REPORTING FOR (MEDICAL?) DUTY

They call him the “Bulldog” - and with good reason.
The chairman of our paddle ski club is only shoulder height but nobody messes with Johnny Vassilaros when it comes to the well-being of the paddle ski club.

With the proposed development of a small craft harbour on the site of the club, tempers flare up from time to time between Johnny and the Durban City Manager in the press. There is an imminent court case in July 2010, to save Vetchie’s pier and the clubs situated along the beach. Johnny has no problem in referring to the City Manager (Dr Mike Sutcliffe) in the press as “The Big Boss/ Spoilt Child/ The Emperor.

On 23 January 2010 I reported for my annual week-end duty at the clubhouse (about the same size as our house). Johnny was fuming. The guy that should have done duty with me had advised Johnny that he was not available. (He is no longer a member of the club).
Without much ceremony I was referred to a list of duties that had been stuck on the wall:

Wash the floors.
Wash the (plastic) furniture.
Dust the cupboards.
Wash the dishes.
Clean away the sand at the kayak wash bay.
Wash the stoep.
Answer the phone.
Clean the toilets.
Ensure that the main gate remains locked at all times.
Ensure that the log book is signed by all members of the club.
Ensure that every craft that launches has a valid sticker.
Etc, etc.

“And don’t forget the windows” Johnny added as he handed me a crispy-clean dish cloth.
As he was leaving to fish, he shouted over his shoulder:
“Oh, and keep an eye out there for the guys. If somebody drowns, you are responsible”
“Good thing I was in the Army” I replied.

Just my bad luck that Adai had remained in Pretoria for an extra couple of days when I’m doing duty at the club, I thought.

The log book:
Everyone that launches, is required to enter details in the log book that shows the member’s name, vessel number, departure time; and upon return, arrival time, fish caught and fish released.

Beware the guy (we have only one female member) that forgets to record his time of beaching.
Johnny has a system:
“When somebody forgets to record his time of arrival from the sea”, Johnny told me, “I will wait till 2am the next morning and then phone his home number”.
“Invariable the wife will answer the phone and I will tell her that her husband seems to be lost at sea. Obviously the guy will get hell from his wife and then we will follow-up with a disciplinary hearing.”

As I said, you don’t mess with Johnny.

In between washing furniture, dusting cupboards, washing windows, etc. the phone rings continuously.
“What are the guys catching?” they ask. – I don’t know, not one of the 25 fishermen has returned.
“What will the weather be like tomorrow?” I don’t know – check Windguru.
“Is my son there?” – I don’t know, what is your son’s name? I can check the log book.

“Nice job with the windows” Johnny said when he returned from the surf at about 11 am. No fish.
“Do you want some lunch?” he asked.
“No thanks, I brought some sandwiches” I replied.
“I did not ask you whether you brought sandwiches - I asked you if you wanted some lunch!”
“That’ll be nice”, I surrendered.
About twenty minutes later he returned with a massive bacon and egg toasted sandwich wrapped in foil.
Obviously not from your regular “Take-Away”. Where he organized this from, I would not know.

I left washing the floors till last and since my “shift” ended at 4:30pm, I started washing the floors at 3:45 pm.
Man, you have no idea how much sand +- 100 wet, sand-covered feet can deposit on a floor!

Broom in hand and exhausted, I retired to the (swept) stoep at about 4:15 pm
All fishermen had returned by then. They had caught shad, kingfish, mackerel, grunter, etc.
Looking over the glassy sea I could not help but feel somewhat deprived of utilizing the ideal conditions.

Then I noticed an elderly man with a Jack Russel dog approaching from the beach.


He reminded somewhat me of a smaller version of Oupa. Snowy white hair and a beard.

“The name is Blackbeard” he said as he stepped onto the stoep.
“Captain Cook” I said in reply as I reached out for his hand.
“No honestly”, he said, “the beard may be white now, but it used to be black”
“Ok, I’m Pierre”

‘When last did you have your prostrate checked?” he asked.
I looked at him.
“Uh.. my prostrate?”
“When last did you have it checked?”
“Uh.. about 2 years ago?. “ (Actually it’s more than 4 years)
“Not good enough. How old are you?”
“59”
“You must have your prostrate checked every 3 months”
I looked at him.
“Ok”
“I used to be Chairman of the club, but my name does not appear on the board”, he said.
I peek around the corner to the notice board and it’s confirmed – there’s no Blackbeard on the list of chairmen since the 1970,s
“You’re right” I said.
“I had a prostrate operation last week” he said. “It’s my third time. The first time they scraped me. The second time they (…I cannot remember what he said), and this time I had an operation”
“Are you OK now?”
“Is that Greek still Chairman of the club?”
“Do you mean Johnny Vassilaros?”
“I used to be Chairman of the club. I lost a good friend through prostrate cancer two weeks ago. He left it too late, you see”
“I’m sorry”
“Women get breast cancer and men get prostrate cancer”, he added
“I guess you’re right.”
“It’s the tablets, you see. They make me pee. I want to pee every 5 minutes. When people ask me how I am, I say I’m fine, but they don’t know I want to pee every 5 minutes.”
“There’s a toilet at the back” I pointed out.
“No, its OK for now . You must have your prostrate checked”

Then the telephone rang.
Somebody wanted to know what the status with the Duzi marathon is. Sorry, wrong club.

