Throwback Student Fare

Fried Polony, Scrambled Eggs & Fried Tomato

A Diet of Silence

Fried Polony, Scrambled Egg & Fried Tomato

Dadin Flats No. 101: As with compulsory National Military Service, these were some of the best times I never ever want to relive again.

Apparently as we mature and grow into middle age, it becomes a normal thing for some men to – how shall I put it circumspectly? – ‘consider’ their pasts. I don't want to use the word ‘dwell’ here, as it implies an unhealthy fascination or predilection with the past, our many mistakes, and the few successes we may have achieved. To actively dwell on the past and how we could've ‘lived’ better is to definitely invite a certain degree of madness and much tribulation. I consider the past as in the past; it is a different country several dead continents away. What happened; happened. All we can do about it now is to accept it; regard it objectively and responsibly; act remedially by apologising (where possible) for our mistakes; if at all feasible, right the wrongs we committed; learn from our mistakes and finally, try to consistently repeat the good we did manage with increasing frequency.

I believe the most important lessons the past teaches us, are:

Did you LEARN anything from your mistakes and successes and gain insight into whom and what you truly are?
Did you apply that often hard gained self knowledge to at least intermittently improve yourself as a human being, your own life and the lives of those dearest to you, even if only in small measures?
Did you ask the forgiveness of those whom you had hurt in the process of living up to this point, and did you forgive yourself for your own mistakes?

Nobody is perfect and only a few of us are probably inherently evil – in theory. The rest of us make do as we go along. The process of each of us achieving our own level of maturity is as different for every individual as our finger prints, personalities and experiences are unique. For some of us, myself in particular, the process took longer than for others. And if you work hard, the process of becoming a balanced, mature and well rounded individual becomes, and remains, an ongoing process. A journey for the sake of the journey, one might claim. The eventual destination could even be considered irrelevant.

Recently, I've been ‘considering’ my second round of student days. I was fortunate enough to be able to continue with post-graduate studies after being retrenched from my first employer with only three years of employment. This was during the Nineties and the world and our country was changing, South Africa maybe more so than the rest of the world. It was the post-CODESA era of the changing of the guard: we were transforming from the bad old days into a fully fledged democracy and happy days were here to stay. Tumultuous social and political changes were taking place and the air was very jittery and exceedingly unsure. The economy was taking an upturn since international trade embargoes and sanctions were being lifted – we were no longer the global pariah and the changeover (as well as a brand new, ultra progressive Constitution) suddenly made us the darling of the Western world. Tata Madiba was the global flavour of the moment, flaunted everywhere and anyhow, and all was declared to be well and hale. Politicians promised the good times were just around the corner. Generally, la vie en rose was upon us! You just had to believe Bra, everything will be sorted out, you wait and see! Promise!

Dadin Flats No. 101, 91 Parliament Str., Port Elizabeth Central

My younger brother and I took up residence in Dadin Flats No. 101 when he was completing his final year of under-graduate study and I was in my first year of post-graduate study. Actually, to be precise, we took over the last six months of an existing lease. We could no longer study from home as Dad had sold his farm to avoid losing it to his creditors. They, our parents (and our sisters), were moving back to their roots, the heartland where almost all of their respective families were located. Bro’ and I had to hack it by ourselves and he would join the family yonder as soon as his studies were completed. The job prospects for him and our sisters were simply so much better in the heartland than where we lived for the better part of 22 years: a neglected province where the main economic activities was – and still is – agriculture and abusive, corrupt political intrigue. Dad and his farm was just another little fish in a growing school of similar tragedies.

Fortunately my brother and I both had bursaries and Dadin Flats was located in a scruffy area, just off from the city centre. The neighbourhood was a focal point for sordid night clubs, escort agencies, drug pushers and their prey: the users. Seedy bars, greasy takeout joints and neglected blocks of flats abounded, housing lost hippie throwbacks, overworked single moms, hopeless charity cases and previously disenfranchised families desperately clawing their way up on the economic ladder. Destitute vagrants and beggars were regularly sleeping in doorways reeking of old piss, frequently clashing with the prostitutes and cockroaches over prime real estate on cold, rainy nights. And everyone, from the hookers through the druggies right up to the bouncers were scaring the way too many old people still residing in the area, unable to move, being caught by the rapid downturn of the area and plummeting property prices.

