Blog 92:  The Eye of the Kudu

It was a New Year’s Eve braai and I was chewing the fat with Colin Levine and John Gilmour, old hockey mates from yesteryear. We were discussing amusing incidents from tours of long ago and the characters who had travelled with us in the many school and provincial trips which we had led.

One of the more animated topics under discussion was the ‘most memorable tour’. Inevitably, as the years progress, rating the ‘most memorable tour’ moves from ‘successes on the field’ to ‘amusing incidents’. Discussion raged around bonds which had been forged in the heat of battle; wounds – both physical and mental – were proudly laid bare; improvements in the skill level of players were noted and celebrated.

Sport is important to boys for many reasons – bonding, overcoming their fears,  developing confidence, striving for a goal, testing physical boundaries. The true reward for schoolmaster coaches is that they can walk this journey with their charges – teaching them the lessons of life  along the way.

The greatest fear of every young man, whatever his ability, is that he won’t measure up. The job of a good coach is to instil the confidence that he can. No-one was better at this than Basil Bey, the legendary rugby coach of Bishops, who succeeded with generations of rugby teams to abolish that fear of failure – thus allowing his players to be creative and to display their natural flair.

At his understandably well attended funeral recently, I was told the story of a player who missed a vital tackle – thus allowing the opposition player to score what proved to be the winning try. The player apologised to Basil after the match. Basil’s response?

‘I am pleased that you were in the right position to be able to attempt the tackle…’

What EQ. What a confidence builder. A quality schoolmaster.

As the embers glowed at our braai, as my contribution to the ‘Most Memorable Tour’, I recounted the story of the Wynberg 1st Hockey team tour to South West Africa (now Namibia) in 1978. All  the markers for a successful sporting tour could be found in this ten day excursion over our north west border.

George Dock of Paul Roos and myself decided to undertake a combined Paul Roos / Wynberg hockey tour. Camping every night was going to be the order of the day with a few days in Etosha thrown in. I wrote to Doc Jubber, a dentist in Windhoek, the live-wire Chairman of South West Africa Hockey at the time, who willingly organised matches for us around the country. Armed with hockey sticks, sleeping bags and enamel mugs, we drove off in a thirty seater bus for what was to prove the most challenging tour I have ever experienced.

Henry Cawood, Chairman of the Governing Body (and of Afrox South Africa) came to see us off. He gave me his card. ‘Just in case anything goes wrong,’ he said presciently. To please him, I put it in my wallet. What could possible go wrong?

Doc Jubber was good at his word and both Paul Roos and Wynberg had strong fixtures in Windhoek playing men and schoolboy teams. I took the opportunity of playing with the Wynberg boys which was a valuable experience in showing the team that Sir could miss open goals with the best of them.

After some excellent hospitality in Windhoek, we set off for Tsumeb where both teams had two matches arranged. We were intending to stay in the local caravan park.

The thirty seater bus was never going to challenge the speed limit and with darkness falling we found ourselves a few hours short of our Tsumeb destination. I was at the wheel when a lorry coming towards us flashing his lights. I slowed down just in time to see a female kudu in my headlights – in mid-jump. I can still see the look of fear in her eyes. She hit the bus just below the windscreen.  I shudder to think what would have happened if it had been a metre higher….

In any event, the steering and brake mechanisms failed completely and we careered off uncontrollably into the scrub of the desert. Fortune again smiled on us in that there were no ditches, culverts, trees or boulders in our path. Eventually we came to a shuddering halt about fifty  metres away from the road.

Tim Milner, one of the touring party, had been in the midst of enthralling the company at the back of the bus with one of his stories.  There was an eerie stillness of post-accident shock punctuated by a dripping sound from somewhere. Suddenly Tim’s voice broke the silence.  ‘As I was saying before I was interrupted…..’

Everyone laughed and the tension was broken.

The lorry driver was running through the bush and was relieved to find no-one was hurt – apart from me that is –  I had hit my knee on the dashboard. There was a singular lack of sympathy and Tim (again) presumably reflected the general sentiment when he said, ‘Does this mean that you won’t be able to play in the next game?’

A little unfair, really.  He had missed far more shots in front of goal than I had.

We then decided that George would stay behind and look after the boys and I would go with the lorry driver to Otavi – about 30 kilometres away. Martin Bigalke, a Rondebosch boy guesting with the Paul Roos team, was assigned to accompany me. I did not have the faintest idea what my next step would be in Otavi at 8.00pm on a Friday night. I knew no-one north of Windhoek.

