I Think I Grew up Better Than You

By Emily Findlow and Michael Colyer

Northern Rhodesia just off the Congo border in the nineteen fifties was thick with untamed bush, man height grass, and tall vined trees. The sweltering heat, animal paths, deadly reptiles, stinging insects, and its rivers and streams, was the world of the author and his young friends. The deluging rains, the floods and the forked lightning heralding thunderstorms, were all part and parcel of growing up in the best playground in world.

Author Michael Colyer encapsulates the wonderful enthusiasms of developing young boys. He exalts the driving force behind their escapades and antics in and just outside of a small copper mining town. In his words, our games were inadvertently dangerous learning curves, and we literally tried everything young boys dared to imagine.

The dangers shout out to you, the adventures, the boys, the animals, the reptiles and insects are very real, and the happenings are a recitation of true and unforgettable memories.

The astounding historical, geographical, animal and reptilian facts are seamlessly woven to the tales, but, read it alone, or risk laughing out loud in company at the wicked humour the author has managed to incorporate throughout.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477246986

Emily Findlow

Born in Essex England but seduced by Africa, the author, became a long time rock n’ roll guitarist and singer, and a surfing, hang gliding, motorbike loving, stock car racer. He has travelled, studied and worked throughout southern Africa, speaks four languages and is an electro-mechanical elevator engineer by trade. Now back in England and retired in Harpenden, Hertfordshire, he intends keeping himself busy with what he always dreamed of doing, writing full time.

Book preview

I Think I Grew Up

Better Than You

Michael Colyer

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© 2012 by Michael Colyer. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/26/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4697-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4698-6 (e)

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Contents

HOME

HERBET JOHN COLYER

MAISIE MARTHA COLYER

WELCOME TO AFRICA

A BIG CHOO TRAIN

IT’S A BOY THING

INSECTS, PESKY LITTLE INSECTS

THE TREASURE HUNT

THE SLEEP OVER

MISTAKEN IDENTITY

SAND PILES, BEAUTIFUL GIANT SAND PILES

DYNAMITE COMES IN SMALL PACKAGES.

WATER GAMES

IT’S A CONFIDENCE THING

SURPRISE

IT’S A SWINGING THING

A SEASIDE HOLIDAY

BABIES, AHH, BLESS.

A DIFFERENT KIND OF SLIDE

WHY, HELLO THERE

THE QUICK AND THE DEAD

A HARD DAYS EXPLORING

A RETHINK MAYBE

A SERIOUSLY BAD FELLOW

IT’S A FITNESS THING

LOOK HOW STRONG I AM

SCOUT CAMPS ARE FUN

I REALLY DON’T LIKE FISHING

Author%20photo%20as%20a%20child.jpg

And so there in 1951 was I.

Once upon a time there was a little boy who long, long ago accompanied his parents from England to darkest Africa. Actually, there were two boys, one was already fairly big and the other fairly small, but , with no disrespect whatsoever to my big brother John, this story will consist of shameful dramatizations regarding the little blonde boy, ( Ah bless ) who, just so happens to be, ( tah dah) me .

These are the formative ‘adventures’ in Africa of the said individual, I, (Oh, such a sweet child) and of course, my friends. Fearsome vagabonds and bloodthirsty pirates all, to a man, um, well okay then, to a boy.

As a matter of fact, it has to be my story, because while I am sure that the tales of big brother John’s growing up would be every bit as entertaining as my escapades, I, unfortunately, cannot be the one to relate them.

The simplest explanation to that is that John and I had never, in the traditional understanding of such things, grown up together.

John, you see, happens to be seven years my senior, the minor interruption of the Second World War, and a calling which kept my dad almost permanently away at sea, assisted somewhat in the separation of our birth dates.

Now, as I am sure you would know, the successful bridging of a seven year age gap between two young and independent brothers, well, that’s akin to walking on a slack tightrope.

Indeed, it is like walking a slack tightrope, at height, and in a gusting wind.

(Oh, do come on dear reader) Seven years is a lifetime in school boy terms. Just try if you will casting your mind back, what reams of personal change did you undergo, between the ages of ten and seventeen?

Perhaps, more significant, is what happened at a time long before I was old enough to comprehend such a thing, John left home, and, at my age that translated into, he left me.

John in fact left us to "further his education," at a boarding school called Selbourne College. Selbourne College, (just for your edification) was an accomplished and well known boy’s only school in South Africa. It had excellent reputation and vouched for recommendations, including, a "decent" and "well supervised" hostel for boys, who were accepted into the schools hostel from ages eleven to eighteen years old.

