From Safari Suit to Camouflage: The Memoirs of George Selby

By Lillian van Velden

One mans extraordinary adventure that lasted from
the heydays of the nineteen fifties through the sixties,
when the winds of change blew across the continent
of Africa, through the seventies and the Rhodesian
War, during which he served as a police reservist, then
to the dying moments of that wonderful country he
called home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing Africa
• Release date: Nov 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781482825398

Lillian van Velden

George Selby 1937 – 2006, was a man who believed in family and good old fashioned values. His adventurous spirit and passion for cars landed him in trouble many times. He was born in South Africa, but was to spend, arguably, the best thirty years of his life in his adopted country: his beloved Rhodesia, before returning to the land of his birth where he died in 2006.

Book preview

School Days

Thwack! thwack! These were sounds I’d hear many times during my four years at Churchill School, Salisbury.

It was on that first daunting day at Churchill, attended by some of the biggest boys I had ever seen, that a lasting friendship was born. Charles Engelbrecht and Brian Stroebel were to become my best friends, and it was not long before we became known as the Three Musketeers.

The three of us did not play sport, much to the annoyance of Jeeves Hougaard, the headmaster, a tall broad-shouldered, swarthy man, who was rarely seen without the academic gown that teachers then wore. It could be skilfully flicked back when using his cane to indicate something on the blackboard or, more effectively, when administering a caning or ‘doeks’ as we called them. Born to a farming family in the Orange Free State, South Africa, he was one of fifteen children, and he never passed up an opportunity to tell us boys of the hardships he had experienced whilst growing up.

Once schoolwork and homework had been done for the day, the countryside around Salisbury became our adventure playground as we roamed the surrounding hills either on foot or on our bicycles. All the swimming, cycling, walking, and climbing the numerous rock formations as the mood took us kept us as fit as any formal sporting activity would have done. Having shed our shoes as soon as school was out, we noticed the soles of our feet became so hardened that they were almost impervious to heat, stones, and even thorns.

Public holidays meant a chance for camping under the stars or, more correctly, under the msasa trees with their exploding pods scattering seeds far and wide. With our homemade sleeping bags and any food we’d managed to scrounge loaded onto our bicycles, we’d set off for places such as Lake McIlwaine, Dombashowa, or Epworth Mission of the balancing-rocks fame. It was a time when all else was forgotten, and adventure was there to be had!

Meeting the local black people in these areas afforded us the ideal opportunity of getting to know them, trading with them, sitting down with them in their huts and sharing their sadza (a thick dry maize meal). Each person would take some of the sadza from a communal pot, roll it into a ball and, then dip it into a pot of gravy and meat, eating a meal that was extremely satisfying and full of energy. The Africans we met were always hospitable and made us feel welcome. When prearranged with our parents, we would stay over with them in their huts. The following morning our young friends would lead us to where we were to spend the day herding cattle. Our parents never minded, and the life we lived was healthy; it was the life of an early Rhodesia.

On one occasion, the daughter of one of the local headmen took a fancy to Brian, who was quite dark skinned; however, her father put a stop to it as soon as he found out, saying that white and black were not to be mixed.

We, in turn, showed our respect for them, especially the older folk, who arranged for their youngsters to teach us some of the basics of bushcraft. They showed us how to make a variety of traps using string made from the msasa trees: the falling stone trap or the grass tunnel trap, which trapped field mice as they ran through their tunnels in the grass. I, for one, had been ignorant of the fact that mice created their own small paths through the veld.

We learned the Shona names for the birds and animals that lived in the bush. The hare, ant bear, wild pig, antelope, and many others were all to be found only a few miles from Salisbury.

On the occasion of my first birthday in Rhodesia, my parents asked me what I would like as a present. My answer was simple: a bone-handled Bowie knife. That knife—a Joseph and Rodgers, ‘I cut my way’ product—served a variety of roles: cutting branches, digging holes for a fire or bed, opening tins, and anything the bush could demand of it. Years later, it would be used to probe for landmines or to dismantle booby-traps.

In winter we’d heat rocks on the campfire and place them in the sleeping holes we had dug using my Bowie knife while we ate our meal and talked. By the time we were ready for bed, the ground was beautifully warm: snug in our sleeping bags, we never felt the cold.

