1976 Revisited

We all know that 1976 was the year that the Soweto uprisings started. The children, or as they are now known ‘learners’ (where on earth did that word come from?), refused to take instruction in Afrikaans. That was the start of the trouble.

Well, here we are in 2009 and those of us who speak what used once upon a time to be known as English, are now being subjected to similar and equally demeaning treatment – only that to which we are being subjected is more subtle, more insidious.

SABC TV’s channel no 3 has traditionally been reserved for English; from time to time there have been some fairly horrendous mistakes in pronunciation (but then you have to expect that when most of our continuity announcers come from another language background), and there have been a few times when programming left much to be desired. We have borne all those things with a certain amount of equanimity; after all, you can always turn off the TV if it gets too much or too bad.

However, in the last two weeks a new and worrying trend has, silently and almost imperceptibly, appeared. On Thursday nights we are now being treated to a really awful piece of programming entirely in (you guessed it) Afrikaans, and on Fridays we have the slightly more palatable De Kat (also in Afrikaans).

I would assume, therefore, that channel no 3 is no longer exclusively in English.
Come all you payers of licences and critics of the SABC, gird your loins, pluck up your courage, and in true South African fashion, lets burn down every government building we can find; lets lay waste to every school, every electrical appliance shop; lets turn over every police vehicle and march against the guns of the SABC. We have as much right to our language and heritage as those who demonstrated against Afrikaans in 1976!!!

Our rights are being violated. In popular terminology, we are ‘suffering’. Our language, our heritage, our very culture is being assaulted and belittled by those very people who found the enforced teaching in Afrikaans so unsavoury. We have a major bus strike in Johannesburg, the threat of a nation-wide strike of doctors, taxi operators threatening hellfire and brimstone if the bus rapid-transport system is introduced, political figures shouting unpleasant and defamatory epithets at our new administrator of the Cape (Helen Zille), and threats of legal action because a certain body does not recognise her right to choose her own cabinet as she sees fit – so lets do our bit and demonstrate against those in power at Auckland Park who see fit to quietly drop the occasional Afrikaans programme into our hallowed English station. GO GET THEM – VRYSTAAT!!

Euthanasia - Let's Have the Conversation

This morning (15/05/2009) there was a very interesting programme on SABC about this, and I can’t help but feel that the programme only scratched the surface of this fascinating question. Of course, there are good reasons both for and against this, and let me say at the outset that voluntary euthanasia, if it were made legal in this country, could be abused. But then so can most laws be abused if one really wants to find a way….

I think that the strongest argument in favour of this is the one postulated by one of the callers: if we can make an educated decision in favour of euthanizing a favourite pet, then why can’t the same benefit be offered to a human being – a relative, a friend, one who is dear to us? In the case of a pet, we are often called upon to make a very hard decision – hard for us because it means the final end of our relationship with that pet.
Normally we would be guided in this instance by the vet, who would be able to tell us what the chances are for that animal to make a full recovery. We weigh the chances against the expense (because veterinary treatment is expensive) and we make, sometimes reluctantly, a decision.

Why do we not look upon people in the same way? Let me give you an example:
Recently my favourite cat was diagnosed with a potentially life-threatening disease and so, at considerable expense I had him treated because he was still young, and if he could survive he could still look forward to a full lifetime of fun a games in his own feline way. He underwent the treatment and came out of it somewhat better, but not quite the cat that he had been. I only had him back at home for ten days when he started going downhill again and, after taking him back to the vet for further investigation and treatment, I was told that even if he survived a fresh round of expense and suffering, he would never really be able to live a normal life and would have to he under constant care and supervision. I had no choice but to have him put to sleep (as we say). For those of you who have never been this route, it is impossible to explain the angst and soul-searching that this decision puts upon us, and the pain of final separation; but it has to be off-set against the animal’s future. We cannot make a decision based on our own wishes or needs; we have to put the animal first.

My mother, on the other hand, had been diagnosed with breast cancer some years previous to her death. She had continued to live a normal life, undergoing regular check-ups and treatments, and was quite happy, but, knowing what she did as a qualified nurse, she must have known what the final outcome would be. It was made clear to me when she left the day-clinic after one of her check-ups clutching a bottle of morphine solution. In the last months of her life she gradually became weaker and less interested in her surroundings, to the point, where, finally, she was bed-ridden and unable to attend to even her most basic functions. I know how much she hated this, and how pointless she considered the whole exercise to be, because she knew that it could only end in death. On several occasions I looked at the stock of morphine tablets, the bottle of solution, and I asked myself should I put an end to her suffering. If she had been a cat or a dog, I would have done just that; but because she was a human being, I went to every length I could to delay her final demise. Money evaporated like butter against the sun; helpers came to the house and massaged her, dressed her bedsores, chatted to her, while I ran up and down the passage with vomit-bowls and various medications – all of which did little to alleviate her suffering. She was not in great pain, but she must have felt all alone as she faced inevitable death. On several occasions she actually asked me to put an end to her suffering, but I couldn’t.

She ended her life in a nursing home, unable even to turn herself, unaware for a lot of the time of her surroundings, at times unable to recognise me when I visited; it was not a life, nor was it a death. It was something worse, because all she had were her thoughts and fears, her knowledge that sooner or later she would have to cross the threshold into the unknown – and I’m sure she must have thought about it a lot and wondered what lay ahead. Not being a particularly religious person, she was unable to appeal to her God for help; she had only herself.

I often think that the pain and suffering she went through, and the agonies of doubt and fear of loss that I suffered, could so easily have been avoided by the simple administration of a few pills. I would have done it without hesitation for a pet, but I could not do it for her.

I can only hope that when I become terminal, bed-ridden, useless, and alone with my thoughts, someone will be kind enough to slip me an overdose and let me drift peacefully away; that I shall be spared the mental anguish of remembering what life used to be like and off-setting it against the now, and shall be spared the suffering I would go through, as well as seeing the looks of hopelessness or feigned jollity on the faces of my visitors.

We tend to be kind to animals but seldom ever to people because our whole culture, our upbringing, tells us that everyone has the right to life. But surely, whoever thought that one out didn’t mean life in its barest, clinical form, but life as it should be lived.

When we are told that a mother or father, a spouse, a loved-one, has no chance of recovery and can only look forward to a constant downhill struggle like this, even if it does not involve a great deal of physical pain, do we not have the right to allow them to die with dignity? Is it not an act of supreme selfishness that we keep them alive at all costs simply because we are afraid of the final moment of parting? This is surely an instance where we should put their interests above our own, and where we should be able to do so legally and without fear of reprisal.

In my mother’s final weeks, I prayed for death as keenly as she must have done. Each day became yet another treadmill which had to be faced, another uncertainty, another worry, and there was no hope of any pleasant outcome.

Let us put criminals aside; as I said at the beginning, all laws can be abused in one way or another, and this law would be no exception. Yet it is illegal to kill another person in any way at the moment, so there would effectively be no change; the criminal would only need to fear that his act would be found out and that he would be made to pay the price.
But surely, someone who, with love and kindness, administered the overdose, or disconnected the life-support systems, can hardly be regarded as a murderer? Are they not acting in the best interests of the patient and doing what the patient most wants them to do?

I will leave you with a snippet of poetry which my mother used to quote when she knew the end was inevitable:

“Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain…….”

