Cut with Conviction: Reminiscences of a Zululand Surgeon

By Mike Damp

The cheetah had been disrespectful of his grandchildren… Enough reason for a 40-kg, 1.4-metre tall Bushman grandfather to track down and kill a ferocious predator with a stabbing spear in solitary combat in the Kalahari Desert, only to suffer near fatal injuries himself--one of many such patients confronting Mr Mike Damp in this wonderful tale of the way it was in a world that now seems so impossibly faraway.
A heady mix of one man's adventure through the sort of medical and cultural challenges few modern-day western physicians would ever expect to encounter. This is a story of perseverance and great dedication as well as a reflection of how man's best intentions and tireless efforts can so easily turn to dust and decay.
But above all, Cut with Conviction is a love story. Of the despairing love for a continent and its people fast being reclaimed by a heart of darkness as unstoppable as the forces of nature that both nurture and destroy as it washes over the vast plains and rivers and mountains of a lost paradise.
Then there is the mix of exhilarating joy and sheer terror in a flying doctor's life in Zululand, of transporting critically ill patients in all weather conditions over some of the most inhospitable terrain, often with little or no navigational aids while a fellow doctor, seated next to the patient in the cramped space of a small plane, desperately tries to keep life going with the aid of basic life-support equipment.
Africa is a land of unique and rare beauty that mystifies many with its great contradictions. This story unfolds during the apparent stability of grand apartheid and the turbulent times during its collapse and aftermath.
Cut with Conviction is a must-read for all who love adventure, medical issues, flying, travel and Africa.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781528971317

Mike Damp

Mike is passionate about the country of his birth. He was born in Durban at the dawn of Apartheid and medically educated in Cape Town. He worked for twenty-five years in rural Africa amongst the Zulus as an old-fashioned general surgeon. He has always loved the African bush and her indigenous people and has an equal passion for aviation. His aspiration to create a centre of surgical excellence in Zululand was demolished by the pre-independence civil war, the ravages of HIV/AIDS along with political and bureaucratic incompetence. As his world dissolved about him, he was offered a rural surgical appointment in South Australia.

Book preview

History

About the Author

Mike is passionate about the country of his birth. He was born in Durban at the dawn of Apartheid and medically educated in Cape Town. He worked for twenty-five years in rural Africa amongst the Zulus as an old-fashioned general surgeon. He has always loved the African bush and her indigenous people and has an equal passion for aviation. His aspiration to create a centre of surgical excellence in Zululand was demolished by the pre-independence civil war, the ravages of HIV/AIDS along with political and bureaucratic incompetence. As his world dissolved about him, he was offered a rural surgical appointment in South Australia.

Dedication

Dedicated to all my colleagues, past and present, who remain in South Africa to serve the people I abandoned.

Copyright Information ©

Mike Damp (2020)

The right of Mike Damp to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Author’s Note: I have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from my memories of them. In order to maintain their anonymity in some instances, I have changed the names of individuals and places; I may have changed some identifying characteristics and details such as physical properties, occupations and places of residence. Austin Macaulay Publishers will not be liable for any and all claims or causes of action, known or unknown, arising out of the contents of this book.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528945332 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528971317 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2020)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

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London

E14 5LQ

A quotation I love is: Some of my best memories never occurred. These recollections are, however, as true a depiction of certain of my experiences and of my life as I can make. I have changed certain names to avoid embarrassment. If you recognise yourself in the following pages, I thank you for having enriched my life in a very special way.

Acknowledgement

I am very grateful to many people who assisted me with this book –

Martin Van Rooijen for the front cover and all the other art work,

Eben Beukes for penning the introduction, synopsis and back page blurb,

Dugald Ross for the back-page image and

Peter Jolly and Jinny Hussey for proofreading.

I do not have words to express my immeasurable gratitude to Penny for her support, patience and guidance, not only in the editing of this book but throughout our marriage. You are the unseen, unsung but essential heroine of it all. Without you nothing could have been achieved.

Southern Africa

Synopsis

Cut with Conviction is an absorbing autobiography, penned with sensitivity and humour within the cultural and political framework of pre- and post-Apartheid South Africa. Written ‘from the heart’, it is an insightful account of people and experiences that have a personal, emotional and professional effect on the writer.

