My mates Dad.
I love peoples stories. I think they are the things that make life so rich. So I wanted to put in this story that my friend wrote about his dad. Luke’s dad is a man of few words but many stories. The stories that will have you in stitches of laughter, if you are ever priveledged enough to hear them. I have spend many hours in Luke’s house wondering about the tales his father will never speak of. I am sure Luke has as well (more hours than me because he actually lives there). His dad has an atmosphere about him. An atmosphere that you can sense and feel. So I have published Luke’s words for you to read. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.
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Dices bounce, six, four, one, three, five. Coins fly like shrapnel. Many different old pairs of shoes filled with black feet scatter. The air fills with shouts of “Amaphoyisa!”, “Baleka!” and “Khipa imali”. Round the corner police spill out of ‘black marias’; an army of sham bocks.
He says he’s never understood sirens, “it’s like a head start for the criminals”. He’s not a criminal, but his friends are. His friends are criminals for just breathing. They’re just like those dice; black islands stranded in a sea of white. In fact he’s unwillingly part of that sea of white, he’s different though, and he’s not trying to flood those black islands with tsunamis of judgment, hatred and anger.
He’s different. He’s my father, and at this very moment he’s not much older than the flashing numbers on the rolling dice. He was a ‘laatlammetjie’, his brother ten years ahead of him with a sister four years older than his brother.
He recalls that game of dice fondly. Ya they were gambling, but he knows that wasn’t their crime they were being chased for. Their crime was their skin. “Imagine that” he says, “being born a criminal”.
He grew up with them, the local ‘garden boys’. They weren’t just ‘garden boys’ to him, they were friends. He wasn’t brain washed by community. He never thought with his mind, he never has, not even then. He’s always thought with his heart. He was shaped by experience and friendship, greater truths than that society taught. Now, an older man, he recalls those roots of his anti-apartheid stance.
He was born Douglas Banfield Macdonald. “M-a-c-small d-o-n-a-l-d”. You confuse those letters and you’ve got a whole other Macdonald, a different person, a different clan. Not to mention it’s insulting if you’re Scottish. “They always get it wrong” he says. He was born in Melrose, Johannesburg, to an average family, with an ‘average’ upbringing.
It’s almost strange to think such an eccentric person could be birthed out of such a family at such a time. My father is one of those people who seem to have lived a full life and he’s only two thirds through, who knows maybe only half way.
According to my grandfather he was royalty, maybe that’s why he did things kings dreamt of doing. I never met my grandfather; he never made it to my fathers’ wedding. He made my uncle promise on his death bed that he would continue his research into our family line and our supposed royalty. ‘The Macdonald Clan’, we’ve all been to the castle but that’s about the most research my uncles done. He lies a lot my uncle, but to a man on his death bed; that’s harsh. My father’s not like that, his father should have made him promise. So perhaps my father missed out on living the life of a noble, but he’s still had one hell of an adventure
My father left school having scraped through math with a grand 34%. Knowing where his talents lay he started working in a bank. His exams marks could have told you that wasn’t where his heart lay. Working out a simple two hour time zone change on his fingers whilst strangely counting backwards could have told you that’s also not where his brain lay. Needless to say he never lasted long there.
Moved by the injustices of his era he began to study journalism and photography. I don’t think he wanted to be some major political voice, I don’t know though, I haven’t asked him. It’s not his style, I’m pretty sure he just wanted to be a voice for himself and his own conscience. In fact he’s always enjoyed the subtle things in life. His protests included sitting on ‘black’s only benches’, and learning Zulu, but most of all in his heart and mind. He made friends with the dark side; no pun intended. It didn’t fill him with poison as he was told , it just filled him. Filled him with exactly what, I’m not sure, but it changed him, perhaps it was just the essence of life.
All in all it seemed my father lived his life in a protest against life. Not the joy and girt of life but the way of life, people ideals of life, peoples brainwashed ideals of life. In some ways the streams of rebellion led to a river against authority. It drove him, not religiously or in any way that it violently consumed his life, but rather in a way that drove his life along different paths.
After studying he left for Italy with some friends who were going there to play rugby and travel Europe. These initial journeys gripped his soul. He wouldn’t have known it at the time but it would form the basis his life. In Italy his claim to fame was going on a date with some famous actress. He says she was the Charlize Theron of his day. His friends actually spotted her; they managed to get her to go to dinner with him after spinning some story. They were good at that. Not admitting they were probably amongst the poorest people in the whole of Italy, they managed to raise enough money to pay for a suit and a dinner. “We got a job pretending we were from New Zealand” my father said. South Africans couldn’t work because of international sanctions. She paid anyway, she didn’t realize it but she would have actually given all of them a meal. My father would have returned as an even more triumphant hero considering he returned with full pockets. Money was tight and food much appreciated. He always says “Eat whenever you can”, its pearls of wisdom ,for a young man.
