between me and my brother (he who is looking after Mom)
From him:-
Hi
You need to take leave as I have the following jobs:
Build carport
Fix 3rd bike
Fix sprayer pipe
Install lights in back yard
Replace lights in front yard
Fill flower beds with sand
Cover lawn with top soil
Install shelves in bedroom
Repack garage
ETC………..
P.S I need the break, please come down tomorrow.
My response:-
Due to the amount of work that seems to be outstanding at our selected
timeshare of choice, I thing vacations for this year should be cancelled!
From him:-
Hi
Sorry for the confusion the following e-mail should have been sent
Dear Guest
Your weeks time share is ready and planned for you
Day 1 Rest from drive and visit to see developments
Day 2 Discover the past (4x4 drives to old beach fishing spots)
Day 3 Rest
Day 4 Fishing trip
Day 5 Trip to snorkeling site
Day 6 Trip to Durban
Day 7 Rest
Day 8 We rest as you have "Fucked Off"
Day 9 Start the work listed below
My response:-
Seeing as the itinerary has been prepared and as presented below, serious consideration will be taken in this regard.
However, I'm not sure that we want to stay at a place that:-
Build carport - does not have proper cover for our vehicle
Fix 3rd bike - has faulty recreational facilities
Fix sprayer pipe - has dry gardens due to faulty equipment
Install lights in back yard - is dark, and therefore dangerous
Replace lights in front yard - see response above
Fill flower beds with sand - needs sand in it's beds......
Cover lawn with top soil - has no cover on it's lawns
Install shelves in bedroom - no shelving in the bedrooms - where are we supposed to put our stuff?
Repack garage - and has a garage which is used as a store room.
We may decide to decline, however, should there be further motivation in this regard, we will consider it.
Salagatle!
LIU - Look It Up!
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Meerkats Valentine
Herewith a copy of Meerkats first ever Valentine's letter he wrote, which he gave to his STD. 8 PT teacher.
(STD.8 is like today's Grade 10, only harder, and PT stood for Physical Training, as opposed to political Tension).
(STD.8 is like today's Grade 10, only harder, and PT stood for Physical Training, as opposed to political Tension).
In it he used Afrikaans words like:-
Kraai, draai, naai,
Loer, koer, moer,
None of which really matter and are not worth translating, suffice to say that the essence of the letter was:-
Dear teacher,Words cannot convey how I feel about you. When I see you in your PT leotard, and you bend over to retrieve the pens and pencils I keep dropping, my nether parts tend to harden. In fact, I think in another life you might have been a mechanic the way you cause my nuts to tighten!
(Then there some crap about his own physique, her boobs, her camel toe)
I would like to say, teacher, that if I had one dying wish it would be that you would be my valentine!
PS. Any chance we can pomp! (Afrikaans slang for fuck)!
Salagatle!
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
I had to post these
Some of you will be aware of the current Public Sector strike, among them teachers.
here's why that deserve the increase:-
here's why that deserve the increase:-
Salagatle!
The board room
Sitting in a board room
With clients, peers, people
Talking, selling, asking
Questions around their needs
People sounding intelligent
Speaking but not making sense
Spewing out acronyms,
Spewing out crap
It's all about the business
And not about the client
It's all about the bottom line
And not quality of service
It's really a false state
Being in this place
All talk, no sense
All airhead blabber
Salagatle!
With clients, peers, people
Talking, selling, asking
Questions around their needs
People sounding intelligent
Speaking but not making sense
Spewing out acronyms,
Spewing out crap
It's all about the business
And not about the client
It's all about the bottom line
And not quality of service
It's really a false state
Being in this place
All talk, no sense
All airhead blabber
Salagatle!
SADF VI
One day the Sergeant Major approached us for assistance in the camp. Every 4 months or so, the mortar guys would shoot away their stock, and replenish with fresh ammo. This got rid of the old stuff, and gave then some target practice and training. However, this time they had noticed that some of the mortars had been leaking, and so they were a bit scared to move them.
We did an inspection, and saw that we could move most. We carried them, one at a time out of the camp site to large hole in the ground (I think that was where they got the sand for building the walls around the camp originally. We packed them on top of each other, put half a kilo plastic on top, and set it off with an electronic detonator. There were 4 bombs we could not move, and these we had to explode inside the camp.
