Klawervlei had kindly invited me without Roy to come down
to Cape
Town for their farm sale. Many trainers from around the
country had accepted
 |
| Robbie Hill's family back home |
the invitation to come down to the farm for a get
together that
resembles an Irish wake in spring & just a few weeks
before
armeggedon. We left the sunny confines of KZN and arrived
down south to wintry wet conditions. Our driver, who could have been
Waiho Marwing's clone, in his limited wisdom had decided to
take the scenic route out to the farm. We set off in good spirits with my
co-travelers consisting of Prince (Robbie Hill), the only Pakistani
trainer in
 |
| Robbie Hill having a smoke |
South Africa, Alison and Kevin Wright exiles in waiting
from Zimbo, Gavin Van Zyl, and Jane Thomas looking forward to her
first emancipation tour. The initial drizzle quickly escalated
into a full blown monsoon as our vision was restricted to roughly
twenty yards or so. In his limited wisdom again, Waiho had decided to
take the bulk of us to our guest house. He found a side cutting to the
right off the main road and suddenly we were off the beaten track and
going down a district road that would have not looked out of place in
downtown Tripoli during the recent uprisings. The road narrowed
down to less than a single lane as we circumcized a stagnant festering
lake until we reached a dead end at which point Prince started
displaying the first signs of severe cabin fever. The somnolent Cognac
he had quaffed
prior to departure had started to wear off and his
nascent displeasure
 |
| Robbie Hill at the Karachi Academy |
 |
| Jane Thomas looking for a drop toilet |
As our fourth sedentary hour approached and we set off in
hope of beating the sunset, Jane Thomas, who had finished two
liters of over priced bottled water, started appealing for a toilet somewhere
soon, very soon. With legs crossed for once like a fresh koeksister,
she implored Waiho to find a latrine, even if it was a second hand
drop toilet, as Prince joined in & vociferously demanded a smoke
break. The tension, palpable as it was, was briefly broken by the news of the
Wrights' horses running first and second in the Borrowdale
feature.
We eventually arrived at the stud around four and a half hours after
We eventually arrived at the stud around four and a half hours after
 |
| Dean Kannemeyer |
disembarking to be warmly greeted by barman
extraordinaire, Matthew Sham, who has the finesse of an enebriated blacksmith.
The upstairs pub was full and the TV was switching between the Ashes
and the rampant Sharks as George Clooney braaied all forms of
animal off-cuts for the sozzled carnivore diners. One of our country's
greatest young cricket stars, David Miller, was a guest as well as his
father, Andrew, who also doubled as auctioneer. David is the real
deal in more ways than one and when Dean 'I'll Have Another'
Kannemeyer realized who he was, he promptly posed for a photo alongside him
looking like Sammy Davis Jnr at a Vegas cabaret.
Michael Roberts,
donning an apron, had provisionally taken over the barman duties as Matthew
did renditions of Flower of Scotland and Ireland's Call, and
to appease the numerous skaaps in attendance, did Ruiperd with the diminutive
Roberts joining in for the chorus. Klawervleis two front men, John Koster, and
Grant Knowles, have done a great job of ensuring that all visitors are warmly
cared for and I spot one of the quiet gentlemen of racing, Ricardo Lerena,
savaging the remnants of a charred chicken in the corner. He catches my eye
& nods appreciatively at me.
When it is eventually time to retire to our respective
hamlets, I
thankfully notice that Waiho is not around. Jane is being
ushered to
her van with a degree of vociferous coaxing by Knowlsie,
somewhat akin
 |
| Muis Roberts as himself |
to the loading of a reluctant feature race favorite, as
Michael Roberts gets a bout of the
giggles. Our guest house is a renovated set of stables once owned by a successful racehorse owner. I
am ushered into Jungle Warrior's stable and Michael Roberts gets
Numeral's. He catches me stealing his
chocolates off his pillow and promptly manages to lock me in my stable for the
night.
The next day we were greeted by a chill usually seen on
the outskirts of the Siberian Tundra and Michael Roberts waltzing
around in a
sleeping shirt last ironed when he rode work for old man,
'Pa' Brown.
Breakfast is in a renovated barn and Clint Larsen (not
the footballer)
Paul Matchett, Cathy Howells and I have some country
grown sustenance
before we set out to see the yearlings. Klawervlei is a
wonderful set
up and the different barns have been named after great
racehorses of
old. I walk around viewing the woolly nags with Michael
Roberts who is
only slightly taller than a premature weanling and twice
as critical.
The crowds are starting to arrive and it makes viewing a
little
tougher. We escape to the main tent to warm up with some
coffee to be
promptly serenaded by John McVeigh's cousin, Andre Reui,
on guitar playing ballads from yesteryear. His rendition of 'You're as cold as
ice' seems touchingly appropriate. Prince strides by wearing a Springbok rugby
jacket that would be loose on Clyde Basel & stearing well clear of the free
bar as if it was a leper colony. These Pakistanis don't seem to have the constitution
of the locals.
 |
| Robbie Hill training trotters for Karachi Derby |
An announcement is made that the sale will be starting a
couple of hours late as Chris Van Niekerk and Sean Tarry are unable
to land their '63 vintage Dakota on the local miellie field due
to thick mist and are forced to fly on to Cape Town International. This
announcement
blows the Wrights right out of the water as they have to
get back for an earlier flight home. The Humble Hero, Joe Soma,
strides in looking fresh and strong and no doubt looking for someone to natter
with over
a drink. Brett Crawford steps up to the plate in eager
fashion and soon their little coterie is growing as the local tipple,
the Green Tractor, makes its belated appearance. Brett was last
seen irrigating a field on the side of the road. Lynton Ryan, the horse
guru of note,
has given me a list of
horses to look at and we end up inheriting a Seventh Rock filly for
R75000. Herbert Mulholland seems to be a man on a mission as he pushes Dennis
Drier all the way for the sale topper with the hammer dropping at a princely
R240,000. This sale is fast turning out to be the premier social event of all
post July functions. The seventy odd lots are soon sold by Andrew Miller for a
total of around three point eight million proving that it has come of age. As
soon as the last lot has been led away following ex champion sprinter, Mythical
Flight, McVeigh's cousin, Andre, starts crooning again with the most popular
person in the room becoming the attractive blonde bombshell behind the bar. Because
I have to catch the early flight back to Durban, I manage to evade the rowdy
colleagues and hitch a lift back to my hotel in Cape Town with Gareth 'Peppier' Pepper.
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