Bummies

Perhaps the most serious part of Rag Procession at UCT were the “Bummies”. A group of dedicated students hand-picked to train together and bring up the much vaunted rear of the procession – literally as a group of Bum Majorettes. They were serious because as burly, beer-swilling young men, they needed a fair amount of “Dutch courage” to parade the city streets in fishnet stockings, women’s bras and make up, marching completely out of time to two weeks of practice and preparation.

Admin did not approve of alcohol consumption – they were serious, and the Bummies were serious – serious about having fun and going big or going home. Admin had a serious problem. The Bummies were by far the most popular attraction, and hordes of people held excitedly on to their pennies in order to pepper the “pisscats” – another reason why it was necessary for them to be numbed by the effects of alcohol.

As much as Admin hated them, the public adored them. Admin banned them every year, yet every year they marched with more determination and less coordination. Bottle stores sold them cheaper beer, fast food outlets cooked them free meals, chemists sponsored survival kits of Prohep and Guronsan C and ordinary civilians would load them into buses, taxis and trains at the end of the day and pay for their trip back to Varsity. Even the strict SA police and traffic department left them alone. Rag day was their day – they had fun, gave fun and made money.

And still Admin frowned. Yet each year some bright student found a loophole and the public at large exploited it unashamedly, even if it meant changing the name and uniform to Dummies at the request of a handful of hairy feminists who took offence at women being imitated by men, but who could never, in their wildest dreams, have looked as good as a made up Bummy. The Bummies felt nothing for petty protests. They had a job to do, and anyone in their way could be sure that they would have a special march in their honour the following year. The feminists received a chant of low grunts and gorilla posture with arms swinging and knuckles dragging.

It seemed amazing that during such a politically tense time in South African history people could be so dedicated to destroying any signs of refreshingly different behaviour. Sure, we got drunk, drunker than I’ve ever been – public or not – but we achieved a win-win situation for so many people. We had fun, a short visit back to childhood with no inhibitions and no responsibilities. People laughed at us and with us and about us, but they laughed loudly and openly. All this, and we made money, large amounts of it for needy charities.

I say we, because, yes, I was a Bummy. I have no regrets or confessions. To see through the alcohol induced haze of your vision, rows and rows of hysterical children, giggling grannies and cackling coloureds all with precious coins clutched in sweaty palms giving their all to worthy cause and a celebration of uninhibited joy.

Ironically, it was the street kids, who needed the money most who found the most fun in scraping the coins off the hot tar, collecting them carefully and then placing them gently into the incessantly rattling collection tins. They did not keep them, or throw them with gleeful abandon, but solemnly gave back what for a precious moment was all theirs.

Not many of the Bummies would make it through the whole day, but somehow they would all meet again in the next week, dressed and respectable and swop stories of their heroics and antics, each one trying to outdo the other, yet each one knowing full well the new found friendships and memory of making people laugh.

The Brummies were the finest club or organisation I belonged to at UCT. Legends not only in their minds.

BOYS, GO BIG OR GO HOME.