A number of themes reoccur throughout the narrative. 1) The author’s need for and love of the bush. 2) His understanding of, compassion for and respect for all South Africa’s people. 3) His love of flying and abiding affection for the Duchess that features in the daring medical flying episodes that literally and figuratively connect the writer with diverse people, experiences and places. It also plays an important role in the life-changing move to Australia. 4) The changing medical educational paradigm and working environment, coupled with a sense of déjà vu as the Australian system is inextricably overextended financially and philosophically.

The manuscript is written with honesty, conviction and a great sense of fun and humour at a time of life when, having moved away from South Africa, the writer is able to reflect on experiences and attempts to come to terms with events and decisions. The manuscript is filled with interesting anecdotes, is insightful and often poignant.

Introduction

My family has repeatedly asked me to make a few notes about my life. They feel I have had more than my fair share of narrow escapes and interesting incidents. I do not see myself in that light and prefer to think that I have been very fortunate.

My luck began with my birth. I doubt if I could have been born to more caring parents. I readily confess to having never wanted for anything essential in my life. I always had everything I required to give me the ultimate chance of success. I often wonder about the qualities that parents should exhibit in order to enable their offspring to prosper from the moment of conception to the grave. I do not have all the answers, but I do know that my parents showered me with more love than I could comprehend.

Along with this love came a lot of discipline and understanding of the importance of responsibility, on a personal level and to my community and country. All this was learned not by word but by observation. My parents’ actions spoke so loudly of the love they had for my siblings and myself, and also conveyed to us the necessity and the obligation to take responsibility for everything we did. Integrity, dependability and compassion are the words that immediately spring to mind when I think of the way they lived their lives. No one could ask for a better example. What a great start I had to my life.

My next significant break came in the form of my elder brother. To say that he is ‘a chip off the old block’ is no exaggeration. Some of my earliest memories are of his friends and the respect they had for him. I mistakenly understood this respect to emanate from the fact that he was so much larger than I. I suppose I thought his friends saw him in that light as well. This was not the case as he was never physically bigger than his friends. It was only when I was at secondary school, that I started to understand that he commanded respect because of the person he was. He is a born leader, who has excelled at everything he turned his hand to. One of my greatest sorrows is the fact that one is separated from one’s family as one grows up. We marry and move on with our own lives. I am jealous of those fortunate enough to have been in daily contact with my parents and brother.

I suppose this creates the impression that my two younger sisters are of minor importance to me and have not contributed to my store of serendipity. Nothing could be further from the truth. It is true that life is hard. Just how hard has been vividly demonstrated to me in how it has dealt with the older of my two sisters. Maureen is no less a chip off the old block than Graham, in that she has never wavered in her responsibilities. She has never let the side down, even when everything was going horribly against her. Her strength of character, dedication to duty and unflinching stoicism in the face of all the wrongs that life could have heaped upon her, is further testimony to the example set by our parents.

My younger sister, Elizabeth, is the powder in the keg. She combines all the qualities of my other two siblings, and to this, has added her personal brand of high-octane energy and enthusiastic optimism.

The stories I will relate must be seen against the background of my upbringing and my marriage. Penny somehow encapsulates all the sterling qualities I have already mentioned. How I managed to capture and then keep her, remains to this day a mystery. Without her, nothing would have been possible.

I have never lacked for examples to follow. I have never made a difficult decision without the comfort of knowing how my wife and family would perceive my actions. In short, I have been truly lucky.

This collection of stories would, in all probability, never have seen the light of day, had I remained in Africa. Leaving ‘home’ at 49 years of age has been an emotionally difficult thing for me and these reminiscences have, in some way, been therapeutic.

They were written primarily for me.

Student Days

I had a good childhood. That might sound a little hackneyed, but in these days when it is fashionable to attribute all one’s foibles to early childhood misadventures, I find myself without excuse. All my deficiencies were entirely of my own making. I cannot remember anything sinister – that is not to say that I suffered no shortcomings or setbacks.

I was myopic, requiring spectacles from my second year at school. This obvious imperfection, coupled with my surname made me the easy victim of discrimination, which in itself is not a bad thing. I am inadequate at self-analysis but think my inability to accept marginalisation was why I strove for acceptance at school.

