Moving Moments Chapter 7 - Karryings on in Kitwe

Moving Moments

Chapter 7

Karryings on in Kitwe

Al, Mom, Rose, Rob
in the garden at 668n Rodean Drive
All dressed up to return to Falcon

For the six years that I was at Falcon, I lived a dual life. There was my life at boarding school which was as described in the previous chapter. At Falcon one had to work hard, keep one’s head down and stay out of trouble. Then there was my life during the school holidays, which were brief but treasured times. We would sit at school and dream of our few weeks of freedom, every three to four months, which we would look forward to with great anticipation.

Of course Mom and Dad no doubt looked forward to having us home too, so we were allowed more freedom than we probably should have been. Even July our house servant would be delighted to see “Baas Alan and Baas Robbie”. He would fuss around and offer us slap up breakfasts when we deigned to make an appearance in the mornings. It was always nice to be back together as family again.

Dad's new job involved helping the
Zambian mines to go metric

We were able to enjoy our lovely new home at 668 Rodean Drive. Al and I discovered a little muddy stream in the dambo behind our house, filled with frogs. We would make depth charges, using a type of fire cracker called a flash bomb. Once a flash bomb was lit it couldn’t be put out. So we would pack mud around flash bombs, light them and then drop them in the water where we suspected a frog presence. There would be a gratifying “Whump!!” a surge of water and then we would wait for frogs to float up on their backs. More about these frogs later.

We had always wanted a pool and had still not managed to reach that status in life. We could now claim extra leverage as we were having to suffer at Falcon and argued that we deserved a pool at home “like all our other friends”. Eventually Dad succumbed to the whining and he decided to install an in ground pool with a plastic lining. He made us promise that we would maintain it and keep it clean. No problem, said we smugly. He hired some labor who dutifully dug the hole. Next in were the metal sheets which formed the outside perimeter and finally the plastic lining. Dad had built a little pump house and we were off to the races – it was time for the big fill up. Well for the first few days everything was great, but relatively soon it became clear that we had a leak. This was a horrifying prospect as how do you find a leak in a plastic lined pool? Suffice to say that we decided that it had to be in the stitching in the plastic lining. It became necessary to apply glue to the stitching, underwater. One would need special skill for that wouldn’t one? Not if you have Scottish blood and two sons who had nagged you into doing something you didn’t want to do in the first place. So Al and I got the job of spending hours on end diving underwater with goggles on and a tub of glue and meticulously covering every stitch on the lining. That took the edge off the enjoyment of the pool, but it was to be a source of, great fun and games once we eliminated the leak, which we eventually did by sheer volume of glue on the seams.

Rob and Al
Cheap labor to fix pool leaks

When one has a pool one always has friends who will come over uninvited and free-load in the pool. What we found was that the frogs were our best customers in this regard, especially the bull frogs. They would come and plop into the pool at night and then set up a raucous cacophony as they competed for female company for miles around. Eventually, much against the grain of course, Al and I would get out the pellet gun and a flash light. One of us would shine the light on our victim and blind him and the other would pot him with the pellet gun in the back of the head, execution style. We would carry out a string of such executions and then use the pool net to scoop them out and toss them back into the dambo from whence they’d come. Unfortunately the dambo had an endless supply of bull frogs so we never quite got on top of the bull frog problem.

Al got interested in music again
at 668 Rodean Drive

Fairly early in our time in Kitwe I came across Phil Hodgson. It turned out that he was at Falcon too, but in Tredgold House, so our paths never really crossed at school, but we connected at home. Phil was a year older than me. He was a large, awkward, gentle giant and I was more or less a puny little pipsqueak, so we made a good team. He had a younger brother Mark, who also eventually went to Falcon too and became part of our gang over time. Phil and I became inseparable and there was hardly a day that went by in the holidays that we weren’t hanging out together.