The college was situated in the then thriving port city of East London, and on the east coast of South Africa, A mere stone’s throw from the South African holiday mecca, Durban. (Distance expressed in Africa terms of course)

The school also had something I happen to know would have warmed the cockles of my dad’s heart at the time, and that was compulsory participation of at least one of a wide choice of competitive sports and outdoor activities. The most of which apparently, had well above the national schools average level of support facilities and funding, including full time professional coaching staff for several of the disciplines on offer.

It also, just by the by, happened to be well over a thousand miles travel by rail away from us. And, just to place that in clearer perspective, an approximate thirty six hour train journey at the time, from our new home in Northern Rhodesia.

Now, given that John had eleven weeks of compartmentalised school holidays a year, which, when broken down, and excluding the travelling time to and fro, added up to a total of nine weeks home-time.

The school year was divided into four terms with holiday breaks at the end of each quarterly term, with the Christmas period being the longest at six weeks.

Those breaks were the sum of the time that we (John and I) had to bond, or, to be together.

For us in fact to become siblings, and friends, and then, to make matters worse, even that time was reduced because John elected and gained permission to stay with his local schoolboy friends, to stay in their homes, and with their families, for the duration of the ten day end of term holidays.

In retrospect, it is perfectly natural that he did, but, I could hardly have been expected to understand that at the time. The fact is I’m pretty sure that I would have done exactly the same thing in his place. What vibrant teenage boy would opt to spend a third of his holiday time riding on a train?

Sadly, the truth is that because we mostly only met twice a year, and spent so little time together; we were inevitably mixed into a relationship which never had the time to honestly overcome the instinctive feel of a big boy spending time with a little boy.

So, basically, we grew up individually, and as individuals, he had friends and associates I didn’t understand, and couldn’t relate to, and obviously the same thing applied to John regarding my friends.

I did however, for the most part, like it when his girlfriends visited, I always did like a good fussing over, and fussing over me always seemed available in abundance when any of John’s big girls were around.

My Big brother John was happy with his lot in general, and it showed, and, well, I wasn’t too miserable myself, all things considered.

John nevertheless, managed somehow to become a striving pathfinder for me, the one who took the ‘lumps’ out of my liberty, liberties I managed to almost routinely to take for granted in his wake, and of course, in his absence.

Ooh yes, my life was grand, just peachy, according to my big brother that is.

Now then dear reader, just to ensure that the record is kept ‘straight’, it is right and proper at this point, for me, the spoilt one, to surreptitiously admit to you that my big brother John, for more reasons than I can elucidate, was then, and still remains, my hero.

HOME

Now, while I’m sure that Northern Rhodesia ( now Zambia ) does not qualify as darkest Africa, I think where we settled in Chingola ( a small copper mining town in the far north of that sub-tropical country and just off the border of the then Belgian Congo ) there are some large and extended river bank areas which just about deserve to qualify as darkest Africa, if one uses artistic licence of course, and looks at it from a flora and fauna perspective.

Ohh, come along all you nit pickers, I read up (avidly) on ‘Tarzan’ as a pre-teen, and considered Edgar Rice ‘Wheelbarrow’ a genius on all thing African. (I inexplicably by the way, mistakenly believed that to be his surname for years) ‘Uncle’ Edgar often described scenarios of high trees ‘spider-webbed’ and canopied with thick leaved vines. (Tick that block)

And, his characters followed single file pathways through reeds, grass and weeds taller than a man. Paths created by the footfall and bodily passage of many generations of all sorts of wild animals that just so happened to carve through what otherwise what would have remained virtually impenetrable foliage. (Tick that)

Then there are the descriptions of the ever present dangers of the denizens in and around the dark and silent running rivers, and the incessant sounds and periodic (very sudden, very significant,) ‘hush’ of a zillion insects, which was, to the wary, a warning of potential danger. (And you can put a big fat tick against that block as well)

I can vividly remember instances of the short hairs on the back of my neck standing to attention when everything seemed to stop in sudden eerie silence.

Amongst this, (dear sceptics) and many other ‘Tarzan world’ things, I and my young accomplices, lived, breathed, and tapped into an ever-present and on-going source of wonder and excitement, and of course, danger.

Ooh yes, there were dangers out there, much and many more than we boys ever realised or understood, but, in the fundamental truth of youth and folly going hand in glove, it was rarely perceived as ‘bad’ enough to jeopardise our need for fun and adventure.