Rhodesia, like other African countries to the north of us, was years behind the times. The rest of the world could not understand the enigma that was Rhodesia. Whilst countries like England were plagued by strikes and decline, Rhodesia carried on in its own controlled, easygoing way, just as other previous colonial countries had done. Unlike other more advanced and modernized countries, for a white youngster growing up there, it had all the qualities of an Allan Quatermain adventure. Who knew what treasures could be found in both the bush and the caves!

Alas, like all good things, the holidays had to come to an end. Jeeves Hougaard was still unhappy that we, the Three Musketeers as he called us, still would not play sport as he thought we had the aptitude for good teamwork. Even the school bully seemed cautious about clashing with us, although we never seemed to create friction. Back at school we had to study: the history of both England and Rhodesia being my favourite subjects, followed by mathematics, English, woodwork, and physical training.

Science was not a favourite, and one day I fell foul of Mr Greenwood, who was teaching us about acoustics. Although a short and slender man, I was soon to find out about his mercurial temper and lightning reaction. The tests being carried out meant that we were flicking the rulers at different lengths on the desks and vibrating them. My ruler, being steel, made the loudest noise. Mr Greenwood duly called a halt to the tests, but encouraged by my classmates to carry on, I did so. Greenwood shouted, ‘Selby, stand alongside your desk.’ Doing as he ordered, I wondered what would be coming next. There was a deathly hush as he walked slowly from behind his desk, up the aisle to where I stood. About two paces from me, he leaped into the air, swinging his right arm, the right hand landing with a forceful and resounding slap across the left side of my face. Miraculously, still on my feet and with face aflame, I stood with fists clenching open and shut whilst he glared up at me, his face beetroot red. Mom and Dad had taught me discipline and to respect my elders, but this was almost too much.

Then, slowly, the irate Mr Greenwood turned and walked down the classroom back to his desk, breaking the tension that had arisen. Ordering me to sit, he gave us our homework to prepare for the next lesson before he left the classroom. Brian, with typical teenage bravado, asked why I had not hit Mr Greenwood as he would have done; but knowing Brian, I don’t think he would have either. It would have meant expulsion and broken his mother’s heart.

An activity that did attract our attention, however, was the formation of the school cadet corps, which was backed up by a Scottish pipe band and kept the three of us out of mischief after school. Apart from drilling on the rugby field, it was discipline orientated, and we learned basic military routines. When members of the regular army were available, they brought out .303 rifles and bayonets for weapon training. A definite drawcard!

The rifle training was put to good use hunting for food in the bush, although we were eventually put off hunting when Henry shot a duiker through the stomach with our .303. The pitiful sounds it made in its agony were heart-rending. Fortunately, as we also had a .22 rifle with us, we were quickly able to put it out of its misery, and I have never enjoyed hunting since.

Whilst in Form Two, some of us had the opportunity to visit the Bulawayo Trade Fair, our parents paying for the overnight train trip and our food. Here was a chance to see another Rhodesian city and, having been in the country less than two years, one I certainly didn’t want to miss. For those of us who went, it was an exciting experience, and the highlight, for me, was being invited to the Rhodesian Broadcasting Studio stand to be interviewed live on national radio. Since I found the diamond exhibit fascinating, its display of their discovery, the processes that followed, and the actual cutting of the stones, it provided the perfect topic to speak about on air. My mother had heard the episode but hadn’t been sure whether it was my voice. The climax of our visit to Bulawayo was a bus journey to the Matopos to see Rhodes’s grave near the interred remains of Allan Wilson and his ill-fated patrol, annihilated on the banks of the Shangani River, during the Matabele Rebellion. This visit brought to life some of the history we had been learning about. Armed with new observations of the bravery of a few men who had stood their ground against superior numbers and more modern weapons, I wondered what must have gone through their minds as they faced death.

I was later to visit the site again on a visit to Bulawayo. As I drove first through a forest of mopani trees before crossing the dry Shangani River bed to the battle site, the eerie silence touched me once again, as it has done countless visitors to the site since then. The local Africans, being superstitious, would not go near the place. Digging a hole to bury rubbish from the picnic we had had, I found expended Martini Henry cartridge cases and bridle bits—relics of that unfortunate battle, which I then donated to the Allan Wilson School.

