Moving Moments
Chapter 6
Falcon College – Flying Solo.
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| 668 Rodean Drive, Kitwe An artists impression |
It was 1964
and Dad had been promoted to “Head Office” in Kitwe, a bigger town, about 50 kilometers
from Chingola. We had come full circle in ten years and were now back in Kitwe
the town to which we had first arrived from South Africa. The house we moved to
was 668 Rodean Drive. This was our nicest house yet. It had a lot of character,
a nice big garden, a tennis wall and we backed onto a “dambo” a type of
wetland, which meant we had lots of privacy.
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| Falcon aerial view. Note the playing fields and mine dumps in background |
In some
ways, the move was a bit academic for me because I was now en route to Falcon
College, to be joining Alan near Essexvale in Southern Rhodesia. Falcon was a
relatively new school, having only been in existence since 1954, but beginning
to make its mark as one of Southern Rhodesia’s better quality schools. The
school was established on the buildings of the old “Bushtick Mine”, an
exhausted gold mine, about 10 kilometers into the bush from Essexvale, which
was itself not much more than a handful of houses and a gas station. The main
city was Bulawayo, which was about fifty kilometres away.
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| Falcon overview - an artists impression |
Falcon was a
private school. This fact carried some built in prestige with it. Attending a
private school meant one’s parents could afford it, which for us wasn’t necessarily
the case as Anglo American, the company my Dad worked for, paid a big chunk of
the fees as a perk to keep their staff in place on the mines in Northern
Rhodesia, soon to become Zambia. This type of private school was modelled on
the UK “public schools”. For some reason in UK, expensive private schools are
called public schools. Go figure. British public schools had been sending out
sons of the Empire for three hundred years to go and serve King and Country in
far off hot and humid lands to keep control of Britain’s ever growing empire.
Falcon was pretty much in that mold. We were to be educated, in the middle of
Africa, with a classical education, learning Latin, French and European history
and the plan was that six years later they would turn us out as officers and
gentlemen. I never had opportunity to speak French or Latin in Southern Africa
but I certainly could have done with some lessons in the predominant African
languages of Bemba, Ndebele, Zulu or
Xhosa, which were prevalent in the areas we lived at different points.
Apparently it would not be a problem as the natives would all learn to speak
English as of course was only right and proper and to be expected.
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| Far Right - Dougal Turner, Falcon Headmaster with ex Headmaster of Eton College, UK, Dr. Birley |
And so it
was that Mom and Dad drove Al and I down to Falcon in January 1964. The dreaded
day had come and it was time to cut the ties. Mom had been busy for weeks
buying me all the correct school uniforms, and then laboriously stitching my
name and laundry number, G400, on each item of clothing so that they could be
reclaimed successfully from the laundry system. Everything had to be packed
into a regulation size metal trunk with my name emblazoned in large letters on
the lid. I was dreading saying goodbye to Mom and Dad, but of course it would
not be cool to ever admit that so I put on a brave face. Final farewells were
said and off they drove into the sunset.
Al and I would be living in George Grey house which consisted of four dormitories of fifteen or sixteen schoolboys each with a prefect in a study at the end of each dorm. Al was in the Second Year’s dorm. It was not permitted for me to be in there without special permission, so I had no choice but to go and face my fellow sufferers in the First Year dormitory and begin the process of getting to know the guys who would become my buddies, competitors, role models and sex education specialists for the next six years. There was no one else to teach that stuff in those days.
Al and I would be living in George Grey house which consisted of four dormitories of fifteen or sixteen schoolboys each with a prefect in a study at the end of each dorm. Al was in the Second Year’s dorm. It was not permitted for me to be in there without special permission, so I had no choice but to go and face my fellow sufferers in the First Year dormitory and begin the process of getting to know the guys who would become my buddies, competitors, role models and sex education specialists for the next six years. There was no one else to teach that stuff in those days.
