Every now and again, on a Friday, our mother would come to collect us from school. Then, instead of heading home, she would take the highway: at this point we would learn that she was going to surprise us with a weekend away as a special treat. I remember adoring the tranquillity of the snow-covered Drakenberg mountains, so majestic and peaceful. We knew that she could not really afford jaunts like this, but she would put money aside specially for the purpose.
Over the years my family's financial fortunes have fluctuated significantly. I think it has been a blessing because, although my parents did their best to protect us from the brunt of it, we all now enjoy a sense of financial responsibility and respect for the value of money. As small children we lived in an enormous house and were spoilt rotten, and so when my parents divorced and we were forced to downsize we had no understanding of real hardship. From our standpoint of privileged naivety those living in apartments were destitute and our new, normal-sized house seemed very small. Fortunately there is always a constructive lesson to be drawn from these experiences.
With time we learnt to watch our pennies and be considerate. If one of us finished school before the others we would wait for one another to avoid multiple car journeys and wasted petrol. My mother did all she could while my father's business struggled, so we tightened our belts and met our bills each month. Fortunately our paternal grandmother also contributed to our financial wellbeing.
During our early childhood my mother did not work; she helped my father but was otherwise dedicated to us. My father's bankruptcy and my parents' divorce put an end to this idyll, and for a while our finances were precarious at best. She took a part-time job which nonetheless entailed a full-time commitment, but as she started work at 7 a.m. and finished at 2 p.m. it left her free in the afternoon. She cut back wherever possible, but still managed to ensure that I received the best care and specialist attention for my prostheses and benefited wherever possible from all the latest technological advancements. I remember her baking a cake in honour of my first set of toes! We were celebrating my first prostheses that had moulded feet.
An optimist with a bubbly personality, a great sense of humour and a talent for making everything fun, my mother managed to teach us all of life's important lessons with a smile on her face. She made sure we knew that being kitted out in brand names from head to toe was of no importance – that one should never attach too much importance to such superficial considerations. It is not the make of the clothes (or how much you spend on them) that counts but how you wear them. These lessons may seem utterly commonplace, but they have remained with me and I am a better person because of them.
She was incredibly creative and always managed to do the seemingly impossible: in addition to the fun outings and holidays we had, each of us got to celebrate our birthday with a special party which always somehow remained within our budget. Our mother was actively involved in every facet of our lives, and school was no exception, where she was an active member of the Parent Teacher Association. She managed to juggle everything effortlessly (or so it seemed to us). She was dynamic and charismatic and remains an inspiration to each of us.
Although she is no longer with us, and I miss her terribly, I still feel her presence in my life. I often reread the notes that she left me. She liked to hide messages in our lunch boxes so that we would have a surprise from her during the day, things like: 'You are my special kids and I love you, Mum.' They were always beautiful words of encouragement, excerpts of poetry or passages from the Scriptures, and I have kept many of them. My mother was a devout Christian and very involved in her church, and we in turn benefited from the support of the congregation in our lives.
Throughout their divorce my parents put our serenity and wellbeing first and kept their relationship amicable and mutually respectful. They tried to shelter us from any financial hardship but as is generally the case, we children knew far more than we let on.
We lived with our mother but there were no fixed rules or enforced visitation rights. As far as was possible, we saw our father as much as we wanted to. My mother encouraged our relationship with our father, even allowing us to phone him at three in the morning if that was when we happened to feel his absence most keenly, and we needed the reassurance of speaking to him. To all intents and purposes we were still a family – all that had changed was that we stayed mainly with my mother. The only inkling we had that things were not quite as straightforward as they seemed was when we overheard inopportune family gossip as to who was to blame for the break-up. Not that we ever paid much attention to the gossip – whoever was responsible for spreading it was always speedily reprimanded and told to mind their own business.
Our parents made it their priority that we should want for nothing and continued spoiling us. My father even bought us a small boat so that we could go waterskiing. We were thrilled, as it meant that Carl and I had a whole new activity in which we could race one another and challenge each other to dares: who could spin the boat fastest, drive it the greatest distance or bounce it from the water for the longest distance. On one occasion we narrowly avoided a serious accident. We were going very fast but paying scant attention to what was going on around us, and just missed becoming caught up between two much larger vessels and their anchor lines. We would have flipped and capsized and been thrown into the water.
My mother was an extrovert who loved nothing more than laughter and spending time with friends; she always encouraged us to be outgoing. Our friendship with Neil Stevenson is a good example of her natural ease with people. Neil was a surfing champion and at the time was ranked third in the world. As kids we hero-worshipped him. My mother turned on her charm and convinced him to take me out on his board. We would see him every year and became his regular fan club. Then, in 1998, he was the victim of a shark attack in which both of his legs were viciously savaged. Incredibly he managed to pull free and swim 200 metres towards the shore with what remained of his legs dangling. He is fortunate to be alive to tell his tale because it was late in the afternoon and there was no one on the beach to hear his cries for help; he was in shock and losing a lot of blood, but somehow he held himself together and retained enough strength to swim. It was only when he pulled himself on to the beach that he realised the seriousness of his situation and how close he had come to losing his life. His doctors were forced to amputate one leg above the knee as gangrene had set in but were able to save the other leg. We have remained friends, and I like to think that his friendship with me helped to strengthen him and give him the courage not only to overcome the pain and suffering but also to continue to be actively involved in the sporting world. Today he is a champion South African paddle skier. We are both, I believe, proof of the validity of another of my mother's lessons: Never say never, and never give up. Try and try again.