One school holiday I had the opportunity of seeing a bit more of the country along with Brian, Charles, Pete (Brian’s younger brother), and Roy, an older chap who had only one leg, having lost the left leg in an accident but was still able to drive a car: a 1948 Ford V8.

We were going to travel to the eastern districts from Salisbury to Umtali, then on to Hot Springs, leaving a couple of days later to push on to the Zimbabwe Ruins, then back to Salisbury. Having saved or borrowed money from our parents for petrol and food, we were all looking forward to the trip. Petrol was dirt cheap at five shillings a gallon, enabling us to travel a great distance; and having filled the tank, we left at night for Umtali. This, for me, was the first visit to this part of the country, and I was really excited about it. All went smoothly until somewhere close to Umtali, Roy’s head began to droop. It was a pitch-dark, moonless night, our eyes seeing only what the headlights picked up. Roy was travelling quite fast when suddenly in front of us a line of barrels appeared across the road—a deviation coming up—and Roy was asleep! Before I could shout, Brian, who was sitting in the front next to Roy suddenly hit him on the back of the head and shouted, ‘Wake up!’ Roy awoke with a start. We could all see the road veering to the right—too late! As Roy jerked the wheel, there was a sickening clang and crunch. The car’s left front fender and door slammed into the barrels. Worse was yet to come. The speed, the sharp angle of the turn, and the dirt deviation put the car on a trajectory of its own. It skidded and lifted off on the right side. There was no way we were going to stay on our wheels. The large V8 spun onto its side, all of us tumbling onto one another.

The car stopped, the lights went out, dust filled the interior, and someone asked, ‘Is everyone all right?’ There was a moment’s hesitation before we all started crawling from the car. Thankfully, there were no casualties; and strangely enough, our only concern was to get the car back onto its wheels. Fortunately, the bank against which the car had come to rest helped when, with our combined efforts, we managed to get the car back onto its wheels. With the aid of a torch, we checked under the bonnet and to our dismay found the battery was cracked in half, but the cables were still connected. Roy, being something of a mechanic, somehow got the engine started. Once again, we were off—only this time without headlights!

Progress was slow as Charles and I, acting as navigators, hung out of the back windows, straining to see the edge of the road using what starlight there was available. Somehow, we made it safely up to the top of Christmas Pass: a steep winding climb to the summit and an equally steep winding road down the other side with a vertical drop on the right. The lights of Umtali twinkled invitingly far below us, and it was unanimously decided to make the descent—slowly! When, eventually, we inched our way into a lighted area at the bottom of the pass, we breathed an audible and collective sigh of relief. It was decided that Roy should find a place to park, and we would sleep in the car, which we did.

Morning showed us the extent of the damage to the left side of the car and the condition of the battery. Unanimously, it was decided to use the precious money we had to buy a new one. We definitely were not going to abandon our trip. A garage was found, a new battery bought, put in the car, and to our great delight, everything worked.

We must have looked a scruffy lot and consequently attracted the attention of a policeman on a motorcycle, who, on seeing our registration number, asked us to follow him to the police station. At the police station, he demanded to know where we were from, our names, and home telephone numbers before phoning each of our parents until he was satisfied our story was true.

An hour later, we were happily on our way, once again, to Hot Springs about 50 miles from Umtali. Tired but happy just to shed clothes and jump into the hot sulphur pool with our underpants on, we soaked for ages before Roy climbed out and booked us into the camping ground. Not having a tent, we just slept next to the car. The bush around us was thorn scrub and the soil, soft sand. At night we had the strong smell of sulphur to contend with, but with some bread and the few tins of bully beef we had, it did not matter. There were more stars than we had ever seen in our lives, and the noise of animals from the bush made it quite exciting. What we did not know, however, was that some of the noises we heard—apart from the jackal, nightjars, and bats—were lion and hyena.

We stayed for two nights before pushing on to Zimbabwe Ruins, stopping at the Birchenough Bridge and taking time to walk on the riverbed, sometimes sinking up to our thighs in the soft sand. We booked into the campsite before exploring up and down the kopjes, in and out of the tunnels, not quite understanding what we were seeing but thoroughly enjoying every minute. Despite the cash shortage as a result of the ‘battery episode’, we bought paw-paws and bread from the traders on the road and never went hungry. For three nights and days, we stayed there in this wonderful land of green bush, trees, and granite kopjes, sleeping alongside one another by the side of the car for safety.

