  Porlock looks at him skew-eyed. He can never understand why Abacus can’t just talk about himself as I or me. Why must he always use his own name when speaking about himself? Jissus. Just like a malletjie. But Porlock decides to listen to him. He has been waiting to hear the story from the horse’s mouth.

  ‘It’s no use looking at Abacus like that. Do you know who Abacus is? I am the first learner of Gansbaai Primary when the school was still in the V.G.K church hall. My grandpeople came here when Gansbaai was still called Gansegat, man. Good days, good days, yes, good days.’

  ‘Look Abacus,’ Porlock says, ‘I know all of this already. Get to the point.’

  ‘Watse point?’

  ‘Ag dammit, you know, where does the name come from?’

  ‘Everyone thinks it comes from that year when it rained so, and then all of a sudden it didn’t rain anymore and a bunch of geese came running down the mountain where the name Gansbaai is now written among the proteas, but my grand people knows otherwise,’ Abacus goes on, ignoring his friend.

  Then Abacus takes a snoek and grabs it by the tail, slaps it on the table, presses on it, and cuts the fish on the side while looking at Porlock. He can vlek fish with his eyes closed, and perfectly too. He takes out the guts and puts the vis kuite aside, and then he cuts off the head. He can taste pepper-seasoned viskop with onions and potatoes, lekker. He and Porlock have about twenty fishes to vlek, but he doesn’t care, he has other matters on the heart.

  ‘Nou ja, now tell your grandpeople’s story,’ Porlock says.

  ‘When the Chainoukwa still lived in the valleys, before there were streets, harbours and so on, my grandpeople lived on the white sand by the beach.’

  ‘But Abacus, you are talking about a hundred years of history. I was not asking for that long ago,’ Porlock laughs.

  ‘Will you keep your word, so that I can tell the blooming story?’

  ‘No, go on Abacus, man. I am just pulling your leg.’

  ‘Right, where was Abacus? Yes, my grandpeople’s history. We have been fishing for hundreds of years here. But the thing about the geese has to do with my great Uncle Doelie. People have told many stories about him. All lies, I tell you. All lies.’

  ‘Didn’t Doelie kill all those geese? They said so. He was a mad man who lived up in De Kelders caves and he waited for the geese and just like that killed all of them.’

  ‘Keep your word, I say! He only killed one goose. Just one. He never even ate it.’

  Porlock looks at Abacus funny. He is usually to himself, wrapped up in his grey beard that is turning slightly red from all the tobacco he smokes with his pipe. Right now he reckons Abacus has also gone mad and he understands that Abacus would want to defend his people.

  ‘Ja, ja old mate,’ Porlock says, ‘Oubaas Maties will be here in a while. Let us finish vlekking the snoeke.’

  The next day Porlock waits for Abacus at The Blue Whale Kantien where they usually buy a plastic. The Blue Whale is still the cheapest here, R10 for half a litre of wine. They come to town every day and sit there at The Blue Whale Kantien. Porlock hopes he will score some odd jobs like the fish vlekking yesterday. He is sure that Oubaas Maties will ask them again. But where is that Abacus then today? Porlock wonders.

  It’s only later on that he sees Abacus walking up the street. He looks slightly different when he comes up to Porlock.

  ‘Ma my liewe Lord! Man? Old Abacus but you then combed your hair. Wat de hell for?’

  ‘I could see yesterday you didn’t want to believe Abacus. So today, here I am again to tell my story and no chiming in or I’ll give you my backhand, do you hear me?’

  Porlock, already a bit drunk, pushes his lips forward, holds his hands upright, shaking his hands as if to say, ‘Fine, I won’t look for shit with you today.’

  Abacus lifts up his shirt and from under it, he takes out a leather book. ‘In here, in this book is the history of this place so written by Abacus and I will now read it to you, Porlock my friend.’

  Abacus takes a sip of Porlock’s wine and begins. He starts reciting:

 
In the caves of old De Kelders did Doelie live

  In harmony with our grandpeople written on the walls

  But one day old Doelie dreamt a dream

  The most frightening image of a goose

  Half him, half goose

  So he prayed and prayed for the geese to return

  So that he could set his spirit free

  So old Doelie’s prayers came true

  And he stabbed the goose on the left

  Where parts of him was

  And threw the goose in the fountain

  So angry was the geese that they came running down the mountain

  And headed for the fountain

  And sat there

  Then they left

  Then never came again.

  ‘Jissie, Abacus. That was better said than the Dominee, sjoe!’ says Porlock, clapping his hands.

  Inside the book is only the poem and a picture of old Doelie. The rest of the pages have a R100 rand note pasted on each of the remaining pages.

  ‘Abacus’ savings. Every year Abacus pastes a R100 rand note in this book for the day when Abacus dies. Abacus wants to be buried at the De Kelders caves. You see, my friend, on the second page it is written what Abacus wishes. Short and sweet. The day when Abacus dies Abacus wants to join his grandpeople and wishes to do so by being buried in the De Kelders Cave.’

  Abacus closes the book and tucks it under his shirt. He and Porlock sit there and watch the people walk past them in the Main Road. Some of them don’t even care about him and his friend sitting here, day after day. They are not bergies. Abacus and Porlock know Gansbaai better than any of these people walking here. Abacus knows about waiting. Any day now their ship will come in. Yes, any day now, he thinks to himself and tieps next to his friend.

  Later that afternoon Abacus wakes up. His friend is still tiep­ing. He plants his elbow in Porlock’s side and Porlock wakes up.