On his return to South Africa my father continued with his studies, this time taking up English. He failed. Perhaps too confident in his journalistic background and literary abilities he decided to write a poem for an essay question. It’s strange that that made sense to him at the time, “I can’t believe I never passed, it was an extremely creative poem” he declares. “Yes, but it wasn’t an essay” the lecturer was kind enough to explain. It was here that he met my mother for the first time. She still recalls the first time she saw him: “Everyone knew Doug, he was barefoot wearing a tie dye vest and bell bottom jeans. He had long sun bleached hair and wore a coral necklace”. Everyone wore shoes and no one wore bell bottoms or vests. Except The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin and other musicians such as Small Faces. He loved music and they, his idols, inspired him. My mom never knew she’d marry him 15 years later. My father would be about 38 then.
Come to think about it my father was pretty much a hippie. He was always secretive about his past. In fact I haven’t accumulated most of this information first hand. It’s come from my mother or his friends, or stories he’s let slip and then suddenly stated “Actually no, that wasn’t me, I think it was Taddy”. I’ve also got information from photo albums I’ve questioned and he’s had to explain why there are completely naked people at music festivals. I’ll usually get something along the lines of “I’m not too sure if those are mine” or “Ay ya, some people were weird in those days”. Funny he’s a photographer and they’re in his possession but don’t belong to him, and, the way he wouldn’t include himself in ‘those’ people back then. I’m not that naïve.
My mother also remembers him being very anti establishment. I think that what drew him to the surfing world. He was one of the original Bay locals. His photographic and journalistic background got him involved with Paul Naude and Mike Larmont, and whilst still freelancing, they started the surfing magazine Zigzag. He also worked for the Scope Magazine for a stage. “I put the stars on the nipples” he says. He’s still got an old surfboard shaped by Paul. It simply states in small handwritten letters “Banks”, it was his nickname. I’ve always wondered if it was a dig at his Math abilities. My mom says she thinks it’s because his middle name is Banfiled. Maybe someday I’ll ask him. He still rides that board now. He’s old, but he’s old school, that’s what gives him ‘swagga’.
All these are just stories; they do nothing to tell you about the man. You cannot grasp his character or the feel my father gives you. I don’t think a biography can contain him. There’s something about his presence, his laugh that explains who he is. Pen and paper’s limiting.
The funny thing is if you met him now you’d be in the mountains of India. Maybe you’d think his some old ‘fogey’ in the only place old people won’t be looked down on for smoking ‘hashish’. Truth is he isn’t. Perhaps he’d be sitting somewhere; writing. Pencil and paper ,never pen. Maybe he’d be with people, he’s most alive then. Or maybe he’d be walking. Always with a stick. Always handmade. He’s a lot like his sticks my father. In fact there are a lot of parallels you could draw between the two. He himself is unique, hand crafted by the hands of life. He still has his first stick, he made when he was ten. He’s a perfectionist, always searching for a straight stick. He’s like that absolute and true. He always said “Life’s a marathon not a sprint, a journey not a race”. Those sticks embody something of his journey. He’s got them all in a tall thin steel barrel in the corner of his house. Many from different places with different people and different cultures. The strangest thing is he never actually uses it for walking. He sort of holds it horizontally, swinging it as he walks, maybe touching the ground every ten steps or so. I’ve always noticed that. I wondered where it came from, I never asked, I never do. A taxi driver answered me one day. He said “Aaaah baba, you are carrying that stick like a Zulu”, my father turned “This is not for walking” he said, “It’s for protection”. “Yes that’s true” the taxi driver answered, seemingly chuffed; “You must protect your woman” he added after seeing my mother. The conversation ended there, no real conclusion, more of a mutual understanding. Perhaps it’s an understanding of life. A lot of his conversations don’t end, he’s like that.
You may not know this but the strength of the wood depends on the angle at which you cut it. An object carved along the grain, rather than across the grain, is stronger. In my father’s life he seems to have known where to cut and what to cut. He’s crafted something. Something beautiful. Its’ taken a life time.
Written by Luke MacDonald
A journey of a thousand miles... 