(Keats; Ode to a Nightingale)

The Zuma Inauguration

I swore that I wouldn't listen to the radio or watch this spectacle on TV because I am heartily sick of the fanfare and noise that this whole thing has caused in this country. However, I was amused to read just now that the whole thing was marred by a downpour of rain, causing all the hallowed guests to run for cover. Serves them all right!!
One thing, however, has to be said: the stupendous amount of money that has been lavished on this ceremony leaves one speechless. For a humble man who was voted into power by the great unwashed masses of this country, Zuma has excelled himself in hypocrisy; whilst his supporters take shelter in their shacks, watching this amazing sight on their TVs (very often stolen), powered by electricity which is illegally re-routed from legal connections, they are no doubt cheering and drinking the health of the new president.
However, they would not know the taste of French Champagne at R100+- per bottle; theirs will be a diet of Black Label or cheap whisky. They are unconcerned that the cost of such an undertaking would have provided them with many many homes, or could have been used to good ends in elevating the poor. No, for some reason they regard Zuma as some kind of hero, to be addressed only as "Comrade". I rather fear that they may receive their just desserts when he drives his new administration into top gear and forgets all those who voted for him.
It is interesting to note, also, that while South Africa has taken a 'holier than thou' attitude to King Mswati of Swaziland and has banned him from receiving any of the good things of this country, someone like Mugabe, whose litany of human rights abuse can never be covered by a simple article like this one, has been present at this 'do'. Makes you think, doesn't it?

Women and Child Abuse

A great deal is always said on the radio and on TV about the abuse of women and children in this country, and many talking heads have a great deal to say. However, it seems to me that they are missing one of the main elements of this problem: the content of programmes to which we, the viewing and listening public, are subjected.

It is a known fact that alcohol is one of the main factors causing this abuse and it is widely accepted that our per capita consumption of alcohol in this country is the highest in the world. Why then do we allow alcohol to be freely advertised in both media? We have succeeded in banning all tobacco adverts, and other such harmful substances, but we continue to be assailed with all manner of adverts for beers, brandies, whiskies, and the like.

The content of our TV programmes is, I feel, also very much to blame. We are given a diet of unleavened violence on E-TV (wrestling, third-rate Hollywood movies) and are daily battered with appalling sitcoms on all channels. Most of our stations preface their broadcasts with a warning that children should only watch under adult supervision, or that the following programme contains bad language, violence, explicit sex, or may be offensive to some viewers, but I doubt that anyone ever reads or takes notice of these warnings. If this were the case, then most of our programmes would never be aired. I would further suggest that all political broadcasts, especially those containing shots of JZ badly singing his Umshini Wami song, or dancing foolishly in front of a microphone, should also bear the warning that the following programme may contain content which is offensive to some viewers. I think this sort of thing is offensive to most of us!!

So, people, lets clean up our act and see where the real causes of the problem lie.

A Trip to Robben Island

The Guesthouse is still in good repair

The old chapel on the Island

A general state of dilapidation and dereliction

(This is an excerpt from a much longer story, but deserves to be published here.)

Less than one week later found us on another trip which had taken some organisation and to which we all looked forward considerably. We hurtled down the highway towards Cape Town, where we parked the car at The Waterfront and sat in the shade of one of the large hotels and had a late breakfast. I went off and collected the tickets for the boat, which I had reserved some time earlier, and shortly after twelve midday found us waiting eagerly in a large room which was somewhat redolent of the arrivals hall of the international airport.

Clumps of tourists of all colours and nationalities milled around aimlessly looking at a barrage of photographs of political prisoners and their families, most of whom were now members of parliament and, to boot amazingly rich, as they stared back from the walls, defiant of an old order which had long-since passed away. Many of the names were utterly unfamiliar to the onlookers, but that of Nelson Mandela stood out; everyone knew who he was, and most of the sightseers knew his history.

Soon after twelve-thirty a whistle blew and a queue formed at the door to the jetty. One by one we handed over our tickets and walked slowly out into the sunshine and up the gangplank. For some reason, the large tri-maran which was supposed to be in service on this trip, had failed to materialise, and so we were herded onto a rather lovely old boat with lots of wood and brass, but which had to have been built sometime in the 1940s. Unlike the tri-maran, though, it was fairly small.

Ian and Heather took their seats inside the cabin and looked, somewhat fearfully, out at the sunshine on the afterdeck. Ron had climbed up on top of the cabin where she had found a seat quite easily, and I stood on the stern, camera in hand, eagerly waiting for the boat to pull away from the quay. We chugged easily out across the harbour over sluggish waters and watched with amusement how the seals basked in whatever sunshine they could find. Some were lying on the tyres surrounding the quays, some on rocks, and some could be seen proudly slipping beneath the tranquil surface of the green water. We ran smoothly through the harbour mouth and were soon riding long, gentle swells as we headed out to sea. The chatter ebbed and flowed over the sound of the diesel engines and there was a mood of eager anticipation amongst most of the passengers.

However, the swells, which at first had been long and lazy, gradually became larger and more urgent and the boat began to crest each one with a labouring sound of engines and then to corkscrew interestingly into the trough which followed. Those of us who had decided to stand in the stern soon had to hold on to whatever solid fixtures we could find in order to keep our footing and maintain our balance. This was all rather fun as far as I was concerned because I had never suffered from sea-sickness, but for some of the passengers it must have been a bit of an ordeal. However, it ceased to be quite so funny when one or two large swells actually washed over the stern, soaking our feet and legs right up to the knees. The boat was now pitching around to such an extent that it would have been impossible to move to a drier spot, so we had no choice but to stand and grin rather sheepishly as our feet were washed again and again with the boiling green waters of the Atlantic.

Just short of one hour later, we arrived, somewhat wetter, certainly wiser, in the small harbour of Robben Island, where we disembarked and were herded without further delay into a waiting bus. I had made this trip in 1994 when the island was first opened to the public and so felt I knew what to expect. It had been a pristinely clean and brilliantly white place, the chalk of its land reflecting the brightness of the day, its small houses all neatly painted, its gardens tended, and its ancient cars, most of which had never returned to the mainland, rotting away in silence by the side of the road. It was with some dismay, then, that I noticed that the same bus which we had used in 1994 and which had been in pristine condition, was still in use, if somewhat scuffed and elderly by now. Ron and I took our seats near the back.

The tour guide clambered aboard and the engine started. The guide turned out to be a rather squat black lady in a sort of uniform who barked at us through a microphone in a gabble of English that even the English would have found hard to follow. She seemed blissfully unaware that many of the tourists on board could only manage the most simple phrases in that language, and since there was no interpreter, she soon lost the attention of many people on the bus. Whereas we had had, in 1994, one of the prison guards who regaled us with some interesting stories about the island and his charges, she was obviously an employee of the company which now ran the island as a museum, and it soon became apparent that she was highly politicised. Even worse, she seemed to lack even the smallest vestiges of a sense of humour. For ten minutes, while the engine ticked over and we looked around the empty harbour area, she rattled away about Robert Sobukhwe and I was quite sure that most people on the bus had never heard of him.

‘Who was Sobukhwe?’ Ron asked me, at sea, like the rest of the bus.

I had to think hard before I gave her an answer.

‘I think he was head of the Pan Africanist Congress, but I’m not sure.’

‘What about Nelson Mandela?’ she asked.

But there was little or no mention of this icon; indeed for our learned tour guide, he seemed never to have existed. It seemed in some ways to be redolent of the re-naming of Johannesburg International Airport: instead of naming it after someone or something which would have meaning for the foreigner, the government had decided to call it O.R.Tambo – again a name which had little meaning for most people.