The lorry driver dropped us at the police station where I told my story in my best Afrikaans. I was unbelievably impressed with their quick reaction. Dispelling all my 1970’s UCT-founded myths of unsympathetic police, they rounded up a police van and raced back down the highway. In spite of Martin and myself assigned to the back of the van (the first and only time in my life), I relaxed knowing that I was in good hands and allowed myself to think that life was finally looking up.

In their haste to assist us, the van covered the 30 kilometres in quick time. We saw the bus from miles away – marooned in the desert, with lanterns blazing. The boys were sitting around the bus engrossed by George who was teaching them the words of a few bawdy songs – presumably to take their minds off things. I remember hoping they would forget the words by the time they arrived home.

The van stopped. ‘Waar is die bok?’ came the peremptory question. I was at a loss. I did not know where the buck was. I certainly was not interested in its whereabouts. I was definitely not concerned about its welfare.  All I wanted was to get 24 boys and 2 adults back to civilisation.

As a man, the police party went off to look for the buck which they then deposited in the back of the van and proceeded to drive off leaving me on the side of the road. When it was clear that they were heading back to Otavi, I shouted after them. The van stopped – briefly.

‘Klim in,’ one of them said, ‘en se vir daardie manne daar is terroriste in die gebied. Daar moet geen ligte wees.’  With a distinct lack of concern for our boys, terrorists or excessive light, he drove off with Martin and me locked in the back of his van. The journey was testing as we bounced around with the accusatory eye of the dead buck glaring at us from the floor.

At Otavi Police Station, the police offloaded the buck and the driver gave me the expectant look which said, ‘What are you going to do now?’

I was rather hoping he was going to tell me.

At this point, I remembered the Afrox card in my wallet. I asked to use the phone. The policeman shook his head. ‘It is state property, you cannot use the phone.’

As I had recently finished military service, I was still programmed to obey authority and did not query the statement.

‘Where can I find a phone then?’ I asked somewhat panic stricken.

He told me that there was a public phone at the post office and kindly agreed to use state property to take us there. The same state property that had recently been used to transport a dead buck for biltong.

Martin and I were deposited at the Otavi Post Office and our driver took off without a farewell. There were two booths – one lit and the other unlit. Naturally we went into the lit one. The police van skidded to a halt on the gravel parking lot and came back to us reversing at speed. back.

‘You can’t go in there,’ he shouted.  ‘That is for non-whites.’ He then waited to ensure we entered the correct  (unlit) booth.

With Martin reading out the numbers off the Afrox card outside the lit booth, I slowly countered the holes on the phone. June Cawood answered and greeted me cheerfully. ‘Henry is not back yet,’ she said. My heart sank. This was not going to be my day.

‘Oh, wait, I hear him coming up the drive.’

Henry was brilliant. He phoned his branch manager in Tsumeb and organised a number of company bakkies to pick us up. Tsumeb was 67 kilometres away and it would be a good hour or two before the transport arrived.  Clearly the police weren’t going to give us coffee so I marched Martin off to the pub of the Otavi hotel.

I ordered two whiskies. I never drink whisky.

Martin, the head prefect of Rondebosch, was nervous. ‘What happens if Mr Reeler hears about this?’

‘Your Headmaster will understand – especially when he hears what we have been through for the past few hours…’

George still had the boys singing bawdy songs when the transport came to pick up the rest of the party. We arrived in Tsumeb in the early hours and slept soundly on the Afrox office floor. I dreamt  of jumping kudus and accusing eyes.

We duly played our hockey matches (to Tim’s disappointment, my knee was fine) and in few days,  a replacement bus arrived from Windhoek – efficiently organised by Henry.  And so our tour continued via Etosha without a hitch.

I repeatedly apologised to all the kudus I saw in the park.

All the ingredients for a memorable and worthwhile tour – bonding, overcoming obstacles, retaining positivity – were there.  As bonus we had stories for decades to come at Old Boys’ Dinners – not to mention the odd New Year’s eve braai!

When we eventually arrived back in Cape Town, one of the parents said that she had heard on the radio news about a bus accident with schoolboys somewhere in Namibia.  Did we know anything about it? It was in the days well before cell phones.

‘I am sure that your son will tell you,’ I said, fobbing off the question. I was holding thumbs that he would not burst into one of his newly-learnt-songs in the car on the way home.