This article is inspired by a recent round of golf with my childhood friends from Ginsberg at the King William’s Town golf course.
As we played we started reminiscing about our days as caddies, and who amongst us caddied for which white golfer. It occurred to me that by simply interviewing the caddies one could draw a picture of the social networks that underpinned the white power elite in King William’s Town in the 1970s and 1980s.
On the basis of that one could also trace the genealogy of that white power elite, going back to the founding of the club in 1892. The golf course, after all, was the site of entertainment for the white elite.
This can also be compared to the evolution of the life of the caddies, some of whom remain stuck as caddies today while others, like Ginsberg’s Ben Jonas, have become professional golfers.
What I find intriguing about this social history is that at the King William’s Town golf club it was only people from Ginsberg who became caddies. This may have to do with Ginsberg being the oldest township, not only in King William’s Town but perhaps South Africa.
The township’s formal establishment circa 1900 was contemporaneous with various efforts to segregate white towns from black locations. Indeed, it is only recently that Ginsberg has been referred to as a township. All the years of my childhood it was a “location”. It had no more than 1000 overcrowded houses.
But such was the fortitude of its residents that they built schools that trained the likes of Steve Biko, Steve Tshwete, Griffiths and Victoria Mxenge, produced five rugby Springboks and a couple of national boxing champions. It also produced several university graduates.
Equally interesting in the story of the golf course is how caddies lightened the burden of oppression by making fun of the oppressor. The use of humour and irony to mock the powerful is an age-old practice among oppressed people everywhere.
Caddies did this through the process of nicknaming. A nickname could easily transform a feared individual into a caricature, making it easier for the caddies to endure the more obnoxious golfers.
A nickname could be salutary or unsavoury, depending on the golfer’s behaviour and attitude towards the caddies.
A nickname, which caddies could come up with at the drop of a hat, could also be something as banal as a car registration or the description of a golf swing. For example, caddies referred to Stuart Dorrington, a big shot at King Tanneries, as “2420” – the registration of his car.
What I remember about “2420” is that he was one of the few white golfers who would stop to give us a lift as we lined up on Alexandra Road hitching rides to the course. I now wonder why this was necessary given the short distance between Alexandra Road and the course.
Dorrington’s caddy was Ncedo “Slashing Tiger” Booi, who later became a professional boxer.
When it came to cars no one came close to Jack Rosenberg, the proprietor of the Central Hotel. He drove a Jaguar XJ6 and paid caddies more than any other golfer at the club. If my memory serves me well the caddy fee was R1.20 for 18 holes but Rosenberg paid R5. Of course, only a senior caddy such as Leon Mdingi carried his bag.
There was also Scott Dawkins who was the boss at Bundy Tubing. Why the caddies called him “TV” still eludes me. His car may have had a Transvaal registration, or it may have to do with the introduction of television in South Africa in 1976.
His caddy, Mzwabantu “Mzeyks” Ntsonkotha, was the boss among the caddies, in his own quiet way. “Mzeyks”, who was also a boxer, could pack a mean punch. To my luck, he was also my classmate at primary school. There was an unstated bargain between me and “Mzeyks” – I would help him in class and he protected me at the course.
He may even be the one – with Kwekwe Bushenge – who gave me the nickname “Nogema”, which I later discovered was from Guilliano Germa, the cowboy film actor. I was so named because I also had a scar on my left cheek.
A golfer could be named for his swing. CJ Field from Cathcart was called u-Mkati-Kati. Whenever he hit the ball, the caddies would cry out, almost in unison: “Yibeth’ uyilandele Mkati-kati” (Hit and follow, Cathcart). That’s because he did not keep his feet firmly on the ground when he hit the ball. Another man was called “Mvabazisi” because he was so bad that he took you from one end of the course to the other. I am told this was Chris Oliphant from Border Footwear.
Golfers could also be named for their businesses or where they worked. One of the kindest but toughest caddies, “Nondzengane”, carried the bag of a man we simply called Giese – from Giese Motors.
There were also more vicious caddies such as “Makukurayi” , who caddied for Mr Hendricks, now the proprietor of John Forbes Pharmacy in East London. Hendricks was a good friend of my mother when he ran a pharmacy in King William’s Town. They met through the circles of the YWCA and the Rotary Club in King William’s Town. Suffice to say my caddying ways embarrassed her no end.
I caddied for Keith Shuttleworth, who gave me exactly R1.50 when the caddy fee was increased to that amount – nothing more, nothing less. Caddying for him boosted my ego in other ways, though. He was arguably the best golfer at the club when he arrived. Up until then the leading golfers were Buster Farrer – whom the caddies simply adored – and Denis Jones.
Farrer had a distinguished sports career, and was running the Farrer sportswear business in town. When my friends and I started a soccer club in Ginsberg we approached Farrer to get our first kit – on my good mother’s name. The cost for the full kit was R129. I never asked him or my mother if the bill was ever settled. But it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie sometimes.