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| Rob - ready to face the music |
Academically
the school was run by teachers but in day to day life it was run by the
prefects. Prefects were final year school boys who had been chosen because of
their good character, leadership skills and they had sinned less than those who
were not chosen. It is amazing to me to this day that a school could be run
like clockwork by a bunch of schoolboys. Discipline, fear and authority were
the keys. Prefects had the right to hand out punishments which were called “Fatigues”.
They could also recommend beatings. A Fatigue was to be avoided because it
meant an hour or two of work in the gardens around the house. If three Fatigues
were accumulated in a week that was considered a beating offence. Only at that
point was the Housemaster, the teacher in charge of our house, called in to
administer justice. More on that subject later.
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| George Grey House Prefects 1969 resplendent in their glory Back L to R - Anthony Haile, Charlie Summers, Nigel Worthington Front L. to R. - Rob Cornish, Rob Prentice, Mark Sturgeon, Blundell |
It didn’t
take long for the house prefects to whip us first year Juniors into shape. We
were told we had two weeks to learn all the key facts about the school and
there would be a test. If we failed we would be put on rising bell duty until
we passed. Rising bell duty meant being present, perfectly turned out, in full
dress uniform at the rising bell, before it was struck,. The rising bell, was a piece of railway
track, hung from a tree in the main street and which, when struck with a piece
of metal, constituted the morning wake up bell for the school. Naturally there
was no source of information for what would be tested, so most of my dorm
failed first time around and of course we got to visit the rising bell for a
while until we did.
Our daily
routine was nothing short of semi military. We had two daily inspections
Mondays to Saturdays and then a major one on Sundays at which the Housemaster
would preside. Everything had to be done at breakneck speed. After breakfast we
would run back to our dorm and we’d have about fifteen minutes to sweep the
whole dorm and get our lockers ready. Our beds had metal frames and there was a
rail on the wall which allowed us to lift the beds up at a forty five degree
angle so we could sweep under them. The bell would go and we’d have to stand at
the end of our beds with our lockers open, neat and tidy for inspection. The
beds were not allowed a single wrinkle and they had to be made up with perfect
hospital corners. This meant that the bedcover at the end of the bed had to be
folded to a perfect forty five degree angle. Any infraction or spot of dirt on
the floor was rewarded with a fatigue by the dormitory prefect.
In the
evenings the routine was the same except now we had to have our clothes for the
next day, perfectly folded, shirt folded inwards on top of our shorts above
our lockers. Shirts and shorts had to be identical in size and thickness as
each other. This took some skill to achieve this result. Some boys would make
up an “inspection set” of clothes which they would pull out for the occasion.
Perish the boy who was spotted doing this though. We were expected to suffer
afresh every day. Inspection on Sundays was a much bigger deal. For this we had
to wash and squeegie the floors. We also had to shine the brass fittings on the
windows above our beds. Toilets, showers and urinals had to be spotless. Guys
would go the whole hog and by Sunday morning our dorm fairly gleamed. After
breakfast on Sunday mornings we would all be dressed for Chapel in our Sunday
best and the Housemaster would swoop by, in all of his grandeur, giving our
handiwork the once over. After that we could relax until the evening
inspection.
As juniors
it was necessary to bow and scrape to our betters, namely any boy older or more
senior than ourselves. Failure to show an adequate amount of respect would be
the precursor to instant justice by the offended party and his friends. We
understood the logic of this and looked forward to the day when we would have the
same privilege.
It is
difficult to capture six years’ worth of living into a few short paragraphs but
I will attempt to describe a few vignettes which will give some idea. Routine
was what kept the school running and so it was adhered to rigidly. A typical
day would be as follows. Rising bell would be around 5.30am at which point we
had to run out of bed and gather, naked, in a bunch, at the entrance to the
five or six showers. When the prefect arrived he would give the word and the thirty or so boys we
were allowed to hop into the cold showers. We had to be in there long enough to
apply and wash off soap. In the summer months that was refreshing and pleasant.
In winter it was bracing to say the least. We then dressed and went to Prep to
do homework for an hour before breakfast.
