Susanne is back in my life.
Growing up in Maritzburg, our home telephone number was 28646, only 5 digits long.
The phone itself was a black Bakelite contraption with a rotary dial, mounted on the wall in the hallway, so you had to stand while speaking.
Being in the centre of the house meant that everybody could listen to what you were saying if they cared to.
Which was not a problem most of the time, except when we 3 boys hit puberty and rang up a girl to ask her out to Saturday afternoon movies or the Friday night church social.
It then meant the whole family could hear her name and whether you got the nod or the elbow.
Nothing was secret.
The kids of today think they’ve got it tough!
There was no prefix as all Telkom numbers are today, so unless you dialled 031 for, say, Durban, all calls were local.
If you dialled a wrong number, the call had to be someone in the Maritzburg area.
It was a small town, so you most likely knew them.
Phone calls for Rose out on the farm were even simpler.
Living in Donnybrook their number was Donny 1303.
You twirled the handle on the phone which got you through to the local exchange and then asked to speak to, say, Donny 2406.
Chances were the operator would say “Oh no, they’re playing tennis at the club, I’ll put you through there!”
There were even fewer secrets on a party line, especially as Nosey Parkers could listen to your conversations on the sly.
International calls were a big deal.
You had to call the international exchange in Cape Town and book a call to London or wherever then wait for them to call you back.
Cell phones turned all that on its head.
Starting in 1994, suddenly the whole world was at your fingertips.
There is nowhere that isn’t just a few digits away.
Which is where Susanne comes in.
I got my first cellphone, a nifty little Ericsson with a flap over the keyboard and a little aerial, in 1995 and I’ve had the same number for what, 25 years – Then the calls started: “Is Susanne there?”
Her name is pronounced the Afrikaans way, with the accent on the second syllable and as ‘uh’, not ‘ay’.
Soo-suhn. I’m very curious about Susanne. Where does she live? Could be anywhere from Messina to Cape Town or points in between.
I get the feeling she’s a farmer’s wife because the callers sound like farmers.
You know, relaxed and unhurried.
I don’t think she’s an exotic dancer, for instance, because there wouldn’t be so many middle-aged women calling.
There were a couple of calls every month.
Moving on, about 10 years ago the calls for Susanne stopped.
I did occasionally wonder, what happened to Susanne?
Did she emigrate, maybe even die?
In time I forgot about her. Until last week.
Phone rings: “Is Susanne daar?” Then again a day later.
What’s happened? Did she emigrate then have regrets, so came back? Did her contract in a Dubai hospital run its course? Has she become too old to be a can dancer at the Moulin Rouge in Paris?
Maybe I should take the bull by the horns and, the next time someone rings, ask, “And how is Susanne? Where’s she living? Is she happy?”
But I don’t think I ever will pluck up the courage.
* * *
President Ramaphosa wants to nominate Cuban doctors for the Nobel Prize for their contribution to SA medicine.
Cuba produces a lot of doctors and sends them all over the place, particularly to places with ties through liberation movements.
I get that there might be historic links with Cuba.
I also hear a lot of people asking why SA imports doctors as a great expense while there are locally trained doctors without jobs.
But I won’t stick my nose there as I don’t have first-hand knowledge.
The question I want to ask is, why does Cyril rave about Cubans when we have our own homegrown medical heroes?
I refer specifically to Gift of the Givers, the local organisation that does so much to help the sick and poor in our country and even further afield?
They provide medical supplies, doctors and nurses, water and food to communities in the time of the disaster, all for mahala.
If charity begins at home, then so should appreciation.
-
-
-
-
