During our roundabout
road trip to Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens, Grootbos Florilegium, Gansbaai,
Willowmore where the "godless-boys" get whipped, Middelburg and its
road-hauliers and Rivonia, we had an experience in Gansbaai. Oh yes, it is
highly possible to have an experience, even in Gansbaai, only if you are on the
lookout for an experience in Gansbaai; you can easily miss that unique and once
in a lifetime experience because it happens in the most unguarded and most
fleeting of moments. That moment you are concentrating to get out of there! Or
if you concentrate on other much more mundane things than getting out of there.
And when you miss that moment, its gone for ever and not to be repeated.
I almost missed out on a once in a lifetime moment in Gansbaai. Am I facetious? Remember I live in big city and anything smaller, hold untold surprises and experiences. The huge rocks in Gansbaai are spectacular – there are, however, more to Gansbaai than rocks and the redundant lighthouse at Birkenhead Bay. For those of you who are curious about the Birkenhead that sunk there many years ago, click on this link.
Rocks at Gansbaai
We had a slow,
relaxing, contemplative drive back from the old, deserted, non-operative
lighthouse at Birkenhead Bay and stopped over in Gansbaai; it was a deliberate
stop over, after spotting this small sign pointing to a second-hand shop. We
are suckers for that kind of a thing. Inside we were welcomed by a shy
youngster, trying to hide behind something that can double up as a counter or
something you can buy and take home to restore and exhibit in a prime spot at
your home. She was shy, trying to hide and, simultaneously trying to see who
these strangers are! Why are they here? Where are they from? Where are they
going?
My wife drifted off in a direction, me sauntered just around looking. All the while thinking of this young girl and the beautiful “shop attendant;" is it her child? Maybe, just maybe? Maybe too young? But one never knows; age is no restriction; might not be hers? Then, if not, whose is it? Its none of your business. Forget it. Let it be. Why is she in the shop and not playing around at home in the garden? Does she have friends? Siblings? None of your business. I know. But I am intrigued. It is still not your business.
Her hand in front of her mouth, feet nervously beating an unknown rhythm on the plank floor. Staring. Beautiful eyes. Her mother's? None of your business.
Me: "What's your name?"
She: staring; seeking refuge behind that box; staring.
Me: "Is this little one your daughter?"
"No."
Me: backing off deeper into this treasure chest, and further away from getting closer to family explanations.
My wife: "Look at these Garfield tins. So nice. The price?" Garfield eats spinach. There are youngsters at home that became interested in spinach as well.
Deeper inside there was this table, or maybe more than one table, didn't count it, and on this table, there were lots of "stuff! Definitely not second-hand you can count on that. Third hand? Fourth hand? These things are wanderers; it can spot a collector of old hand tools from a long way off! There is a particular look in the eyes of a collector of old tools; that look that only glitters in the eyes of a connoisseur! That collector's hands are also a sure sign of a connoisseur! The way he picks it up; turns it about and around and even slowly and delicately lifts it up and then smells it - not caring who might be watching him; unaware of the staring eyes of the youngster now standing a safe distance from that box and a bit closer to this sniffing old grandpa. Smelling! Caressing. Eyes glazed over.
Drifting off. Still
deeper! More to see! More to pick up. And sometimes it is much safer not to
smell! Or to pick up! Keep moving is the operative word!
Porcelain!
Lots of it.
Cracked pots!
Shining stuff
Single plates. Single saucers. Single cups. Cake-forks. A knife. A couple of forks. Tea-pots. Dinner plates. Dinner-sets. Gold rimmed porcelain, surely not dishwasher proof; to long ago manufactured.
Once upon a time: when the world was free from e-mails, wi-fi, internet, youtube, streaming, Facebook, Flickr, tik-tok; when that world had its own complications and heart-attacks and illegitimates and corruption and golden-wedding anniversaries and graduations and unknown worlds to conquer. That world where craftsmen made their own tools; appreciate just to look at a roughly logged tree admiring the innards of that tree; sitting on a rock looking at the antics of swallows and wonder how their flight was from where ever they came. Where ladies still hand embroider; knit, crochet; come together as a group of like-minded ladies to knit, to crochet, to make felt, to listen to the others stories of heart-ache and triumph. Women's stuff touching all of our lives.
There was this milk jug. Part of a dinner set! Each piece individually priced as if it is telling me that I could take my chances and buy it!
And I did.
Here is another picture of
it.
Back to the table(s)
proudly displaying those tools. I called that lady who is not the mother of
that youngster without name. I called her. And she came - duty bound to come and
assist the potential buyer.
Me: "You have a treasure of old tools."
Me: "Just look at this one!" Me holding up a little drill enthusiastically explaining how it works.
Just one look at her, and I swallowed my next word halfway in my mouth.
She returned to her post where she can stare out of the shop window to look at nothing in particular; she was probably eager to record the next sale. Which was me with that porcelain milk jug. And thereafter, my wife with two Garfield tins with sweet stuff in.
Please write me your
story: neelscoertse@wirelesza.co.za
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