Jan van Eden
bio - biography
Stories of our life in the foreign
1973 Republic of South Africa
- memories of Andre Winkler [written in 2013]
Memories of
Andre Winkler back to 1973, when he was a child, 7 years old.
Writing
this story during his stay at our house Singel 100, Amsterdam in august 2013,
this time taking care of our B&B.
1073
coffee mill
intertwined
When I opened the drawer in the
kitchen at Singel 100 to unpack the
groceries I had just bought, my eyes immediately focused on a bright orange
Braun coffee grinder. In an instant I was transported back to
101 John
Adamson Drive
in
Montgomery Park, Johannesburg in 1973. We lived at
99 John
Adamson Drive;
our houses were separated only by a
low
jasmine hedge. I recall the excitement at home one Sunday morning
because we
had been invited to Pepa and Jan for lunch. The reason for the excitement was
that Pepa was preparing Paella. We had sampled
her cooking on a few occasions
already but now we were about to partake of
the national dish prepared by a one hundred percent Spanish national who,
it just so happened was our new neighbour! This could be
regarded as exotic growing up in a middle
class
Johannesburg suburb in the
1970's where nobody had a bright orange coffee grinder. There wasn't even filter
coffee. A teaspoon of Nescafe instant coffee thrown
unceremoniously into a mug was my
understanding of coffee. I walked through the front door and was greeted by an
aroma I had never yet in my seven
years smelled. The air was thick and sweet. Anticipation grew
and after a short while lunch was served.
One taste of my first experience of
a prawn and all I wanted to do was gag. All this build up for
something which can taste this bad?
[at
Singel 100]
Whilst pulling a fitted sheet over a mattress in Jan's studio preparing for
Gerrie's arrival from
Cologne
and Megs and Ken's from
London,
my attention is caught by one of Jan's paintings which he painted in 1973.
734001
I am back
at Sunday lunch in
Johannesburg. Thoroughly unimpressed by
the food
and getting absolutely no sympathy from all the others at the table sucking out
the contents of prawn heads and licking their fingers, I
leave the
table and go to the lounge.
A
minimalist arrangement of unusual black leather and chrome furniture placed on a
zebra skin which in turn concealed a portion of the mundane
parquet
floors. A modular shelving system which they told me had been disassembled
elsewhere and reassembled in its new position in John
Adamson
drive. Modular, wow that's a new word, OK! All these unusual
items
fighting for dominance in a rigidly shaped 1960's suburban house.
The music
was as bad as the food. Frenetic saxophones, drums and all
manner of
instruments in an atonal cacophony. I became hypnotised
watching the vinyl LP resting on 5 spinning gold pads [referring to our
Transcriptors turntable]. I turned my attention to the painting on the wall.
A very angry looking vagina perched on a
bar stool. The painting that caught my eye whilst making a
bed in the studio [in
Amsterdam]
is of that genre, possibly even the same one. During the
tour I give Meg's and Ken on their
arrival at Singel 100, I jokingly point out
the painting that can be attributed to me choosing my sexual
preference all those years ago.
Jan had a
company car but not just any company car, a Toyota Land Cruiser. I would entertain
myself for hours sitting behind the wheel
fiddling with the switches and
gear levers and opening and closing the foot ventilation flaps. These two people
with their orange coffee grinder had come
into our lives out of nowhere. Rie was inspired by them. They
spoke about art, literature and basically
offered a different perspective to
the overwhelming norm that was life in a white suburb of
Johannesburg in the 1970's. She had someone who shared her taste for atonal
music. The positive side to this for me was that the inspiration led her to
buying
new Hi-Fi.
The one we had until then was fashioned out of glossy timber veneer with a
single speaker in the front which was concealed with fabric
that looked like a grandmother's
coat. In its glory days it stood on four
wooden legs not dissimilar from a toothpick in proportion, hence the fact
that they had long ago snapped and it now
stood clumsily on the chest. Jan went off to the shop with Rie to choose
the replacement. Not only were there two
speakers but it also had an amplifier.
Our little
family unit had gained something, it felt good. Ingrid and I were spoiled rotten
on our birthdays and generally all three of us were given a
lot of
affection. It felt secure.
But life
takes its course. The modular shelving system was dismantled and they packed up
and moved on to
Brazil.
Aerogramme letters would arrive probably two or three times a year. They were
long and detailed, neatly written letters which Rie would read to us, normally
sitting at our
round
dining room table after dinner. Brazil, San Salvador, Saudi Arabia,
Sabayes. I
would conjure up vivid images of these places. There was a Delicious Monster pot
plant in a corner in our lounge. I could imagine
entire
jungles of these plants in
San
Salvador and decided then that one day I would visit these places.
Rie would
read these letters a few times, they would move from the
dining
room to her bedside table where they would earn the stamp of a
coffee mug
stain and ultimately find their resting place next to all the
others in
the room divider drawer.
A new
couple moved into the house [at
101 John
Adamson Drive, Johannesburg].
Nico and Yvonne Scheltema. Nico
had a
turquoise Fiat 127. There was a stone lodged between the hubcap
and the
wheel so you knew when he was coming and going. There was
always a
visible reservoir of saliva in the sides of his mouth which, during unwelcomed
neighbourly interactions had the tendency of flying off in all
directions
like a loose cannon. He would disappear for 1 or 2 month stretches at a time to
do military service on the border between Angola and South Africa. In the
periods that he was at home he would walk
down to DF
Malan drive in the mornings to catch the bus. He was a 2nd
Lieutenant, ageing and scrawny; his military "step-outs" seemed to swim
around his
slight frame. On weekends he often had something to do which involved a
stepladder and getting onto the roof. From that perspective he had a commanding
view into my pubescent sister's
bedroom.
