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We learned about the wetlands of the Cape in Standard Three Geography: Mention of Zandvlei can be found
in Dutch documents as early as Jan van Riebeeck and Simon van der Stel. The original name was Zand Vallei, and documents mention
a pan of water that dried up seasonally leaving a huge sand valley, hence the Dutch words Zand Vallei. Rivers
flowing from the southern end of the Table Mountain range feed this estuarine dam. Cleansing winter storms open the sand bank
annually and the dam flows into False Bay at Muizenberg beach. When the sand bank closes again, fresh salt water and marine
life are drawn back into the dam. White families picnic there in the howling summer wind on New Year's Day. Around
the fire, men laugh. Dad spatters water over flare-ups under the grid. Trains roar past bursting with revelling Coloured men,
returning from the Coon Carnival. It seems they ignored the sign erected at Cape Town Station by the Women's Temperance Movement.
WINE IS A MOCKER… STRONG DRINK IS RAGING! Ants crawl through my swimming costume, nipping me in the crease between
my leg and buttock. Braai smoke and beer breath wrinkle my nose. Boys on windsurfers glide and bounce over the murky water.
"I told you to pack your sunhat, Kathleen!" The glare of the sun is unpleasant, but direct – blindingly
so – unlike the grudging undercurrent to every sweet female conversation that is vague, indefinite and formless. I still
feel car sick from the diesel fumes that leak into the back of the station wagon. Like the wind and the smoke, nausea is definite.
One might complain about it, not that it is prudent to do so. "Isn't this fun?" asks the minister's wife loudly.
"Another perfect day in paradise!" agrees Jenny. Her scowl melts into a beatific smile. My mother, slicing bread rolls clenches
her teeth in what must pass for happy concurrence. Jenny my Sunday School teacher says we must love the Lord. Her barelegged
baby moans erratically on the itchy rug. I hauled the ancient woollen blanket out the laundry cupboard into the Peugot and
hate the feel of it against my inner arms; it smells mouldy and, snagged in the weave, are prickly dried leaves. The baby
pushes himself upright in indignation and waddles toward the grass. A strip of fringe snarls his pudgy toes and he falls.
He cries indignantly while trying to free his foot from the nasty blanket. Jenny is spreading the rolls and her hands
glisten with melting butter. Chunks of white flakes fall off the crust and scatter at her feet. Is that what manna looked
like? No-one picks up the toddler. "Go on, get him," my mother orders, pointing the bread knife at me. It's too hot
to carry this drooler around, but I pick him up reluctantly. As I lift him, he lurches arms outstretched toward his mother.
I nearly lose my balance and squeeze him tighter. He yells louder. "Well, play with him, can't you?" Mum's tone is
clipped. "Be a good girl, now Kathleen." The minister's wife chops cucumber. I take him, fat and heavy to the playground
on the far side of the lavatory block. He won't walk on the burning stony ground and sinks down on his plump nappy sobbing.
I walk away, calling his name, hoping he'll follow. I no longer feel any sympathy towards the baby but neither do I want a
clout from Mum. I want to dump him, like Moses, in the basket and leave him in the waterweed. I haul him up and trudge
to the infant swings. It's not easy to raise him over the safety bar. He wriggles and squirms. "This is supposed to
be fun, dammit baby." I shout. I nearly tip him into the seat, but he thrusts out rigid legs, kicking it away. The thick
chains twist and lurch. I leap out of the path but it veers off course and clunks painfully into my ribs. I return
the baby feeling angry and sore. My mother is ashamed of me. "Doesn’t Jesus' little helper have a smiley face?"
asks the minister's wife. "I escape to the water's edge where grey green weed floats, lapping against the muddy sand. My
toes are in the sludgy water. Through my tears I see a soggy hot dog roll bobbing bloated on the waves. It is not
a roll. It is a dead fish.
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