Come With Me to a Party?

In South Africa in the 70s it was not unusual for us youth to participate in somebody’s party, even though we didn’t personally know whose party it was. The 70s Music was one of the greatest music decades of all time and we all enjoyed it whenever we got an opportunity. Nevertheless these parties came up like mushrooms after a rainfall. The going was easy, there were no rules and we went casually dressed. Maybe just in jeans and T-shirts and mostly with tennis shoes. Normally there was nothing to eat nor drink. When we arrived it was always too late, no matter how early we got there. We never found anything left over, like locusts everything edible had been eaten. So we never expected to find anything and quickly learned to always take something with to eat and drink.

One hot summer evening I went to a big open party which was organized by a school mate of Bugs on his dad’s farm. I was not invited but that evening Bugs came around to my house and asked me to go with him to this farm where lots of people were expected to pitch up. I did not think twice and we both got on our separate motorbikes and set off, with Bugs leading. The farm was situated halfway between Cleland and the Lion Park. Along the way at a tearoom we had to turn left and go straight on until a cross section where some homemade noticeboards had been placed which helped people to find the way to the farm. So we went on following the indications, but nobody had told us that the road would soon become slippery and muddy. We did our best and an hour later when we arrived we were covered in mud from head to toe. As it was already dark nobody saw much or took notice. Our appearance was not as important as the fact that we hadn’t fallen off our motorbikes and that we had arrived to join in the fun.

Dance

We then headed for the large barn where the loud rock music was coming from. Through the windows we could see the psychedelic lights going on and off frenetically. The number of people in that barn was incredible. The doors were often shut for reasons unknown and the place was full of smoke, similar to mist. Maybe to create atmosphere. We got into the barn pushing and shoving until we landed up in a clear spot on the other side of the barn. Here we sat with our backs against the wall for a while, simply looking at the boys and girls dancing like robots.

Bugs recognized two girls he knew dancing by themselves, so he got up nudged me in the ribs meaning I should follow him. I didn’t, I was too tired and just sat there trying to stare through the smokey haze. He would go on dancing for hours, so I looked to my right and saw a pretty girl sitting in the corner.

I gathered enough courage and went over to invite her to dance. She looked at me wide-eyed and refused, so I asked her for some chips she was eating. She offered me some of those and lots more. On a closer look I found the reason she was so shy. She was extremely fat. She spoke English very well even though her parents were Afrikaans. We sat talking and eating out of her bag, which seemed like the Mary Poppins’ bag, without the bottom. She pulled out of it all kinds of cakes, sweets and chocolates. She also had something to drink, so I spent the evening eating and drinking with her. We only exchanged a few kisses strictly on the cheek, no smooching and that kind of thing. She was a very nice girl, but really very shy and introverted. Almost at the end of the party just when I thought to persuade her to have a dance before going, I felt somebody tap me on the shoulder.

It was Bugs who smelt like a sweating horse. He told me he wanted to go home because it had already been raining for some time. I agreed as I didn’t like riding on wet slippery roads. With the pretty but chubby girl we hastily exchanged our phone numbers, so as to keep in touch. Then Bugs and I quickly greeted all his pals, got on the motorbikes and started our journey back.

Unfortunately I have never heard from the pretty girl again. She also never tried to phone me and when I tried I found that she had given me a fake number.

Sometimes things go that way…

About Mauro

I am a scribbler of my far away memories. I am Italian and when I was little I landed up with my family in South Africa, where I remained until I was 22 years old. Then I came back to Italy, where I live. Writing life stories about myself and to share them with who desires to read them, helps me to tackle the hardships of life! [Read More]

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  1. […] one night on the way home from a big party, Bugs and I were riding in the dark with our motorbikes under a fine rain. We had about a dozen […]

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