The bus lurched forward and drove slowly through the village, stopping for us to take photos of the old leper colony and the two churches and grumbling past the local village street which was now very dilapidated, its houses badly in need of paint, washing waving from lines, and deer nuzzling around the dry grasses of its verges. The only building so far which was in good condition was the guesthouse, which, unlike 1994, was now off-bounds to us as it was used by members of the government. We stopped for a few minutes to admire a large hole in the quarry in which Mandela and so many others had spent so much of their time, but once again, his name was scarcely mentioned by our guide, who rattled away, oblivious of the fact that few of us understood a word she said, about several people whose existence even I had forgotten. She seemed to be totally out of touch with the mood of her audience and utterly unaware of what interested them. The significance of the quarry was lost to most of the people on the bus. One tended to be reminded of the kind of propaganda to which the white population had been exposed for so many years under Nationalist rule.

About thirty minutes into what increasingly began to look like a boring tour, we pulled up in the middle of what was clearly a rubbish dump which boasted, however, two clearly marked toilets. We were told we would stop here for five minutes so that those of us who wanted could use these, and the rest could take photographs of the fine view of Table Mountain. There was indeed a good view but the surroundings were most unappetising; there was no café, no souvenir shop, nowhere for us to spend our Rands, only a derelict and rusty building on the edge of the water, and two toilets.

‘Talk about ‘things ain’t what they used to be’, I said to Ron as we looked around the rubbish dump.

We were once more herded onto the bus and driven fairly fast back towards the jail. In 1994 the tour had lasted some three hours and had taken in the gun emplacements which had been built for the second World War, and had also included a complete trip round the island. We had seen buck and many many penguins, but these were no longer on the itinerary. In those days, however, we had not been able to see inside the prison, because this was still in use.

The bus ground to a halt outside the prison buildings and we were once more herded out onto the hot tarmac. A long line formed and we filed past the cell used by Nelson Mandela for so many years of his imprisonment. What should have been the highpoint of the tour for so many people was no more than a tiny room with a bed, a desk, and a barred window.

‘Ja, well, no, fine,’ I found myself saying, almost under my breath.

‘What did you say?’ Ron asked, looking inquiringly at me.

‘Doesn’t matter.’

We were herded into a long, hot and rather foetid room where someone regaled us of the hardships of being a political prisoner on the island. Since he himself had been imprisoned there for some time, his words had a meaning and a poignance which was not lost on his audience. He also spoke a much clearer and better English and so was easier to follow. For the first time the audience seemed to be taking an interest in what he had to say. However, the heat was oppressive, the lecture was very long, and the room was noticeably devoid of any seating, so many of the group began to look somewhat tired and strained. It was with some relief, therefore, that we were herded once more into the sunlight and told we had less than five minutes in which to visit the seals which nested next to the harbour. To see these in the time allotted was quite impossible, so we shambled along on our way to the waiting ferry.

I had been watching with some alarm, as we made our sluggish way around the island, how the tablecloth on Table Mountain had been growing steadily during the day; I now saw that it looked decidedly ugly, and that meant only one thing: the sea was going to be very rough. Obviously the authorities had taken note of this and instead of our trusty old boat waiting for us, the old Susan Kruger, the ferry that used to make the trip ever day when the island was still a prison, had been pressed into service once more. The Susan Kruger was a fair size – more the size of a small cross-channel ferry in Europe – and she was waiting for us by the quayside. As we filed aboard we were warned not to sit up on deck as we were likely to get wet; we were also asked to remain in our seats once the boat left the harbour and not to leave them until we were safe and sound inside Cape Town harbour again.

Ian and Heather, perhaps afraid of sea-sickness, perhaps deaf, had chosen to sit outside on the upper deck and so we saw nothing of them until we entered the harbour almost an hour later. We left the relative calmness of Robben Island and headed out for the open sea. Ron and I were sitting opposite each other at a table next to one of the large portholes; I think she was somewhat afraid of sea-sickness herself, but even I was not really prepared for the trip that awaited us. As we headed into open water great green waves with white crests battered the superstructure of the boat from all sides; every so often one of them found its way down the steps to wash around our feet. It was something like being inside a washing-machine with the cycle set on ‘high’ – the only thing missing being the soap, but one could imagine even this as the waves foamed past our window, often blotting out the view entirely. The boat heaved and shuddered its way from crest to crest, sometimes tossing badly in the troughs, and conversation was almost impossible as it was totally drowned out by the sound of the diesel engines pounding away at the sea for all they were worth. People on the other side of the lounge seemed to rise and fall in an alarming way, and every so often the bottom seemed to drop out of our world as we crested one wave and crashed into another. This had become a ride worthy of the best funfair but the only thing was that, unlike a funfair which you know is only going to last a few moments, this was good for almost an hour. It was no surprise, therefore, to see stewards urgently running around with paper bags in their hands, which they gave to several of the passengers, who were beginning to look decidedly the worse for wear.

Nothing could have prepared either of us, however, for the sight of Ian and Heather when they appeared on the pier in Cape Town harbour. They were both absolutely wringing wet from head to toe and they both looked frozen. I began to laugh at the sorry sight.

‘What on earth persuaded you to sit outside?’ I asked as we walked slowly up the quay.

‘Nobody told us it would be that bad’, Ian replied, wringing out as much of his clothing as he could decently manage.

‘We sat out there because we felt that we were less likely to feel ill’ Heather remarked, lamely, taking off her shoes and shaking the water out of them.

Ron, although rather shaken, was still quite dry.

‘That was quite an experience,’ she said, somewhat ambiguously.

‘You mean the trip or the boat?’ I asked.

‘The boat mainly. I always wondered what it would feel like to be inside a washing machine, so now I know,’ she laughed.

We stopped off at one of the many restaurants on the Waterfront to have a restorative drink. Ian and Heather dripped quietly over the white plastic seat and onto the floor and the talk was largely made up of the sort of hysteria that people evince when they have been through a rather frightening ordeal and have survived. We all laughed like drains.

(Robben Island, once pristine and glowing, is now in a rather sad state of dereliction and dilapidation. Only two buildings remain in good repair: the guesthouse and the gaol; the rest is really rather sad and the area to which we were taken to take photos of the mainland was actually quite appalling.)

The Family

This is my daughter (of whom I'm immensely proud. She's a bigshot in the government of NSW in Australia.

Top left: the last family photo of my mother, my daughter, my cousin and myself.

Top right: a quick shot of me, Ian, and his girfriend Heather, before we set sail for Robben Island.

A little postscript: my mother passed away shortly after this last photo was taken; she had had breast cancer for many years and finally succumbed to it on 18th August 2008. I miss her dearly as we were much more than just mother and son. We were friends and shared most of our interests and, perhaps because of that, always had a very close relationship. She was a talented artist, a qualified nurse and midwife, and a teacher of some note. She always believed that there was something better round the next corner, and lived her life on a note of constant optimism.

My cousin, Ian, lives in UK and is very talented with his hands, making all sorts of things; he is an excellent craftsman and something of a perfectionist, but can also be very funny.

My daughter lives in Sydney with her husband. She has a great love of art, is a talented musician, and loves animals. She is tall, beautiful, very motherly without being a matron, and is a very dear friend as well as being very cherished as a daughter.

My Animals

SHANE

TITO

MRS KITT

Just a few pics of my pets at the moment: Shane is getting old now. He will be 10 at the end of this year, but has a lovely gentle nature and is a very faithful friend. He's my shadow, and woe betide anyone who tries to come between us!

