UMTATA
I can’t recall how many times I visited Umtata over the years and I don’t recall enjoying any of them. I found the perpetual crush of humanity everywhere one went in the town most oppressive and I would always just push to finish and get out.
The first time I went there in the company of Mike de Villiers and John Bell and his wife Elizma. We booked in at the Spilkin owned Savoy Hotel which was an old but comfortable place with an excellent table. Close by was a cinema and “The gods must be crazy” was showing there, so the three of us decided to go and see that highly praised movie. We were the only whites in that place, at the time quite a novel experience for us. And by the way everyone was staring at us, a novel experience for the other cinema goers as well!
The history of that branch’s premises would fill a book. The premises that we first encountered, were hopelessly overcrowded and every time an extension was added, it simply regularized an untenable situation but did not cater for future expansion. The medium sized town and vicinity as a whole supported a population more in line with a city so every business in town was forever packed solid with people. The branch somehow found places for us in which to sit and work but we sat crammed in like sardines in a can.
One day I happened to be strolling around the office and noticed an assistant accountant busy re-checking overdraft interest pages. I could tell at a glance that an account had been undercharged to the extent of hundreds of Rand but he was happy with the result and did not pick up the mistake in the cast. I stopped him and said that he should check again but more carefully this time. He was dubious but I insisted and he eventually spotted the mistake. He looked at me in awe – “How did you know it was wrong – you only looked at the figures for a second or two”. I smugly informed him that an Internal Auditor was trained to spot errors at a glance – a lesson which he might have carried for the rest of his days in the bank. It was absolute rubbish of course. I just knew a shortcut.
The last time I visited Umtata the premises had finally been substantially enlarged and had swallowed up two neighboring shops. It didn’t pay to arrive late as queues started forming outside on the pavement long before opening time and the crowds would strenuously resist any attempt you might make to get into the branch before they did. It was no use protesting that you worked there either. The stampede that took place when the doors were opened had to be seen to be believed. People literally ran to the counter, pushing and shoving and complaining bitterly. The start of every business day was more like a riot than anything else.
In such a chaotically busy branch, you’d expect control and routine knowledge to be below average. Yet it was not so – there were some really highly competent ladies who handled pressure with aplomb. Most of the names now escape me but the lady in charge of securities was called Abigail, so I renamed her Abigail Kubeka after the TV actress, who played a character called Skweeza. She really was great at what she was called upon to do and was as good as the best securities clerks I had encountered. I wonder if she has retired by now?
BUTTERWORTH
My first visit to Butterworth was in the Apartheid era when the government was providing attractive incentives for industries to set up factories there, in an effort to create work for the impoverished local population. In common with the other “homeland” branches of the time, it was extremely busy as the town grew by leaps and bounds. We stayed at the excellent Bungalows Hotel, owned and run by the McClenaghans, which at the time had the finest table one could wish for.
It was our first real taste of a multi-racial pub and the place was so crowded that there were two full rows at the bar. I was standing behind an old gent who was nursing his glass of stout and I was considerably touched when the kind old fellow slid off his barstool and offered it to me. I thanked him sincerely but said that I felt that he was senior to me and I could not let him stand when I sat. I think he was pleased.
Gout, that most painful of afflictions struck me one night in Butterworth. I woke at midnight with a pain in my foot which was beyond description and my foot was so hot, I was sure it glowed. It was so damn tender I could not bear to even have the sheet on it. The next day as I was limping painfully down the stairs and I ran into Mr Mac himself. Through clenched jaws, I muttered, ‘GOUT’! He reached into his pocket and produced a tiny white tablet and told me to take it. Within minutes the pain was gone – I had just been introduced to gout and its age-old remedy, Colchicine.
