The blue Tombi

Anyone who were around in the town of Uitenhage where I grew up in the seventies will probably remember the old blue Volkswagen Kombi. CCN 27. It was my granddad’s first ever new vehicle, and he bought it out of the box from the Volkswagen dealer in Uitenhage when it was manufactured in 1959. Dark blue, small window at the back, split wind-screen. Maximum speed, 70 miles per hour. And no flickers. It had those little lighted semaphore-signals at the sides to show the driver’s intent to turn. The heavy body and the eleven-hundred CC engine didn’t make it the ultimate mean speed-machine, but it was a comfortable way of transport for granddad, grandma and the 6 kids.

So in 1968 when my granddad passed away, my dad bought the Kombi from my grandmother for something like R100. A whole lot of money at the time. I recall our first attempt to take the Kombi on the road just a couple of days after my dad got it. We were going to drive to my dad’s doctor in Humansdorp, something like 50 km away. Just out of Uitenhage, with the wind blowing like it can just blow in the Eastern-Cape, the constant fight to keep the Kombi in the road was just too much for my dad, and he turned around to go and get the other car. I think it was still the old 6-cylinder 1948 model Dodge.

Later my mom got her learners license and my dad had to teach her how to drive. With the Kombi off course. My dad was not known for too much patience, and after work on a week day the family will all get into the Kombi, my mom with a patch of lipstick for the grand occasion, already all stressed out, my sister and me, and off course my dad. He will drive somewhere to the outskirts of Uitenhage where they were building roads for new residential developments, and once out of sight of all other cars and pedestrians, my mom will move over the driver’s side. And my sister and myself will go and sit right at the back, on the engine compartment.

We had two of these hand-puppets, Dagwood and Blondie. Mine was Dagwood, my sister’s Blondie. And as my dad taught my mom too drive in the front, Dagwood will teach Blondie to drive at the back of the Kombi.

The biggest frustration for my mom must have been to practice ad finitum to pull away with the Kombi on a bad gravel road without any two stones moving under the wheels. Or without the Kombi moving back a millimetre when she let the clutch out on an incline of massive proportions. And she wasn’t allowed to use the hand-brake – because my dad was of the opinion that excessive use of it will wear out the cable. So after endless unsuccessful repetitions my dad’s patience will wear thin, his instructive volume and tone will go higher and Dagwood at the back will replicate.

The result: My dad furious. My mom in tears. Dagwood steaming and shouting, Blondie near hysterical.

And my mom wanted to give up her intent to learn to drive and my dad won’t allow her to give up. And divorce lurking on the horizon with every driving lesson gone by.

My mom eventually got her license and the red letter “L” was removed from the rear window. And this was more or less the time when the legend of the blue Kombi was born in Uitenhage.

Because my mom will take us to school in the morning and on her way have a whole route of picking up kids along the way. A whole Kombi-bus-load of them. And in the afternoons, about 15 minutes before the school bell rang, the blue Kombi was waiting outside for the route back home. All the kids running to get a good seat (first come, first serve), and my sister and me off course having the usual fight of who sits in front.

This carried on for years, and even when we went to high-school. The blue Kombi was always ready at it’s post with my mom behind the steering wheel.

Many years later, when my daughter was born and started to talk, I loved to take her for a ride in the Blue Kombi when I visited my folks in Uitenhage. But she could never say “Kombi”, she called it the “Tombi”. So the following conversation will take place a number of times every time we went for a drive:

Me: “Say KOMBI”.

She: “TOMBI”.

Me: “No, KOMBI”.

She: “TOMBI”.

Me: “Say K”.

She: “K”.

Me: “Now say K-K-K”.

She: “K-K-K”.

Me: “Now say K-K-K-Kombi”.

She: “K-K-K-TOMBI”.

I will never forget that precious little face and the concentration on her face. And all of a sudden, one day, the Tombi became the Kombi. And my little baby grew up. And I’m getting old.

The Blue Kombi is still on the road. After my dad passed away, I gave it to my cousin in Lichtenburg, who always wanted the Kombi. And I want to go and visit him one of these days to just go and remember the days of long since gone. And to smell the old upholstery and listen to the ever so familiar engine noise from the back. And to remember the times when the Kombi was still a Tombi in the eyes of my little girl.

Until next time!