On our last night there, Pete, Brian’s younger brother, who was nearest the front fender and on the outside, said he heard something in front of us. Being the only one who had a torch, I shone it across our front, picking up a pair of glowing eyes. In whispers we were asking one another what it was when it turned its head away from us and presented itself, sideways on. I swallowed and stammered, ‘Crikey! It’s a leopard!’

With that, Pete seemed to launch himself horizontally into the air, passed over me, and landed on my other side. His answer: ‘Well, he can bloody well eat you first or Roy on the other side.’ With this sudden movement, the leopard took off at speed, leaving us stunned. There was little sleep to be had that night, but it was an experience to remember.

On that last morning we went for a final walk through the main ruins before hitting the road back to Salisbury. Judging by the incessant babble, it seemed that everyone had enjoyed themselves enormously!

Back at school, the obligatory essay about the holidays was a cinch for the three of us as we had no shortage of news! After reading aloud the ‘What I did during the holidays’ essays in front of the class, it was suggested that the school should arrange trips like this though obviously more organized and controlled!

Form three saw the arrival of a chap out from England: Jack. He was put into our class. Gustav took an instant dislike to this Englishman: a ‘soutie’. Legend had it that Englishmen were supposed to put salt on their penises to make them stand upright or that they had one foot in Africa and one in England with their penises dangling in the ocean. Jack, although the same height as Gustav, unfortunately did not carry the same bulk. The break-time fight between the two saw Jack trying to stay faithful to the Queensberry rules, whereas Gustav swung wildly and successfully connected with Jack’s nose. The resultant bloody nose brought the fight to a very abrupt end. Mr. Eadie, a sports master and our geography teacher, came to hear about this and asked the two if they would like to settle the dispute with boxing gloves. Despite the referee and the crowd all willing Jack to beat the hell out of Gustav, this was not meant to be; and Gustav, the heavier of the two, came out victorious. As so often happens with children, they became firm friends after that.

On one occasion, a boy who liked being in the limelight, during our weekly music lesson with a particularly attractive music teacher, decided to take out his erect penis and use it to beat the bench he was sitting on in time to the music. We were sure the teacher had seen this; but she played it cool, finished the lesson, and left the room. As we all particularly liked this teacher, when everyone got up to leave the room, the boy found his way blocked by half a dozen of us. His usual cocky expression rapidly vanished to be replaced by a more worried one—with good reason! Afterwards, a bit stiff and sore, he calmed down. Unfortunately for him, either the teacher had reported him or someone had squealed. He disappeared for a short while, presumably on suspension. We, however, thought our punishment had been more than sufficient.

By the time we were seniors, in our fourth and final year, most of us had had our bums warmed by Jeeves’s ever-ready cane—most times with good reason but on the odd occasion rather unfairly, I thought. On one occasion, Mr Brett, our English teacher, had used the phrase ‘Look before you leap.’

‘But, sir, there is always the opposite: He who hesitates is lost,’ I countered. Brett took this to be a cheeky retort and, in his frustration, screamed at me in his Irish accent, ‘Ramble oot!’ which meant a trip to the headmaster’s office, where I duly waited until Jeeves called me in and asked me why I was there. I told him. I knew what his answer would be and bent over, receiving three of his very best. He would always mete out punishment to back up the teacher. I went back to the classroom, taking my seat painfully and knowing that Mr Brett was confident I had received my just desserts. Having experienced this form of punishment many times, both in junior and senior school, I have never regretted this type of discipline. Whether rightly or wrongly received, I learned from it and it toughened me, but I have to admit it was probably well deserved! Looking at youngsters today with their visible lack of discipline, I can’t help wondering if they are not actually being deprived.

At this time we were living at Forty-Sixth Widdicombe Road, a smallholding that was the realization of Mom’s dream. Here she could keep her goats, sheep, cows, and fowls—something I too enjoyed. Coming home to an environment separate from the outside world had its own rewards, and, there were eleven acres to delight an adventurous youngster’s heart. The simple pleasures the abundant fruit trees afforded, the large concrete reservoir at the top of the plot in which to skinny-dip at the end of a hot summer’s day, the rows of loquat trees amidst which the beehives were to be found and raided meant freedom, fun, and a wholesome lifestyle, which sadly, today, is enjoyed by so few.

