The dance champion of Bapsfontein

Bapsfontein is a peculiar place. In the era before highways, the route we’d take to Pretoria from Springs, where I grew up, was always via Bapsfontein. There are two main reasons this small town rooted itself in my consciousness. First, it–and specifically Bapsfontein Hotel–was the dance capital of the East Rand and, second, on its outskirts, instead of plots and mine dumps, you drove past the first real farms: waving green maize fields in summer; yellow-brown maize stubble and cobs in autumn; everything dull and dusty in winter; and later, burnt pitch black. As for springtime, oh, when the soil had been ploughed after the first rains and the rich red sods smiled from among the cosmos flowers…

I’m not suggesting there is anything wrong with mine dumps or plots. The dumps