At first the Sgt. Major didn't want us to, but on explanation of the “secure” methods we would use, he agreed. We put about 100 grams of plastic on each one, interlinked with electronic detonators so as to explode simultaneously, packed a few sandbags on top, and let it rip. Damn, there was such a big hole they had to truck in two loads of sand to fill it before they could rebuild the mortar pit!
The uniforms we were supplied, “browns”, were not the most comfortable when new, material was a bit rough, but with wear and tear, use, and washing they did fade, and soften. Pride was if you could get hold of a pair of recce's boots. (http://www.recce.co.za/)
Much softer than the standard military issue. Also our bush hats were almost a trade mark. Each guy had, over time, manipulated his into the shape he preferred, and hand stitched their name on the band, and some, like me, even the year of conscription. Sewing was so easy after you had been doing it for yourself for a few months.
A bonus was getting your hands on new woollen socks. Now there was a treat, and much bartering went on when the post / ration truck arrived if the driver happened to have brought a couple of pairs along for sale!!
One of the funnier pastimes for us Sappers was minor booby traps. We’d take the powder out of bullets; wrap it in some paper, or tin foil. Using a thread from “goldilocks” (steel wool) for a “fuse” connected to a long piece of electric cable (2 core rip cord type stuff) and finally to a switched battery. The “bomb” would be planted inside the “go cart” (a pet name for those field toilets we had up north) and we would wait for someone to go and sit down. Just as you could hear they were comfortable, we would close the contact, and “boom” arse would be peppered with sand, and or any other foul product residing underneath that lid! We even managed to set some up so that when the lid was lifted, a contact would make and crap would come flying up out of the depths of the bog!
Much laughter, sometimes too much, resulting in the culprits easily being identified, and as such being chased around the camp by some seriously pissed off Infantry guy!
Once, after a similar prank, the Sgt Major decided we needed to be taught a lesson.He made us line up in threes ( 9 of us, 3x3) and drilled us up and down a 5 meter stretch for about 30 minutes, on the double, in the blazing Namibian sun. When the first guy looked like falling over exhausted I called a halt, and upturning my R1 rifle, planted it barrel first into the soft sand!
http://www.saaaca.org.za/links/SIG/fal/fal.htm
SACRILEGE! This was unheard off. That’s like your wife, the thing that will keep you alive!!
He was red, blue, and scarlet with rage. So much so I thought he was having a stroke, or better still cardiac arrest! As soon as he got his voice back he dismissed the rest of the group, and demanded I remain. Calling me to attention he looked as if he was about to sentence me to either hanging, or death by firing squad. I realised that I was in some serious crap, and called on the only thing I thought would get me out of this position. “What the fuck do you think you are doing?” he roared. “Sgt. Major, contrary to what you may think, we have been instructed that no one may cause any member of the SADF to be punished by drilling in conditions which could be adverse to their health, whilst in a war zone."
"As we are on the border, I thought it appropriate when I saw my fellow Sapper stumbling to bring this punishment to an end. I didn't think I could have got your attention in any other way!” (All of this relayed in fluent Afrikaans!) He just stared at me, and then, being unsure of what regulation I may have been referring to, he dismissed me with an instruction to present my cleaned rifle at his tent in 30 minutes. And I was out of there!!!
Salagatle!
We did an inspection, and saw that we could move most. We carried them, one at a time out of the camp site to large hole in the ground (I think that was where they got the sand for building the walls around the camp originally. We packed them on top of each other, put half a kilo plastic on top, and set it off with an electronic detonator. There were 4 bombs we could not move, and these we had to explode inside the camp.
At first the Sgt. Major didn't want us to, but on explanation of the “secure” methods we would use, he agreed. We put about 100 grams of plastic on each one, interlinked with electronic detonators so as to explode simultaneously, packed a few sandbags on top, and let it rip. Damn, there was such a big hole they had to truck in two loads of sand to fill it before they could rebuild the mortar pit!
The uniforms we were supplied, “browns”, were not the most comfortable when new, material was a bit rough, but with wear and tear, use, and washing they did fade, and soften. Pride was if you could get hold of a pair of recce's boots. (http://www.recce.co.za/)
Much softer than the standard military issue. Also our bush hats were almost a trade mark. Each guy had, over time, manipulated his into the shape he preferred, and hand stitched their name on the band, and some, like me, even the year of conscription. Sewing was so easy after you had been doing it for yourself for a few months.