Farrer’s caddy was “Nhanha”, who later emerged, together with East London’s Alfred Makhanda, as a leading amateur golfer in the Border region. “Nhanha” was found dead at the East London golf club, apparently stabbed by another caddy.
To paraphrase Thomas Hobbes, life was “short and brutish” for caddies.
Other members of the golf club came from prominent King William’s Town families. We called Michael Weir “i-Gqwamza” – please don’t ask me for the meaning. There was also Ray Radue, the local mayor. I assume he was linked to the Radue business in town. There were also a lot of lawyers – lawyers play a vital role in the formulation of contracts and the protection of private property, the sine qua non for modern capitalism.
I remember Mickey Webb more for speaking loudly on the course than the quality of his game, an accusation that, I am sure, can be made against me.
Neville Woolgar, who was called “Nozigweqana” because of his bandy legs, had the exact opposite temperament. Ivor Penny and Dick Ginsberg ran the posh clothing shop, Hewitt and Palmer, at the centre of town. If I had known I would one day be a researcher I would have asked Ginsberg if he was any relation to the founder of Ginsberg, the former industrialist and councillor, Franz Ginsberg.
Life at the golf course had its violent side. I was once hit with a sjambok by a caddy master – the guy supposed to regulate caddies. I had a tendency of jumping for bags without waiting my turn. This fellow, whom we called Masingatha because he came from a village of that name outside King William’s Town, had apparently been watching me for some time.
I walked around with that sjambok wound on my face for a long time at high school, to my eternal embarrassment.
Some of my nastier experiences included being pummelled by a golfer we called “Manager”. He was the club’s new manager and earned his nickname from his keenness to throw his weight around. I had jumped to grab his bag and then had second thoughts. I left the bag standing and went to hide at the caddy’s shed, where he found me. He was one of the more insalubrious white golfers.
Add to that the foul-mouthed KJ Boucher, whom the caddies called “uMntu Omkhulu” (the Old Man). The guy swore at us violently in our own language. His only competitor was called “Mbhabhabha 250”, a name which I suspect also had something to do with the size of the big car he drove.
This is only a rough sketch of the contradictions of life in a small town that was at the heart of the colonial enterprise in South Africa, from the perspective of caddies in one of the most historic townships in the country. A post-graduate student who meets UCT’s admissions requirements could develop it into a brilliant thesis for the ages.
Xolela Mangcu is an associate professor in the department of sociology, University of Cape Town
History through the eyes of a caddy
As we played we started reminiscing about our days as caddies, and who amongst us caddied for which white golfer. It occurred to me that by simply interviewing the caddies one could draw a picture of the social networks that underpinned the white power elite in King William’s Town in the 1970s and 1980s.
On the basis of that one could also trace the genealogy of that white power elite, going back to the founding of the club in 1892. The golf course, after all, was the site of entertainment for the white elite.
This can also be compared to the evolution of the life of the caddies, some of whom remain stuck as caddies today while others, like Ginsberg’s Ben Jonas, have become professional golfers.
What I find intriguing about this social history is that at the King William’s Town golf club it was only people from Ginsberg who became caddies. This may have to do with Ginsberg being the oldest township, not only in King William’s Town but perhaps South Africa.
The township’s formal establishment circa 1900 was contemporaneous with various efforts to segregate white towns from black locations. Indeed, it is only recently that Ginsberg has been referred to as a township. All the years of my childhood it was a “location”. It had no more than 1000 overcrowded houses.
But such was the fortitude of its residents that they built schools that trained the likes of Steve Biko, Steve Tshwete, Griffiths and Victoria Mxenge, produced five rugby Springboks and a couple of national boxing champions. It also produced several university graduates.
Equally interesting in the story of the golf course is how caddies lightened the burden of oppression by making fun of the oppressor. The use of humour and irony to mock the powerful is an age-old practice among oppressed people everywhere.
Caddies did this through the process of nicknaming. A nickname could easily transform a feared individual into a caricature, making it easier for the caddies to endure the more obnoxious golfers.
A nickname could be salutary or unsavoury, depending on the golfer’s behaviour and attitude towards the caddies.
A nickname, which caddies could come up with at the drop of a hat, could also be something as banal as a car registration or the description of a golf swing. For example, caddies referred to Stuart Dorrington, a big shot at King Tanneries, as “2420” – the registration of his car.
What I remember about “2420” is that he was one of the few white golfers who would stop to give us a lift as we lined up on Alexandra Road hitching rides to the course. I now wonder why this was necessary given the short distance between Alexandra Road and the course.
Dorrington’s caddy was Ncedo “Slashing Tiger” Booi, who later became a professional boxer.
When it came to cars no one came close to Jack Rosenberg, the proprietor of the Central Hotel. He drove a Jaguar XJ6 and paid caddies more than any other golfer at the club. If my memory serves me well the caddy fee was R1.20 for 18 holes but Rosenberg paid R5. Of course, only a senior caddy such as Leon Mdingi carried his bag.