For bro’ and me the rent was affordable on our slim monthly stipends, if only just. Fortunately, the flat – dating from a grander, more prosperous era – was huge with two quite large bedrooms, a big living area and a fairly serviceable kitchen. The fairly low rent was probably also a side effect of the very busy and very noisy nightclub directly across the road from us. Except for Mondays, every other weekday evening were raucous, with Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights being very lively in particular, the nights only reluctantly dying by 4 am or so.

To augment our slim financial resources, bro’ recruited two young ladies, first year students both, who took to renting the main bedroom from us. Subletting was in theory strictly forbidden but the letting agents never bothered to inspect any of the tenants as long as you didn’t fall behind on the rent. Avoiding falling behind frequently became an unexpected and irritating challenge as the two young ladies often used their portions of the rent for personal entertainment and requirements of dubious nature and even more questionable moral standards. Strained phone calls invariably lead to frustrated and flustered parents arriving in the nick of time to hand over the required cash, resulting in me or bro’ rushing off to deposit the rent and hastily faxing proofs of payment to the letting agents. And yes, this was during that antediluvian era before the internet. That said parents never even tried to force their precious daughters to return home after extended shouting sessions filled with acrimonious threats, resentful accusations and, finally, teary bouts of pleading, spoke many volumes I realised afterwards.

Only decades later did I realise Dadin Flats 101 was where I made my acquaintance with my faithful old companion, the black hound of the Baskervilles (as I affectionately regard the black dog of depression). The very same hound also taught me the soothing, palliative effects of food excess, immersing yourself with uncaring determination into your work (or studies in my case) and blithely burying your problems without confrontation, insight and resolution. Heady days those were indeed.

Fried polony slices with scrambled eggs and a pan-fried tomato is a direct throwback to those Dadin Flats 101 days. Actually, to be entirely honest, the dish predates Dadin 101. Mom frequently prepared this meal during my primary school years (which also predates Dad’s extended fling with farming). She would invariably prepare it when she was in a hurry to get an impatient husband and assorted, difficult children fed, seen off to work and delivered to school, all on time. She probably regarded this as a fairly balanced meal, given the pressure she was under. I suspect the ease with which it could be prepared in bulk weighed heavier in her considerations than dietary requirements. Later on, during the final months on the farm, she had little choice in serving it.

For bro’ and me this dish was a Sunday morning treat that was cheap and easy to prepare, requiring little cooking skill and only the most simple equipment. Yet, with a hefty quantity of fresh toast and ketchup, it was filling and satisfying. Effectively it was a soothing self-reward for enduring yet another lively Saturday night with the uproarious thumping from across the road offset by the giggling, noisy thumping emanating from behind the main bedroom door. Fortunately our sordid little tenants were never in any sort of condition (or mood) to attend breakfast early on a Sunday morning, nor were they invited and they definitely wouldn’t have been welcome. I suspect they possibly sensed the part of not being welcome on some subliminal level.

Bro’ and I shared many a silent Sunday luxury brekkie contemplating the litter strewn, vagrant sprinkled street in front of us with its now smugly silent den of iniquity. Dadin 101 was my first lesson in the value of Silence. Many more followed over the years, often involuntarily.

Dadin 101 endured its six months, at which point bro’ completed his undergraduate studies, moved north and furthered his studies under less inane conditions. I found a self catering, single quarter’s accommodation close to the tertiary institution I attended and could now fully devote all my attention and energies towards completing my degree. Single quarters were liberating and simultaneously restrictive, especially so on a small stipend. Tinned baked beans replaced fried tomatoes and ends were met with onerous tutoring duties and strict financial self-discipline. Heady days those were too.

And here we are today, nearly a quarter of a century later. Solitude and contemplative silence are now eagerly sought after and embraced essentialities. The past is dead and silent at last. I am what I am. Where I still could, I seeked forgiveness. Where I could not, acceptance of that fact and self forgiveness eventually brought salvation. Arrogance and ignorance (a dreadful combination) were the ignoble foundations of almost all those earlier decisions, not unfettered malice. This is a small consolation.

Fried Polony and Scrambled Eggs with Fried Tomato is now a monument to the redemptive power of silence. An equanimous nod of the head to less fortuitous, but necessary times now long past. Silent, contemplative solitude eventually tamed profound memories, that often harsh language of the past.

Image Credit:

1. Dadin Flats: Google Maps Street View; Downloaded 20/03/2021.

2. Meme: Facebook

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