A bonus was getting your hands on new woollen socks. Now there was a treat, and much bartering went on when the post / ration truck arrived if the driver happened to have brought a couple of pairs along for sale!!
One of the funnier pastimes for us Sappers was minor booby traps. We’d take the powder out of bullets; wrap it in some paper, or tin foil. Using a thread from “goldilocks” (steel wool) for a “fuse” connected to a long piece of electric cable (2 core rip cord type stuff) and finally to a switched battery. The “bomb” would be planted inside the “go cart” (a pet name for those field toilets we had up north) and we would wait for someone to go and sit down. Just as you could hear they were comfortable, we would close the contact, and “boom” arse would be peppered with sand, and or any other foul product residing underneath that lid! We even managed to set some up so that when the lid was lifted, a contact would make and crap would come flying up out of the depths of the bog!
Much laughter, sometimes too much, resulting in the culprits easily being identified, and as such being chased around the camp by some seriously pissed off Infantry guy!
Once, after a similar prank, the Sgt Major decided we needed to be taught a lesson.He made us line up in threes ( 9 of us, 3x3) and drilled us up and down a 5 meter stretch for about 30 minutes, on the double, in the blazing Namibian sun. When the first guy looked like falling over exhausted I called a halt, and upturning my R1 rifle, planted it barrel first into the soft sand!
http://www.saaaca.org.za/links/SIG/fal/fal.htm
SACRILEGE! This was unheard off. That’s like your wife, the thing that will keep you alive!!
He was red, blue, and scarlet with rage. So much so I thought he was having a stroke, or better still cardiac arrest! As soon as he got his voice back he dismissed the rest of the group, and demanded I remain. Calling me to attention he looked as if he was about to sentence me to either hanging, or death by firing squad. I realised that I was in some serious crap, and called on the only thing I thought would get me out of this position. “What the fuck do you think you are doing?” he roared. “Sgt. Major, contrary to what you may think, we have been instructed that no one may cause any member of the SADF to be punished by drilling in conditions which could be adverse to their health, whilst in a war zone."
"As we are on the border, I thought it appropriate when I saw my fellow Sapper stumbling to bring this punishment to an end. I didn't think I could have got your attention in any other way!” (All of this relayed in fluent Afrikaans!) He just stared at me, and then, being unsure of what regulation I may have been referring to, he dismissed me with an instruction to present my cleaned rifle at his tent in 30 minutes. And I was out of there!!!
Salagatle!
The snow story
If memory serves me correctly, the last time it snowed in JHB, and specifically on the West rand was about 1982! I had boarded a plane to SWA for a 3 month stint with the SADF to go and protect my country from the Communist and terrorist forces that were threatening our democracy (sic)!
That night, after I left it snowed! So i didn't actually get to see it, other than some photos that were taken and sent to me!
Last night it snowed. It really snowed! There was an inch of snow on the table on the deck! We even managed to make a snow man (LuckyL and I) even though we made the body using a bucket to get some shape, and plonked a head on top! But, it's snow, and fun, and my hands nearly fell off!
For those of you up north to whom snow is no big deal, the photos may be a poor showing, but for us here in sunny SA, this is a big deal. And will be remembered, and spoken about for some time!
Enjoy! I know I did!
Salagatle!
That night, after I left it snowed! So i didn't actually get to see it, other than some photos that were taken and sent to me!
Last night it snowed. It really snowed! There was an inch of snow on the table on the deck! We even managed to make a snow man (LuckyL and I) even though we made the body using a bucket to get some shape, and plonked a head on top! But, it's snow, and fun, and my hands nearly fell off!
For those of you up north to whom snow is no big deal, the photos may be a poor showing, but for us here in sunny SA, this is a big deal. And will be remembered, and spoken about for some time!
Enjoy! I know I did!
Salagatle!
My boss just
walked past me in the passage and asked how things are going, , and I replied "I'm snowed under"!
Salagatle!
Salagatle!
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
SADF V
One of my buddies turned 21 up there. Shit place to celebrate your 21st. We slaughtered 3 goats, and drank about 10 dozen beers, between 10 of us! He might not want to, but he'll never forget it. We even had the mortar guys put 2 off their 1000m flares for him! Wonder what happened to him?