I also became a little too outspoken. An example of a rash outburst that almost curtailed my education occurred in my seventh year at school. Mr Deeble, deputy headmaster of my junior school was demonstrating a science experiment to the class and asked a question to which I gave an inappropriate answer. He followed my utterance by stating, Damp by name and damp by nature. I stupidly and reflexively answered, Yes, sir, Deeble by name and feeble by nature!

My outspokenness has been an ongoing failure and whilst at junior school, this led me to spend long periods outside the classroom daydreaming, while my mates within acquired knowledge. My outspokenness also occasioned numerous trips to the headmaster’s office carrying a note that invariably led to a few strokes from Mr Mason’s Malacca cane. This self-destructive and painful process was frequently repeated at high school.

An outstanding memory I have of my junior school years is the many hours I spent watching my father shave in the mornings. His method of shaving was deliberate, methodical and predictable. The wash-hand basin was filled with water at the exact correct temperature, the razor blade was removed and honed on a semi-circular glass plate, the shaving cream was lathered to the appropriate fluffiness and the stubble then removed in the identical, choreographed manner. The reason for these daily observations was that I could not spell. Every morning, I would have to learn ten new words. Whilst shaving, he would quiz me on the new words and revise words learnt weeks ago. Dad was patient and encouraging, but despite his dedication I still transpose both letters and figures. My spelling remains atrocious.

An abiding memory of my childhood is the environment in which I grew up. Situated between our house and my junior school was an area of roughly six acres of pristine, coastal lowland forest. We all walked to school in those days and there was a shortcut through this small forest remnant. About half way through, where the path neared a large flat crown tree¹, one of our parents had attached a stout rope to a high branch making an excellent swing. I spent many hours en route to and from school on the swing, marvelling at my surroundings. At that stage, I did not know the names of the trees but developed an appreciation for the deeply fluted, smooth, ten-meter trunk of the milkwood², the many stemmed black monkey orange tree³, the large forest natal mahogany⁴ and the indestructible, thorny elm⁵.

In those days, parents were at ease with their children playing in the bush and I cannot remember my parents or schoolteachers warning us about the fruit of the monkey orange tree. The fruit has an incredibly tough skin and contains poisonous seeds covered with a delicious yellow pulp. We must have followed the vervet monkeys’ example and sucked the custardy pulp from the seeds that we then spat out. I cannot recall any of us ever eating a seed or becoming sick. We made our robust fighting sticks from the thorny elm’s coppicing growth, and attempted to emulate the agile, robust and ever courageous Zulu warriors to no ill effect.

The University of Natal was situated just up the road from our house and beyond that, vacant land stretched for kilometres down to the Umbilo River. Here again, Keith Kirsten⁶ and I built camps in the bush, hunted birds, collected eggs, trapped small mammals and lizards and generally had a good time. During those formative years, I developed a love for the bush that has never left me.

I came to study medicine via a circuitous route. I had not been a particularly gifted student and my father believed that Latin would assist me to develop a better mind. On arrival at Durban High School, I followed my brother’s footsteps and was admitted to Form 3LA (year eight). This was supposedly the brightest class in my year group, and catered for all those studying Latin, Physics and Chemistry. Many of my classmates had been given a thorough grounding in Latin at prep school. My brother and I had not learnt Latin at junior school, so we started senior school at a great disadvantage.

Graham was more than equal to the task and took Latin to matriculation (year 12) and did well. I was never that good and at Junior Certificate level (year 10), managed to obtain only 6%, bringing disgrace, not only to myself but to the school as well. My abysmal performance allowed me to swap courses for my final two years at school. I chose Biology and History as replacements. I was far better suited to these and did quite nicely getting distinctions for both as well as claiming the Biology Prize.

My ambition whilst at school, was to be a game ranger working for the Natal Parks Board. I had no other ambition and felt that school was a bit of a waste of time. I just wanted to be in the bush. It seems weird to say this, but fortunately I had bad teeth. This necessitated frequent visits to my parents’ dentist, Dr Nolly Zaloumis. Nolly’s brother George, was a game ranger and Nolly was, apart from being a superb naturalist, an authority on wild waterfowl. Nolly convinced me to consider a career somewhat divorced from my hobby. He argued that one needs something other than work to keep one happy. He broached the subject of my becoming a vet.