There was also Scott Dawkins who was the boss at Bundy Tubing. Why the caddies called him “TV” still eludes me. His car may have had a Transvaal registration, or it may have to do with the introduction of television in South Africa in 1976.
His caddy, Mzwabantu “Mzeyks” Ntsonkotha, was the boss among the caddies, in his own quiet way. “Mzeyks”, who was also a boxer, could pack a mean punch. To my luck, he was also my classmate at primary school. There was an unstated bargain between me and “Mzeyks” – I would help him in class and he protected me at the course.
He may even be the one – with Kwekwe Bushenge – who gave me the nickname “Nogema”, which I later discovered was from Guilliano Germa, the cowboy film actor. I was so named because I also had a scar on my left cheek.
A golfer could be named for his swing. CJ Field from Cathcart was called u-Mkati-Kati. Whenever he hit the ball, the caddies would cry out, almost in unison: “Yibeth’ uyilandele Mkati-kati” (Hit and follow, Cathcart). That’s because he did not keep his feet firmly on the ground when he hit the ball. Another man was called “Mvabazisi” because he was so bad that he took you from one end of the course to the other. I am told this was Chris Oliphant from Border Footwear.
Golfers could also be named for their businesses or where they worked. One of the kindest but toughest caddies, “Nondzengane”, carried the bag of a man we simply called Giese – from Giese Motors.
There were also more vicious caddies such as “Makukurayi” , who caddied for Mr Hendricks, now the proprietor of John Forbes Pharmacy in East London. Hendricks was a good friend of my mother when he ran a pharmacy in King William’s Town. They met through the circles of the YWCA and the Rotary Club in King William’s Town. Suffice to say my caddying ways embarrassed her no end.
I caddied for Keith Shuttleworth, who gave me exactly R1.50 when the caddy fee was increased to that amount – nothing more, nothing less. Caddying for him boosted my ego in other ways, though. He was arguably the best golfer at the club when he arrived. Up until then the leading golfers were Buster Farrer – whom the caddies simply adored – and Denis Jones.
Farrer had a distinguished sports career, and was running the Farrer sportswear business in town. When my friends and I started a soccer club in Ginsberg we approached Farrer to get our first kit – on my good mother’s name. The cost for the full kit was R129. I never asked him or my mother if the bill was ever settled. But it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie sometimes.
Farrer’s caddy was “Nhanha”, who later emerged, together with East London’s Alfred Makhanda, as a leading amateur golfer in the Border region. “Nhanha” was found dead at the East London golf club, apparently stabbed by another caddy.
To paraphrase Thomas Hobbes, life was “short and brutish” for caddies.
Other members of the golf club came from prominent King William’s Town families. We called Michael Weir “i-Gqwamza” – please don’t ask me for the meaning. There was also Ray Radue, the local mayor. I assume he was linked to the Radue business in town. There were also a lot of lawyers – lawyers play a vital role in the formulation of contracts and the protection of private property, the sine qua non for modern capitalism.
I remember Mickey Webb more for speaking loudly on the course than the quality of his game, an accusation that, I am sure, can be made against me.
Neville Woolgar, who was called “Nozigweqana” because of his bandy legs, had the exact opposite temperament. Ivor Penny and Dick Ginsberg ran the posh clothing shop, Hewitt and Palmer, at the centre of town. If I had known I would one day be a researcher I would have asked Ginsberg if he was any relation to the founder of Ginsberg, the former industrialist and councillor, Franz Ginsberg.
Life at the golf course had its violent side. I was once hit with a sjambok by a caddy master – the guy supposed to regulate caddies. I had a tendency of jumping for bags without waiting my turn. This fellow, whom we called Masingatha because he came from a village of that name outside King William’s Town, had apparently been watching me for some time.
I walked around with that sjambok wound on my face for a long time at high school, to my eternal embarrassment.
Some of my nastier experiences included being pummelled by a golfer we called “Manager”. He was the club’s new manager and earned his nickname from his keenness to throw his weight around. I had jumped to grab his bag and then had second thoughts. I left the bag standing and went to hide at the caddy’s shed, where he found me. He was one of the more insalubrious white golfers.
Add to that the foul-mouthed KJ Boucher, whom the caddies called “uMntu Omkhulu” (the Old Man). The guy swore at us violently in our own language. His only competitor was called “Mbhabhabha 250”, a name which I suspect also had something to do with the size of the big car he drove.
This is only a rough sketch of the contradictions of life in a small town that was at the heart of the colonial enterprise in South Africa, from the perspective of caddies in one of the most historic townships in the country. A post-graduate student who meets UCT’s admissions requirements could develop it into a brilliant thesis for the ages.
Xolela Mangcu is an associate professor in the department of sociology, University of Cape Town
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