We had moved from Thirteenth Bevan Road in Braeside, where Mom had started a crèche not only to supplement Dad’s wages but also to save for her dream. Another feature that No. 46 boasted was the proximity to the old wartime Cranbourne Airfield, where, on a daily basis, Harvards, Spitfires, and other aircraft would enthral us with their antics directly over our homestead. Although only three miles from town, I felt I was in the middle of the countryside and was never at a loss for entertainment. ‘I’m bored’ was a phrase found only in books.

After school, there were chores to be done before freedom beckoned. It was my daily responsibility to make sure the reservoir was always full. This was done by starting a diesel engine right on the Makabusi River at the lower border of the plot amongst a large plantation of blue-gum trees. Another routine chore was to scrub out the reservoir when it became covered with slime. This had to be done in one day so as to have water for the next day. Although hard work, there was an upside: slime fights could be great fun! Water for the house came from a borehole with an electric motor. Mom had set up a line of filter jars in the kitchen: the inside filter cores were scraped regularly and kept scrupulously clean. I never ceased to be amazed at the efficiency of that simple system. Seeing the amount of green scum that built up on these cores and the fresh clean water that came out, I was convinced some of the scum must get through, but it never did! An irrigation system watered our vegetables, strawberries, and other plants.

Mom continued her crèche at Widdicombe Road and had about forty children who came to her on a daily basis. She also had the help of a maid and Luiz, a Portuguese chap, to keep control. Luiz was also the cook—and what heavenly meals he cooked!

As the rambling old farmhouse had five bedrooms and two toilets, Mom decided to keep lodgers. A 44-gallon drum outside with a wood and coal stove underneath supplied the hot water. During the day, Leston—our gardener, herdsman, and general factotum—used to keep the fire burning before that dubious pleasure became mine at five each evening. Without my feeding the fire, even when it was raining, there would be no hot baths—and hell to pay!

I regularly took our dogs walking down to the Makabusi River, which flowed through Salisbury. Chummy, a black Labrador retriever; my sister Elsie’s dog, a red setter appropriately called Red; a mongrel called Tarzan; and another mongrel, which didn’t really have a name, usually accompanied me on these wonderful meanderings down by the river. Fluffy, Mom’s poodle, wasn’t allowed to come on walks. I was later to learn that cross-breeds were usually a lot more resilient than their pedigreed counterparts. Our return from the Makabusi was always met with horror and dismay as the dogs and I were usually covered in blackjacks, burrs, and scratches and were generally very dirty and very smelly! Elsie would freak out when she came home from work to find her ‘baby’ in this condition. Red, in turn, was always so happy to see her and revelled in his condition. Out would come the dogs’ bath, soap, and scrubbing brush to get Red clean again until the next time!

Then Red became ill. We took him to the vet, who diagnosed a kidney complaint: not just one kidney but both! The vet advised Elsie to have Red put down. ‘It would be the kindest thing to do,’ he said. We took Red home in a sorry state. I had never seen Elsie so distressed; she cried and cried but would not put Red down. Red finally gave up the ghost a few days later, leaving us all to mourn the passing of a really wonderful dog. Our enduring love of animals came from my mother who was passionate about them.

When Mom’s little Maltese poodle, Fluffy, became gravely ill, all her hair fell out; and she became so weak that Mom was warned: dogs in this state usually died! Mom decided otherwise and force-fed Fluffy raw liver, raw egg, and water for eight weeks, determined to give her another chance at life. One morning, before leaving for school, I heard my mother scream, ‘George!’ I went dashing to her bedroom. There, on very unsteady feet, was Fluffy, trying to find the strength to wag her tail. I had never seen Mom so happy; she was laughing and crying at the same time. Fluffy went on to live to a ripe old age.

Monday to Friday, when the children came to the crèche, the dogs were locked in a large woven-branch pen that Leston had made. Pandemonium reigned when the dogs were let out in the evening! At night, the same pen was used to house our few goats, sheep, and two cows. One day, for some unknown reason, the bees swarmed. The dogs were stung: Chummy, sadly, dying as a result. The fowls in the run were also attacked: twelve died as well as two goats in the pasture. We never did find out what had sparked off the attack and even considered destroying the beehives. At that stage, I would have happily done so as I was devastated at the loss of Chummy whom I loved dearly. It was one of many lessons I was to learn about animals, tame and wild.