Tito is now 3 1/2 and is a very talkative and noisy cat. He loves catching anything that moves, but seldom kills his catches, preferring rather to bring them to me for approval. The claws, like all Siameses, are really very destructive and it's impossible to have any decent furniture. But furniture can always be replaced; Tito can't.

Mrs.Kitt (as far as I know) is now nearly 12 and has been around for a long time. She has also had several different homes, but she has always come back to me, one way or another. She's a very quiet cat and is often quite invisible, except at night when she likes to hog the bed!

A Bad Day

Life is never as bad as it seems, it seems. I got out of bed dreading today: I had so many things to do and then people coming for art lessons this afternoon, and the daily grind just disappeared into the distance with no let-up in sight.

However, the first thing that happened: the art lessons were cancelled. So, having mentally re-arranged my day, I set off for the post office and then to the vet to see how my favourite cat was doing. He has been in hospital for more than two weeks with one problem after another. and I feared that he might not be any better. However, as soon as I crossed the threshhold into the vet's rooms and my voice was heard, a distant yowling started from the bowels of the building. I went straight to his cage and found, to my great joy, that he was looking a great deal better and was becoming his old noisy self again.

The vet appeared and announced that I had come to take him home. Given the welcome that I received, I could hardly leave him there, so, basket and all, cat was brought home where he was put on my bed, made much of, and promptly went to sleep.

Having overcome that obstacle (and that one was the one I feared most), I then bundled the spare dog into the car with its food and took it to another friend to look after for another three weeks. I went shopping for special cat food and came home filled with new life and a desire to put the whole place to rights.

I have sorely missed that cat and am very pleased that he's back where he belongs. Now I just have to deal with the rest of the day, but the sun is shining.........

The History of South Africa and Apartheid

A Brief, but Telling, History of South Africa: 1488 - 1860

It seems that the man who said it was right: there are two kinds of people in this world: the victims and the perpetrators. A victim is someone who always gets off on persuading his audience that he has suffered unmentionable wrongs at someone else’s hands; a perpetrator is someone who just gets on with life and makes the best of it.

There has been an awful lot of tear-jerking waffle from various quarters about Archbishop Tutu’s claim that whites are not grateful enough. Well, at last, we whites will apologise. Here goes:

In 1488 Bartholomew Diaz rounded the Cape. It seems he tried to land but found the few inhabitants to be very unfriendly and nationalistic, so he up-anchored and cleared off.
In 1497 Vasco da Gama decided to see for himself and landed at St.Helena Bay, Mossel Bay, and then Natal (hence it’s name because he arrived there on Christmas day).
In 1503 Table Mountain was scaled for the first time by a white man. Then the Portuguese lost interest and carried on to Mozambique. Had they colonised this part of the world, history would have been entirely different.

In 1580 Sir Francis Drake rounded the Cape and was most impressed with its beauty. However, he saw little reason to stop over as there were no Sun International Hotels in those days.

In 1602 the Dutch East India Company was founded, and, like the British company of the same name, sought a sea-route round the Cape so that the spice trade could be opened up. The Dutch had already colonised the East Indies and frequently sailed the route through all kinds of storms, taking many weeks to make the trip and losing a considerable proportion of the crew to scurvy.
In 1652 Jan Van Riebeek was dispatched here with instructions to establish a victualling station at the Cape. The first horses in Southern Africa were imported from Java. For this landing and these horses we humbly apologise because it meant that vegetables would be grown in this part of the world for the first time and carts no longer had to be drawn by hand.
In 1657 the Dutch, being a people of the land, established the first farms in the Cape. We apologise for spoiling the emptiness of the area.
In 1658 the Dutch brought the first blacks to the area; they were slaves captured on board a Portuguese ship. I’m sure the Dutch will offer an apology for further despoiling the racial purity that existed in the Cape; they had already screwed those that they couldn’t kill out of the Hottentots, but they needed labour for the farms, so there we are. I’m sure they’re sorry.
In 1688 the Huguenots arrived and consumed more of the limited arable land. Sorry.
Until 1780 no indigenous black people were found in what used to be the Cape Province; they had not migrated this far south. Perhaps they should have stayed where they were, because their arrival caused no less than nine wars during the following century. I think they should apologise.
Until 1803 the Dutch continued to import slave labour from Madagascar, Mozambique and the East Indies; we unreservedly apologise for doing this because the Coloured People were the result of this miscegeny.

Perhaps the biggest mistake made by the Dutch was to end the sponsorship of immigrants from Europe in 1707 because this meant that additional slave labour had to be imported. Wrong. Sorry.
In 1795 Europe was in turmoil: the French Revolution was at hand, in England the Industrial Revolution was turning a land of farmers into a land of shopkeepers; in the Cape the Dutch began to revolt against what they perceived to be an unfairly draconian rulership from their home country.


In 1814 the Cape was formally ceded to Britain.
In 1820 the British settlers arrived and began establishing the system of representative government. We’re sorry, we made a mistake.
In 1834 the British spoiled the entire system by abolishing slavery. Sorry – we should have let it continue; it was very profitable.
In 1835 the Great Trek began because the Boers (as they had become known) hated to bow to any kind of law, especially British. Rumour has it that when they reached the Orange River there was a notice on the bank warning those who could read not to cross; they crossed, and that was the beginning of the Free State, once Mzilikazi and Dingane had been dealt with. Of course, the Trekkers should have laid down and died, so they’re sorry too.

In 1852 the Transvaal was given independence; the British didn’t want it. Had they known what was under the soil they would have kept it, of course.
In 1854 the Free State was also given independence; they didn’t want that either.
In 1860 the first indentured Indians were brought to Natal; sorry, we should have left them at home. The problem was that India was already ruled by the British and the Indians didn’t have enough to do; in Natal the sugar industry was just getting under way, so what simpler answer was there but to bring the labour force to the field? We were wrong, we should have left well alone and the world could have looked elsewhere for its sugar.

Until the mid 19th century the British had only sought more land (they had so little of it at home), and the Dutch more freedom to do their own thing and build their enormous, if rather ugly, churches; however, between 1867 and 1871 various rich deposits of diamonds were found on a farm in Griqualand West, causing the encroaching Dutch and the beaten natives to fight each other once more in order to secure the ownership of this hoard. The British stepped in and annexed Griqualand West to restore peace. Sorry, we shouldn’t have done it. It would have been better to wait until each side had killed off the other; we would have got hold of the diamonds anyway.

Sensing more trouble to come, the British then went on and annexed the Transvaal which led within three years to the first Boer War which broke out in 1880. At this stage, South Africa was undergoing dramatic changes, brought about by the discovery of diamonds. Railways were being built to bring diggers and prospectors to the fields, roads were hacked through what had hitherto been deemed impenetrable mountains; the country was no longer a smattering of farmers eeking out a living around the Cape and fighting their way into the interior; it was now heading towards becoming a land of mineral wealth and value to the rest of the world. We whites should have known better than to allow this to happen. We should have left there and then. We are sorry.
The African, having nothing to offer but his labour, came in droves to the diggings and, being smart despite his rural background, began to make his fortune. We should not have let this happen. We are sorry. It caused rifts in families, untold strife, and a huge human movement whose wave is still breaking on our shores today. We should have imported our own white labour for the diamond fields and allowed the African to continue to farm his cattle, eat his mealies, and sell his daughters.

Then, as if this was not enough, gold was discovered on the Reef in 1886. More African labour left the kraals in search of wealth and fortune. We are sorry. We should not have allowed it. We should have mined the gold on our own and taken the spoils with us when we left. After all, finders keepers!