A couple of characters in the branch were Kenny Marshall and Peter Bailey. There was a palpable undercurrent of enmity between them, with smaller Kenny needling much bigger Peter, with sotto voce remarks. Peter suddenly seemed to lose it and next thing we heard was him say was, “You’re a PIG man! You know, I think I’m gonna hit you. In fact, I’m SURE I’m gonna hit you”. Mike my boss leapt to his feet thinking to stave off a brawl but Peter just turned on his heel and walked off muttering while Kenny looked wonderingly after him. I still think that was a very strange thing to say...
During another audit, this time with Toekie van Wyk, Marlene Botha and a second lady, we all trooped down to an amusement arcade, each with R300 in change in our pockets, intent on cracking the one armed bandits. The 20c coins went quickly, as did the 50c coins but Lady Luck smiled on me when my second R1 coin netted me a R1 000 jackpot. Instead of pocketing it, I started feeding back the coins, convinced my luck was running and would produce an even bigger win. It didn’t and Toekie got me to stick about R700 in my pocket, before I lost the lot.
OUDTSHOORN
I really liked Oudtshoorn and it was always a pleasure to have to go there. Apart from the impressive Klein Karroo scenery, fine hotels and our well run branch, I really liked ostriches. Those ridiculously oversized birds make damn fine biltong and “dried wors”, as I confirmed by numerous visits to the K.K.K. (Klein Karoo Ko-op) butchery at their ostrich processing factory. They made the best dried wors in the country in my opinion and I sometimes even popped over from Sedgefield (Where my wife lived at the time) via the Outeniqua Pass, just to buy a supply from the factory.
Ernie Neethling was accountant at the branch when I first went there. I was a bit puzzled while examining the P. & L. debits to find one for the purchase of a new tie. A very mangled tie was also attached to the slip. Not wanting to create a precedent by tacitly authorizing the purchase of a tie on P. & L. I took the slip to Ernie for an explanation. I hooted with laughter when he told me how he had been working with the shredder, when his dangling tie got caught in those whirling blades and he suddenly found his face being pulled inexorably into the machine. In a moment of sheer panic he, he could not find the off switch and then ensued a tug of war between him and the shredder, which was threatening to strangle him as well as carve up his face. He eventually won when someone else switched off the machine but his tie was history. Needless to say I had no problem condoning that expenditure after all.
On another occasion, we arrived at the branch not long after a new accountant Maans Lourens had been appointed. I saw a perfect example of just how territorial people can be when one morning before the rest of the staff had arrived, he rearranged the tables and seating up on the mezzanine floor. I raised my eyebrows at his unilateral action but said nothing. Then the ladies started arriving and the next thing, some unladylike swearing and moving of furniture erupted upstairs and Maans hastened to see what was going on. I heard one sweetfaced lass say, “Wie het my f….. tafel geskuif. Ek wil dit nie so he nie” and when an angry, redfaced Maans tersely told her that he had done it and that’s was how it had to stay, she said “Wel dan f…… bedank ek”. Yep, a helluva storm in a teacup but a good illustration of when inclusive consultation with the staff before reshuffling furniture, would have been a much better option! I thought it was very funny even if none of them did. Oh and nobody resigned and the tables remained as Maans had arranged them.
FRANKFORT
I was sent to Frankfort to assist my good friend and colleague, Fred Coetzee but as he was delayed for a day or two, I started the audit alone. During a previous audit I had had to stay at a dreadful old hotel in the town and I was not keen to renew my acquaintance with the place, so I asked the branch to scout around for accommodation on my behalf. I was told about a certain Mrs Meyer , (Not sure about the name anymore) wife of a former manager of the branch, who had a large house and took in boarders on occasion. She worked at an outfitters shop in the town and I thought I’d better see her in person to try and arrange accommodation for myself and Fred and his wife, Joyce. On the information I had, I was expecting to meet a grey-haired widow of the former manager and in the shop, there was such a lady and I headed for her. When I asked for Mrs Meyer she pointed to an attractive, very smartly dressed younger lady across the shop. Turned out she was a divorcee not a widow!