This suggestion resonated with me as I had experienced veterinary work as a result of various misdemeanours at school. My progress through the years at high school had been uninterrupted but after three years, I had slipped down the academic hierarchy from the top class in the form to the fifth and lowest class. My poor academic behaviour was mirrored by similar social misconduct. After a surfeit of corporal punishment, the headmaster and my parents concluded that I should work after school and on Saturday mornings at Amos & Co, a veterinary practice near the school. Here, I learnt a lot about cleaning out cages, sweeping and mopping floors, mixing horse powders and observing surgical operations, and so I developed an interest in veterinary work. Nolly’s advice and encouragement nurtured this desire and I saw my future at Onderstepoort,⁷ training to become a vet.

I must digress for a moment to share an incident whilst at junior school, that had a profound effect on me. Graham received a Durban Municipal Scholarship to attend the ‘Veld and Vlei’ adventure school at Sedgefield during a school vacation. A number of years later, I applied for the same scholarship as he had spoken so highly of his experiences there. I went to the interview and was asked many questions, amongst which was, ‘How did you become aware of Veld and Vlei?’ I cannot remember my actual reply but it must have been vague as they then asked if I knew anybody that had been on the course. I replied that I did not. Needless to say, I was not given the chance to go to Sedgefield and I knew exactly why. I have always endeavoured to tell the truth since that fateful day.

Whilst in my eleventh year at school, I was issued with my Military number, 67367698 and informed that I could choose between the Air Force, the Navy or the Army once my education had been completed. I knew that my myopia would prevent me from achieving my lifelong desire to fly, so I did not apply to the Air Force but chose the Army as this would in my opinion, get me into the bush.

I matriculated in 1968 and in January 1969 started my compulsory military service. Following completion of the basic military training, the Regimental Sergeant Major divided the unit up into educational achievement ranks. The largest group consisted of those who had reached and succeeded with standard eight⁸, followed by some with standard nine, and as I recall, only a few of us had passed standard ten. He insisted that this smaller group immediately apply to go to university in 1970. My matric marks were not good enough to be accepted for veterinary science so I applied for medicine at both the Universities of Cape Town and Witwatersrand. I was accepted at both and decided to go to Cape Town, as the Cape mountain scenery appealed more than Johannesburg’s bleak Highveld.

Mom and Dad drove me to Cape Town in February 1970 and I booked into Driekoppen Residence. My room was the last on the left-hand side of the ground floor in Yellow Block and I had an exceptional view of the Baxter (adjacent female residence) girls as they walked up Woolsack Road to the campus every morning. Dad had made it abundantly clear to me that I had one shot at becoming a doctor. If I failed my first year, I would have to follow an alternative career. This filled me with dread and I was determined to work my butt off, despite the plethora of beautiful girls in the class. I tried my luck with a few but was struck to leg with monotonous regularity.

After a while, it seemed sensible to disregard the girls and concentrate on my studies. I passed all the basic sciences in first year and started my preclinical years at the Medical School proper below Groote Schuur Hospital. I was allocated to join a group consisting of Mike Brown (now the R&D Manager of Roach Africa); Mike Scott (a cum laude student now a GP in Vancouver); Ray Dawson (rose to great heights in medical politics in South Africa before emigrating to the UK to be a vascular surgeon at Edinburgh Royal Infirmary); Clive Gee (played cricket and rugby for Western Province, and is now an Obstetrician in the UK) and Christo Zouves (now a Professor of Obs & Gynae in Canada). Our group remained intact for the next five years and gained the addition of Richard Turner (Associate Professor General Practice, Western Australia) and Marek Rozwadowski (Anaesthetist and International Retrieval Expert, Canada) in our third year.

My second year was another hard struggle with anatomy and physiology being the main subjects. I got through albeit with a very narrow margin. Fortunately, my anatomy marks were good enough to enable me to become an anatomy demonstrator for the physiotherapy students. This brought in a bit of pocket money.

My progress to third year, my most difficult as we had to study pharmacology amongst other tedious subjects, enabled me to apply for and obtain a government bursary of R400 per annum. This covered my academic fees for the year and Dad’s financial commitment was lessened to merely paying for my accommodation.

To earn my pocket money, all my December/January and July vacations were spent working for the South African Railways and Harbours in Durban as a checker and greaser. The former occupation entailed working on the docks, checking the loading and offloading of cargo from ships and also the sorting and consigning of freight to various destinations by goods train. As checkers, we started work at six in the morning and ended our shift at six at night. Each checker had a gang of six Zulu men to do the physical work and our task was to ensure that the paper work was completed correctly. This was repetitive and boring work, but it brought in about R150 a month, so I could not afford to give it up. Working as a greaser for the SAR&H in Durban Bay was another story.