One of the downers whilst on the border was the "Dear Johnny's", you know those letters that the guys get when they are away from home for a long time, and the girlfriend has found some other Romeo? Well, we made a point of watching each other whenever any mail came in. If the reaction on the readers face was not good, a point was made to keep an eye on him. There were many stories of guys who went off the deep end because of a "Dear Johnny" letter.
There was also a radio station that broadcast up to there for us, and I think it was every Sunday they ran a special program where they would play songs for the “troop on the border” based on requests they received from their listeners, who were either family or friends of the troops.
Every Xmas the Red Cross would hand out Xmas parcels to the troops, normally a bag containing a pen, writing paper, some envelopes, nail clippers, a “Thank you” card, and even a wooden shield / trophy with the SWA map embossed on it and the words “Border Duty – Christmas 19XX” (or something like that. They were always welcome though, probably because getting free envelopes and stuff meant we had more money for beer. That’s another thing. Access to beer was restricted. Only two per person per night (or something like that) ((I know I write that a lot, but time has deleted a lot of these little details)). However, there were ways and means. A little backhand could secure you a six pack, and then some of the guys didn't drink alcohol, so paying for their cokes would get you their beer!
Sometimes we would run out of cigarettes, and then the guys would smoke anything they could crush and roll into a paper. Sometimes we’d raid the local “kukka shop”, that’s what they called the informal shops where adds and ends were sold by the locals to the locals, and there we would get cigarettes, pipe tobacco, even beers (bad beer beats no beer).
Once we raided a known terrorist supporter kukka shop. In the false ceiling (is that right?) we found piles of those cardboard wine bottle sleeves packed with South African bank notes. Needless to say that was the last time he saw any of it. We didn't run short of funds for a while. Spoils of war, we called it.
Close to the actual border line was a missionary station, run by a bunch of Catholic nuns. It was well known that they would offer assistance to anyone who needed it. It was also suspected (and no doubt proven at some time) that they offered sanctuary, food and medical assistance to the terrorists. We couldn't touch them, or even get them to move, but the area around their station became almost a no go zone. Nights there would be infantry patrols and ambushes nearby, and by day, trackers would go around to see if they could pick up spoor.
Once we had information that some terrorists would be coming through there within the next week. We got a 6 meter section of PVC piping; 150mm diameter (used for water piping and sewerage piping) filled it with broken glass, bolts, rocks, and PE4! Man I loved that stuff. What we could do with half a kilo of plastic was incredible. What we did with 2 kilos in this pipe was scary. Anyway, we buried it across a well used usual pathway, where it passed between two tall palm trees which were about 10 meters apart. We rigged it up with a trip wire, linked to a couple of claymore set back about 10 meters, further into the bush.
Two days later it went off. We got there maybe 35 minutes after detonation. The devastation was incredible. There was a massive hole in the ground, Both the palm trees were blown out of the ground, and a mess to show that someone / something had been hurt real bad. There were marks to show that someone had dragged bodies away, and there were no guns and stuff left behind. Seems like it could have been a large group and not all had been hit, and so the survivors had taken away the dead / hurt, and taken them to the mission station. We were not allowed to enter their site, but we hung around for 5 days, not allowing anyone to leave either, except a nun who went to get food rations. Whoever was inside needing help either got it from the nuns, or they died.
More later
Salagatle!
One of the downers whilst on the border was the "Dear Johnny's", you know those letters that the guys get when they are away from home for a long time, and the girlfriend has found some other Romeo? Well, we made a point of watching each other whenever any mail came in. If the reaction on the readers face was not good, a point was made to keep an eye on him. There were many stories of guys who went off the deep end because of a "Dear Johnny" letter.
There was also a radio station that broadcast up to there for us, and I think it was every Sunday they ran a special program where they would play songs for the “troop on the border” based on requests they received from their listeners, who were either family or friends of the troops.
Every Xmas the Red Cross would hand out Xmas parcels to the troops, normally a bag containing a pen, writing paper, some envelopes, nail clippers, a “Thank you” card, and even a wooden shield / trophy with the SWA map embossed on it and the words “Border Duty – Christmas 19XX” (or something like that. They were always welcome though, probably because getting free envelopes and stuff meant we had more money for beer. That’s another thing. Access to beer was restricted. Only two per person per night (or something like that) ((I know I write that a lot, but time has deleted a lot of these little details)). However, there were ways and means. A little backhand could secure you a six pack, and then some of the guys didn't drink alcohol, so paying for their cokes would get you their beer!