Cheryl with dog Candy, 

One evening when I was 14 my folks had a party at home. They were inviting some families over who we hadn’t got to know yet. I was expected to put in an appearance. I’m not sure where Al was. I hung out in my room for a while, plucking up the courage to go and be sociable. I eventually bounded up the stairs in my bell bottom trousers and purple shiny shirt complete with large winged collar, looking for all the world like a flower power child. The only thing I lacked was long hair, but I was doing my best. As I entered the room I noticed a young girl who quickly got my attention. I think she was wearing one of those bloomer type dresses which made girls look pregnant but for some reason were very fashionable at the time. The girl was introduced as Cheryl, thirteen years old and the daughter of Daphne and Toby Tobin. She was at school in Lusaka at the Convent and back home for the holidays. There was something about Cheryl that caught my attention. She would become part of the group of young people, home for the holidays that would hang out together over the years. I had my eye on her from then on, but it would take me seven years before I plucked up the courage to make a move on her and help her to see that what she needed most in life was me. There was a lot of water had to go under the bridge before that was to happen.

In those days one could drive a small motorbike at the age of 15 in Zambia. There was a 50cc model called a Mobylette. Phil and I both got one and Al got a 65cc Honda. We would zoom all over town making our social rounds. This might include playing squash or tennis in the mornings and then in the afternoons we would go round and visit wherever we felt the action was at other young folk’s homes. We’d stop long enough to have a couple of smokes, listen to some music and catch up on the gossip. On the weekends there were normally “sessions” at a local club where a live band would play music. We would hang out in agonies of uncertainty waiting to see which girls turned up and then trying to figure out who was taken and who wasn’t. Inevitably there were never enough girls to go around. Young guys like us would have no option but to sit around and drink and it wasn’t uncommon for fights to break out. Nevertheless this was the highlight of everyone’s social life for the week.

Artist's impression of #668 Rodean Drive.
Note the round pool, the object of
our skiing attempts. 

One of the things we would do when circumstances were right, was to go water skiing occasionally at a local dam. We all achieved a certain level of skill but it was never a big thing for us. One time Al, Phil, Mark and I were hanging out at our house around the pool, when we hit on the idea of waterskiing in our pool using one of our Mobylettes to provide the power. So we went and found a couple of planks in the garage, made some foot straps and then found a piece of rope which we tied to the back of Phil’s Mobylette. The idea was that we would just ski around and around the pool. The time had come. We were ready. I was in the water, skis attached and Phil was set to get me up out of the water with a good strong pull from his motorbike. Phil let out the throttle, the bike reared up on its back wheel and the next thing it landed in the pool with a great splash and went straight to the bottom in a sea of bubbles. After the initial shock of seeing Phil’s bike at the bottom of the pool, we sprang into action. We got the bike out of the water and dried off and it started just fine. Our big problem was that the pool now had a thick oil slick floating on the top. We knew this wouldn’t impress Dad, so we went to work with detergent, doing an oil spill cleanup. We poured in tons of detergent and then swished it around until all evidence of oil was gone. Fortunately Mom must have been out somewhere so we were safe on that front. We swore July to secrecy and waited for Dad to get home and see if he noticed anything. Fortunately he never did. We kept that secret from Mom and Dad for many years before we fessed up about that.