Because of the greed of the colonialists the cities of Kimberley and Johannesburg were founded in the middle of nowhere; resulting from the cupidity of the native black, steps had to be taken to accommodate those who sought work in the cities, and so, temporary shanty towns for all races were allowed to mushroom out of the veld. We are sorry. It was the start of a new problem.

1902 brought the end of the second Boer war; it was the end of tremendous suffering for both British and Afrikaner and, in retrospect, achieved little other than to unite the whole of South Africa in the Act of Union in1910. One of Britain’s great mistakes was to beat warring factions into submission, establish law and order, and then give the land back to those from whom it had been taken. We apologise; we should have kept it all for ourselves and forced those who came before us to live under the British colonial yoke.

In 1913 the National Party was formed. What had hitherto just been various small groups of people living off the land, fighting with each other from time to time but largely keeping to themselves, had suddenly become a country and a population which required organising and governing, something that the British were particularly good at, and some sort of order needed to be established to avoid the anarchy and lawlessness of the Wild West gradually taking over. In order to protect the rights of the wandering blacks, 912 million hectares of land was put aside for their sole use. For the first time, the blacks actually had the legal right to occupy and farm this enormous area.

In 1928 Iscor was formed. In order to prevent further strife between black and white, a form of segregation was attempted. It failed.

1929 saw the first National Party government come to power, but for various reasons it was a dismal failure, and in 1933 a coalition government was established under the then United Party. Because only a very small proportion of the land was arable and because both blacks and whites saw enormous wealth being wrested from the ground, large numbers of both races had abandoned the rural areas and descended on the cities, whose streets, they believed, were paved with gold. They both lived in incredible hardship and poverty – a situation which could not be allowed to continue.

1936 saw a further 6,2 million hectares of land added to the initial 912 million hectares for exclusive black use. We were wrong; we should not have allowed black legal tenure of any of the land and rather kept it for ourselves. Sorry.

By 1944 Jan Hofmeyr had lost a great deal of his support because of his promotion of the interests of black people in this country, and in 1948 the dreaded Nationalists came to power and Grand Apartheid followed soon after. We really are sorry about this one.

The dark years began with the coming to power of the Nationalists under D.F.Malan in 1948. Whereas previous governments had been interested in the welfare of all races, the Nationalists of 1948 were only interested in the furthering of Afrikaner interests and goals; anyone who was not Afrikaans (and that means the various black tribes, the English, the Indians, the Portuguese, the Italians, and the Jews) were all regarded as second-class citizens and all manner of horrible laws were passed to keep people in their place. The Afrikaner of those days was only slightly to the left of Hitler and we should, we now acknowledge, have stepped in once more and taken the country back under British rule. We are sorry we didn’t because out of this mistake came Apartheid and this country became more and more isolated as the years went by.

In the early 1950s Soweto (concertina name for South Western Townships) was laid out and established; it is still the largest black township on the African continent and was to serve as a huge dormitory area for Johannesburg. Much has been said and written about Sophiatown (most of it through the rose-coloured spectacles of time) and its untimely demise and the forced removal of its citizens to Soweto. Sophiatown was, in reality, a down-at-heel suburb of crumbling turn-of-the-century houses which were home to a great diversity of peoples; it was an area with its own vibrancy, but nonetheless an area where crime was rife and streets were ruled by gangs. Upon its demise the houses were raised and a new suburb, Triomf, was built to house the burgeoning Afrikaaner middle class.

In 1954 J.G.Strydom became prime minister. Much can be written about the Nationalists and their rise and fall; however, they can legitimately lay claim to certain interesting facts: they were the only government in modern times which had a penchant for erecting statues to people who were still alive and naming various projects (roads, airports, harbours) after their ministers. We had Jan Smuts Airport in Johannesburg, D.F.Malan Airport (overlooked by a rather frightening bust of the famous man looking like a large boiled egg with glasses) in Cape Town, Louis Botha (alright, he was dead) Airport in Durban; the Ben Schoeman Highway between Johannesburg and Pretoria, the Strydom Tunnel in the Eastern Transvaal, and so-on.

In order to alleviate the plight of the great unemployed masses of former years, the Nationalists created a massive, top-heavy, civil service. Whatever had to be achieved in their South Africa required books of paperwork to be completed; there were departments for this, for that, for everything under the sun. Every breath that the populace took had to be legislated; every movement required somebody’s permission in writing, and round every corner lurked an official, the Bible in one hand and the Might of the State in the other. It was bureaucracy gone mad. Every document was firstly and foremostly in Afrikaans, and every official behind every desk spoke only that language. Of course they did; it was the language God spoke, wasn’t it?

In 1958 H.F.Verwoerd came to power. We really are sorry for this one, for he, single-handedly brought about more damage than anyone else in the Nationalist hierarchy. The odd thing was that he wasn’t even South African. He had sufficiently aroused the ire of the British, so that in 1960 Harold MacMillan delivered his nail-in-the-coffin ‘winds of change’ speech in Parliament. For some years the colonial powers had been withdrawing from Africa and handing countries back to their local populations. Colonies cost an awful lot to keep going; they used manpower, a great deal of paper, and were very difficult to administer from far-away London or Brussels or Lisbon, so they were gradually given independence. After the required pomp and circumstance and the departure of the governor most of these erstwhile colonies immediately reverted to tribal warfare, rape, pillage, wanton genocide, and other little niceties that we, as whites, are very sorry to have caused by our departure. MacMillan’s speech was a warning.

By 1966 Verwoerd had become an embarrassment even here and so he was assassinated.
This brought B.J.Vorster to power; during his regency he managed the forced removal from District 6 (a slum area, much romanticised in plays, poetry and painting, where gangs ruled) and then its demolition; he established the Bureau of State Security, which watched over all of us in its safari suits and dark glasses, he allowed in a moment of extreme weakness the arrival of television some twenty years after it had been introduced to the rest of the world, and then was forced to retire iniquitously at the end of the 70s.

Whatever criticism we may throw in the direction of the Vorster administration, it was a time of great success financially for this country; so he must have done something right.
The amazing thing about the Nationalists was how, at each general election, they managed to be returned to power with a resounding majority. However on closer scrutiny it can be seen that they gerrymandered political constituencies in such a way that a small Afrikaans town had at least ten seats, whereas a large English-speaking area seldom had more than one. Of course, the ANC went one better when they introduced floor-crossing; there is no longer any need to win an election; they simply buy their support afterwards. We can’t apologise for that.

After Vorster came the Groot Krokodil and things went from bad to worse while he wagged an index finger at us through the TV screen. By 1990 most of the white population was armed to the teeth and in 1992, under F.W.de Klerk, came the famous referendum which brought about the end of Nationalist power. So in no uncertain terms the whites actually did say with a very loud voice how sorry they were for Apartheid and its attendant policies and harm.

The rest, as they say, is history. If you seek apologies from the Nationalists for what they did between 1948 and 1994, then you must go out and try to find one, because they all seem to have disappeared. Now we look forward to hearing Mad Bob’s apology, as he leaves Zim for the last time.

And that, in the words of John Vorster, is all about it.

