When poor aunties were robbed by dishonest fowl uncles

WHEN, from the inner recesses of my mind, I evoke recollections of days gone by, the smells, sounds and sights of yesteryear come flooding in.

I relive and cherish the memories, which can be comforting and fulfilling.

When I think of the times I would be playing on the red oxide-painted stoep of our house on the banana farm in old Cavendish, while the helper did the ironing, I can smell the paraffin-infused charcoal embers in the iron box.

Yearning for the old days or nostalgia is a common human emotion that can provide a temporary mental refuge from the challenges of the present, such as load shedding, rising fuel and food prices, mounting crime levels and service delivery failures by municipalities.

Present-day happenings ring a bell about how some things have changed and how some things have disappeared.

When last did you see a concertina? I remember that up to about the mid-’70s, African men would be walking, singing and playing the concertina at the same time – as part of their leisure activities on a Sunday. The concertina is a musical instrument resembling an accordion but having button-like keys and hexagonal bellows that would expand and contract. It was also popular for Boeremusiek.

Lahlumlenze Nxumalo, a maskandi musician, was one of the better-known concertina players who even travelled overseas with the award-winning Ladysmith Black Mambazo.

The change in popular music, with Western pop music making itself felt everywhere, saw the urban use of the concertina having mixed fortunes. Today, it is rare to hear a concertina being played in the streets.

A traditional Zulu sight that has disappeared in the past three or so decades is that of bare-breasted maidens. I remember that in my days as a journalist, when a photographer and I would traverse the countryside, soon after leaving the city limits, we would encounter young women walking along dusty roads with their breasts exposed.

Of course, for the nubile girls, there was nothing embarrassing or shameful about this.

You see, unlike in Western countries, breasts are not regarded as sexual objects among most African tribes. Hence, during the annual traditional reed dance ceremony, thousands of bare-breasted virgin girls dance before the AmaZulu King.

Years back, it was also common that postcards purporting to promote South Africa featured pictures of bare-breasted women. Also, so proud were young Zulu women of their culture that they visited photographic studios, such as Dennis Bughwan’s Crown Studios in Durban, to have photos taken while wearing the traditional skirt and lots of beads, their breasts uncovered.

When I heard the price of fuel would be going up yet again, I remembered how until the beginning of the ’70s, petrol would be adulterated to stretch the rand. A cheap ethanol fuel, “Union”, would be sold from red pumps at most filling stations. Motorists would use three-parts petrol to one-part Union which was 100 octane. Union was made from sugar cane and was a cousin of alcoholic cane spirit. Little wonder then why motorists claimed mixing the fuel with Union gave the car more vooma or speed, never mind that it caused the engine to pink.

With the poultry industry battling the outbreak of bird flu, which has seen prices of eggs rocketing and at least 2.7 million chickens being put down to prevent further spread of the disease, authorities have warned about buying live chickens from the market.

This got me thinking of the days when live chickens – mainly tougher Cornish and culls – were sold from bakkies in Chatsworth and Phoenix. Chicken would be weighed on a dubious spring scale. Much to the advantage of the seller, the marker on the face of the spring scale would sometimes be bent to overstate weight by a couple of grams. Also, the spring could be stretched, thus giving a higher reading than the actual weight. How many poor aunties would have been robbed by unscrupulous fowl uncles?

With the younger generation preferring faster cooking and dressed chicken from supermarkets, the bakkies with chickens have disappeared from predominantly Indian suburbs. The Bangladesh market in Chatsworth and poultry farms on the outskirts of Phoenix are now the go-to places for live chicken that are freshly cut and cleaned of feathers.

While writing the column, I stopped to remember the things that are no more.

There are no more beggars going door to door on a Thursday to get a few coins or fill up sacks with rice, dhall and beans.

As a boy on the farm, I remember there was a man who arrived every few months to solder the leaks in our galvanised buckets, tubs and watering cans.

When last did you see a postman? Almost all of them have been “killed off” by electronic mediums such as email.

Funeral notices on lampposts and trees – and even in the daily newspapers – have disappeared with the advent of WhatsApp instant messaging.

The rickshaws have long disappeared as a mode of transport within Durban city. Each rickshaw would be decked out in a patchwork of colours while the owner wore an impressive headdress of his own creation, adorned with horns, mirrors, feathers, coloured wool and beads. I remember my mother once took me on one, from the Morning Market to Alice Street. I hadn’t been scared when the puller jumped into the air, tipping the rickshaw backwards.

I have not seen a fly catcher since the time my voice cracked. The glue strip was hung from the ceiling. Flies and other insects flying by would be caught by the sticky ribbon.

When I think of mothballs, I am reminded of my maternal grandma’s small but cosy and warm cottage in Pietermaritzburg. Every wardrobe drawer in her house had the small white balls made of naphthalene which acted as a pesticide to control moths and silverfish on clothing. The strong smell remained even long after the garments had been washed.

An intimidating, unwelcome smell that I can recall is that of methylated spirits in doctors’ rooms to sterilise medical equipment. Today, doctors’ rooms are filled with the sweet fragrance of perfume from receptionists waiting to bleed your medical aid card.

Long before television, cellphones and computer games became available, children played outdoors. A nasty fall on hard ground meant bruises on their arms and legs. There were also insect bites from playing in bushy terrain. Hence, it was a common sight for boys and girls to have big blotches of gentian violet on their sores to protect them from infection. I haven’t seen the ugly dark purple patches in a while.

Some other rare sights for me are washboards with a corrugated metal surface to scrub clothes by hand; hand-cranked eggbeaters that have been replaced by food processors; manual carpet sweepers that did the job fairly well before vacuum cleaners became common; pocket watches worn by gentlemen in formal attire; and braces – a pair of straps to hold up trousers.

Harking back to the good ol’ days is fine, but too much nostalgia is not good. The charcoal iron served its purpose well when I was a kid. Today, I much prefer the steam iron which gets hot rapidly after being switched on and can remove creases faster.

Remembering the past selectively, focusing on the positive aspects and filtering out the negative ones, can make the past seem better than it was. But excessive dwelling on the past and a refusal to adapt to the present can hinder personal growth and well-being.

There must be a balance between cherishing the past and embracing the present.