It was lucky for me that Fred & Joyce soon joined me as I did not relish sharing a big old house all alone with such a comely lady. We all know how tongues would wag about such a set-up, no matter how innocent it might be. She was the only daughter of a rich farmer somewhere out west and was left really wealthy when her father passed on. She told me her ex turned out to be a rotter only interested in her wealth so she had ditched him. So there she was, a beautiful, wealthy woman without a man in her life. Definitely a peach worth picking wouldn’t you say?
The Coetzees and I were invited to the manager’s house for dinner one night. Doppies Grove had a pair of tame meerkats which had the run of the house and property. The garden was securely fenced and the only access was through a gate which was kept closed. The neighbor on one side owned a bull terrier who badly wanted to get at the meerkats but was kept at bay by the fence. There came a day when the gate was left open by a delivery man and the dog wasted no time in rushing over to tackle the meerkats. Fearing the worst Doppies looked through his lounge window to be confronted by the unbelievable sight of a yelping, fleeing bullterrier with his tail between his legs, being pursued by a pair of belligerent meerkats who were doing their best to nip him.
LADYBRAND
I lived in and was educated in Ladybrand from 1957. I never for a moment dreamt when I was a schoolboy, that I would one day work for Barclays Bank and yet I did and so did my sister. I audited the branch on at least two occasions and rather enjoyed getting up and talking to people I knew at the counter.
When we arrived in Ladybrand, a Mr Cox was manager at the branch, while his son Talbot was a teller. In case you didn’t know Talbot went on to fill various senior positions in the bank, including General Manager of the Eastern Cape, where he retired. Some years later Billy Welstead was appointed to the branch as accountant and he also went on to plum senior roles such as manager of Cape Town and Bloemfontein branches, as well as General Manager of the Rural Bank. Seems as if Ladybrand branch was the place where you had to do your “apprenticeship” if you wanted to achieve senior positions in the bank.
Billy told this story at a manager’s conference in Bloemfontein, which I attended. I hope he won’t mind me repeating it here. When he was accountant in Ladybrand, the customer space was segregated and black folk had a separate entrance and counter space where they were served, in line with the law. About 15 km from the town lies Maseru, the capital of Lesotho and there was always plenty of cross pollination across the border as facilities tended to be better in Ladybrand. A good deal of banking business from Maseru came to Ladybrand and one afternoon, the Anglican Bishop of Lesotho, resplendent in his colourful cassock, walked in through the front door. Billy politely asked him to be so kind as to enter through the correct door so that he could be served appropriately. The man of the cloth looked annoyed but said nothing as he exited and went round to the side door. He must have worked himself into a towering rage on the way round because he was shouting mad when he re-entered and he let fly at Billy and anyone within earshot, about how poorly he and his people were treated.
Billy was pretty taken aback but he had not made the rules and resented being criticized for only doing what the law required, so he went round to the Bishop and asked him, nay gently persuaded him to leave, which that very angry fellow did. A written complaint was eventually received in Johannesburg but after Billy’ explanation about the affair, nothing further came of it.
Anyone like to guess who the fellow was? It was our dear old “Arch”, Desmond Tutu, who had not yet risen to the top in his calling. We all laughed at that meeting, especially when Norman Axten exclaimed to Billy, “So it’s you who started all this nonsense with Tutu!”. When the Arch was head of the Anglican church in Cape Town, Billy was manager of Cape Town and I’m sure their paths must have crossed again. I wonder if Billy was recognized and if the Ladybrand Incident was ever raised again.
In my sister’s time in the branch, she worked under several accountants and managers, including Billy. She recalls how a really beautiful young lady started working at Volkskas and Billy fell hook line and sinker for her, after just one glance. He badly wanted to meet her and asked Pat if she could somehow arrange for him to meet her. She asked some friends for coffee our house and included Billy and the object of his affection, Brenda in the list and let nature take its course. I’m happy to say that the feeling soon became mutual and before long, Billy had married and is STILL married to the same pretty lady. A marriage made in Heaven? Yes sure but via our house!