July heading out for a date.
He was a very snappy dresser

We were always on the lookout for something fun and different, and so too were other’s like us. Some of our favorite haunts were both found on the Mufulira road, about 30 kilometers away. The first was Rodwin’s Resort which was a smallish dam with a bit of a café restaurant. There were boats and canoes for rent and the best thing was they had a “foofie slide”. It took off from a platform on a large anthill on the side of the dam. One would take off and have an exhilarating ride over the water and eventually one would drop into the water and swim the pulley back for someone to have the next turn. The one time two other Falcon guys, who were Al’s age, Peter Elder and Mark Revill were with us. They decided doing one at a time on the foofie slide was too tame, so they decided to try doing a double up with Mark holding onto Peter’s legs. All went well until Peter felt the full weight of Mark’s body on his hands. He couldn’t sustain his grip and let go almost as soon as they left the platform. They came down on the sides of the anthill in a heap of bodies and scraped themselves up rather dramatically as gravity took its course and carried them to the bottom of the anthill. No one ever tried that idea again. They also had a little mini zoo at Rodwin’s. Once Kev Cornish and I were walking by a baboon which was tied to a post with a chain. Suddenly the baboon lunged at me and grabbed me, knocking me off my feet.  I was down on the ground frantically trying to get away from the baboon and his big teeth, but the baboon had a firm grip on my foot. Kev, who has always been the tough guy, grabbed me under the armpits and pulled me out of range of the baboon and his chain. I’ve always been a bit cautious with baboons ever since that time. Maybe I’d made the mistake of looking him in the eye and he didn’t like my attitude or I wasn’t showing him the respect he felt he deserved.

August 2014 view of the Kafue Rapids
Dry season - so the river is down 

The other place we visited quite often on the Mufulira road were the Kafue Rapids. The Kafue was quite a major river in the area, especially in the wet season. We had found a spot which was where the river rounded a bend and then proceeded to drop down through some pretty wild rapids. We would jump into the river above the rapids and then let the current take us down through some of the rapids and then exit before they got too wild. It was a lot of fun, but of course the element of risk made it more so. I have an idea that Mark Hodgson got carried all the way down one time and emerged alive, but that was probably the grace of God more than anything that spared him. I had a pathological fear of crocodiles, but we reasoned that “crocs don’t live near rapids” so we never gave them a thought.

Lower end of the Rapids
We avoided this end if
we could

Nev was in Johannesburg and had married Maureen in December 1964. He was pursuing his studies vigorously, so we never saw him in Zambia in those days. He had made the change to civil engineering, was winning some nice scholarships and by the end of October 1967, Janine their eldest was born, making me an uncle by age 15, and he was about to embark on his engineering career with Grinakers. 

Rose, was beginning to engage in mission
work in the Kitwe area

Rose, though had returned from UK having completed her nursing training. She had spent some time in Johannesburg doing her midwifery training and then had returned to live with us at 668 Rodean Drive and was nursing at Wusikili, the large African hospital in the township in Kitwe. Rose had been remarkably consistent with her religious transformation and was actively talking about becoming a missionary. She was actively taking lessons in Bemba, the predominant local language. She didn’t attend the Anglican church, which was our traditional church. She was now mixed up with a bunch of Brethren, who all seemed to be cut out of the same extremist cloth. Rose used to love being with her two “little brothers” and would often slip us some extra pocket money. She never lost an opportunity to encourage us to go to church with her which we steadfastly resisted. She did say to me on more than one occasion, “Rob, when you are ready to go to church and take God seriously, make sure you go to a church that preaches the gospel”. I always shrugged those comments off, but never forgot them.

Cheryl at age 14.
She hasn't changed a bit

Sport was always quite a big part of our time in Kitwe. Squash and tennis were probably our staples. Mom had a very good friend Margo Oosthuizen who had her own tennis court in her garden. We would go and play there. Janet Yates, another friend of Mom’s had two sons Stuart and Cameron. Janet made it her mission to try and get the teenagers off the streets in the holidays by organizing tennis tournaments. Stuart and Cameron both went to Peter House, an upmarket boarding school in Rhodesia. Peter House and Falcon were arch rivals in every sphere, as we competed for recognition as being the top school in the country. So we had a healthy rivalry with Stuart and Cameron and their Peter House buddies. This was a good thing as we were determined to beat them at every turn, which meant we entered every tournament Janet Yates could come up with, which had the desired effect of keeping us productively occupied. It was at these tournaments that we met some other girls who have been lifelong friends. Lindsey Armstrong was one of these and Steph Baird another one. I tried on numerous occasions to get Cheryl to play tennis, but she resisted every effort. I thought she was just playing hard to get but the truth of the matter is that Cher doesn’t have a sporting bone in her body and she was just not interested.

