Tales from the mines....

A Rock and a Hard place

Between my first and second year at the Camborne School of Mines, I returned to work at the Kloof Gold mine, driven by the very real need to replenish my bank account. The first year had been taxing in extreme and, having become used to a reasonably large disposable income as a miner, I'd neglected to notice as a student that consuming industrial quantities of beer was a pocket depleting pastime. I had a choice - work or starve.

On arrival at Johannesburg, I was whisked off by Van de Merwe to renew old acquaintance at The Jolly Rodgerer, the drinking den located in Hillbrow district. In South Africa, homosexuality was banned. I was reliably informed that there had been no queen in the country since independence. Despite this, there were just as many of those who prefer to bat with their own sex, as there were in any other place on the planet, and good luck to them. Indeed to my mind, they decreased competition for the fairer sex by reducing the number of interested parties and, I would note without rancour, that they generally dressed much better and were a lot better looking than me.

The Jolly Rodgerer had, in fact, become something of a haven for these guys. Still being young and naïve, I thought that a bloke in a frilly pink tutu was surely on his way to a Stag party. He approached us. His sashay was impressive. He really was taking this drag thing very seriously. He did a phenomenal catwalk impression, swinging his pink umbrella with some panache. I looked around to see if we hadn't somehow stumbled into a fashion shoot. No, but the place had noticeably quietened, and Van had fixed the approaching tutu with an implacable stare from his remaining eye. I suddenly got the sense that all was not quite as it seemed. Something was about to happen.

Mr Tutu sashayed up and extended his hand to Vans V neck shirt. Van's hair sprung exuberantly from the notch. That hand pinched a bunch of this hair and twisted it nonchalantly.

"Ooooo, that's nice," said the tutu.

I can only begin to imagine what was going through Van's addled brain as he tried to register this assault on his person. It's difficult to read a one eyed man's face, but this was clearly an experience completely outside of his strict Christian Afrikaner upbringing. What I think I saw was an expression of total disbelief pass across his countenance, followed by dismay, irritation and anger, all in less than a second. I expected a brawl. There was a short silence. I think I heard a fly stomping across the bar or maybe it was the blood thumping through my veins.

"Fuck off, you shirt lifting fudge packing fairy," said Van. Mr Tutus face turned crimson and the veins in his neck visibly pulsated. A tick twitched one side of his mouth. The silence deepened.

The tutu-clad man tossed his head back with a flamboyant air and brought up his pink umbrella. Here we go I thought, mentally preparing myself for the ensuing brawl, for there was no Gentle Pete to protect me today. He softly brought the rolled umbrella down on Van's shoulder in the manner of the Queen of England creating a knight of the realm, or a fairy waving a magic wand.

"Turn to shit" he intoned, "Turn to shit" and he swiftly turned and minced away.

The onlookers broke into a chorus of laughter and applause and the tension instantaneously eased. Honours even we proceeded to drink the evening away as if nothing had happened, although I feel Van may have been somewhat shaken by the idea that he was the object of such attention by these fellows.