Shorelines by Chris Marais Page B

inside. A couple in their seventies lurched out of the restaurant as pissed as fowls. Their table heaved with empty wine bottles. She was on a collision course with a wall when her grinning partner – red face, mariner’s cap at jaunty angle – grabbed her elbow and steered her straight.
    “Let me tell you something, buddy,” she roared at the old guy. “They won’t forget us here in a hurry.” Oh, please let that be us in 20 years’ time, we prayed.
    Feeling reckless after a great session at the seafood trough, we headed off for a place called Tieties Bay, just for the drive. But we got sidetracked by a sign to Jacobs Bay. Wanna go there? I asked. Jules nodded and off we went.
    We drove around a corner and found a colony of white mansions on the left. To the right was a perfect little bay, with five tiny fishing boats bobbing in the water like bathtub toys. A restaurant nestled into the rocks on the other side of the bay, dangerously close to the waterline. We went in. Perhaps there was ouzo on offer. Inside, we heard sales talk from the bar:
    “Now onto that you add the commission, and the final figure you’re looking at is …” There was a table packed with brochures and what looked like completed deeds of sale. Jules picked up one of the flyers:
    “Beachfront Properties. We sell: Pristine Properties, Development, Apartments, Homes, Plots with stunning beachfront views in all coastal regions of South Africa.”
    “Let’s run away,” I muttered to my wife.
    “Can I help you?” A large man with slate-grey eyes and a big aura approached.
    “Are you the manager?” was all I could muster.
    “No, I’m the owner. Wynand Odendaal’s the name.”
    We explained ourselves. Couple on the road, writing a book on the coast, just arrived out of the blue, yadda yadda. Wynand Odendaal, clearly on a marketing high, expansively showed us around his restaurant and the clump of chalets outside at the back.
    “Here’s the chapel. And here are my cards.” One said he was the CEO of Beachfront Properties. The other identified him as the pastor of Select Ministries. Pastor Odendaal had a big fish inside the restaurant, signing an offer to purchase the property for a lot of money. He told us how he’d made a killing here, but it was just another day at the office for him.
    “In my church, I teach people how to make money God’s way,” he said. “In Jeremiah, it says ‘Come not with money. Come with faith and anointing.’ That’s what I do. You never use your own money – that’s the overemotional thing to do. Use the bank’s money. If they commit themselves to your project, you know it’s going to work.”
    How had he become so successful, we wanted to know.
    “Because I was once poor,” he said. “I own a Mercedes-Benz sports car but I’m not sentimental about it. If one of my missionaries wants to use it, he can. You know, the more I give, the more I get. It’s a nightmare,” he laughed.
    What made him choose to go coastal?
    “God spoke to me. He said Buy Beachfront.”
    I have never been able to hide my emotions. My craggy old face is an open book. So the good pastor spotted my disbelief instantly, and in turn displayed just a small degree of ‘irk’.
    “I know God’s voice.” And who were we, really, to argue? We were the people down there in the diesel bakkie , he was the guy in the big German car.
    Why, we wanted to know, did so many people own second houses by the sea? Houses they hardly ever lived in?
    “When the Saambou group collapsed at the Millennium, a lot of Afrikaners lost faith in banking,” said Wynand. “They put their money into property instead. Coastal property.” So these sad little manicured-yet-unpeopled seaside villages along the West Coast were all sound investments. We obviously had so much to learn.
    As we drove off, Jules observed:
    “In the old days of St Helena Bay, the rich whites lived up on the hill and the poor coloured fishermen lived next to the sea. Now