Every year, during the December holidays, my family decamped to our holiday home in Plettenberg Bay; the car journey was epic in length. My recollections of those interminable journeys are bittersweet, because my father, in true hard-headed family style, made it a question of pride to complete the entire 1,200 kilometres in one stretch. To make matters worse I suffered terribly from carsickness, and so the kilometres passed in a queasy blur. One can be sure that the lunch boxes or padkos that my father prepared for each of us – which contained delicacies like banana milk and fish paste rolls, his favourite foods – did little to ease my nausea.
About 300 kilometres before Plettenberg Bay the monotony of the trip lifted somewhat; this was where my father took his short cut. It was really just a single dust road that passed between two rather steep hills but, being about 80 kilometres long, it doubled wonderfully as our annual rally track.
By the time the rally was over we knew that we were about to see the ocean. The first person that spotted it won the largest remaining slab of chocolate. Aimée was still very little when she became our reigning champion spotter. In truth, Aimée would shout 'I see the ocean!' at every corner, and even though Carl and I protested that there was nothing yet to see, our father would proclaim her the champion and hand over the chocolate. Whether this was due to her hawk-like eyesight or simply because she was always well behaved and obedient was open to question – what is certain, however, is that she was the apple of her daddy's eye.
The rest of the family were encouraged to take a particular attitude to Aimée. Our father always instructed us to treat her like a 'lady'. When we were all in the car together we had to open the door for her; she would sit up front with Dad and we boys would sit in the back. She was spoilt rotten. Whenever we argued our father would immediately ask us, 'Did you treat her like a lady?' and we boys (with the logic peculiar to seven-or eight-year-old children) were easily taken with the allure of behaving like 'gentlemen'. There were inevitable lapses. On one occasion I remember pushing Aimée; she went straight to our father in tears, but I justified my actions by explaining that her behaviour had not been at all ladylike.
I remember vividly one holiday in Plettenberg Bay. I was racing up and down the beach when two slightly older children approached me. When they asked why my feet only left holes in the sand instead of footprints I simply explained that those holes were my footprints! 'Ahh . . .' they exclaimed, and then began running behind me on their heels trying to leave the same type of footprint. I have never forgotten that day. Although I did not yet have the maturity to grasp the concept in such clear terms, it was the day on which I understood that people see you exactly as you see yourself, and I was relaxed and confident.
As well as our annual trip to the bay, we were in the habit of going away at weekends. We particularly liked going hiking for two or three days, sometimes walking up to 20 kilometres a day, and on these occasions the same rules were applicable to each of us. We each carried a rucksack on our back and were allowed to choose both the type and quantity of food and drink for our bag, on the understanding that my parents, who were very strict about us carrying whatever we brought, would oblige us to sit down and eat if the bag became too heavy. The only person they fussed over was Aimée, making sure that she could keep up with us and did not tire. I was never a concern: if anything their difficulty with me was quite the opposite, since I loved hiking and would often set off ahead, leaving them behind, then drop my rucksack at our next appointed resting spot and run back to meet them. I loved running.
Among the happiest recollections of those idyllic holidays – memories which have remained with me ever since – were the special moments we shared in the car. I was always delighted when my father raced his car: I was born with a fully developed passion for both cars and motorbikes. I can't say for sure, naturally, but it wouldn't surprise me if my first word was 'car' . . .
When I was about three years old my mother drove a red Ford Laser. I thought that it was the coolest car on four wheels. Even at that age I crowed with pride and boasted to all and sundry. My mother's best friend, Gill, clearly remembers me telling people that my mother drove what I called a 'ford lather – WOW!'
But it was my father who really inspired my love of cars. When I was a boy he drove a dark-red two-door Mercedes sports car with leather interior. I just adored driving around with him with the sunroof open. As soon as he stopped at the traffic lights I would jump on the seats in my best effort to stick my head out through the sunroof and imitate, at least as far as I was concerned, film stars touring Hollywood in their limousines. This was the highlight of my week. My father travelled a lot on business so it was also a special occasion to spend some time with him.
When I was four, Dad bought Carl and me a little blue 60cc off-road vehicle. There was no holding us back. Any downhill incline was fair game, the steeper the better. I was in love; I am certain that had it been possible I would have parked it next to my bed each evening and slept alongside it. Over the next three years Carl and I became little adrenalin junkies, haring around in our beloved car.
Then came a serious and sudden blow. I was seven years old when my parents announced they were getting divorced and we had to sell our home. We stayed with our mother and moved into a smaller house nearer town and so our freewheeling adventures had to come to an end. My mother tried to make sure that we had a couple of outings a month where we could have free rein behind our steering wheel, but it was never quite the same.
Chapter 2
Made to Measure
WHAT SET MY childhood apart from that of my siblings, and at times made it tiresome for me, was the fact that my legs required constant attention. It seemed that no sooner had I got a new pair of prostheses than something inevitably needed adjusting. I realised I had to make the most of that initial moment when my legs felt like a perfect fit, for it would be only a couple of weeks before I began to grow out of them. The prostheses would begin to hurt my stumps and we would have to restart the procedure all over again.
