Two Hotels, One Inn and the Ghost of Widow Hartley
It‘s the year of 1966, it‘s springtime in South Africa and widespread rains have fallen over the countryside. The mealie fields in the Free State stand tall and, in the apartheid cabinet of Prime Minister Hendrik Verwoerd, some refer to the majority of the population as -natives‘ and -bantu‘.
I am in the Air Force Gymnasium, in a ceremonial guard-of-honour unit for the State President, Mr CR Swart, a tall, thin man (with a top hat) nicknamed -Blackie‘. So there we have the ceremonial head of government called Blackie ruling over the masses who were often referred to as -die Swart Gevaar‘ (Black Danger).
Thinking back now, it seems so hideously weird. With a veneer of liberalism, three of my rebellious friends and I go AWOL and undertake a quick protest weekend trip down to Durbs by the sea. But matters soon unravel as we start a pub crawl in all the towns on the road to the coast. After Nottingham Road Hotel we wobble our way towards the Berg and end up in the
