Redhouse Survival Tactics
www.MyPE.co.za: On
Friday evening I accompanied the Longhair and dwarves to the Redhouse
Church Hall where the Longhair helped out at the Zwartkops Rowing Club
food stand. The selling of food and other items on a Friday evening is
a long standing tradition in the quaint village of Redhouse and well
attended by residents and visitors alike.
Redhouse is unique in that it is a
small community with many residents
laying claim to ancestral homes. This, in itself, results in the
village having developed a social structure and pecking order similar
to a fiefdom. When buying property in the village itself the
prospective purchaser is surreptiously measured for the proper fit and
woe betide the seller wanting to offload his property on a buyer deemed
‘unfit for village life’. Of course the railway line running through
Redhouse creates a social divide - property and residents on the river
side are occupied by Lords and Ladies belonging to a higher social
strata and those properties on the other side, the so called ‘wrong
side of the tracks’ belong to the serfs and tillers of the soil.
Now guess which side of Redhouse Village we stayed in when the Longhair
and I started out in our married life?
Upon entering the Redhouse Church Hall on Friday evening it struck me
that my welcome from residents may not be all that warm as a certain
section of a certain sporting club had recently plastered me with the
label of “sh*t stirrer“.
The local curmudgeon and designated hatchet
man refused to deal with me in a sensible manner when I raised
questions about a set of results recently published. In fact I was so
blasted with hot air by the curmudgeon that I imagined myself as one of
the windmills tilted at in vain by Don Quixote of old.
I did notice a few pointed fingers and muttered comments but in the
abscence of being banished to the fields by their Lords and Ladies
reckon that I survived the first of the potential awkward moments. It
looks like the powers that be have decided that ignoring the “sh*t stirrer” is
the way to make me go away.
A village such as Redhouse has a lot to teach people about thick skins,
court intrigue and political survival. Of course the Longhair and I are
not quite that subtle and tend to mimic our bull terrier, Jenna, by
tackling something head on and in full view. This was recalled on
Friday evening when we observed our old home next to the Redhouse
Church Hall.
Yes, you guessed it, our first joint home was on the ‘wrong side of the
tracks’ in Redhouse. Although, but virtue of the fact that we had a
solid sailing background we did manage to secure entrée into loftier
social strata on the ‘right side of the tracks’. I bet that old Don
Quixote rues the day that that happened.
On the very first night that we moved in to our marital home in
Redhouse we were greeted with a band playing and our floors jumping.
The sellers of the home had ‘neglected’ to tell us that the residents
behind us had a garage band that needed a lot of practice as they
seemed to meet every night to punish their instruments and mangle their
chords in a vain attempt at stardom.
To this day I can be guaranteed a free beer when I recount the story of
how one evening I went outside to tell my neighbour; “But, Mrs van Dyk,
it is only common decency to let your neighbours know when you will be
making a noise.” To which she replied, making full use of
that peculiar
Eastern Cape/Despatch accent that some people have; “Are you calling
me common?“
Sigh - some mothers children can really convince you that supporting
the pro-choice movement is the right thing.
The battle with the band continued for a long time and certainly
created great stress in our little household. Until one night, after
354 phone calls of complaint to the Zwartkops Police station, 12
lawyers letters and numerous attempts at negotiation, we decided to
give it one last chance by phoning our neighbours and telling them that
we would be out until 11:00 p.m. and they should make as much noise as
they like.
As luck would have it, we arrived home in the wee hours of the morning
and the ‘band’ was still battling. Taking one look at the Longhair’s
haunted face, I asked her to pack me an overnight ‘going to prison
bag’, opened my safe and went outside to do battle. It is quite amazing
how quickly
noise stops at the threat of violence and when one walks away to refill
your weapon! After phoning the police for the 355th time,
explaining what had transpired and informing them that I had an
overnight bag packed, they never came to lock me up.
The next day we put the house on the market, lost a heap on the sale
and walked away. I believe that the ‘band’ never found fame and fortune
and our erstwhile neighbours are still in residence - buggers.
On Friday evening the Redhouse supper crowd were entertained with some
African Drumming and a fire juggler. Take a trip out to Redhouse on a
Friday Evening and pick up a meal. Tell
Don Quixote I sent you!
Port Elizabeth Budget Accommodation
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