My parents took this problem very seriously indeed: Gerry Versveld had explained the potential dangers to amputees of using incorrectly sized prosthetics. Blisters and sores can form on the point of contact, and if these worsen further amputation is often necessary. The risk is particularly serious for people who, like me, have undergone a bilateral amputation of the legs because, unlike someone who has lost an arm, we are obliged to place our entire body weight on the prosthetics.
This prudence has remained with me, particularly where my training is concerned: if I develop a blister or bleed as a result of my skin chafing from the friction, I stop training and rest my limbs. This was one of the reasons why Gerry had wanted to amputate as little as possible during the original surgery: that way should I encounter problems of this type, further surgery would still be an option.
The average life span of my prostheses was, at best, a couple of months. Getting a new pair inevitably involved endless waiting as the technicians took my measurements and then adjusted and readjusted them until the fit was perfect. At the time technology was a far cry from today's standards. Prostheses were made from solid plaster and glass fibre with a wooden foot and a rubber sole all attached. They were seriously heavy for a small boy, weighing an astonishing 3 kilograms.
I was about four years old when, for the first time, it dawned on me that artificial legs boasted certain advantages over the real thing. It was also then that I began to grasp the differences between mine and other more old-fashioned legs. On one occasion I was whiling away my afternoon playing my preferred video games while Carl played with his favourite go-kart, which our uncle, his godfather, had built for him over the Christmas holidays. The kart was his pride and joy, and no one was allowed to touch it, let alone take it out for a spin. It was made with a steel frame and aluminium boxes for seats. The wheels had been bolted onto the frame and then connected up by means of a rope attached to the front axle, which made steering possible.
At the
time we were living in Johannesburg in a house right on top of a hill; it boasted great views of the city but more importantly a steep, straight road that connected it to the suburbs below. That afternoon I was happily doing my own thing when Carl came into the room. He stood silently, staring at me, before coming up to me and taking my hand to lead me out onto the driveway where his flame-red and blue go-kart was waiting for us. Not in my wildest dreams did I expect to be allowed on board, but to my astonishment Carl invited me to sit down behind him. He took the wheel and with a slight push and a yank on the right-hand rope we began to speed down the hill.
Of course, the go-kart was without brakes. Normally Carl would ride it in 'free fall' for about 50 or 60 metres before pulling up onto the embankment next to the road, thereby slowing himself down to a halt. That day, however, we whizzed past his normal cut-off point. I remember it so clearly; I thought he had decided to challenge the laws of physics. I had often watched him flying down the hill but had never heard the wheels rattle quite so. We kept on going: 100 metres, 150, 200 . . .
We were fast approaching the wall at the bottom of our road, and I must confess that if there was ever a moment when I thought it was all over, this was it. We were about to smash at full speed right into the wall when suddenly Carl grabbed my artificial leg and with one crazy six-year-old sweep of his arm managed to shove my leg between the wheel and the tar, so bringing us to a screeching halt – within 20 metres of the wall. Unfortunately this act of braking wiped Mickey Mouse right off my shoes, but it was an exhilarating way to learn that the prostheses, which were so often a source of pain to me, could also be incredibly useful.
I have had my fill of funny (and odd) experiences, particularly when mixing with children ignorant of artificial legs like mine. On one occasion Carl and I were sitting and playing in the beautiful sandpit that our father had built for us. We loved playing there; we would be completely absorbed by cars, building roads, tunnels, dams and bridges. I loved anything that included water. One day we were outside playing when two other children (my father's secretary's children) came to spend the day with us. We hardly knew them. Without warning one of the kids grabbed a wooden pole that we had left lying around and smacked me really hard across my legs. He had worked out that my legs were different, and we had tried to explain to him exactly what prosthesis was, but he could not quite get his head around the idea. With the force of the blow, my plaster and fibre-glass legs shattered into a hundred little pieces, leaving my little wooden feet to go spinning up into the air.
When he saw what he had done the child burst into hysterical tears. He was traumatised as he was convinced that his blow had severed my foot. My mother heard him crying uncontrollably and came out all ready to reprimand us but when she saw the result of his actions, she was furious.
To begin with I too was pretty cross with the boy but when I realised his consternation was real I began to comfort him. I told him not to worry: he had not hurt me; it was only an artificial leg after all.
Thinking back now, I understand my mother's reaction: the prostheses were expensive and I broke pair after pair.
My father was different. In the aspects of our lives that he considered important he demanded absolute discipline; for the rest he was content to let us be and allow us to follow our own instincts, trusting us when he should have known better.