Prior to the development of Richard’s Bay as a harbour, coal was loaded into ships at the coaling berth situated just within Durban harbour’s entrance on the Bluff side. I had the job of greasing the runners on the conveyor belts that carried the coal from the stockpile up into the gantries that loaded it into the ships’ holds. This was exceptionally hard and dirty work. The conveyor belts were about one and a half metres wide and ran on sets of three runners placed about a foot apart. The runners were on a V-shaped platform, ensuring that the upper surface of the belt was concave, transporting a steady stream of coal in the centre. This conveyor belt assembly was completely covered by a corrugated iron housing to minimise coal dust being blown all over the place. Alongside the belt was a narrow walkway enabling inspection, repairs and more importantly, greasing.

We greasers carried a grease gun and a 25-litre grease bucket. We methodically worked our way down the conveyor line, greasing each and every roller. We would also note those rollers that looked suspicious and notify the fitters who would repair or replace them. It was hot, dusty and terribly noisy work.

At times, it was also quite frightening. One would have to grease the gantry that carried the coal over the ships’ holds. At the start of coaling, the gantry could be anything up to 20 meters above the metal deck of the hold. The gantry foreman delighted in playing with the gantry brakes when we were at the very end, causing the whole gantry to jerk and sway. Our hands were full of grease and the pump action grease gun was operated with two hands. To drop one’s gun into the hold was a sin, so you can imagine the wild antics that occurred when trying to clutch onto something greasy to steady oneself. The conveyor was moving its cargo along all the time and it was all too apparent what would happen to us ‘greasers’ if we lost our hold and our balance. In those days, safety harnesses were unheard of.

Our job description did not include greasing the wharfside cranes. The crane drivers were responsible for their own maintenance, but despite this technicality, we often had to grease them. Part of my initiation into the job was to pass the ‘pencil drop test’. One had to jump from the end of the lowered crane boom into the water alongside the quay. I flatly refused and this convinced the regulars that university students were total moffies⁹. The money I earned as a greaser enabled me to buy an engagement ring.

However, let me get back to my student days in Cape Town. As already mentioned, my preclinical years were spent in Driekoppen where I met people like Geoff Budlender and Steve Jooste. They were student activists and NUSAS (National Union of South African Students) committee members, who had close ideological ties with the then banned ANC. I knew very little about these organisations but had a very keen sense of right and wrong and I found apartheid abhorrent. (We were also very good friends with Neil Aggett who later became a powerful student activist and trade unionist. Many years after we had left Cape Town, he was detained and died in police custody for his convictions.)

As an idealistic undergraduate, I was an easy recruit for much of the protest donkeywork. The student top brass was far too clever to get involved with the actual pamphlet distribution and protests. That was left to idiots like me. I was forever being tasked with handing out anti-government pamphlets at prominent public places such as the Cape Town Railway Station or holding protest placards on the roof of the gazebo in the Rose Garden below de Waal Drive, Cape Town. The pamphlets and placards were usually pretty innocuous but always managed to irritate the security police.

This resulted in my being carted off to Rondebosch Police Station on many occasions for finger printing, having my photo taken and questioning. No matter how often I told the young charge office cops that I had had my fingerprints taken just a few weeks previously, they would repeat the procedure. Caledon Square in Cape Town was a different matter. Here, the security police had their headquarters, and their questioning was always a little more intense and aggressive. The Rondebosch uniformed policemen were relaxed and I think considered it all a bit of a joke, but the plain-clothed thugs in town took it all very seriously.

Matters came to a head for me on Friday 2nd June 1972. Mike Brown and I had bunked lectures to attend a protest meeting in Jamieson Hall, University Main Campus. As a result of the inspiring speeches, we decided to join a peaceful demonstration on the St George Cathedral steps at the top of Adderly Street, Cape Town. We arrived at about 2:30 pm and joined a group of students holding a banner that quoted Chief Albert Luthuli’s speech when receiving the Noble Peace prize. The banner read ‘To remain neutral in a land that virtually criticised God for having made men of colour, was something I, as a Christian, could not tolerate.’

