Loves lost

In South Africa we call a small pickup a “bakkie”.

It is an Afrikaans word that actually means a small bowl. You’ll give milk to a kitten or a puppy in a “bakkie”. How exactly it came to be used for this type of vehicle I don’t know. In our country with its 11 official languages, we borrow and mingle. Some words we don’t translate. We just use them “voetstoots”. As is. So, whether you’re English, Afrikaans, Zulu, Xhosa, you’ll call any small pickup more or less up to a one tunner a bakkie. Thereafter it is a truck or a lorry. Were you to emigrate to another country you might find fairly similar vehicles, but you would miss using the word. There’s just nothing like a bakkie.

And among bakkies there are Bakkies. Legends. You can get them only second hand. Or steal them. They’ve earned their reputation through years of use and reliability.  Driving one of them you get used to people walking around them, admiring them, kicking one of the tyres saying: “They don’t make them like this any more. My dad had one of these. If you ever want to sell it, let me know.”

The Nissan 1400 half tunner is one of them. For years and years the shape remained unchanged, the engine the same. Basic to the bare necessities. It just keeps going. Up to a point where you’ll see one of them, all bruised and dented, the driver clutching the door under his arm, loaded to the brim but still doing the job. Were you to say that you drive “a 1400”, no further explanation is needed.

I bought my 1990 model five years ago from an elderly friend who had bought it new. Still in pristine condition. A real treasure and a reliable and much needed 22 year old companion for my work in the workshop and the other chores that Matilda and I use it for. I just love my bakkie.

On April the 13^th this year, friends of mine suffered a tragic loss with the death of their 21 year old son. I was heartbroken by this. While visiting them the next day in Pretoria, sympathising and making arrangements for the funeral, they stole my bakkie where it was parked in front of their house. With all my bank cards, my ID, my driver’s license, my Bible, my toolbox.

On the Sunday, the day after it was stolen, a total stranger phoned to tell me that by mere coincidence he and his son found my bank cards, my ID, driver’s licence and some of my other belongings where it was dumped in a rubbish bin at a high school in Pretoria. No Bible. With years of notes and remarks written in the margins. “Maybe the thief is a believer” was the laconic remark of my Good Samaritan. But I was grateful for what was recovered and it was a slight consolation to my mourning friends who felt very bad about my loss.

In the month that followed I had to come to terms with the theft. Not being insured I had no way of replacing it. On a practical level I felt stunted because without my bakkie it would be difficult to carry out my work. On a deeper level though another process was playing itself out. It is difficult to put it into words. It had to do with seeing the loss in perspective, re-evaluating one’s reliance on one’s own constructs to establish independence and capability, letting go, trusting that somehow everything is harvest, staying in the moment.

Then, early on Thursday the 10^th of May the police phoned to inform me that they’ve found my bakkie. On a routine patrol in Soshanguve. I am lucky, they told me. The chassis number had already been removed and an identification could only be done by the engine number that for some reason or the other was left untouched. I had to come through to the pound in Pretoria West where all the recovered vehicles are kept.

It was a long day of filling out forms and going through procedures. Until finally, late the afternoon, we were sitting on a low wall outside the offices, waiting for them to bring my bakkie out. Our “waiting room” also provided us with a front seat at witnessing the handling and manoeuvring of other recovered vehicles. Vehicles in different stages of damage, their door frames and handles, the windows black from the powder used to look for and lift finger prints. All this moving and shuffling was done with the help of a forklift that unceremoniously stuck its teeth under the soft underbelly of once stately 4 x 4’s that hung limp and without resistance while they were moved to places even they never thought of going. The officer had said that my bakkie was still running, but in what state was she really in?

With that same forklift they brought her out, carrying her carefully like a new born baby held in gentle arms. Putting her softly onto the ground. Without a scratch or a dent. With new locks and ignition, false number plates and without a spare tyre and rail on the back, but otherwise exactly as she was when I last saw her. I got in and drove her home.

It took another full day to get new chassis numbers stamped, go through clearance and renew the licence. I had to replace all the locks, get a new spare tyre and number plates, buy a steering lock and install an immobiliser. But clean and dainty she occupies her spot at my house once again.

I now catch myself often standing at the bakkie, just looking at her. Lost in perplexed thought.

The reaction from people hearing about my experience does not differ much from person to person: “You got her back?! Without a scratch?! I’ve never heard anything again about my bakkie that was stolen five years ago. Do you know how fortunate you are? You must be very glad?”

“Yes” I say. “Yes, I am deeply grateful. One feels very sad when you lose something that you love so dearly.”

George