Carol’s Column

Pap and boerewors for swimming Moms

THEY call us the trekking mothers and indeed we’re a hardy lot.

Valiant, pushy, courageous, determined, through thick and thin, rain and shine, we sit in our thousands supporting our precious offspring as they do their sporting thing.

Rugby, tennis, soccer, judo, karate, BMX racing, netball, boardsailing, swimming, hockey, cricket — I’ve watched them all.

In fact I worked out that in the past 12 years I have spent at least six of them gazing at my own and other people’s children prancing around various sports arenas.

You can tell that sport has traditionally been a male-orientated pastime because the supporter’s benches are so hard.

Wooden, austere and misshapen, they are not built for comfort which is why today I, and many other mothers, are deformed.

Throughout the land there are countless rears that have permanent ridges in them from slatted seats.

On reflection, it can only be devotion that makes mothers spend half their lives in such adversity.

Which is why I found myself en route to the great metropolis of Bloemfontein and the South African National Swimming Championships last weekend.

I was warned before I departed.

“Ah, it’s the heart of South Africa,” said somebody, “but for heaven’s sake don’t wear a bikini. You’ll be arrested.

“And remember, you’re not allowed to eat icecream on Sunday,” said another friend.

“You’re joking, of course,” I retorted.

“Am I? Just try it,” he replied darkly.

We drove into Bloemfontein — a boisterous carload of Transvaal supporters, waving our flags and singing raucously.

At the pool, spirits were high, as the cream of South African swimming flashed past in the pool below.

Not to mention the spectators who were doing their bit towards encouraging the swimmers on the stand above.

“Listen,” said our leader, “we must sit near the finishing line,” so we pushed our way through the hordes to find seating.

“You can’t sit here, it’s Free State territory,” said a mild-looking man in a biscuit safari suit.

“Oh, yeah! Try and stop us,” growled our leader.

At which the biscuit safari suit unravelled his legs and stood — an amazing mountain of a man towering above us. Mealies, cows, bulls, boerewors and men — they grow them large down there.

And then I found the perfect spot. Indeed, it was ideal. It was the only place on the stand with thick cushions.

“Climb over the ropes,” I urged the Transvaal contingent, “and we’ll sit here.”

Which we did until a crimplene-lady with corrugated iron curls swished her way towards us. “This is reserved for dignitaries, important people. Nobodies can’t sit here.”

It didn’t matter that we told her of our dignitary status and background, it didn’t matter that we told her we were royalty, she was unmoved.

So we moved to the row behind where there were four places for eight people.

As we sat, like sardines jammed together, unable to breathe due to the pressure from the persons on either side, our leader, a man of action, spoke: “When everyone stands for the National Anthem,” he muttered through the corner of his text cut off in photograph siton your feet outwards, then sit.”

It worked perfectly. We stood to sing, then, as a team, sat once again.

In the distance, we noticed four people searching frantically for their seats. It’s called method.

Vociferous supporters, we yelled our lungs out every time a Transvaal swimmer took to the water. And the euphoria when he or she won was indescribable. “Pirow, Lamont, Kratz — we love you!” we screamed with pride.

The joy was not catching.

“Madam, you are yelling right in my ear hole,” said the dignitary right in front of me. “Which is causing me my discomfort. In fact I have a screaming headache and my hair is beginning to fall out. As I cannot remove my head or my ear, I would appreciate it if you remove your yelling.”

text cut off in photograph who go through life in a miserable way. They invariably end up as politicians or dignitaries I thought to myself as I gazed at his bullet head.

Bloemfontein is a deadly place, we’d been warned: “The whole town is moribund at 9pm.”

Don’t you believe it. It has to be the most swinging town South of the Orange River.

We ate pasta and pizzas at an Italian restaurant wallpapered with naked women and celebrated Helena Pirow’s great win with champagne in the small hours, ordered room service throughout the night and partied on boerewors and pap.

When we finally departed to return home, the hotel manager wept to see us go.

Tears of sorrow?

No, tears of joy.

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