Mike and I offered to hold the banner to give the two chaps a rest. Shortly after this, the police charged. We had been unaware of their presence as they were in plain clothes. I was grabbed by two men, dragged off the steps and flung to the ground. One of them started kicking me and my glasses went flying. I attempted to get up, only to be knocked down again by a heavy blow to the back of my head. Mike had managed to cross the street and told me afterwards that about four policemen surrounded me and rained down blows. I do not know how I did it but I managed to get to my feet, find my spectacles and run through them, whilst being hit.

We went back to Driekoppen and examination of my back revealed seven weals from truncheon blows and six big eggs on my head. My stomach and thigh muscles ached from the bruising and I had a headache for three days. I was very lucky, as those who ran into the Cathedral received vastly more severe injuries. I wrote to my dad following that incident and I quote from the letter – ‘Tomorrow, we’re going to do a silent demonstration again against the (Black) Education System. Dad, please don’t think that I am there for any other reason. I feel very strongly that until the public takes over the responsibility of showing the injustices in SA, it is up to us to do it. It might mean being hit on the head again. I’ll take that if I have to, as I feel it’s the only way to get somewhere. Dad, you could help by writing to the newspapers at home and by writing to our MP. It will be so much more effective if it is adults who write and not students. I would not condemn but insist on an explanation as to why conditions are as they are. If the adults do this, we won’t have to demonstrate and get hurt.’

My dad wrote a wonderful letter to the Natal Mercury newspaper on the 7th June and sent me a copy. I have the copy and have always admired him for his stand. In his letter, he stated the facts about our demonstration and then went on to say:

’The foregoing constitutes a simple but reasonably accurate description of a normal, well-balanced and reasonably clear-thinking, young man, who is not unrepresentative of the many similar young men at present attending universities throughout the country for the serious purpose of improving their minds and qualifying themselves to occupy a meaningful place in the life of this country in the future.

Please do not imagine for one moment that I am saying that my son is a paragon of virtue, or that some university students are not misguided in what they think, say and do. I also accept that, unfortunately, there do appear to be subversive elements at work amongst the student body, which seek to take advantage of, and misdirect for their own purposes, the very real and commendable spirit of idealism which characterises much of the thinking of the average university student, from whose ranks many of the future leading citizens of our country must, and will emerge.

Sure, some of this idealism may seem to be a little impractical, but I firmly defend the right of university students to dream their dreams of a better society, and to communicate their thoughts and ideals to others, without them being subjected to the intimidating tactics of the politicians and the physical brutality recently employed by certain members of the police force.

I have never been one of those who advocated the use of violence as a means to redress wrongs, but I firmly protest my right, and the rights of every other South African to speak his mind without fear of victimisation or threat to his person on issues such as this.

I must admit, to my shame, that my son’s recent letter quoted above makes me realise that I, in common with most other parents who profess to follow the teachings of Christ, have failed up to now to take a sufficient stand on these matters. We have tended to leave it to others (the university students, together with a few courageous clerics and other citizens) to speak up in the name of justice and equity.

I repeat, I do not advocate violent demonstrations against established authority, but neither can I condone the violence used by the authorities, supposedly in the name of maintaining law and order, in circumstances such as those which prevailed recently in Cape Town. I, therefore, appeal to all fellow parents and similar thinking Christians who love this country of ours to stir themselves to make known their thoughts on this subject, so that we, as a body of loyal South Africans, may sufficiently influence public opinion (and thus the Government), to put an end to the conditions, which have prompted the university students to speak out bravely in the cause of justice, and equality of opportunity for men and women of all races, colours and creeds in this country.’

My father signed the letter, ‘A deeply concerned parent’. It was never published. What a shame. History everywhere is littered with examples of how the sensible majority was overlooked, enabling the fanatical minority to create mayhem.

University life was so much more than just work and politics. During my first year, I had seen and admired a girl from Baxter Residence. She had no time for me and it was only during my second year when I was a ‘pusher’ in the marathon pram race around Rondebosch Common, that I got to know her. The pram race was one of those ludicrous university things. Each residence had a team of six chaps who pushed a standard pram¹⁰ containing the lightest member of the residence around Rondebosch Common, a distance of 2.7 kilometres. The pram could not be modified in anyway. I cannot remember exactly but I think we went around the common at least twice. The race began at about six pm and ended a few hours later. I do not recall where we came and that particular race faded into insignificance as I embarked on a greater life-long race. I think I had just finished my stint at pushing and was wearing my army great coat against the evening chill, when this petite creature slipped into my great coat with me and subsequently, into my life. I knew this was it.