Talking about playing hard to get, Phil and I were hitting a brick wall in our efforts to get to know Cheryl better. As part of our daily social routine we would ride around on our Mobylettes and visit whoever might be around. One of our regular stops was the Tobin residence at Hertford Avenue. We would be politely received by Daphne Tobin, Cheryl’s Mom. She would offer us tea and cake and chat pleasantly with us, but Cheryl was seldom there. We used to suspect she and her friend Lucy Winchester were hiding out in her bedroom, but we could never verify that. That, along with the fact that Cheryl had a couple of other boyfriends over the years, kept me out of the picture for many a year. My only consolation in retrospect was that fortunately for me, Cher ultimately saw the light and I beat out the competition which has undoubtedly been the best thing to have ever happened to me.

Lucy Winchester - was also
one of the gang of teens
who hung out in the holidays

Life was beginning to move on again. Al finished school in 1967 at “M” level (Form 5 or grade 10) and set off for university in Durban to do civil engineering at the University of Natal. This meant that Phil and I were now even more dependent on one another and our friendship was cemented further. Eventually our Falcon days were over and we all had to begin to make big decisions about our careers and futures. Having graduated from Falcon at the end of 1969, Phil decided to go to the University of Natal in Durban and do a Commerce degree. I was only 17 and had no sense of direction, other than I was ready to get out of school and live the wild life for a while. So in 1970 I persuaded Mom and Dad that I needed a year off to get my mind straight and figure out what I wanted out of life. Amazingly they agreed and so it was that Anthony Haile, another Falcon friend, and I decided to go overseas and explore Europe together for a few months.

Anthony Haile and I had been dorm mates for six years and were firm friends. However what we had not allowed for was that Anthony and I were very different personalities. He and I had never really discussed what we wanted to do in Europe. It turned out that we had completely different visions.

Anthony’s Dad drove us as far as Bulawayo and from there we had decided to hitchhike to Cape Town to catch the Union Castle line ship over to UK. Hitching is always an adventure, but we made it to Cape Town in one piece and boarded the ship. The cruise to UK was uneventful excepting on the night before we docked in Southampton I got spectacularly plastered by drinking a whole bottle of brandy, so much so that I ended up chasing fellow passengers around the deck with a fire extinguisher. I had the crew trying to restrain me, but I eventually made my escape to my cabin where I collapsed until the next morning.  I was definitely suffering from alcohol poisoning as I had the shakes for three solid days. I have never been able to stomach brandy ever again since that time.  This is probably a good thing.

We were being hosted by Anthony’s uncle and aunt in London. I don’t think they were terribly impressed with this rather hungover friend who Anthony had brought into their home. We had planned that when we got to London we would plan our European travels. Anthony wanted to do bus tours and I wanted to hitchhike and take our chances every day with what we would find and see. Eventually we could not agree so we split up. It was a sad day as we had been good friends for six years. I was wild in those days and didn’t want anyone cramping my style. I had come to Europe to experience life and I was determined to do it.

I spent a few weeks in Earls Court, a very popular area for Southern Africans in those days. Mom had crocheted me a brightly colored hippy poncho which I wore around London with great pride. I was stopped often by Japanese tourists requesting a photo as I really looked the part. I eventually set out for Europe on my own by ferry. I made my way to Holland with the idea that I’d hitch around from there. Europe was full of youngsters like me in those days. Flower power was all the rage and long hair, bell bottoms and bright colors were the look to have. I eventually hooked up with another young American guy and he and I travelled around Holland and France for a couple of weeks. He had long disheveled hair and seemed to be spaced out a lot of the time. Maybe he had fried his brain with LSD. I never could quite figure him out. One day we were hitchhiking in Southern France when a brightly colored VW Combi came by with flowers painted all over it. They stopped to give us a ride. There were four American guys in there. The bottom line was that they needed help with gas and we needed rides. So we decided to stay together. We lived very simply and very cheaply. They taught me that one could live on bread, wine and vitamin pills. We would sleep in farm fields and wash up in local village fountains. I later figured out that I had lost 15 pounds in the few weeks I was with those guys.