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| Al looking a bit sloppy. Not ready for inspection |
As we progressed
into breakfast we had to run the gauntlet of an inspecting prefect who was
looking for signs of unpolished shoes, untucked in clothes or slack socks.
Infractions lead to being sent to the Head Prefect of our house who would apply
justice, normally with a fatigue or menial task designed to make his life
easier. After breakfast we rushed back to the dorm for inspection after which
the whole school would head for Chapel where we received our daily dose of
spirituality. Being interested in religion was definitely not cool, but as a
school we used to love to sing some of those grand old hymns and we would let
rip with great gusto. There is nothing better than being part of four hundred
guys singing for all they are worth. After Chapel we would head to school
lessons until lunch at about 12.30pm.
After lunch
we had to go back to our dorms for a mandatory silent rest on our beds for an
hour in the heat of the day. This was one of the highlights of our day. No
inspections or expectations, just down time. Guys would sleep and read, but
secretly they were waiting for the dorm prefect to come around delivering the
mail. Letters from parents were good but as we got older, letters from female
admirers were highly prized. Of course the prefect would make sure that the
whole dorm knew when such a letter had arrived. This was a way of sharing the
joy around as most guys sadly only ever heard from their parents. Female
admirers were hard to find when one was living stuck out in the bush for three
months at a time.
After rest
time, the bell would go and we had two or three choices; we could go and play
an organized sport of the day, or we could do homework. Our final non
choice was if we were part of the hapless crew who were working off fatigues in
the garden. Naturally most guys chose sport. Each afternoon we would have two
sporting sessions, one of which was organized and one which was just open ended
when we could pick whatever we wanted to play and go and do it with whoever
else was available to play. It is no wonder that Southern Africa has produced
so much phenomenal sporting talent with such choices available on a daily basis
at many of the schools.
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| 1964 - George Grey Swimming Team - |
After sport
we would take our second shower of the day, get smartened up and then head for
supper and of course another inspection heading into dinner. After supper we had an hour or so of
homework and then it was time to start heading for bed and lights out by about
9pm or 9.30pm. Once lights were out, silence was strictly maintained. Occasionally
a snorer or sleep talker would break the silence. The offender would become the
target of a storm of sandals and shoes as they were promptly brought to order.
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| Al with Javelin A good all round athlete |
On Saturdays
we had a couple of school classes and then it was organized sports matches with
opposing schools. We either had to get in a bus and travel to them or they
would come to us. After that it was free time. One of the highlights of
everyone’s Saturday was always the Saturday morning hit parade. We would wait
breathlessly as the countdown from number 10 began until finally the Top Pick
for the week was announced. The grand finale hands down pick for highlight of
the week though has no competition and that was our Saturday night movie. The
whole school would gather in the college hall, the film was set up and off we’d
go amidst great excitement, projector clattering loudly and breaking down occassionally. Sometimes members of the staff would attend as
well. It was a time of corporate enjoyment after a week of routine and rushing.
On one occasion someone wrote some foul graffiti on a wall of one of the
buildings. The culprit was called on to own up. Unusually, no one did. For that unconfessed crime the Saturday movie was cancelled for the whole school. The school was in
semi mourning. There was nothing more deadly than a Saturday night at Falcon
with no movie. The culprit was found and given instant schoolboy justice out of
sight of the teachers.
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| Anthony Haile and Bill Norton on a Sunday bush outing |
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| Main Rugby Field - these fields were buiilt by the original schoolboys |
Boys being
boys, they love to egg each other on and so too it was with us. One of the
great dares was to “beat the dinner bell”. Every evening before dinner a
warning bell would ring five minutes before the second bell to signal that it
was time to drop what one was doing and head on down to line up for dinner. By
the time second bell rang, one had to be in line. Being late was a beating
offence. So the dare was that the challenger had to be lined up in front of the
shower, waiting for first bell to ring. Only then could he enter the shower,
soap himself off, get out and dried off and begin the process of dressing for
dinner. Dinner was a full dress up affair, complete with tie done perfectly,
shoes tied and blazer on. The challenger then had to rush down the road, often
doing the finishing touches to his attire and be in line before second bell
rang. Many evenings there would be challengers trying their luck. Not everyone
succeeded, the consequences of failure were dire and so it was a worthy dare
for boys with nothing else to worry about other than testing the system.
