Wheildon

there was a fascinating old coloured man who lived in the 'kloof'.  his name was jimmy and he knew every inch of the countryside.  he could find any wild flower or herb growing in the mountains.  once he got to know you, he was a wealth of information and happy to share it.  in addition, he was a fisherman of note.  not like me.

i always choose the wrong day, wrong time and wrong bait.  i often put the word out that i wanted him to take me fishing.  he would get the message via the greyton bush telegraph and call by to refuse the request.  he would gaze at the sky, mumble some nonsense about the moon and abruptly walk off, muttering under his breath.

you probably guessed: jimmy would arrive unannounced, at the most inconvenient time, and declare that it was right and fitting that we should leave immediately for the river.  without fail, we would catch eels by the score, all of which found their way to his house.  i thought that anything caught in the river was a bit dodgy, and was very happy to part with the catch.  having seen herds of cattle wading about in the river upstream did not do much for my appetite.  the thought of eating eels from the riviersonderend?  no, thanks.

anyway, my respect for jimmy and his way with nature was to double one afternoon.  a swarm of bees roared down our driveway and settled in an old vine growing against the cottage.  we could not pass, as all the females in our family are violently allergic to bee stings and even refused to consider driving past with the car windows closed.  i thought of blasting them with the hose, chucking sand clods, poking with a long stick or, finally, giving the vine the shaking of its life.  all carried the risk of a savage attack, and i did not fancy taking on the appearance of a twit with lumpy skin disease.

at that very moment i saw jimmy riding past on his bicycle.  to digress for a moment, his transport went under the general description of bike.  i don't think it had ever seen a can of oil — and i mean ever.  the chain complained fiercely on its cogs with every turn of the pedals.  the saddle (or whatever he sat on) could have mutilated an iron man in his prime.  never mind the wheels and tyres, which had been seriously redesigned by greyton's treacherous roads.  so, as jimmy rode past, i yelled for help and he swung his bike in our direction with no regard for the village 'honey sucker' on its way to cause a stink elsewhere in the dorp.  jimmy was not too bothered by the rules of the road.

he was, however, delighted to examine the swarm and asked me to call koos, the village 'bee man'.  koos arrived with an empty hive on the back of his clapped-out old bakkie.  then we watched as jimmy lit a hand-rolled cigarette and walked up to the swarm.  the scouts flying reconnaissance did not seem to mind his presence at all.  they did a brief flypast, but showed no aggression or concern.  jimmy blew a little smoke at the swarm, which then settled on his face, neck and arms.  he picked up a dry vine leaf and scraped away at the bees until he found the queen.  he picked her up gently, placed her into the empty hive and had a quiet smoke while the bees joined their queen.  no fuss, no bother and not one sting.

sadly, jimmy is no more.  the new arrivals in the village have no idea what they have lost.  jimmy once showed me a place where leopard still live and made me promise never to show anyone.  he didn't want the animals’ habitat disturbed, or the presence of humans to make them move away.

judged by our standards, jimmy was an uneducated man of no social standing.  what fools we are!  he had so much to teach us, but the cares of this world far too often get in the way.