When I went outside again, Blackbeard and his Jack Russel had disappeared.

It was 4:30 pm. when I locked the main gate, thinking about the amusing dialogue between me and Blackbeard.

Or was it?

NO WASH WOK

"Get yourself a stainless steel wok" het iemand 'n paar jaar gelede op die BBC foodchannel gese.Ek weet hoekom hulle so se. Ons vlekvye staal potte brand altyd die kos aan as jy vir 'n oomblik wegkyk. As jy wil "stir-fry", is dit wat jy will he. Die kos moet effens aanbrand terwyl jy roer. Woks wat met Teflon behandel is, werk nie vir my nie. Die kos wat jy stir-fry kook net.

Ek bel toe Boardmans in die Pavilion.
Nee, se hulle, hulle het nie voorraad nie. Ek moet hulle tak in Overport probeer.

"No, we don't have stock." se die mense in Overport.
"Do you want an authentic Chinese wok?"
"Precisely," se ek baie opgewonde. Nou kom ek iewers in my quest vir die ultimate stir-fry.
"Go to Maan Hing in 23 West Street. They will have what you're looking for."

'n (moeilike) Telefoonoproep bevesting dat hulle voorraad het.

23 West Street is in die middestad en etenstyd vra ek vir Piet om my daar af te gooi en om die blok te ry terwyl ek die wok koop.

Eers dink ek ek is in die verkeerde plek. Die winkel is styf gepak met lanterntjies, poppies,porselein bakkies, ens. ens.
Praat van 'n "bull in a china-shop" dink ek.
Geen teken van kookware nie. Om nie eers te praat van woks nie.

Piet is besig om sy petrol uit te ry en ek vra iemand:
"Do you have woks?"
Die chinaman knik sy kop hewiglik.
"How much?" vra ek.
"One hundled Lands" se hy.
"OK" se ek en hy verdwyn soos 'n skim agter die toonbank.
Eers dog ek hy't geval, maar toe ek oorleun sien ek daar is 'n trap na 'n kelder-toe of iets.

Toe hy terugkom is die wok reeds toegedraai.
"This is a stainless steel wok?" vra ek.
Die chinaman knik sy kop hewiglik. Hy gee die wok vir my so half langs die kant van die toonbank om.
Vreemd, dink ek. Wat het hy nog in die kelder wat nie uitgestal word in die winkel nie, wonder ek.Piet wag vir my en ek betaal gou.

In die kar maak ek die wok oop.Dit is nou wragtag outentiek, kan ek dadelik sien. Die wok is vol hamermerke en die handvatselis 'n stuk wilgertak waardeur 'n gat gebrand is, in die lengte (nie geboor nie).
Maar dit lyk nie vir my soos vlekvrye staal nie. Ek ken mos die subtiele verskil in kleur tussen staal en vlekvrye staal.

Ek vra vir Piet om by die Buxtons Sentrum te stop naby die werk. Daar is 'n Chinese Restaurant. Die eienaar sal sekerlik weet of dit 'n vlekvrye wok is of nie.

Die restaurant is leeg behalwe vir die kort Sjinese mannetjie wat agter die toonbak papiertjies sorteer.
Ek groet vriendelik, en hy lyk nie baie entoesiasties om ook vriendelik te wees nie.

"I just bought a wok at Maan Hing" se ek.
"Aaaah, good wok, good wok!" se hy nou vriendeliker.
"I was wondering if it's a stainless steel wok"

Hy kyk oor sy brilletjie vir my. Ek wonder of iets verkeerd gese het.
"You want stainless steel wok, you go to Jo'burg" se hy kort-af en begin weer sy papiertjies sorteer.

Duidelik het ek 'n kat in die sak gekoop dink ek.Hy draai om en begin kombuis se kant-toe stap.
"But how do you prevent your woks from rusting when you wash them?" se ek vinnig voor hy verdwyn.
Hy steek vier voete vas. Hy draai om en kom stadig nader. Hy stop toe sy neus amper aan myne raak. Ek leun eintlik bietjie agteroor.

"NO WASH WOK! NEVER WASH WOK! ALWAYS WIPE WOK!" Hy skree amper.

Hy vlieg om en verdwyn vinnig kombuis se kant-toe.
Ek is verslae.
"Ok", se ek, "I won't wash wok" maar hy is reeds weg.

Nou, na 'n paar jaar is dit nog steeds my favourite wok. Ongelukkig het ek die handvatsel afgesaag wat seker 'n sonde is as jy in ag neem dat dit dalk 'n sesjarige kind in Sjina was wat die wok gemaak het.

Ek is nou-nog nie seker of dit vlekvrye staal is of nie. Maar dit het nooit geroes nie.
Die rede?

Ons NO WASH WOK!