Penny had started her university career the previous year by enrolling to study music. She had rapidly realised that this was not to her liking and had changed to Social Science. She continued with her musical studies in tandem and graduated in 1972 with the degree of Bachelor of Social Science in Social Work and a Licentiate of the Trinity College of Music London in 1973 with a Pianoforte Teachers Diploma. This latter achievement she acquired whilst working full-time.

During my time as a resident of Driekoppen (Belsen), the residence celebrated its 25th anniversary. Mike Brown, Ray Dawson and I decided to make a banner with ‘Belsen is 25’ printed on it and to string it up between the downpipes of two female Baxter residence blocks over the central courtyard. This task was accomplished after the celebratory formal dinner marking the 25th anniversary at which Sir Richard Luyt, the university principal, was present. We, along with the majority of Driekoppen residents, entered Baxter residence after midnight and caused pandemonium. We also strung up our banner.

Some friends, sans Mike, Ray and myself, decided to repeat the exercise at Fuller Hall (another female residence). These ‘raids’ irritated the university authorities to such an extent that the entire populace of Driekoppen was summoned to the Bremner Building, Admin HQ, and Sir Richard admonished our errant ways. He went on to state that four charges had been laid: entering Baxter illegally; causing mayhem in Baxter; entering Fuller illegally; and causing mayhem in Fuller. He then asked each and every one of us to stand and state whether we were guilty of any of these charges. One had to answer truthfully as we were surrounded by our colleagues. After we had confessed – in our case to charges one and two, he informed us that the fine for each was a certain sum. I cannot remember the amount but remember that it prevented us from enjoying beer for many months. The fine was worth every cent!

An equally audacious but less painful prank was committed by friends in Driekoppen the same year. Groote Schuur, the Prime Minister’s official residence when in Cape Town, is situated not far from Driekoppen. In those days, the grounds were open to the public when the Prime Minister was not in residence and only guarded by a policeman who sat in a pillbox at the entrance in Main Road, Rondebosch. A few of my intrepid friends entered the grounds and stole one of the two, small, ceremonial cannons placed either side of the steps leading up to the front door. They had fortified their plan with beer from the local pub, so their actions were not as silent as they had intended them to be. The policeman on duty had noticed them and had followed them back to Driekoppen. The following evening, the officer commanding the Rondebosch Police Station was a guest at our evening meal. He mentioned the missing cannon and suggested that no further action would be taken, if it were returned. It was returned the same night. This was, however, not the end of it.

The following night, the same police officer was a dinner guest once again, and on this occasion, bluntly informed the residence that the cannon was back but the pyramid of cannon balls alongside was now missing. He added that his patience had been exhausted and that he would not return to share a meal with us again but that in future, he would lay charges and act appropriately. The residence got the message. Nowadays, such pranks are no longer possible as the democratically elected ANC parliamentarians are ultra-sensitive and security conscious. Any breach of the perimeter of the Groote Schuur Residence would, in no doubt, be met with deadly force.

A very sad incident occurred on 26th May 1971 when three SAAF Hawker Siddeley 125 ‘Mercurius’ aircraft crashed into Devils Peak, just above Driekoppen. They were to participate in the massive fly past commemorating the 10th Republic Day celebrations. Virtually everything with wings or rotors that the Air Force owned was involved. To choreograph all these aircraft of different flying speeds into an orderly fashion past the saluting dais, required extreme planning and intense practice. The HS 125 formation was running a little late so they increased their speed to appear over the dais on time. They turned at the designated time and at the briefed turn rate but, because they were flying faster, their radius of turn increased and they entered cloud in formation. All three aircraft flew into the mountain above Rhodes Memorial, killing all 11 on board. The residents of Driekoppen were amongst the first at the crash scene, even before the police had cordoned off the area. We stupidly stole mementoes of the crash and carried them back to Driekoppen. The following day we were cordially invited by the authorities to return everything. We did so and nothing further was done. We were grateful that the authorities were so indulgent and forgiving. Attitudes have changed!