On
Saturday evenings at 6pm sharp, like a church bell hammer the
sound of
an axe sinking into wood would ring over the jasmine hedge.
Saturday
night was braai night. I never heard music or conversation,
communication was limited to bickering in short sentences.
15 years
later I have itchy feet. I am loving my studies but am as keen to
see more.
I have towed the line; worked hard to get better high school grades, spent two
years doing compulsory military service for a sinking
Apartheid
regime and completed the first phase of my degree [in architecture]. I
decide to
take a gap
year and head for
Europe.
It's time!
A few
weeks prior to my departure I receive a letter from Jan. The
contents
are a "Strippenkaart" (a tram ticket) with instructions as to how
to use it as well as directions to
get to their house. This makes the pending
journey more tangible, I can picture myself catching a tram for
the first time.
I arrive
at a house on a canal with a huge dark green door, I press the buzzer. A few
seconds of silent anticipation and the heavy door is energetically pulled open
by Jan. Here he is in front of me, the same voice, the same face, the same wiry
dexterity. Pepa comes around the corner. Also the same voice, smiling, warm and
enthusiastic. I realise that the last time I saw them I was more than a head
shorter than her. I am an
adult, just like them, but don't feel like one. I need time to fast
forward fifteen years. They take me up to
my room. It is cosy and has a particular smell. It has a view directly over the
Singel. Now I have a picture of what
the Singel is. The 3 metre high 17th century windows cut out the
noises from outside, the bikes, boats and cars seem to glide past as if
everything is hovering nothing judders.
After
settling in and getting over the shock of the European winter I start
looking
for a casual job. I need to save money to be able to travel around
the continent. I place an
advertisement on the notice board in the Albert
Heijn supermarket. I'm lucky, one day later
I get a call and off I am for an interview. Michael, a very
camp
Freddie Mercury look alike from
Australia
conducts the interview and explains that it is a gay hotel. OK I think, this
will be interesting! The next day I start work at the Waterfront Hotel,
Singel 458.
I have to clean the rooms and serve breakfast on a roster
system
which I share with a guy from
Egypt. I
had never met anyone
from
Egypt.
I arrive early for him to show me the ropes. He's off and now
I'm on. I
have three hours to service the rooms. I am advised to start on
the top
floor and move down. The higher I go up the narrow stairs armed with my cleaning
materials and a vacuum cleaner, the narrower the stairs become. I unlock the
door and attempt to enter the room but it is so small
that I
have to think very carefully where to place myself, the bucket and the vacuum
cleaner. There is only 1 plug in the room and it is integrated into the light
switch. Hurriedly I plug in the vacuum cleaner and
commence
vacuuming. In 1 movement I manage to entwine myself in the
cable and
pull the entire plug socket out of the wall. 3 hours later, sweating and
exhausted I get to the ground floor and store my cleaning equipment. I made it!
It became easier each day and soon Freddy
Mercury
promoted me to reception duties as well.
Anticipation grew for my first Singel 100 gallery exhibition opening.
Colette
Curfs was the artist. I was chuffed with myself that I had packed my
favourite tie which I thought would be just perfect for such events. It
was a gift from Ingrid, a
Post-Modern rendition of Gauguin's' Two
Tahitian Women in hues of grey and burgundy, my favourite colour combination at
the time. The gallery was filled with interesting people from all over the
world. The wine flowed and the snacks consumed with perhaps more enthusiasm than
there was for the paintings. When
everyone had gone home we started cleaning up. There was a very clear
system in the kitchen not to be questioned
but because I had been "in training"
for a few weeks already, I was equipped to deal with the task at
hand without too much correction. Every
evening after dinner we would wash up together sharing all sorts of interesting
topics. Sometimes Jan would have finished a painting that day and we would go
into his studio with a pot of mint
tea and view and discuss it. The smell of acrylic and oil paint which lay
spattered on the white marble floor, mixed with the aroma of mint tea was
perfect.
On Sunday
mornings I would be woken up to the smell of pancakes
being made
by Pepa in the kitchen below my bedroom. After breakfast
one
particular Sunday we went to visit friends, Trix and Walter for the day. Pepa
was going to make paella and the anticipation among the
guests was
just as great as it was at 97 John Adamson drive 15 years
previously. This time I devoured two large servings. I was an adult!
[Back
to the present 2013]
I unlock
the canal suite to service the room after the friendly French
family has left. It smells exactly
the same, as it did when I entered it for
the first time more than 20 years ago. The possessive side of me thinks
that these people were most fortunate to
have had the pleasure of spending 8 nights in my suite, the space that was my
soft landing in Europe, the space
where I could get stoned and lie on my bed and glare
up at the ornately decorated ceiling making
up objects as if it were clouds, the
space where friends passing through from South Africa were
welcome to stay, the space where Gerrie and
I stayed when we were welcomed with
open arms years later.
I find
myself tripping over the vacuum cleaner cable and have to smile
about how
life maps itself out.
Andre Winkler
back to 1972-1974 South
Africa
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