By the evening of the third day, we had completed our second floor and, thanks to the experience garnered while building the first one, it was a masterpiece. It was approximately 2.5 metres by 3 metres and was at least 6 metres from the ground (with less than a 5-degree slant). We were very pleased with our building skills and generous with superlatives in our compliments to one another. Craig and I came to the realisation that as adults we would become engineers and go on to build the biggest skyscrapers and bridges that the world had yet to see.
On the morning of the fourth day we concluded that while we grappled with the design of our lift system (basically a rudimentary cable car), the third floor should be delayed. We climbed up onto the second floor and then, with the help of pliers, managed to pull one end of the 50-metre cable right around the tree trunk, as high and as tight as we possibly could, so that it could not slip and cause us to plummet to the ground. Then we let the remainder of the cable fall to the ground. Our plan had been to attach the cable to another tree within 40 metres of our tree house, but I had failed to notice that there weren't any. We had incorrectly measured the distance between our tree house and the chosen arrival and departure point for a cable car by 2 metres. We had not considered that the cable would have to be perfectly taut and that even with the best will in the world and our very strong arms there was simply no way to make it happen. At first we were deflated, but then I hit upon an ingenious solution. All we needed to do was drive my father's old Land Rover over to the foot of the tree, securely attach our steel cable to the tow bar, drive for 40 or so metres until the cable was perfectly taut and then park. As we had decided to build our tree house in a jacaranda that was at the top of a slope, we were convinced that, with the downhill to help us, pulling off our plan would be child's play. We imagined ourselves to be rather like the ancient Egyptians in the process of creating the Pyramids.
From the ground it looked great. Casually Craig said, 'Hey, Oz, I think now is the moment to try out the cable car and see if it works. Why don't you go first?'
Calmly I answered, 'Thanks, my friend, but it is all the same to me. Why don't you go first?'
Silence.
Then we both burst out, at exactly the same time, 'It certainly is high up! Do you think the cable will hold?' Neither of us wanted to be the first to try out the cable: the cable was at least 6.5 metres from the ground and the pulley was showing signs of rust.
Throughout the construction period Aimée, who must have been about eight years old, had been hassling us to let her join in. As we stood pondering our construction, it became clear that there was no real obligation for the tree house to remain an exclusively male domain. In fact, we had come upon the perfect role for Aimée, a position that would allow her to join in the prestigious final phase. She was simply delighted to be included and it never crossed her mind that we were too scared to try out our invention and that this was our only motive for including her. We all returned to the tree, climbed up to the second floor and then instructed Aimée as to what we expected from her. She was to hold tight, very tight, as she was high up.
As Aimée was worried that her grip might become slippery we decided to tie a rope around her wrist and then tie that to the handle. The time had come to take 'one giant leap for mankind' and step out of the jacaranda blossoms, off the platform and towards the Land Rover. At the last moment we decided to tie another piece of rope to the handle, enabling us to control the handle and pull from the ground in order to return the pulley back to the tree house after each descent.
Aimée was ready, or as ready as she was ever going to be, and with a little bit of help (if that's the word) from us, she jumped. We were beside ourselves with excitement; it looked like she was flying!
Unfortunately our grand endeavour was destined to fail.
After about 10 metres (and still at least 5 metres above ground) the rusted pulley jammed and Aimée lost her grip on the handlebars: she found herself dangling precariously in mid-air.
Craig and I rolled around laughing while she hollered in despair, regretting ever trusting us. Quickly we climbed down and pulled her to safety. After a couple of minutes hanging like that Aimée had become positively blue in the face. Our little guinea pig had hardly set her feet on the ground when Craig had already oiled the pulley and within five minutes we were ready to go again. We spent the entire afternoon whizzing backwards and forwards until we were exhausted.
The next morning we picked up where we had left off, when during one particularly beautiful slide, while Craig was about halfway across, the cable snapped and he fell to the ground. He fell hard onto a stone and hurt his feet, losing a few toenails in the process. He was splattered with blood, but this was the least of our problems: the Land Rover was so old that the handbrake had packed up and the car was now rolling down the hill.
Craig picked himself up and the two of us started running after the car. The scene was farcical, Craig limping along with his bleeding foot and me with my heavy prostheses; we did not stand a chance of catching the car, particularly as it was picking up speed as it went down the hill. Eventually it was brought to a halt with the help of the bushes against the fence.
With my trademark wild confidence I decided to free the car and drive it home myself, rather than ask my father for help. What need had I for help? However, getting the car out of the bushes turned out to be slightly more complex than I had imagined. Although I considered myself an expert driver and had been driving our mini Land Rover for at least two months, this time my skills were put to the test. We struggled with the car, Craig's toes turning an increasingly darker shade of red all the while, but were finally rewarded for our tenacity. I drove the car home and parked it and then went to see my father for help with Craig's foot. We told him that he had tripped over a stone in the garden – which was not that far from the truth, after all.