On one occasion I ended up in the hospital's intensive care unit. I must have been seven or eight, and my brother and sister and I had decided to bake a cake. Our mother was not at home, so we asked our father – who was busy working – for permission and he blithely agreed. Typical of my dad: he thinks children can do whatever they set their minds to, and he had great faith in the capabilities of his own children. You want to bake a cake? Well, go ahead, try. Nothing worried him.
It may not surprise you to learn that we had no recipe to follow. We were intending to copy whatever we had seen our mother do – a bit of this and a bit of that. Our plan was to cook our cake in a saucepan. Carl, as the eldest, had turned on the stove, and had requested that as his helper I get the flour. I was sitting on the work surface and had no wish to climb down and then up again on the other side. I decided, then, to climb across the glass cover that went over the stove; needless to say, I burnt my stumps badly.
Over the years, and even without my active (and irresponsible) contributions, I had plenty of problems with my stumps. My prostheses gave me both blisters and neurofibromatosis – a disorder of the nervous system which causes benign tumours. My nerve endings were growing, but as they lacked the space for development fibromas would appear. They were terribly painful and caused my stumps to become hypersensitive, making any movement and particularly walking impossible for me. I went through patches where I could not leave the house for three or four months at a stretch, not even to attend school. I would have to stay home and study alone. I missed school terribly.
A couple of years after my parents divorced and our madcap adventures came to a temporary end, my father moved to a freehold in Honeydew, just outside Johannesburg. We were delighted as once again we had more space than we could use at our disposition. There was even a rather dusty football pitch full of weeds and stones. Sometimes Carl and I would play football with the local township kids, running between the goats and chickens that roamed freely. We did not always understand everything they were telling us: at home we spoke English with my mother's family and Afrikaans with my father's family (there are eleven official languages in South Africa), but it made little real difference. Our joint enthusiasm to play football and run after that ball was more than enough to bridge any language barrier. During the breaks in the matches, Carl and I would take our new friends on terrifying bike rides where ramping over bushes and spinning the wheels were part of the experience. The football pitch was off the beaten track. There was little nearby aside from long grass and small tin huts with their outside fireplaces. It was quiet and peaceful. It did not take Carl and me long to realise that it was the ideal place to fly our kites, some of which we had bought and others we had built. At the end of each day spent playing we would head home in our mini Land Rover. If Carl was at the wheel the journey was far quicker, but we inevitably came home covered in scrapes and grazes thanks to his short cuts through the shrubbery. We were unstoppable.
On arriving at the farm you were greeted by a small black gate that was set back from the road and opened onto a dirt track leading up to the house. The track was in fact a long sand road flanked on either side by massive jacaranda trees with their distinctive purple blooms. The little green and white house looked just like a farmhouse. It was the perfect theatre for our adventures.
I loved the place with a fierce intensity. We had all the freedom and the space to express ourselves, be it to drive around in our mini Land Rover, run around or whack golf balls into each corner of the garden.
We spent every second weekend with our dad and often brought friends along. I remember one summer day when, together with my friend Craig, I decided to build the ultimate tree house. I told Craig it had to be the biggest and the best. It was imperative that it have a long tow rope, so that in much the same way as a lift functioned, we would be able to get in and out of the house quickly without having to stop at each of the many floors. I detailed my vision to him as though it was the most straightforward idea in the world. Craig in his turn showed equal naivety and enthusiasm by countering that we needed to find the biggest tree on the property and then choose that tree to be host to our castle.
Quickly we selected an enormous jacaranda tree that was situated between the driveway and the boundary fence. That accomplished, we sat down to write a list of the necessary equipment:
A hammer (that was sure to reduce our fingers to pulp during the building)
Nails (that were equally sure to damage our fingers)
Wooden boards
A ladder (from which we were certain to tumble)
A 50-metre steel cable (which, as we quickly learnt, should have
been both thicker and more resistant)
A pulley so we could hang on to something while sliding down the cable
A rope ladder that we could pull up and hide in the house
Last, but certainly not least, a sign enforcing our rule: NO GIRLS ALLOWED
It took us two days to collect the necessary provisions (and entailed incursions into builders' yards to obtain the requisite wooden boards). With our very sophisticated architectural plans in hand, fruit of our ten-year-old minds, we began to build the Eighth Wonder of the World. Easy-peasy! The building was straightforward, until we hit our first hitch.
The first floor, a platform of about 2 metres by 1.5 metres, was completed quickly. We were very proud of ourselves. It was approximately 4 metres from the ground and, although we congratulated one another on its perfection, it was obviously not parallel to the ground. Neither Craig nor I would ever have admitted this though, not even on pain of death. In our opinion, with our first floor finished our building had to keep rising. We started by nailing the planks onto the thickest part of the branch and then built a staircase that led up to the second floor. This floor was designed to be both taller and wider than the first. We were continually traipsing up and down the stairs, collecting more nails, planks and boards and had quite a few close calls, nearly breaking our necks and losing our goods, either by slipping on the stairs or on our lopsided platform. It was a risky business.
Blade Runner Page 2