Sometimes we would run out of cigarettes, and then the guys would smoke anything they could crush and roll into a paper. Sometimes we’d raid the local “kukka shop”, that’s what they called the informal shops where adds and ends were sold by the locals to the locals, and there we would get cigarettes, pipe tobacco, even beers (bad beer beats no beer).
Once we raided a known terrorist supporter kukka shop. In the false ceiling (is that right?) we found piles of those cardboard wine bottle sleeves packed with South African bank notes. Needless to say that was the last time he saw any of it. We didn't run short of funds for a while. Spoils of war, we called it.
Close to the actual border line was a missionary station, run by a bunch of Catholic nuns. It was well known that they would offer assistance to anyone who needed it. It was also suspected (and no doubt proven at some time) that they offered sanctuary, food and medical assistance to the terrorists. We couldn't touch them, or even get them to move, but the area around their station became almost a no go zone. Nights there would be infantry patrols and ambushes nearby, and by day, trackers would go around to see if they could pick up spoor.
Once we had information that some terrorists would be coming through there within the next week. We got a 6 meter section of PVC piping; 150mm diameter (used for water piping and sewerage piping) filled it with broken glass, bolts, rocks, and PE4! Man I loved that stuff. What we could do with half a kilo of plastic was incredible. What we did with 2 kilos in this pipe was scary. Anyway, we buried it across a well used usual pathway, where it passed between two tall palm trees which were about 10 meters apart. We rigged it up with a trip wire, linked to a couple of claymore set back about 10 meters, further into the bush.
Two days later it went off. We got there maybe 35 minutes after detonation. The devastation was incredible. There was a massive hole in the ground, Both the palm trees were blown out of the ground, and a mess to show that someone / something had been hurt real bad. There were marks to show that someone had dragged bodies away, and there were no guns and stuff left behind. Seems like it could have been a large group and not all had been hit, and so the survivors had taken away the dead / hurt, and taken them to the mission station. We were not allowed to enter their site, but we hung around for 5 days, not allowing anyone to leave either, except a nun who went to get food rations. Whoever was inside needing help either got it from the nuns, or they died.
More later
Salagatle!
Update on Mom
Just an update on Mom. Those of you (3) who read my stuff will know that Mom had a little setback recently. She was then taken to Richards Bay by my brother so that she can recuperate in warmer climates, and where my sister in law can look after her 24/7. Also, this way we can be sure she takes her meds when she's supposed to, and, more importantly, she will be sure to get her 3 meals a day. The problem with the elderly, especially when they don't feel well is that making a meal becomes a schlep, and so they either just skip it, or grab a slice of bread, or toast. At least now the family know that she's getting the right food / nutrition.
The proof is in the pudding, and as I speak to Mom daily, I can hear in her voice that she's much improved. She's even got her sense of humour back!
To my brother, my favourite sister in law, and my niece, I have no other way of showing my gratitude to you other than doing so in what I consider to be a public place. What you are doing for Mom, I know you do out of love and respect, but it's a lot more than most families do for each other today. I know how proud Dad would have been at this moment, and if we are to believe what we are taught, he's up there right now smiling and bragging "That's MY son"!!!!
Thanx Boet, you are very special!
http://soufafrican.blogspot.com/2006/04/you-are-my-brother.html
Salagatle!
The proof is in the pudding, and as I speak to Mom daily, I can hear in her voice that she's much improved. She's even got her sense of humour back!
To my brother, my favourite sister in law, and my niece, I have no other way of showing my gratitude to you other than doing so in what I consider to be a public place. What you are doing for Mom, I know you do out of love and respect, but it's a lot more than most families do for each other today. I know how proud Dad would have been at this moment, and if we are to believe what we are taught, he's up there right now smiling and bragging "That's MY son"!!!!
Thanx Boet, you are very special!
http://soufafrican.blogspot.com/2006/04/you-are-my-brother.html
Salagatle!
Monday, June 25, 2007
It seems that since
I started posting my "war stories" all my readers (all 3 - 4 of them) have deserted me. Can't understand why....
Oh, well, it's my blog, for my stuff....
Salagatle!
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