Steam train excursions, trips and adventure - Blog Toplist

Steam train excursions, trips and adventure - Blog Toplist

The Train

It’s a cold, blustery morning with a hint of spring in the air; clouds hurry across a pale blue sky causing sudden showers to wet the pavements of the dull coastal town. It is the end of March 1959, a time when travel of any kind is still imbued with romance and excitement. Long distance air-travel is still something of a luxury for which the few still dress up; jets have recently taken the place of lumbering turbo-prop aircraft allowing destinations which were once a few days away to be only a few hours out of our increasingly busy lives. Each journey is preceded by days of anticipation and eager packing; there is still the sense of going somewhere, leaving and arriving amidst noise and bustle. We have not reached the stage of arriving at a huge sprawling airport with crush-proof baggage, dressed in jeans and running shoes, to join a long queue to have our papers stamped and then to be herded into cramped spaces numbered on our tickets. We are not transported from A to B, personal phones switched off and stowed in our hand-luggage; we are not force-fed with aircraft food off plastic plates, nor are we concerned with what movie may be playing to while away the few brief hours of our high-speed journey; we have not reached the stage of departing one side of the world and arriving on another within twenty-four hours, wondering how we arrived there or what we have missed on the way. In 1959 it is not the arriving that matters, it is the getting there which holds all the pleasure.

Few families own even one car and our towns and villages are not scored with enormous shopping centres and carparks; we take the bus to do the shopping, we go to work by train, we buy tickets instead of carrying credit cards for the purchase of petrol; we cannot plan our journeys by computer; we cannot press a button and have our tickets printed within a matter of seconds; the world we live in is much bigger, much more individual, its nooks a crannies still undiscovered and untrammelled by tourism; the age of the masses is yet to come.

England is still criss-crossed with minor railway lines which are still profitable; country stations still have tended flower beds and heated waiting rooms; we can still sit by the fire, and the art of conversation is still alive; we have not yet reached the stage where our lives are ruled by the television schedule, and we still regard the Sunday chicken as something of a luxury. We know who lives in our street and what they do, how many children they have; we still go to the cinema occasionally instead of taking in a movie; we dress for the theatre. It is 1959.

So it was that, on that blustery morning, the old black taxi deposited us and our various large, leather bags, at the steps that swept up to the main railway station. We had already bought and paid for our tickets and, unheard of as it is today, our seats were booked. We heaved the numerous bags up the steps and through the dark foyer onto the windswept platform to join the already large crowd of people waiting expectantly for the train. It is almost impossible to imagine today the smell of a railway station; in those far-off days there was somehow an odour of stale coal-smoke, damp clothes, the sea, and numerous other scents that whistled through the drafty entrance so fast that you were largely unaware of them. But they were there and they made up part of the excitement of going somewhere. Although nothing much was happening there was a constant buzz of hushed conversations, the occasional clang of a porter’s trolley as it unloaded someone’s luggage on the platform, the sound of a distant taxi arriving or leaving, but over all lay a kind of hushed expectancy, a waiting for something momentous to happen. The cold wind cut in eddies under the bridge and along the platform, causing us to hug scarves tighter and raise collars against departing winter. The large central clock beneath the sooty awning stood at eleven-forty-five and every few seconds we stole a glance beyond the bridge, round the curve of the line, hoping to see something.

Promptly at eleven forty-seven a hissing and clanking could be heard somewhere just out of sight, the other side of the bridge. This hissing grew louder and louder until it was overtaken by a kind of huffing roar; clouds of smoke began to appear through the arches of the bridge, and then, suddenly, with an almost deafening chuff, hiss, and clank, the enormous monster grew out of the bridge until it dwarfed the crowd on the platform. A belching funnel topped a mountain of dark green shiny paint and gleaming brass; massive silver pistons shot up and down, back and forth, a wave of heat struck us from the tender as it slid past, and then came carriage after carriage of dark red and gold, sweating from a recent shower, windows closed and slightly misted from the outside cold. Almost silently now, the enormous monster came to rest against the platform with a final hiss of steam as it curled up from somewhere underneath the carriages. Doors opened with a thud, leather straps waving in the wind, and the scramble to get aboard began. This was the beginning of a journey.

We manhandled our luggage into the corridor and left it by the door while we went looking for the reserved seats. Outside in the windy morning the announcer could be heard above the clamour and hiss reading out the stations of our journey; they were magical names even though they were distorted by the speaker-system and the amount of noise that the arrival of a large train always generates. “Chichester, Portsmouth, Yeoville, Exeter, Okehampton, Plymouth.” Inside, the carriages smelled of soot, steam, slightly of coffee, but most of all of going somewhere. The corridors were jammed with people walking up and down looking for reservations and the atmosphere was warm with the dampness of steam-heating. We found our reserved seats and heaved the luggage along to the compartment and then up onto the rack which stretched above our heads.

Our compartment was not full – there were still three seats vacant – but every seat had a little card screwed above it showing that it was reserved. The seats were of a dark red moquette with arms which pulled down between each place; the window was large and square and when you sat down it came to knee-level; the top section consisted of a ventilator which could slide along into the open position to allow a bit of fresh air to enter the compartment and each place was topped with a framed picture of some seaside spot. The air inside could only be described as a ‘fug’. We struggled out of our overcoats, folded them and put them up on the rack, for this was to be a long haul; we took our window seats and watched the platform expectantly, waiting for the inevitable whistle and the knowledge that, at last, the journey was beginning.

At ten years old it was the first time that I had been anywhere outside the routine of going to school or exploring the local woods and fields with my friends; it was also the end of an era of post-war greyness where life was depressingly the same, day in and day out. Around the corner, at the end of the year, was the beginning of the famous 1960s: the start of inflation, the end of the security of knowing just where we would all be at the end of each month, the era of free love, flower-power, and the end of many institutions to which we had all become accustomed. By the end of the coming decade many of the smaller railway-lines would be closed, steam would be largely a thing of the past, cars would be the rule rather than the exception, and people would begin to fly to ever more distant destinations, becoming more and more casual about it as time began to fly past for all of us. In a sense, 1959 marked the beginning of the end of innocence.

After precisely three minutes, the enormous twelve-carriage red and cream monster began almost imperceptibly to move, sliding out of the station away from the platform and pulled by this enormous streamlined relic of the early 1940s which belched and puffed great gouts of black smoke into the cloudy sky. The suburban back gardens began to slide past, at first slowly and then with increasing speed until one blended in with the next. Level crossings flew past outside the window, small stations caused the train to rock excitingly as it dashed westwards, and from each bridge under which we steamed small groups of children ran in and out of the cloud of smoke that marked our passing. We were finally on our way.

The grey of suburbia gave way to the sound of the click-clack of the wheels over the joins in the rail to the green of fields filled with new grass, shining with a recent shower of rain, and in the background we could see the hills and hedges of the South Downs which, in turn became once more a jumble of houses, gardens, and factories as we slowed into Portsmouth. Up and down the carriages bustled a man in uniform announcing that the first sitting for lunch was now open, so we stashed our bits and pieces and, as the train once more slid into motion, staggered along rocking corridors until we reached the dining car. This was a long saloon through which the passage led, seats arranged in groups of four on the left and two on the right, each seat facing a table set with a spotless white cloth on which was set the required number of places. Each place had silver cutlery, its own napkin and wineglass, and each plate, when it came, bore the insignia of British Railways. It was a heady experience to sit at such a table and be served good food while looking out of the window at total strangers who stood waiting for some other train, huddled against the cold and wrapped in raincoats against the chilly March showers.