A madcap youngster who worked there with Pat was David Bamber. His father was Alf Bamber, Lesotho Manager at the time and David travelled through daily from Maseru. David was an irrepressible, fun loving rascal, not much concerned with things like being on time and he was often late for work when his Beetle ran out of petrol because he had bought cigarettes instead of filling up. He earned regular dressings down from Japie Cronje(Accountant) and Gus Roome (Manager) but remained cheerfully unrepentant no matter how much they berated him. During one such harangue by Gus, David stood quietly and listened and when Gus paused for breath, David hauled out his crumpled Gunston packet and smilingly offered him a cigarette. Gus went puce with anger, snarled at David and stormed back into his office to try and calm down. Some of you might remember him from 70s/80s TV when he used to present the business news. Man, he was a naughty little beggar but I liked him.
QUEENSTOWN
I felt I should have had an affinity for this town because my maternal grandmother was said to have been born here but although I went there several times, it is not one of my favourite towns. However, I’ll always remember it as the town where I met some very special friends for the first time, namely Fred and Joyce Coetzee. Fred was the manager of the branch and we got to meet Joyce at their home, where Fred had a “potjie” with oxtail bubbling away. I never had the heart to tell Fred that the oxtail was almost inedibly tough but what the heck, we became firm friends and stayed that way until he died recently. On another night, Fred wanted to show off the Chinese cuisine of a customer of the branch so off we went to sample some genuine Chinese cooking. I like Chinese grub so I was in my element and my glass of Red Heart & Coke kept being “magically” replenished, so I was merry too. Towards the end of the jolly evening, the restaurateur hauled out a couple of bottles of Chinese rice wine and insisted we toast the Chinese way. This involved throwing back a “shot” of the deceptively mild seeming stuff and calling out “Yam Sang” (Drink to victory). A few of those on a foundation of really excellent Chinese food and we were done. I was in the habit of taking an after dinner walk back then so I took off down the road, stepping out smartly. I had gone about 500m down the road when suddenly that firewater must have penetrated the food buffer in my stomach and I found myself damn nearly unable to walk back! Luckily the streets were quiet and few people were witness to the unedifying sight of a bank inspector staggering home, blind drunk!
A measure of how important Fred & Joyce were to me is that they were the only people, other than Sonja & me at our wedding.
Another friend I made there was Jennifer Jordaan, a bright little lady who was in charge of securities. I had actually lost contact with her until quite recently when I was able to renew our acquaintance via Facebook. I know she’ll chuckle if I call her “feisty” yet she was but with it she was approachable, intelligent and a pleasure to talk to so I was pleased when she popped up again on my radar. No longer working and an “ouma” to boot, she hasn’t changed a bit. I have many, many acquaintances and few real friends but Jenny, I count you amongst the latter.
I also renewed my friendship with Colin Pankhurst, who had worked with me in Sterkspruit. He had been my teller and relieved me when I took leave. He had arrived in Queenstown as sub-accountant, had got to like the place and there he stayed and eventually retired. Colin was a bit of an enigma and while intelligent and a good worker, he had some odd ideas. For instance, he didn’t ever own a car and what’s more, he never learned to drive either. He was a good golfer and lived for the game at one stage but he was once witness to a wealthy club member of the Queenstown golf club cheating and reported him. When nothing came of it, Colin gave up the game overnight and sold his clubs. He was a very keen hunter and made a good side living making and selling biltong and allied products. Colin read a lot of Western novels and maintained that he had read all of Louis L’Amour’s novels. He unfortunately also had an awesome thirst and I wouldn’t be surprised if whiskey hastened his end. He never married though he was fond of girls but he was a solitary man who was happy on his own. (You have met him before on these pages, if you read my Sterkspruit golfing tales)
I had the dubious honour of having a hotel room a few doors away from Steve Hofmeyr during one of my audits at Queenstown. There was a constant trickle of young females coming and going from his room and he was always surrounded in the restaurant. No, I didn’t get his autograph.
Comments