The experience did prompt us to stall our building plans and take some time to think and earn some pocket money, so that the next time we could buy a decent cable for our cable car-cum-slide.
The Land Rover that had so ably doubled as our crane (until the handbrake went, that is) became our main source of entertainment. It was a white 1970s model that our Uncle Leo had lent to our father, and I used it to learn to drive when I was nine years old. To be honest, as soon as we saw it parked in my father's driveway, Carl and I were determined to get behind the wheel. It took us a while to find the keys but less time to get the hang of driving it, and before we could even see properly over the dashboard we could be found driving around the garden.
The inside of the car was old and worn but the engine was in perfect condition. I can still hear the 'dulug-dulug-dulug' noise that the engine made. I drove Carl nuts until he agreed to teach me to drive.
First he gave me a quick and basic lesson on how the mechanism behind the clutch works. In summary, he explained, the clutch separated the motor from the gear and pushing it made it possible to select a weaker but faster gear. The lower the gear the greater the grip and vice versa. Nothing new, our father had explained the workings of a car on countless different occasions. Then it was my turn. At first I was too small to see over the dashboard so I sprinted inside (I covered the 100 metres that separated us from the house and back again in under ten seconds!) and grabbed a cushion. At least with the cushion I could see in front of me and if I sat at the edge of the seat I could simultaneously touch the pedals with my prostheses.
The clutch was really stiff and the steering wheel heavy and hard. I found it difficult to engage the clutch and change gears. It was a lot to master at once. Finally I started the car, put it into gear and released my foot from the clutch as gradually as possible; slowly the car lurched forward and I was driving. I was rigid with excitement and fear as I had little clue what to do next; I had not thought that far ahead, and I tried to avoid the trees and the piles of sand. My brother was totally relaxed and enjoying the wind blowing through his hair as he appreciated the scenery, which only served to make
me more nervous. Every so often he would quip, 'Check the rear-view mirror,' or an equivalent and I would rebuff him by telling him that I already had. The words were no sooner out of my mouth when – bang. I reversed into a brick wall.
I enjoyed greater success on a motorbike. I started riding when I was four years old. It was only a pedal-powered bike, but to me it was a rocket. We were still living in our Johannesburg house at the top of the hill, where there was a bit of a drop between the ground floor and the basement; the two areas were joined by a very steep staircase (the incline must have been at least 30 degrees). My favourite trick was to throw myself onto my motorbike, tummy first, and then practically propel myself rapidly down the stairs, screaming in delight. My mother had banned me from doing this but to no effect, so in despair she pretended not to see me.
Some things are simply not meant for a mother to witness.
Chapter 3
The Princess and
the Pugilist
WHEN THE TIME CAME for me to begin school, my parents opted for mainstream education over special-needs schooling and sent me to Constantia Kloof Primary School along with Carl.
Increasing maturity and international travel have given me an insight into my good fortune in growing up in South Africa, where the national curriculum places outdoor sporting activities on an equal footing with academic achievement and duly allocates equal time to both. I am a natural sportsman and immediately took up all the sports on offer with my customary enthusiasm, although with variable results.
Both my mother and my father encouraged our sporting activities and extra-curricular commitments. My mother considered it a priority that we each try out different sports and find something that we were good at and could continue after leaving school. Tennis had seemed the perfect option for me and so I had private tutoring. My father, on the other hand, was obsessed with gymnastics, and made it an obligatory 'hobby' for each of us. He gave us pocket money every week but required that we perform tasks for it, such as walking and feeding the dogs but also doing gymnastics. Physical training has always been integral to our lives; from about age four onwards we each had our own mini set of barbells. My first set was half a kilo, and as I grew so they became progressively heavier. My father trained with weights, and it became something we all did together. Furthermore, there were incentives for us: skipping or push-ups, abdominal exercises, the more we did the more pocket money we earned.
My paternal grandfather still works out regularly and is very fit. Now ninety-one years old and recently returned from a trip around Europe, he has his own personal gym at home and makes a point of training every day.
Cricket was nothing short of a revelation. Like most South African kids I loved cricket, and I was a good all-rounder. One particular source of joy for me with cricket was that I was exempt from having to wear those ungainly leg pads. I was especially keen on batting, and was secretly very pleased as this way I could not be penalised for being Leg Before Wicket.
While I played a lot of tennis and football, my participation in athletics was less enthusiastic. I was not a great fan. I had tried both high jump and long jump and I preferred the latter. I found high jump particularly arduous, as with my heavy prostheses it was difficult to get much lift off the ground. Carl was a swimmer but unlike him I found swimming dull.
The competitive sport that I played at club level was wrestling. My father had applied to the Amateur Wrestling Association for a dispensation allowing me to compete with prostheses, which they had granted since, unlike all-in wrestlers we were only allowed to use our upper bodies. I started when I was six years old and absolutely revelled in the sport, perhaps because it was a natural continuation of the physical way Carl and I played with one another. Carl was the epitome of assertiveness, and I was determined to earn his respect and be treated equally.
