Moshe (Part 1)

On a Saturday morning towards the end of 1977 Moshe found himself traipsing along Main Road, Salt River. It had by that time become a rather run-down part of Cape Town, in transition from residential to industrial and thence the bargain basement sector of the economy of the city.

Moshe was on the lookout for a vehicle and had regressed from viewing used models with a warranty, to “specials” and “bargains” to “you take your chances.” He entered one of those used car lots – not under cover – just an open space between derelict buildings repurposed as part of the seedy underbelly of Cape Town. The “lot” was behind a tatty fence and open gate that, at night, put up a vain charade of keeping layabouts at bay. He had been driven to this spot by the extent of his budget. In this used car dealership were mostly the old Wolseleys, Austins and Prefects of yesteryear that were making their way into South Africa from Rhodesia. It was the era that saw the first wave of Rhodesian emigres who had read the writing on the wall correctly, and wisely took the gap. With them they brought their sanctions imposed traveling museum of vehicles which they flogged at the first opportunity. One vehicle stood out, though. He found a 1957 Pontiac Chieftain – too old to be reliable, too young to command the premium price of a classic. Not averse to getting his hands greasy to keep this chunk of tainted metal on the road, Moshe decided to approach the sales charlatan to seal the deal. Redolent with patina and no doubt rusty in the hidden recesses, this would make the ideal purchase on his meagre budget.

The young Moshe was a third generation South African of Lithuanian, Jewish, descent. His grandfather, Aaron, had fled the Russian pogroms of the late 1800s, helping to swell the Jewish population from about 4000 in the 1880s to about 40000 by the outbreak of the First World War in 1914. Aaron and his next two generations gave the lie to the perception of a wealthy Jewish population of exploitative businessmen. They were hard working and at first eking out an existence. Each generation would contribute to the rich fabric of South African society and pull themselves up by their bootstraps along the socio-economic ladder. Old Aaron started with hardly a penny when he disembarked from a tramp steamer in Cape Town. He made his way to the Oudtshoorn district where he plied his trade as a hawker (smous – Afrikaans) to the farming community of the Swartberg region. 

At the outbreak of the Anglo-Boer War (South African War) Aaron made his way to the Zuid-Afrikaansche Republiek to volunteer as a Boer soldier. His inclination had been to support the underdog in this David and Goliath struggle as he saw it. One of about 300 Jews fighting on the Boer side (as opposed to some 2800 who had been conscripted to fight for the British in the colonies of the Cape and Natal), Aaron soon became a well liked comrade in arms as a “Boerejood.” By the end of the War in 1902, he had escaped both death and the Prisoner of War camps in Ceylon and elsewhere. Having joined with next to nothing in terms of earthly possessions, he gained more than he lost – enriched by his experience, friendships and wisdom in navigating a complex country.

Thence it was to District Six in Cape Town where he opened a tiny general dealership in a neglected corner of the city baying for a lick of paint. A true melting pot of race, economic status and faiths, Aaron’s place soon became a popular supplier to the community of most things that open and close. Fondly referred to by the community as the “Jood,” he did honest trade. He’d have no qualms about extending credit to these folk, either. Honesty was the name of the game in these quarters, and money borrowed was duly returned. Not once was he the victim of a scam. Not once was his shop robbed – the gentlemen gangsters saw to it that no harm befell their beloved “Jood.”

At home, Aaron, now married and with a young son, Jasha, maintained a strong link with his culture. He would never be seen without his yarmulke. His family adhered to strict kosher guidelines. No slice of ham or bacon would cross their threshold. Friday evenings he and Jasha would be seen diligently making their way to Shul to recite incantations and pay heed to the Rabbi’s exegesis of the Torah. Feast days were observed with regularity and the tenets of the Jewish faith were imparted to his little family, cementing cultural ties, but never being judgmental about the beliefs of others. 

Jasha took over the general dealership from the old man some years later. He had the misfortune of having to do business in an environment becoming increasingly hostile. His tenure saw District Six destroyed by political ideology. Forced removals saw his trusted clientele shunted off to the remote Cape Flats. No sooner had the decrees been issued from Pretoria to upend the lives of a happy community under the guise of “slum clearance,” than the social fabric that had been the epitome of cohesion and caring good neighbourliness, was shattered. In its place division and the wildest excesses of gangsterism born of social upheaval – pervasive in many parts of the Cape Flats to this very day. Jasha, of necessity, had to relocate his general dealership and proceeded to rebuild a reasonably viable, but not excessively prosperous business. He managed to provide for his family and Moshe attended a respectable school. The family saw the value of social mobility as being a by product of a decent education. Moshe was a bright lad and had his sights set on a medical career after his compulsory national service.

With a combination of student loans, tapping into “Dad’s Bank” (moderate as that was), working part-time jobs and scoring grades that unlocked bursaries, Moshe was able to work his way diligently through Medical School at the University of Cape Town. He lived frugally in shared accommodation and used public transport, which in those days was fairly reliable. By the end of 1977 he felt the need to purchase his own set of wheels, because he’d all but completed his final year of residency at Groote Schuur Hospital and was on the lookout for the wealth of experience a young doctor could accumulate in rural South Africa. That would necessitate car ownership, the rural areas being far flung and public transport sketchy at best. 

Moshe drove off the used car lot in his newly acquired American “ship,” the Pontiac. The grunt of its V8 engine eased out the incessant humming from the differential. Soon he would find out that the transmission – a three speed manual – was also a tad dodgy. The “Skabenga” of a budget vehicle salesman would, he was sure, not have been averse to stuffing banana peels or sawdust in the differential or using some varnish in the transmission to ensure the old rust bucket conks out some distance from the dealership. Perish the thought! Apart from this nagging suspicion, the Pontiac sported four doors, bench seats both front and rear and recently retreaded tyres. What could go wrong?

The recently qualified Moshe obtained a position in the quiet little hamlet of Taung – the place where Raymond Dart in 1924 had happened upon the Taung Man, that turned out to be a Taung Woman and later the Taung Child. This was many years before the Woke gurus embarked upon a mission to introduce to the world the concept of gender fluidity and deft shifts across the range of pronouns that could be used to describe the human race. Ahead of his time he was!

Moshe braved the trip to Taung in his Pontiac, the cavernous boot / trunk containing all his worldly possessions. His first problem he encountered as he made his way up the narrow single lane across the Du Toit’s Kloof Pass. The transmission made some ominous grinding sounds as he cajoled the car through the gears. By the time he had reached Worcester, it was clear that the synchromesh cone in the transmission was well and truly buggered. He had to hark back to his experience of driving a Bedford in the SADF – double declutching both up through the gears and down. No sweat for him, mind you. There was another niggling problem with the 5.7 litre V8, though. It seemed unduly attracted to filling stations as it chugged its way through gallons of the “good stuff.” Be that as it may, this Behemoth of a vehicle afforded a comfortable ride until the outskirts of Beaufort West. Steam began to belch out of the massive engine bay. The temperature gauge struck red and the good doctor had to free wheel the last few yards into the Karoo town. Engine duly cooled, Moshe could detect the failure of a Welsh plug. Budget and a willingness to get his hands dirty persuaded him to tap it out with screwdriver and claw hammer. He managed to acquire a copper replacement which he tonked in with the help of a socket and, radiator replenished, he was on his way to Three Sisters, then Kimberley, Jan Kempdorp, and hopefully arrive safely in Taung.

©Paul M Haupt

Next week: We’ll pick up the journey of Moshe into the backwater of Taung.