As we left the big port cities of Portsmouth and Southampton behind us, the sun burst from behind the scudding clouds; occasionally the view from the window was hidden behind a streak of steam from the engine and the cutlery jangled merrily as we rocked and rattled our way through small country stations at speed. Like royalty we sat back and enjoyed our roast beef and our chatter as the rest of the world went about its daily business, shielded from us by a sheet of glass while we, in our normal indoor clothes (although somewhat smarter for the occasion) enjoyed the warmth and security of our isolation. The world outside was still turning, still doing its shopping, its farming, delivering post in suburban streets, but we were going somewhere; we had all the trappings of excitement and movement and the knowledge that this was a day unlike any other.

After lunch was over we returned to our compartment, warm and replete with good food and enjoyed the ever-changing scenery as the train steadily steamed westwards. Ploughed fields which had been brown in Sussex and Hampshire became red as we crossed Dorset; hills which had been low and rounded became higher, and roads which had been wide and flat became narrow and winding and edged with high hedges. It suddenly rained while we stood in Chard station but the sun soon shone again, somehow brighter this time, as we crossed into Devonshire and the shadows began to lengthen into late afternoon.

All was hustle and bustle at Exeter Central where we stopped for ten minutes or so, the loudspeakers on the platform telling us to change here for Dawlish and the southern towns, but we were soon on our way again, this time close to the wilds of Dartmoor with its barren hills and bare trees, and at the end of the afternoon we pulled gently into Okehampton. We gathered our bags from the luggage rack and walked down the corridor to the open door to the platform. Okehampton was a sleepy station whose only claim to fame seemed to be that it was the junction for the branch line on which we were to continue our explorations.

As the long cream and red monster huffed its way out of the station and into the darkening distance we crossed the platform to another smaller train, this time in the green livery of British Railways, which waited, four carriages behind a much smaller engine; small puffs of steam came from beneath each carriage and we seemed to be the only people on the platform. Opening one of the doors, we climbed aboard and stashed our luggage in one of the rear compartments, having been warned that the train would split at Tower Hill, the first two carriages taking the northern line to Bude while the remainder of the train would continue south-westwards to Padstow. Since there was an hour before its scheduled departure, my mother asked one of the men in uniform if we could leave our bags on the train while we went for a cup of tea.
“You’m leave ‘em where ‘e likes, m’dear. They’m quite safe,” he encouraged, as he walked down the platform.

As a ten-year-old who had never been anywhere, I couldn’t understand a word he said, but it was fine and we climbed the steps up the bridge and crossed the lines to the station cafeteria where we had a rather watery cup of British Railways tea served in apparently indestructible white china.

At just before six o’clock we climbed back into the train. Outside, the gas-lamps were already giving off their steamy, greenish glow, and the quiet countryside was disappearing into the approaching night. With a few creaks and groans the train began to move and soon we were slowly chugging our way along a winding track with the sound of the river Dart chattering away somewhere below us; we seemed to be virtually the only people on the train. The night air smelled of all the scents of spring: we could almost see the catkins on the trees and feel the whisps of mist which clung to the lower slopes of the moor.

Small country stations marked points of hesitation in our journey, and I remember clearly the brighter and larger appearance of Launceston as we stopped there for a few minutes. Seemingly in the middle of nowhere, dark now, we shunted back and forth at Tower Hill, and then we were on our way once more and into the unexplored wilds of North Cornwall as night finally wrapped us in our own little cocoon of electric light reflected in the dark window-panes of the compartment. I was tired and sleepy with all the excitement of the day, but I remember well the three stations where we stopped. I remember the strange names they bore: Egloskerry, Tresmeer, Otterham.

At Otterham, we gathered up our bags, opened the door into the quiet night, and stepped down onto the still platform. Owls hooted somewhere nearby and small insects buzzed around the gas-lamps as we walked slowly towards the station buildings where a small man in tweeds and a battered pork-pie hat waited for us. The three of us made up the entire complement of humanity on this rather deserted and lonely platform. The stranger ambled up to us and took our bags.
“You’m bin ‘itch-‘ikin’, m’dear?” he asked my mother as we walked into the building. For a moment she looked surprised – lost for an answer. Perhaps, like me, she didn’t understand him either.
“Oh, you mean ‘hitch-hiking’”, she laughed as we walked out of the building towards the green Austin Somerset which waited just outside the station. “No, why do you ask that?”
“Well,’ he said, ‘train’s late. I’m waitin for ‘e for more ‘n twenny minutes,” he grinned as he threw the bags in the boot and opened the doors for us.

As we drove off into the unlit night and down endless winding lanes of apparently empty countryside, past Tresparrat Posts, and other little hamlets whose names I completely forget, I nodded with sleep in the leather back-seat. Our journey, the first of many for me, had come to an end, and with it came the end of one of the most memorable days of my childhood, but one which I would never forget and which I would always strive to repeat.

The End of the Day

Outside all was quiet and peaceful; the garden slept in the deep heat of a summer afternoon and the pool burbled quietly away. Birds flew in and out of the sprinklers in the herbaceous borders, bees buzzed quietly in and out of the flowers, and the big dog slept against the sliding glass doors to the patio.

Inside he was putting the finishing touches to a painting, his thoughts far away as he brushed at the canvas. Although she had been dead less than five months, suddenly, the silence was broken by the sound of her voice calling him repeatedly from somewhere inside the house. The dog immediately rose up, skidding on the tiled floor, his hackles standing on end; he looked into the darkened house and barked softly. The painter got up from his painting and went to investigate – but there was nothing to be seen or found.

Some days later, after a bad night when he had lain awake for a long time worrying about this and that detail of the future, he heard, through the mists of sleep, the phone ringing. He looked at his watch; it was only 6.45 a.m. and so he curled up again and went back to sleep. At nine he woke up, stretched, and reached for the morning pill, realising from the congestion in his chest, that he had to get to the nebulizer quickly.

He staggered into the living room, loaded the nebulizer, switched it on, and put it to his mouth to take the first relieving breaths of the morning. Suddenly, his mouth was filled with something horrid – something that struggled and moved around, and eventually bit him quite hard in the left cheek. He coughed and spluttered and spat the offending thing out on the floor. It was a spider which had found its way into the mouthpiece of the nebulizer and now lay, dying, on the floor.

He paid it little heed at the time, finishing off his time on the machine before going to make the customary morning tea. His mouth felt a little numb and vaguely unpleasant, but he soon forgot about it as he went about the chores of the day – one of which was to see who had phoned so early in the morning.

It wasn’t until much later in the morning that he became aware that his mouth was still tingly and rather numb, and he idly wondered why. He walked out to the kitchen and started the washing-up from the day before, listening with one ear to the radio which blared out its usual hash of reggae and popular music of the day, interspersed with the occasional news bulletin and the same adverts that had been spewing forth for the last two weeks from the speakers. He didn’t really have the radio on to listen to it, more for the company as he went about his solitary day.

It was after lunch that he first realised there might be something wrong. His mouth still felt a little numb, but nothing to worry about, but now he felt how the glands under his arms were enlarged, and a kind of drowsiness crept over him in waves. He stood up from the computer where he was working and took a few steps towards the kitchen with the intention of making a cup of tea. Suddenly, without warning, he found himself lying flat on the floor of the passage. The door frames seemed to be all the wrong way up and the windows, where he could see them, were all upside-down. He was quite conscious yet he knew that he couldn’t move, couldn’t even reach for the phone in his pocket, let alone remember what numbers to dial. He lay like that for some time. The dog came and snuffled at his face, eventually lying down beside him because he understood that, somehow, his master couldn’t move properly. The only thing he could do was to lie there and see that no harm came to him. Outside the silence of the midday persisted.