I won my first medal in wrestling. The first time you win an award is an unforgettable moment. You are enveloped in a warm buzz of emotions – pride, happiness, and the acute sense of recognition that comes with applause from your loved ones. It is addictive, almost like a drug – but a positive drug, pushing you forward to greater success. I think that if anything my prostheses probably furthered my wrestling career, since their considerable weight meant that I was solidly anchored to the ground and perhaps more stable than other competitors.
It seems odd in retrospect that running was by far my least favourite sport. Once a year our school organised an athletics day in which we all had to take part. I loathed participating as my cumbersome prostheses made the races impossibly difficult and often painful. Each year, as the dreaded athletics day neared, I tried out my forgery skills and sent a note to the teacher responsible. The teacher changed year on year, although my story usually ran broadly along the same lines:
Dear Madam,
Oscar has been unwell with the flu recently. This morning he was feeling faint. I have sent him to school anyway but think it would be better if he did not have to take part in today's athletic events. Poor child.
Thank you for your understanding.
Best regards,
Sheila Pistorius
I would then attempt my best impression of her signature, but to no avail. Inevitably the school would telephone my mother and so not only was I obliged to partake but in addition I would be punished for my misbehaviour at home.
While still at primary school I took part in numerous triathlon events (600 metres swimming, 5 kilometres running and 20 kilometres cycling). For these triathlons I had formed a team with Kaylem and Deon, two old friends I had met fishing. We had each chosen a discipline and were absolutely committed to winning our individual legs. I had chosen cycling. In our last year we triumphed and won the Junior title.
In the girls' team there was a princess; her name was Faryn Martin. We lived on the same road and our parents knew one another. She was blonde, blue-eyed and very sporty. She was a tomboy who played football with the boys and who is now part of the South African national hockey team.
As soon as I saw Faryn, I fell head over heels in love with her. I even gave her my first rose on Valentine's Day at the tender age of eight – although I must admit it took me much longer to pluck up the courage actually to speak to her. My crush lasted, unabated, until I was at least thirteen. We spent a lot of time together, playing, going to the movies or ice-skating and we always held hands. We kept in touch even after I moved to Pretoria and changed schools, and in fact we have remained close as adults. I was very happy last October when she married a wonderful guy who also happens to be a top rugby player.
She literally marked me for life. When I was about ten, we were playing football at school when she tackled me from behind, throwing her weight against my back. I ended up in the fence at the end of the field, cutting my leg in the process.
You can still see the scar today and I consider it my gift from Faryn so I would never forget her.
Again, it was on her account that, aged nine, I got involved in my first fist fight – with a rival for her affections. I came off worse, but Ashton, my rival, was just lucky. Not too long after that I was involved in another more serious fight with two kids who were trying to bully me at a school function. My father did not intervene during the scuffle but that evening at home he took me to my grandfather who had been a boxing champion. Together they put me in front of the boxing punch bag and began to work on my swing. The time had come for me to learn to defend myself
My mother also taught me how to defend myself from unwelcome attention by using more sophisticated and less adversarial tactics. She taught me how to handle people's curiosity and how to answer their questions with ease and often with a sense of humour. Sometimes I told children that my legs were a special acquisition from Toys R Us and that if their parents worked hard enough, and saved enough money, they too could buy a pair. One of my favourite white lies was that I had lost my legs in a shark attack. Shark attacks were not unheard of in Plettenberg Bay and so my scary story was a showstopper. When I wa
s on the beach the children would often wait for me to finish with my sandcastle and leave and then beg Carl to tell them all about the shark attack. I think my presence made them awkward and nobody wanted to hurt my feelings.
Carl was my hero and role model. He was never far from my side – my guardian angel. I remember one evening when we were on holiday. I must have been about ten years old. He found me in a bar dancing shirtless on the stage with a cigarette in my hand. At that time he smoked like a chimney but that did not stop him from yanking me off the stage and rebuking me for smoking in front of everyone. His scolding was furious and then I was abruptly dispatched home.
He felt that his position as my older brother entitled him to behave this way, however much I protested. When I think back on the incident now I can only wonder what he himself was doing at the bar . . . I may have been only ten at the time, but that would have made him twelve.
One of the many advantages that came with his affection for me was that he was always prepared to keep me company, even during the interminable afternoons I spent after school at the prosthetics specialist's. Often we would spend up to three hours fitting the prostheses, making the moulds for the upper part where my stumps would sit, checking, and then trialling and adjusting each angle until they were perfect.
Carl, in true Pistorius fashion, watched the entire procedure closely. With time he became an expert troubleshooter. He was capable of spotting the technical defects or inaccuracies that were going to create blisters and the like for me just by watching how I moved my legs and observing my gait. We were inseparable, and he was the first person I complained to or confided in. He was completely involved in my routine and often reminded me to wash my socks (sometimes washing them for me) and put talcum powder on my stumps. He drove me crazy lecturing me on how to take good care of my stumps.
Blade Runner Page 3