My parents impressed upon us that if something is worth doing it must be done properly. We learnt about true competitive spirit, in which the objective is not only to win. What is important is to do your best.
When we were children, our father often took us go-kart racing. My father loved racing and, because he was heavier than we were, his kart gripped the track better than ours did; on the other hand, he struggled more than we did when taking the corners. It took me years to understand that to beat him I needed to capitalise on his weakness at the corners and overtake him there. He made sure that I earned each victory. He also encouraged me to compete among my peer group. He would often invite five or six friends round and organise races. His favourite activity was to get us to race to the wall and back, with the winner being rewarded with the largest slice of cake or some such treat. Until about the age of twelve I was surprisingly agile and fast, even on my stumps (I was much lighter than I am now, of course; my body weight is now too great for the skin on my stumps to bear, despite the fact that I have had heel-skin transplanted onto the bottom of them). Often I would slip off my prostheses and sprint the distance, easily beating the competition.
Chapter 4
Carpe Diem
WHEN THE TIME CAME for me to begin high school, my parents, true to form, gave me free rein. I could attend the school of my choice and so I chose Pretoria Boys' High School, an English-language boarding school with a good reputation (my father was an alumnus of the neighbouring rival Afrikaans-language school), and Carl decided to join me. Until then we had always lived in Johannesburg, and so I was keen to try somewhere new and a bit different. Pretoria seemed ideal; it was not Johannesburg, but it was only half an hour away. I was a student at Pretoria Boys' High School from 2001 until 2005, from the ages of fourteen until eighteen.
Pretoria Boys' High School was founded in 1901 and is a wonderful example of an Anglo-Saxon boarding school. Huge, magnificent pine trees flank the driveway that leads to the main school buildings. The school's architecture is imposing and grand. The school attached great value to sporting excellence, and accordingly it boasted six rugby fields, one massive and two smaller cricket pitches, an athletics track with an AstroTurfed hockey pitch at its centre (equipped with spotlights etc. for evening games) as well as two pools (one for swimming and the other for water polo), ten tennis courts and six squash courts. There was even a shooting range. The school was surrounded by verdant countryside and dramatic mountains, and effectively became my oasis. There were 1,500 pupils, of whom 400 were boarders.
I took to the place like a fish to water. I believe that people perceive you the way you perceive yourself, and as I was a happy, well-adjusted boy that is exactly how I was accepted.
A memorable incident took place on my first day of school. We were expected to line up in the entrance hall. Next to me was another new boy who at this point also knew no one. He politely introduced himself as Chris and I reciprocated. As the school's summer uniform was shorts and long socks my prostheses were obvious to all. Chris immediately enquired what had happened to me and I told him my story. Thereafter we were ordered out onto the sports field. Spontaneously he asked if I needed any help and then offered to carry my school bag – it weighed a ton and the distance to cover between our classes was pretty significant. I was gobsmacked: no one at home had ever made allowances for me in such a manner, and I found his concern not only helpful but touching. I accepted his offer, and for three weeks he carried my bag around for me. One day, however, he happened to see me, late for a class, sprinting across a field with a heavy tog bag on my shoulder! He was furious with me for having taken advantage of his kindness, but it was the start of a strong friendship that is still dear to me today.
I learnt my lesson though. Instead of me playing tricks, the other kids started playing tricks on me. The first-years shared dormitories in an army-style set-up – twenty-six boys per dormitory, with steel beds and steel cupboards all lined up next to one another. One child was in charge, based on a rota system, and it was his responsibility to keep things in order and wake everyone up in the morning.
Every evening before going to sleep I would take off my prostheses and stand them up at the foot of my bed, ready to start my day the following morning. On one occasion I awoke to agitated shouts and in my drowsy state saw flames all around. The dormitory representative was shouting that everybody must evacuate as there was a fire. I lurched for my prostheses but they were no longer where I had left them. I looked everywhere and I soon became panic-stricken. I was almost in tears, terrified that I was going to be left to die, when suddenly the fire magically disappeared and the boys came running back in laughing. They duly informed me that it was all a joke. Their prank had consisted of spraying the steel cupboards with lighter fuel and then setting fire to it. As steel does not burn, the initial effect is dramatic but the fuel is quickly consumed and the fire puts itself out. The boys in my dormitory thought their exploit was hilarious, and told me it was their way of extending a warm welcome to me.