After what seemed like a long time, he was able to get up again and walk shakily to the bedroom, where he lay down on the bed. The dog followed him, licking his face and snuffling against him, but to no avail, because the dog couldn’t speak English, or any other language. He only understood that something was wrong with his master, and he wasn’t going to move.

Some time later, in the mid afternoon it must have been, he found enough strength to get to the kitchen and switch on the kettle. His mouth was no longer numb and he was beginning to feel better; but hardly had he found a cup and poured the hot water into it on top of the teabag, than he was once more overcome with giddiness and tiredness, and it was all he could do to get as far as the bed and fall, noisily, on top of it. The dog followed him, knowing in his way that there was something wrong, but being quite unable to deal with it.

He must have slept for an hour or so, and when he woke up the tea was still by the bed and the dog was lying peacefully on the floor. He struggled up and took a couple of mouthfuls of cold tea and then lay back, exhausted, on the pillows. The room had begun to come and go again in his vision. One moment it was dark and quiet, the next it seemed full of light and he could hear many voices just outside his ability to understand what they were trying to say. These voices the dog couldn’t hear.

He must have lain there for several hours, because the next time he opened his eyes, the light had faded to twilight and the evening was well advanced. He had a vague memory of the phone ringing somewhere in the distance, but he wasn’t quite sure where, or what he had done with the instrument which he normally carried with him. The dog was now restless, because it was past his time for eating, and he was hungry, but the man on the bed could not find the energy to get as far as the kitchen and dig out the food.

Later, when he awoke again, it was fully dark outside, and the whole house was in darkness. He realised, with a certain sort of alarm, that he couldn’t really feel his feet, and that other extremities seemed to have gone to sleep. The dog remained curled up at the side of the bed, not wanting to leave his master for even one minute. He tried to lean over and touch the dog, to ruffle its head and say that all was OK, but he couldn’t do it. With a kind of resignation, he realised that perhaps he would never be able to get up off this bed again – but somehow it didn’t seem to matter.

The voices were coming nearer, but he still couldn’t understand what they were trying to say. At times the room seemed full of light and he could see faint shapes moving somewhere beyond his vision, but he soon gave up trying to see them or to understand what they were saying. He must have dozed off again because when he woke later, it seemed that the night was well advanced. He heard, in the distance, the sound of a clock chiming three. And then, suddenly, the room was filled with light and he could see people he hadn’t seen for many years and he could almost understand what they were trying to say. It was then that he remembered the spider and the calls in the quiet afternoon, and he lay back, exhausted, and allowed the people and the room to gradually swallow him up into their strange embrace. He breathed his last, stertorous breath, at 3.30 a.m. and then lay back and surrendered to those who had come to fetch him.

Three days later the cleaning lady came in and found him, dead on the bed, the dog still lying faithfully at his side on the bedside mat. She let out a piercing shriek and ran for help. The dog didn’t move because as long as his master was still there, this was his place and he was not going to forsake it for anyone.

Two hours later, the ambulance had come and gone on its last trip, and a friendly neighbour coaxed the old dog to his final resting place at the local vet. The past was now over – finished. Nothing mattered any more.

The Haunted House

In the autumn of 1970 my mother and I moved into a large house in Parktown; although not as ostentatious as some of the houses built by the Randlords in the last decade of the 19^th century, built in 1897 it was a very solid Victorian of typical appearance, single storey with gables to the front and one side joined by a covered veranda, and set in an acre of what had once been lush garden. It had an enormous lounge with a fireplace, an interleading music room looking onto the front stoep, a large dining room with a most interesting arched stained glass window which opened to the lounge, and several of the external windows were of etched glass. The lounge and music rooms both had intricate pressed-steel ceilings with a deep cornice and in the centre of each ceiling was a magnificent chandelier made of hand-blown Venetian glass. The floors, which at first glance appeared to be covered by lino, were made of the most intricate marquetry in a delicate pattern. It was one of the loveliest houses I have ever lived in.

The occurrences started as soon as we began moving in. The removal lorry was parked in the back garden and I gave directions to the men as each item of furniture was removed and taken into the house; in the meantime my mother was hanging pictures in the lounge and making sure each piece of furniture ended up in the right place in the right room. She was knocking a nail into the wall next to the stained glass window by the lounge fireplace and opening to the dining room but the nail refused to remain in position and kept on falling out. She clearly heard a voice behind her saying “What are you doing?” Thinking that I was in the room and had asked the question, she turned round to find herself alone in the house. When she looked out of the dining room window I was still outside with the removal lorry.

After I had been able to restore the living areas to their previous splendour (they had been painted in the most terrible colours by the previous occupants), we would sit by the fire in the lounge in the evenings quietly listening to the radio or to music on the hi-fi. We had at that time two cats which were never far away and these would curl up in front of the fire on the settee. However, sometimes, the cats, ever aware of their surroundings, would refuse to remain in the room; their hackles would rise and their fur would stand on end suddenly and, peering into the corner in the direction of the stained glass window, they would suddenly run out of the room. Sometimes if I looked up slightly I could see at the edge of my vision, a couple standing by this window and silently watching us. They were not malevolent, but they were definitely there. As time went by we became quite accustomed to sharing the sitting room with this nameless couple and so really ceased to notice them.

The front door opened into a large entrance hall next to the music room; the hall then led through an interior door into a passage which ran the length of the house between the living areas and the bedrooms to the door into the dining room. Outside the front door there was an electric bell which connected with a bell-pull in the main bedroom; neither of these appliances worked any longer and had probably failed with old age. However, sometimes and for no apparent reason, they would ring. My mother used her bedroom (she slept in the large front room) as a sewing room and often she would become aware of a woman in a long pink dress slipping through the closed front door and disappearing down the passage.

The piano was situated in the music room at an angle which permitted me to see both the front stoep and through the door into the entrance hall. Late one night I was trying to get my fingers round a Liszt Hungarian Rhapsody when, suddenly, I became aware of someone standing behind my right shoulder; it seemed he was urging me to let him show me the right way to handle the music. Afraid and ‘spooked’ I jumped up, turned out the light and went to bed.

Even friends of ours who were avowed sceptics and who denied the existence of the supernatural would often refuse to stay in the sitting room because they felt uncomfortable there; they felt as if someone was watching them.

When we had lived in the house for about two years I was introduced to a clairvoyant; he was a strange elderly man who lived in a very grand flat in the centre of Johannesburg. Wearing a copper-coloured corduroy suit over a dark red jersey, I visited him for the first time one winter night. When I knocked on his door he called from inside the flat and told me to wait a minute. From the other side of the door, in which there was no peep-hole, he told me that I was tall and blond and was dressed in a mixture of coppery brown and red. I was amazed, but was even more surprised when, as we sat across the table from each other, he described accurately the house in which we lived, even going so far as to detail the stained glass window which seemed to be the centre of these ‘happenings’.

He also told me about the two people who stood by the window from time to time: apparently they were a couple who had lived in the house about 1920 and who had had some very memorable experience in that room, hence their returning there quite frequently.

There was also, from time to time, a terrible smell of death which hovered around the second bedroom from the front door; on conducting some research I found out that an elderly man had been killed in the house by robbers who believed he had hidden a large sum of money under the floor. This happened in 1956, or thereabouts.

Say what you will, houses collect the feelings and scents of those who have lived in them, a bit like a piece of clothing absorbs the scent of the person to whom it belongs. Sometimes these spirits are downright evil and need to be removed so that we can enjoy peace but on other occasions they are merely the ghosts of those who once were who return to visit a place of importance to them from time to time. They mean no harm and we should learn to live with them.