Beating was
a common but not arbitrary occurrence. Other words that we used to describe
this were “dorking”, “cuts” or “stripes”. This was a necessary part of the
system. Without it, controlling four hundred teenage boys for three months at a
time would have been a nightmare. We all understood the system and knew it was
fair. The trick was to stay sufficiently within the rules to escape the sting
of the stick for as long as possible. Only housemasters and the school
principal were allowed to administer a beating. Unless the misdemeanor required
instant justice, it was a weekly affair. The hapless victims would line up
outside the housemasters office, in full view of the second year dorm, where others would gather to observe the proceedings. One by one the miscreants would enter
the office. The routine, once inside was that the housemaster would review and
announce the misdeeds and then decide how many “stripes” he was going to
administer. This depended on the seriousness of the crime. Three fatigues in a
week would incur two or three stripes, lying or swearing required four, with
“six of the best” being reserved for only the most serious crimes such as
smoking, drinking or cheekiness to a teacher. At that point the boy had to turn
away from the housemaster, bend down and hold onto the chair and wait for the
inevitable swish of the cane, followed by an intense pain in one’s behind. The
kind housemasters would do the stripes quickly. Others might slow it down. The
protocol was that it was considered “bad form” to cry out. After the beating
was over, one had to turn around calmly, look the housemaster in the eyes and
say “Thank you Sir”. Thereafter one had to walk out of the room and close the
door calmly. Only at that point was it ok for any emotion to be shown, at which
point most guys would rub their behinds vigorously and run off to consider
their misdeeds. This part of the proceedings was greeted with great glee by the
boys observing from the second year dormitory. In the evening of “dorkings
days” the recipients would be lined up in the shower to see who had the most
impressive stripes. Some guys naturally bruised more easily than others, but
there were always very visible evidence of the day’s events. Most guys had been
beaten at least once and despite all the bravado, we avoided these encounters
like the plague.
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| Three generations of George Grey Housemasters L. to R. Paul Cannon, David Grant, Ted Marais |
My own experiences
with dorking were not too bad but also not insignificant. I managed to make it
through six years at Falcon with only three beatings. For some boys it was a
common occurrence. I had one set of two
for “fatigues”, one set of four for “lying” and “six of the best” for smoking. Each beating was sufficiently unpleasant that
I was determined to not experience it again. Buy hey, how long can one maintain
perfection? The hilarious thing which had the whole school laughing was that
when I was caught smoking, I hadn’t actually been smoking. It was in my fifth
year. I had been smoking for a couple of years on and off. We used to sneak off
into the bushes and the thrill of doing something bad and avoiding capture was
really the attraction. However in my fifth year, I decided that I was going to
go straight and give up smoking as I was hoping to be a prefect the next year
and I didn’t want to run the risk of being caught and blotting my copybook. So
I had given up, but my friend Nigel Worthington asked if he could hide his smokes
inside the battery compartment of my portable tape recorder, which I had agreed
to. Well one Saturday morning I was off playing a sporting match on home field
and Nigel was off at another school. Our housemaster, whose nickname was Kit
Carson, arrived in the Prep room and asked if he could borrow a couple of
batteries for the morning. The boys present rather helpfully offered to let him
borrow mine as “Cornish isn’t using them this morning”. When I got back from my
game, I was greeted with the gleeful news that Kit had found my cigarettes and wanted to see me
immediately. I was in a dilemma. They weren’t my cigarettes, but boy’s honor
meant I couldn’t split on Nigel. It was up to Nigel to confess; only Nigel
wasn’t there to do so as he was away for the day at his sporting engagement. I
reported to Kit, who didn’t keep me waiting before administering
“six of the best” to my behind. I think he felt bad that it was his fault I’d
been found out, so my memory of it is that he went easy on me. Word got around
the school and I suspect the story became one of those Falcon urban legends for
a while. I made prefect the following year, despite my having blotted my
record, so all’s well that ends well.