In fact, danger was never truly factored into what thinking we did. I guess it’s fair to say we ‘grew up with it’, or, into it, and, so to speak, believed that nothing bad would ever visit us personally.

Actually, it was much to do with the fact that we knew ourselves to be quick and agile, and, thought of ourselves as fast runners. Given the fact that we had ‘learnt’ to clamber up trees of every shape and size on the run, and literally jump and play in and between them fearlessly, (often at ‘dizzy’ heights) like monkeys, we had, to our way of thinking, a virtual guaranteed escape route from ‘come what may’.

All thanks of course, to being ‘daring-do Tarzan-boys’, and naturally, to our wise mentor, Edgar Rice Wheelbarrow.

HERBET JOHN COLYER

My dad, Herbert John Colyer (Jack to his friends) was an ex Royal Navy officer.

In civilian life, (before joining the navy) by virtue of a seven year apprenticeship, he became an artisan, and was in every respect, a fully qualified plumber.

He was also a jovial but self-disciplined ‘honkey tonk’ piano playing man, in the style of a relatively famed chap he enjoyed listening to, called ‘Benny Role Baker’.

Dad, I believe, had held a (navy) middle weight boxing title, and was, by all accounts, a man you could pick with confidence to ‘ride the river’ with.

But, more importantly to me, (in my juvenile life,) he was also an avid and multi-talented sportsman. Amongst several other sports, he was a cricketer (first team opening batsman) and a first team midfield (centre half in those days) footballer, obviously in their relative summer, winter seasons, and, was still playing in the first team regularly at forty something years old.

He played in fact until my mother eventually pulled rank, and dug her heels in after growing tired of having to live and deal with an ever growing list of aches, pains, sprains and pulled muscles.

Dad took a drink, ooh, yes he did, especially in ‘winning’ after match celebrations down at the mine club, (which also happened to be the town hall), but, he was never a drinker in the ‘understood’ context of that particular word.

An after six o’clock ‘sun-downer’ (or two) for my parents was considered their ‘quality’ time together. And, while I wasn’t expected to attend, there was always a cool-drink of my choice on offer, when I did.

The sun is over the yard arm he would say, to which I would grin and nod ‘wisely’ because he was always smiling when he said it, even if, and for the longest time, I had no idea of what he was talking about.

Dad was, I estimate, about five feet nine inches tall on tip toes, athletically built, and I thought a handsome man, even allowing for his receding hairline.

Now that, I decided was not ‘cool’, and, after long and careful consideration, I distinctly recall determining that I was not going to allow it to happen to my hair.

In retrospect, I have realised that my dad was a ‘nice’ man, a decent man who subscribed to ‘Christian principle’, without making an issue of it. He had a large heart, and an even larger circle of friends and acquaintances.

Dad was a man slow to be angered and quick to forgive. Having said that, I can testify, you did not want to anger my dad, I have seen him angry, and I have seen him deal with trouble, ‘efficiently’.

He hated all forms of cruelty, and would absolutely not allow it in his presence.

The simple fact is he grew up hard in England and could look after himself. He worked on the canal coal barges after leaving school (at thirteen) with ‘hard’ men, and was doing so until he was lucky enough to be apprenticed, and, I’m guessing as a consequence of having to ‘keep up’ and be a ‘man’ at fourteen years old, he had to learn to draw a line in the sand, and, be prepared to deal with anyone who stepped over it.

‘Jack’ was very capable of ‘standing his man’, and would, no matter the size of the opposition.

I seem to recall ‘ma’ muttering something under her breath onetime during a football related ‘dust-up’, about the British Bulldog, and how she hadn’t worked out yet whether it was very brave, or very stupid, to be one.

MAISIE MARTHA COLYER

Mother , Maisie, Martha Colyer (nee Reed) or ‘ma’, as we, John and I and all our friends, addressed her.

Ma was like a wolf in sheep’s clothing to us boys, because she was as sharp as a razor and had a mind like a steel trap. Ma missed none of the things we’d manage to get past dad, and, if things needed to be said, or done, well you had better believe that they were said and done, then and there, and that did not exclude addressing ‘Jack’s’ perceived transgressions.

When I think on it, it is more than possible that my dad (when circumstance allowed) used this particular trait of ‘ma’s’ to his advantage on us ‘hooligans’, knowing full well when we had been ‘noted’ (by ma) and were in truth, already knee deep in the ‘mire’, all he had to do was wait until ma’s hammer fell.