These picks are used by the Picadores in
weakening the bull's neck muscles in bull
fighting - a very brutal sport

One of our stops was in a small Spanish town which was having a bull festival. We agreed to park the Combi and split up for a couple of hours. I could see that all the action was at the local bull ring so made my way up there to see what was going on. It was a stinking hot day, so like a good red blooded Rhodesian I was wearing a pair of the best shortie shorts one could find. I walked into the bull ring and peered over the wall. In the ring were about half a dozen bulls and a bunch of young guys doing their best to dazzle them with their capes. The next thing I noticed a bunch of young guys talking around me. They seemed fascinated by my shorts and were obviously making derogatory comments. The next thing they grabbed me with great gusto and threw me over the wall into the bull ring to face the bulls. Well I discovered that given sufficient adrenaline I could scale walls with no problem. I vaulted the wall and charged out of there never to return, much to the mirth of my tormentors. I think I was the highlight of their day. I eventually found my buddies and we ended up spending the whole day into the evening enjoying the festival. We met a bunch of local girls and we hung out for the evening dancing in the streets. They had no English, we had no Spanish, but we all spoke a smattering of French. By around midnight the girls took us to one of their homes where an old lady was woken up to prepare us a meal. That was such a great experience of hospitality. We left that little village the next day marveling at the friendliness of the local folk who had no reason to, but had welcomed us so warmly into their homes.

Dad was Captain of  the Zambian Rifle Team

I had arranged to meet my Mom in London and so had to leave my buddies in Spain and I made my way back to London to meet up with Mom. Dad was there shooting at one of his Bisley shoots. Mom and I had arranged to visit Oberammagau to see the Passion Play which only happens every 10 years. It was a bit of a shock connecting with Mom as I had become so used to living on next to nothing and Mom and Dad seemed to be living so lavishly. So Mom and I did a coach tour of part of Germany and Austria and I got eased back into civilized life again. I think if I’d stayed with the American guys I may never have recovered my normality again, as we had been living pretty close to the edge. Now with hindsight, I think God had kept me out of any serious trouble, much as I seemed determined to go looking for it.

I had held out for the possibility of spending the whole year overseas, but by the time I had finished with the trip with Mom I was actually ready to return home and begin to live normally again. I caught the next available Union Castle ship back to Cape Town. I arrived in Cape Town with R20 to my name, wondering how I was going to get back to Kitwe. As it turned out I had met a guy on board by the name of Jeff, who was working on contract in Kitwe and was driving a car back home. He offered me a ride which was a great piece of good fortune which I regretted somewhat over the next four or five days that it took to get home. Jeff’s feet stunk like something I have never experienced. I survived the trip only because I had no option but to do so. I’m not surprised the guy couldn’t find a wife.

When I got home, July was the only member of the family around. He was pleased to see me. He and I made a deal. I would not bother him as long as he produced food for me and did my laundry when needed. This turned out to be a winning formula for the month or so until Mom and Dad got home. The day before they returned July and I tidied up the place and Mom and Dad were impressed by how well July had taken care of me.

I had done the big overseas trip. Been there done that. In the course of it I had discovered no deeper insight into my life than I’d had previously. I took the easy way out and decided that I would follow in the footsteps of my two brothers and my Dad and become an engineer – this despite a very obvious lack of practical aptitude on my part. I applied to the University of Witwatersrand in Johnannesurg and was accepted based on my school marks. I found a job for a few months to save up a few bucks and waited out the rest of the year until I could get on with my future. I was now impatient to get back on my track. I was being left behind by my friends and I was tired of foolish living. Little did I know that I still had a ways to go before I was finished in that department?