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| New Science Block |
The school
had an onerous responsibility. They had to take four hundred unruly teenage boys
and over the period of five or six years, turn us into academic stars,
accomplished sports enthusiasts and of course having taught us how to be model
gentlemen. One of the ways they accomplished this was via some of the school
“Clubs” and other extracurricular activities. One of them was ballroom dancing
lessons. Kit Carson’s wife had the job of instilling these skills in us. She
was young and attractive so guys would sign up for this class quite willingly.
What we didn’t enjoy was having to hold one’s partner firmly and dance close
together. Kit’s wife would walk around with a ruler and if we weren’t holding
our partner sufficiently closely she would whack our knuckles. These lessons
would be the precursor to the annual school dance which was offered to the
senior boys. Girls would be shipped in by bus from a girl’s school in Bulawayo.
These dances were very formal, highly supervised affairs. The nervous energy
and activity that would go into the build up to these dances was stressful to
say the least. There was great competition to have a girl who had agreed ahead
of time to “come to the dance with me”. I suppose these dances were necessary
to teach us some social skills, but honestly I think most of the guys were
happiest when they didn’t have to worry about the peer pressure and tension
around having to deal with girls. Life was so uncomplicated when they weren’t
around.
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| New Admin Block |
Another Club
was the Beekeeping Club. This one appealed to me as I my Dad had kept bees at
one point in his past and I hoped I could learn how to do it. I became the
Chairman of the Club. One of the advantages of this was that one could conceal
one’s cigarette smoking behind the stink of the smoke we used to use to calm
the bees down. We had no teacher supervision for this activity, so we had the
perfect cover. One time we invited the head of the Rhodesian beekeeping society
to come and demonstrate how to inspect a hive. She lead a group of fifteen or
twenty of us up to the hives which were out in the bush where she explained
that African bees are very aggressive and one needs to treat them with great
caution. At that poibt she noted that our bees were sounding quite upset, probably agitated by
the size of our group, and she suggested that we should quietly begin to walk
away. If the bees attacked, she said, we should lie face down in the grass and
wait for them to leave. We were tiptoeing out of harm’s way, with bees buzzing
all around, when Anthony Braithwaite got stung on his face. Without any more
ado, he took off at speed, followed by the rest of us in hot pursuit. Bees can
move fast and we had to run about a kilometer before we outstripped them. I
eventually gave up beekeeping as I discovered my face would swell dramatically
for days when I got stung, which was too often for my comfort.
Letter
writing was a weekly task that was monitored. We were required to submit one
stamped letter home per week to our dorm prefect who would then mail them for
us. Normally Sunday afternoons was when we did our letters. Some guys who
didn’t feel like writing would address and stamp an envelope and hand it empty or
with a blank piece of paper inserted to the prefect for mailing. Incoming
letters though were a different story. Those were waited for with bated breath.
My Mom wrote faithfully every week to her flock of scattered chickens, Nev in
South Africa, Rose in UK and Al and I at Falcon. In six years of Falcon I think
my Dad wrote to us once. I think that’s the only letter I ever got from my Dad.
I should have kept it and framed it. In fairness to him I think he felt my Mom
was looking after that side of things.
On Saturday
mornings we were allowed to draw pocket money. We would line up outside the
housemaster’s office and enter one at a time to make our withdrawal. We weren’t
allowed to keep our own cash. I guess this was an attempt to curtail our more
nefarious activities and avert potential theft. Our limit per term was three pounds, about six dollars in
today’s terms. So if we timed it right we could take out two shillings and
sixpence, about fifty cents in today’s language, per week. The tuck shop was
open on Saturdays and we would go and make our purchases for the day and the
Saturday night movie.
