Vereeniging

The brain must be trained in order to yield delicious mind-fruits for the consumption of the conscientious considerer. And that is why Vereeniging is like Hell. Or as creative as the original Home of the Rectangle. God in Heaven, I have never seen so many regular shapes. Every block in the city seems to be the same size and, by my reckoning, sprinkled with the same shops in perfect periodicity. All the dogs look like the offspring of a large rat and a medium-sized brick. Nothing reputable stays open after dark, and one has to go far to find places of poor repute. Reaching the lonely ends of various remote lanes, I was convinced that barbwire-wielding inbreds with laughing sickness were going to pop out from behind each tree. They never did though. And I’m rather disappointed.

I just don’t understand what Vereeniging is for. When God created Eden, he also made a lesser paradise – the Great and Wondrous Middle-Income Car Showroom. Vereeniging was founded on this blessed territory; eventually urban sprawl penetrated the once continuous and vast lot of vehicles, giving birth to the present-day illusion that there are at least two individually owned floor-rooms per city block. I would estimate that five square metres of showroom per inhabitant still survive today. The hyper-faithful should position it highly on their pilgrimage wish list (right under Jerusalem and going to get their heads read).

In all seriousness though, I’ve heard a word or two about mining, I know a smidgeon of history, but I can find no adequate reason for the continued existence of this town except the display of cars. Not even the sale of cars, since I didn’t witness a single transaction the entire week of my stay. There are those villages that exist so the local farmers can send their kids to school, or so mineworkers can have a Pick ‘n’ Pay to visit, there are those that limp on because of a second-rate tourist attraction (*cough*, Kimberley), and there are those that continue to survive only by virtue of having had a purpose once long, long ago. But in all those cases I expect the presence of an obvious identity and a good helping of quaintness. Instead, this place is both shitty and sterile at the same time. And, in 1994, completely undeserving of the “V” in Gauteng’s forerunner, the PWV.

I’ve been unfair. It’s the people that make Vereeniging tolerable. They’re excited by newcomers, and have an olden-day sense of propriety. Except for the bitch that routinely short-changed me at the quickie mart. White trash. I didn’t call her on it either. Because I pity her. I’m charitable like that. A bunch of us found a pool bar that stays open until late (after two days of searching) along a corridor and up some stairs in an abandoned mall. It was family-owned, charming and home to several pool champions. And also to a retard sitting in the corner doing crosswords.  Um… Ignore that. (I know I did. Even when it spoke to me.) The owner silently went about rearranging tables for us, handing out free snack bowls, opening up the poker room and, at the height of his kindness, turning on the pub’s disco ball. This establishment became home. On our final night I was sad to leave it behind… I remember walking out after midnight, getting a call on my cell (it was about an hour later)… And hearing the panicked voices of a few of our fellow adventurers saying they’d been locked in and “persuaded” to stay for a final round of drinks. Sigh. I didn’t see it myself, so I can’t pass judgement. All I know from personal experience is that the people of Vereeniging have service-oriented values, a quiet decorum, and a timid resignation to their lot in life. I aspire to open a school for butlers there one day.