He was (I believe) very adept at using the ‘good cop bad cop ploy’ long before we knew that such a thing existed. "Jack, you had better speak to this boy" ma would say, and, in a pained one note higher voice, expound on the dastardly nature of our (my) scandalous ‘crimes’.

More often than not, a swift ‘clip’ as a precursor would almost certainly be dealt, closely followed by the dreaded "look at me boy", and an eye to eye lecture highlighting all manner of dire consequences.

The strange thing was that it always seemed to consist of the longest imaginable words, which for the most part were way above my command of the English language. However, not, I repeat not, above my comprehending, as he so obviously intended, every nuance of the warning they represented.

Did I mention that dad’s extensive library covered the works of Shakespeare and Greek mythology? Or, that he was a Freemason, and ever since I can remember he has always had a study, and was studying one thing or another virtually throughout his working life.

And, while I’m on a literary subject, I have never, to this day, seen a more beautiful and precise handwriting as my fathers. Yes, he was slow, and yes his lettering was big, but each letter, each word in each sentence to my ‘uneducated’ eye, was so exact it was incomprehensible that such a work of ‘beauty’ could be produced freehand.

My best efforts, on ‘lined’ paper (which he disdained) to this very day, remains an every which-way slanted scrabble in comparison.

But, I digress, back to ma. Ma was born to be a career woman. Later in my life, when I was old enough to ‘listen’, and to understand such a thing, ma admitted that she just had never had the patience or skills required to be a good housewife. (Note well, I use the word housewife, not mother, for we have always known she loved us all, unconditionally.)

Not, that she didn’t give being a housewife her best shot of course, but, if the truth be told, in those days, several items of homemade clothing, unfortunately, turned out decidedly ‘odd’, and, many a culinary presentation was eaten quietly with tight smiles, or, with ‘long teeth’, as the local natives used to say about an unappealing ‘dish’.

Oh, and while I’m on that particular subject, whoo boy, we, big brother and I, learnt very fast (initially with pain in the picture) that criticism of ma’s genuine efforts, even in mild form, genuinely hurt her, and in turn, invoked genuine anger in dad.

I would say to ‘lie’ (an unforgiveable transgression under any circumstance) was top of dad’s crime list, "A man’s word is his bond." he would say, but, ‘hurting’ ma in any way shape or form, was absolutely, absolutely taboo.

As mentioned, ma was a career woman, at a time when, and in a place where, it was deemed unfashionable, ("Not the done thing old chap") and was made unfairly ‘difficult’ for any woman so aspiring. I also know that she always held the unwavering trust, backing and belief of my dad, and with that, worked her way to fully deserve what she attained later in life, to become the top lady of an international company in her chosen administrative field.

Having said all that, never at any time that I am aware of, did ‘ma’ forget her roots, never mind that in company she had the posh accent and the big words to go with it, she remained an Essex girl, born into a large and humble family of eleven (including grandma and grandpa) in the village of West Thurrock, where her brothers, sisters and friends would have laughed her off the street, had she tried to pull off the ‘la ti dah’ thing.

That said, I don’t think ma ever fully appreciated how wondrous her memory was, it was viewed merely as an ability she had, a gift, an unearned tool she could utilize, and, (as far as she was concerned) nothing to ‘brag’ or have airs and graces about.

It did make her impatient with us though, and I suspect with others too. Ma could skim through a page (fast) and remember every last detail ten days later. I’d read a page (slowly) and remember 10% of it if I’m lucky, three minutes later. You do get where I’m coming from, don’t you?

In endeavouring to be honest I must address the fact that I have perhaps unintentionally painted an incomplete ‘picture’ of ma, let me state categorically that all of our friends thought her the bee’s knees. Yes, she could be the sharp tongued dragon lady herself if you transgressed her ‘polite society’ rules, rules which in essence, asked for nothing more than a reasonable attention to politeness and the usage of good manners.

Oh, and just so you know, those rules applied all of the time, everywhere, and to all and sundry, including dad and his (sometimes) ‘ruffian’ soccer mates.

Oh, the embarrassment of yester-years, of standing by while ma ‘corrected’ the rude shop assistant at the counter, or, the ‘wretch’ who tried to jump the queue, any queue, anywhere.

On the other hand, ma could produce a surprisingly contagious full throated laugh when she was amused, and regularly get caught up in a prolonged fit of giggling like a young schoolgirl. I liked that, but, it did concern me sometimes, because half the time I found myself giggling with her, without actually knowing why I was laughing.

A case in point was the time when I had just climbed into the bath and was reminded (in passing) to wash ‘specific’ parts of my body, and in all