Another favourite trick was to land me in detention for being late. I had a reputation for being a late sleeper. I studiously ignored the first and second wake-up calls every morning, which meant that by the time the third one came I had to leap out of bed practically already dressed. The hitch was that my mates would hide my legs and so the time that it took for me to find them again landed me in detention for being late. There was no end to the pranks, but as I was the originator and the victim in equal measure I revelled in them. Indeed, I think of these games as the inevitable result of putting 150 boys together in close confinement. These experiences played a central role in bonding us as a group, and were also important in making me feel accepted on an equal footing with any of the other boys. I was a happy boarder.
For a new pupil, the first few weeks of the school year are particularly demanding and stressful. One must pass through the initiation process and become familiar with the school's routines and traditions. In addition pupils must memorise the geography of the school and the names of all the buildings and fields, the names of the teachers and, last but not least, the names of all their new schoolmates. In my opinion, all this effort is worthwhile as boarding school is such fun; there are endless new experiences to be had, as well as the pleasure of being able to spend every waking moment in the company of one's friends.
Sometimes (usually on Fridays) we would sneak out of the dormitory at night and sit by the swimming pool and chat or skinny-dip and play water polo, small pleasures that made for many memorable moments. We even smuggled our girlfriends into the dormitories. Talk about teamwork! Some of the boys had to distract the teachers on duty while the others helped the girls to get in. Saturday nights were the best fun: we would lock ourselves into one of the rooms and listen to music, chat, drink a bit and smoke.
The school colours were green, red and white. Pretoria Boys' High School boasted a Hall of Fame where it displayed all the trophies and awards won by the different champions who had passed through its gates. The awards were of two types – academic and sporting – and were then graded according to colour, half-colours going to those who played for the school's first team for an entire school year, full colours if you were part of the first team for a two-year period, and honours if you played your chosen sport at national level and wore the Springbok colours. The awards were also worn in the school uniform: for example, full colours entitled you to a school blazer with a wide red and green stripe around it. I was awarded full sporting colours in 2004 and honours in 2005.
At the apex of the school's student body were the prefects. They were our elite, consisting of the best thirty or so boys in the last year of school, and were responsible for leadership in the school as well as activities like fund-raising and the organisation of certain events. In addition, each prefect was assigned to a dormitory (approximately three to each). As an incentive the prefects were entitled to special perks and concessions – it was considered a reward for their added involvement in the school and for having demonstrated their commitment to follow the school ethic and discipline.
Pretoria Boys' High taught its pupils to respect one another and respect the traditions of the school. It gave us a sterling education. Pride in our school and appreciation of our good fortune at being part of this illustrious family were instilled in us, and as a consequence we learnt to take care of our external appearance and keep our uniforms clean and tidy. We understood that we were the face of the school, and that our behaviour and appearance reflected that; it was important that the school protected its good reputation and therefore that people were suitably impressed by us.
The raising of the flag marked the beginning of every day, while every afternoon at half past five, one pupil would go up into the school tower to lower the flag and play 'The Last Post', a relic of a bygone, more military-style education. At that moment, wherever you were in the school, whatever you happened to be doing, you were obliged to stand to attention, put your hand over your heart and observe two minutes' silence. The respect for this rule was absolute and applied to all, even our sporting opponents. No matter where you were, in the thick of a rugby match or a water polo game, everything would come to
an immediate halt.
Like other schools of this ilk, Pretoria Boys' High has its own chant, which was used as a war cry in sporting events to encourage and support our teams. We were taught to respect ourselves and one another and to be disciplined. We could play hard but we had also to work hard. The school's objective was to produce both well-educated and well-rounded young gentlemen.
Pretoria Boys' High taught by example and inspiration, setting out to show you that you were no longer a child but a young man, and that with the opportunity came a certain responsibility. Corporal punishment is illegal in South African schools, but on occasion people did turn a blind eye. At our school the prefects were in charge of discipline; the teaching staff trusted them completely, confident in the knowledge that they too had been through the school system and were worthy young men who would not abuse their position of power.
Standard Six, the beginning of your school career and your time as a boarding pupil at Pretoria Boys' High School, is marked by a couple of important rites of passage. For the first three weeks none of the students are allowed to leave the premises to go home. This is a special time that is dedicated to getting to know the school and your new friends, prefects and teachers. We were obliged to learn all students' and prefects' names, and any mistakes in this regard were immediately punished. It was a powerful incentive. There were two principal types of punishment, called obstan, which is the Afrikaans word for 'wake up': they were given this name as they were detached from the school and you were obliged to do them out of hours, i.e. first thing in the morning before you went to school. The first, more traditional punishment consisted of having to write a thousand words on a given topic, while the second was decidedly more physical. The prefect in charge would wake you up before sunrise – at approximately four thirty in the morning – and make you run for two and a half hours. You were forced to run for 50 metres, drink something, roll around on the ground and then repeat the whole procedure all over again. I can tell you from experience it is an awful punishment.
Blade Runner Page 4