Common sense should have warned Penny off. We became far too serious and one thing led to the next and we soon wanted to get married. This was idiotic in the extreme as she had just graduated and I still had another three years of study ahead of me. We were determined and so I spoke to my parents. They were concerned about our decision but once they understood that we were serious, they became very supportive.

My dad and I worked out the finances and feasibility of our venture and he pledged to continue supporting me as he had in the past. I still have the papers that we jointly drew up, setting out my financial position. I had an NPA Bursary Loan of R400 per year and my dad undertook to pay me R70 per month (R840pa) as he had in the past. Penny brought in R720 per year, making our income R2360 in 1973. Our tuition fees, books and stationery cost us R700, leaving us R1660 to live on. I got a job as a caretaker of the Mowbray Presbyterian Church complex that included free accommodation in a small flat upstairs above the hall. We had a monthly budget that we stuck to religiously. This gave us R17 for meat; R5 for milk; R1.80 for bread; R10 for vegetables; R10 for groceries; R5 for chemist goods; R10 for clothing and shoes; R10 for medical/dental requirements; R5 for insurance; R10 for entertainment; R2 for dry-cleaning/laundry; R24 for motorcar expenses and R18 for a holiday reserve. Total expenses were R123 a month, which left us R184 at the end of the year if all had gone well. We were rich and could go ahead.

Then I spoke to Penny’s parents. Now I must explain how I came to know her father quite some time before meeting Penny and how this acquaintance could have spoilt everything.

Whilst engaged with my initial stint in the army in 1969, my regiment had supplied drivers for a civilian force operation in the Grahamstown area. The operation entailed the civilian force unit, the Transvaal Highlanders, defending the Port Alfred airstrip and surrounding area from a mock terrorist force comprising troops from the 6th South African Infantry. I was part of the detachment sent from my base at Lenz to be drivers for the Highlanders. We had driven from Lenz to Bathurst over two days.

The exercise got off to a bad start as the civilian force Highlanders, all much older than we national servicemen, had a number of illegal shebeens in the camp and most of them got gloriously drunk on the first night. The infantry units took great advantage of this and entered the camp past the anything-but-vigilant sentries to place white crosses on most of the vehicles. The officers were livid and the exercise was restarted the following day without alcohol. As I recall, we had a hectic three days rushing supplies and men all over the countryside in hot pursuit of the ‘enemy’. During these forays, we became aware of the pineapple farms in the area. It was not long before a plan was hatched to harvest a few pines for the chaps in the camp.

We had three-ton Bedford trucks and decided to gather ripe pineapples as we went along. This occurred on a sporadic basis for a day or two and then we became bold and greedy. Too many pines were taken from a particular area and the farmers soon got wind of it. On completion of the exercise, our sergeant major bawled us out for the thieving and made us return to the farmers and apologise for our excesses. I remember feeling rather contrite as I approached my group of farmers. They were magnanimous and accepted our apology without further ado. I put this incident behind me.

Penny’s and my relationship was fine until she invited me home to meet her parents. I knew they farmed in the Trappes Valley area of the Eastern Cape but really did not have an idea of the exact locality. Penny and I drove from Cape Town to the farm in the Easter vacation of 1971. I was relaxed and enjoyed the drive to Grahamstown and even the trip from Grahamstown to Bathurst. I recalled incidents from the military operation and related them to Penny as we drove along the winding concrete road through the Blauwkrans Pass. It was pleasant to revisit an area I had previously had great fun in.

My mood changed somewhat when we turned off the Grahamstown/Port Alfred road just before Bathurst and took the dirt road to Clumber. As we passed Trappes Valley and neared Shaw Park, my anxiety level rose. I was almost a gibbering idiot when Penny directed me to turn into Limestone Farm. I recalled my previous trip up the driveway in an army Bedford and my stuttering apology.

Penny’s parents were there to meet us. Penny’s father never indicated any recognition or recollection of our previous meeting. He did, however, have me empty the septic tank and clear the outflow to the French drain. In those days, fathers could, and did intimidate their daughter’s suitors. I never mentioned the incident and, if he knew of my past, he never held it against me. It was many years later when he came to collect us at the Port Alfred airstrip after a flight from Eshowe that he and I spoke of the military exercise and the pineapple theft. We had a good laugh. Maybe he had not forgotten!

Following that initial stay at the farm, I had a number of very happy holidays