Wheildon

the owner of ‘ons winkel’ was a very likeable greek.  he was short, always dressed in a white long-sleeved shirt and dark slacks.  his hair (what was left of it) was combed straight back and held in place by a shiny secret formula.  he was everyone’s epitome of a greek trader.  his young son was just as good a merchant and made a fortune selling to the kids at ‘laerskool uitkyk’.

directly opposite his shop was my office, from where i could watch the comings and goings.  above my door was a sign ‘acorn estates’, and a note on the door suggested that any potential property buyers come in and talk to the main ‘oak’.

waiting hopefully for a crowd to descend on me for business one day, i looked up to see the proprietor of ‘ons winkel’ waving his arms furiously, trying to catch my attention.  i waved back and he signalled that i should come over immediately.  i wandered across and was marched straight to the back of the shop, where he pointed at boxes of mineral water and launched into a lecture about the massive growth of spring water sales in the republic of south africa.  i had no clue where this was heading, but i nodded at every opportunity to show that i was with him all the way.

he dropped his voice to a whisper, glancing about to ensure that we were not being overheard.  then he opened several locks on the back door and pushed me out into the sunlight.  here the leiwater channel was pumping past his shop, headed down the village to fill dams and water gardens.  he looked at me and pointed excitedly at the leiwater.

“where it come from?” he asked.

wanting to be helpful, i pointed at the mountains behind the village.

“from ground?”

“ja.  spring water,” i said.  he was clearly agitated that i was talking too loudly.  we retreated back into the shop and he locked the door, begging me not to mention this meeting to anyone.  i left, and the matter was forgotten.

two weeks later, very excited, he crossed the road and dragged me back to ‘ons winkel’.

“you say leiwater she izza spring water from mountain.”  i nodded.

“now you look my shelf.  izza bottle spring water.”

the shelf was sporting a dozen two-litre bottles.  a black and white printed label declared that the contents was “ons winkel spring water, bottled in greyton”.

a feeling of unease started a violent twitch in my right eye.

“how did you get the spring water?” i asked.

“you say leiwater izza spring water.  i fill bottle from leiwater.  new bottles.  new caps.  i make label.”

how was i to mention in passing that, between the source (high up in the mountains) and the village, the spring water, now leiwater, was frequented by ducks, dogs, children and horses, some of whom more than likely widdled in it?

my concern seemed of little consequence, and i left.  the thought of an outbreak of serious bombay belly made me call ginny and forbid her to buy spring water bottled in greyton.

not long after that, having spread a word of caution to our friends, i was instructed to buy milk on my way home.  as i passed the shelf of greyton's famous bottled spring water, i noticed a great white shark, two seals and a rock cod chasing each other round in a bottle of spring water.  on closer examination, every bottle had a full complement of aquatic life.  bombay belly was going to be fatal if anyone drank a mouthful.  an erupting volcano was more in my line of thought.

i hastily mentioned my discovery to the owner, who saw the possibility of killing the entire village and being charged with hundreds of counts of manslaughter.

the bottles were removed.

not one to bother about such trivial matters, the greek family, having got over the wasted expense of bottles, caps and labels, invited us over for a drink one evening.  while pouring ginny a coke i saw one of the terrifying bottles, label and all, in the fridge!  i hate alcohol and usually drink fruit juice diluted with water.  i was assured that the bottle contained clean tap water.

definitely not risking the water, i bravely opted for a glass of wine.  ginny was amused because i hate the stuff.  it was disgusting.

every drop.