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| Swimming Pool - much loved on hot summer days |
Getting to and
from Falcon to home was always an adventure. For the first few years we were
put on the train. Leaving home was always from Ndola station on f a Friday evening, where scores of
boys were making fond farewells to parents and younger siblings. Crying was
definitely not on, although mothers were known to break that rule quite
regularly. Once the train left the station we were free agents for two nights
and a day while the mail train wended its way through every little stop en
route to Bulawayo. A favorite was always crossing the border over the bridge at
the Victoria Falls where we had the most magnificent view of the Falls. The
trains in those days had these very hard leather armrest cushions. It was a
tradition for us to throw the pillows over the bridge and into the raging
torrent below.
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| Victoria Falls |
As we drew closer to Bulawayo, the mood got more and more morose
as we braced ourselves for another three months of being away from home and the
hard grind of school work. By the time we left the train on the Sunday morning and got on the bus for
final hours drive to Falcon, the mood was positively suicidal. You could hear a
pin drop. There was no conversation as we each dealt with our demons. When we
arrived at school, the atmosphere lifted. We met buddies we hadn’t seen for a month and it was time to swap tall
tales about the holidays. Within an hour or two, all homesickness was gone and
we were back in the swing.
In contrast,
the train ride home was just a celebration all the way. We would dig out the
cigarettes and smoke nonstop all the way home. We would occasionally play chicken
on the platform when we would stop at a station somewhere. The train would
begin to move out at a snail’s pace and the loser was the one who ran first to
go and catch it. To my knowledge we never lost anyone that way. Arriving home
for the holidays was always the highlight of everyone’s life.
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| Anthony Hail, Mike Coulter and Brian?? Hanging out in Livingstone |
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| Zambezi River, above the Victoria Falls |
Occasionally
we would take a week of our precious vacation time and we would spend a few
days at another Falcon friend’s home. The one time Anthony Haile and I spent a
few days with Mike Coulter in Livingstone, near the Victoria Falls. We had
great fun hanging out and exploring the local area. Mike’s mom was also a free
range parent like my mom and we had very few limits. There was quite a long
island about a mile above the Falls. We would jump into the current of the
Zambezi river at the top of the island and then float down in the current and
swim out at the bottom of the island. Next stop would have been at the bottom
of the Falls. Crocodiles and hippos didn't seem to enter our minds. It was during that trip that I mistakenly shot Mike with his
pellet gun. I had thought it wasn’t loaded and told him to put up his hands
pointing the gun at him. When he didn’t respond I pulled the trigger. To all of
our surprise, the next thing we were digging a pellet out of the side of his
temple. Whew - that was a close call. He should have put his hands up.
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| 1969 George Grey Squash Team Rob - Bottom right |
Al, left
Falcon, having matriculated in 1967. I did A level which entailed an extra year
at school, so stayed on, on my own for two years after he left. As my time at Falcon drew closer to the end at
times I was close but never close enough to excelling at anything sporting
wise. Maybe having always been a year younger had given me a slow start. I
almost made the First Team Tennis, but not quite. Al had been the school squash
champion in 1967 and I was set to follow in his footsteps and was definitely
ranked number one on the school ladder in 1969. However in the championship I cracked
and was knocked out in the quarter finals. My squash never recovered from that lost
opportunity at fame. I made it into the First Hockey Team in my final year and
our team almost won the Rhodesia championship that year. I captained the George
Grey hockey team that year and we beat the favored team in our first match but
were knocked out later. I won my half colors that year for hockey, an honor
reserved for those who almost excelled in their sport. This pretty much summed
up my sporting achievements.
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| 1969 - First Hockey Team Only beaten once across Rhodesia that year |
The
political temperature in Rhodesia was hotting up. I vividly remember in 1965,
one of the masters standing up during one of our meal times and announcing that
Rhodesia had declared UDI, a unilateral declaration of independence from
Britain. This was momentous. The boys all climbed onto the dining room tables
and stamped our feet as we cheered enthusiastically that we were now
“independent” of Britain who had been insisting on majority rule. Ian Smith, the prime minister at the time, once famously said that
“blacks will not rule in this country for a thousand years”. Little did we know
it, but the bush war had already begun, as freedom fighters had already begun
to infiltrate the country, beginning a fifteen year bush war which ultimately
lead to true majority rule by 1980.