Chummy’s replacement was a ridgeback-cross-bullmastiff called Buller, who was to grow up to be a rough, tough type of dog. The menagerie also included eight cats, as well as white rats and pigeons. This was the type of life my mother loved. The old man just followed along and provided Mom with what would make her happy, and surprisingly, Mom was doing very well. Her ambition: to buy the plot someday.

One day, whilst walking downstream along the Makabusi—my pellet gun over my shoulder, the dogs happily running ahead, darting off into the bush if they smelled or heard something interesting—we came to an ant heap. The dogs had gone on ahead; then, as I came level with the ant heap, there was a loud hiss in the grass to my left. Instantly, a long black snake reared up from the grass, its head menacingly flattened out.

The snake struck at my left knee. Instinctively, I swung the air gun, which had been over my right shoulder, down and across my body, meeting the rising snake. As the gun came up level with its hood, I pulled the trigger, blowing off a blast of air and a pellet.

In fright, the snake dropped to the ground and headed for the riverbank a couple of yards to my right. It slithered through the grass, down the bank, and into the water and began swimming across in sideways fashion.

Although shaken, I reloaded with a pellet and fired a shot. Whether by luck or accuracy, I will never know, the pellet struck the snake in the back, paralysing it; and it started to wind itself up and swim in circles. I found a long branch and lifted it from the water, then beat it on the head until it was dead. I whistled for the dogs; immediately they came back, sniffed at the snake, and recoiled.

Later identified as a rinkhals, the snake was over ten feet long and about an inch thick.

This had really been my first encounter with a venomous snake, and whilst being proud of myself, I did not think it was the right thing to do. As I grew older, I learned that snakes also have a place in the world; but because we had domestic animals, chickens, and suchlike, they had no place on the property. There were, in fact, many snakes on the plot—so many that we were forced to kill those we found: a cobra on Luiz’s bed, a rinkhals in the toilet on the veranda, many in the grass and in the fruit orchard area.

Brian, Charles, and I regularly went up to Coronation Park, about two miles upstream, with Leston. He showed us the tricks of trapping and cooking over an open flame, which was to be both beneficial and interesting. The doves we shot became instant food, either cooked in mud or plucked, and then cooked on the end of a stick. The trick was not to let the stick stay in the fire too long or it burned through, dropping the piece of meat into the fire.

We met another teenaged African who had also made ‘Coro’ Park his exploration area. He took us to meet his father who worked on a farm on the other side of the Makabusi River, opposite to our smallholding. Occasionally, we stayed overnight in the compound where his father was the main beer maker. One day I sampled this beer: all was well until his dad took me to the 44-gallon drum he used for brewing his beer. I was totally put off the beer tasting when he proudly showed me all the ingredients, which included rats!

As time went on and the school term was nearing its end, Mom and Dad had found another smallholding they wished to buy with the financial help of Reg, my second elder brother.

I was given another dog, an Alsatian- cross-collie bitch, who was to become my favourite hunting companion.

Mom, by this time, had built up her lodger complement. There was the quiet one who didn’t mix much but had a terrific sense of humour. One day, seeing me putting up a tent in the backyard, he asked me what I was doing; and when I told him ‘Erecting a tent’, he immediately went inside, yelling to everyone that George was having an erection in the backyard. He was quite a character! There was the tough chap, who was difficult to hold down when he had one of the epileptic fits that plagued him. Then there was the mechanic, who was forever trying to get Elsie into bed; however, she made it clear that she wasn’t interested in him. Sadly, he was killed after falling from the pillion of a motorcycle and sliding under the wheels of a truck.

Towards the end of our stay there, Mom took on a lodger named Chris, who also took a shine to Elsie. Chris owned a car, a 1948 Chevrolet coupe; and as I wanted to learn to drive, we came to an agreement whereby he would teach me and I would encourage Elsie to go out with him. Elsie, however, didn’t fall for it, but he gave me quite a few lessons anyway on the aerodrome across from the property when security was not looking, of course!

I caught many bream in the river, and they promptly found a home in the reservoir until we were ready to eat them. The eels, when caught, were released back into the river; and when we were on our walks, barbel