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| Falcon Cadet Corp in late 1960s Less focus on parade ground. More focus on bushcraft |
In light of
the hotting up bush war the school cadet corp began to take on a more serious
tone. When I had started school the cadets would meet once a week, with the
focus on teaching them parade ground training. Boots needed to be shone and
brass buttons and fittings would gleam. By the time I got to my second last
year when I joined cadets, the emphasis was off of the parade ground and onto
bush skills. Now there was no gleam or shine as the focus had now shifted to camouflage
for bush warfare. Our annual cadet camp took place about 30 kilometers away in
the bush. The troop I was in was handed some supplies and told to make our way
there by reading the contour map. The plan was that we would sleep over en
route. Water supply is always the big concern in hot dry bush. So we left
loaded up with water and our planned overnight stop was to be at a farmer’s
dam, where we would top up again before completing our expedition the next day.
We must have dawdled along the way because we arrived at the dam as it was
getting dark, only to find that the water in the dam was a very muddy pond
with virtually no water in it, but lots of cow poop. We decided we had no
choice but to do without water and went to bed. The next morning we woke up and
one of our more enthusiastic members had walked to the top of the dam wall,
only to find that we had been looking for water on the wrong side of the dam. Such
was the caliber of the nation’s finest that the enemy had to face. The rest of
that camp was a teenage boys delight. We set ambushes and learnt how to act
when ambushed. We fired real heavy duty machine guns and participated in
patrols with rifles where cardboard figures would pop out of the bush at us and
we had to shoot them with live ammunition. This seemed exciting at the time,
but for many of the Rhodesian guys at Falcon, these war games became deadly
serious. Almost all of them participated in the fighting, over the next fifteen
years, some losing their lives or being maimed by land mines.
I
did my best at Falcon in the academic area. After a slow start, having skipped
a year in going to Falcon, I passed my eight “O” (Ordinary) level exams with
seven distinctions. English literature was the exception. Two years later I
passed my “A” (Advanced) level exams in
Physics, Chemistry and Biology with three distinctions. I had worked hard, and
was confident of an entrance into a university of my choice in South Africa or
UK. My problem though was that I had no idea what I wanted to do career wise with
my life. At the age of seventeen and having been kept in seclusion in the bush
for six years I knew what I wanted to do for fun, which is what I had my sights
set on.
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| Falcon's motto was "Sic Itur Ad Astra" "Thus the way to the Stars" |
I visited
Falcon in 2014, with Alan and Nev. It had survived all the trials and
tribulations of the 15 year bush war, followed by 34 years of independence under
Robert Mugabe’s leadership of the newly minted country of Zimbabwe. The school
was doing well, and was celebrating its 60th anniversary. It was in
great shape. They were playing their arch rival of our day and continuing arch
rival, Peter House, at soccer, rugby and hockey. I’m pleased to report that
Falcon triumphed at all three games, clearly indicating that Falcon is now the
pre-eminent school in Zimbabwe. Al sealed
his reputation by challenging the current Falcon squash champion and, at
the age of 65, handily beating him. At least half of the school boys were now
black Zimbabwean kids, a clear contrast to the “whites only” hue of my
day. I was particularly impressed that
the boys, without fail, greeted me with great respect, calling me Sir, as is
only right and proper. If I had closed my eyes and listened to the cries of
excitement on the fields, the smells and the sounds I could have been back 45
years earlier. The school is still at work, producing young gentlemen, high in caliber
and integrity, preparing them for the game of life. Thank you Mom and Dad for
giving me this great six year experience. I know it must have cost you a lot to
let us go for so much of our youth, but whilst it wasn’t perfect, this was a great way for a young man to grow up through what are often
troubling teenage years.
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| 1969 - George Grey House Ted (Sarie) Marais, Housemaster in Front Centre Row Rob - fourth from left in Second Row |
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