know at the time that different religions existed, neither did we have any idea who Mohammed was. On a dare, one of my elder brothers entered one of the shops but came charging out almost immediately. Hot on his heels was an Indian man, wielding a long bush knife. We were scared silly and ran for our lives.
The Indian shopkeeper knew my grandpa and came to complain. We were all given a hiding and a lesson in Indian religion. To crown it all, we had to apologise to all the shopkeepers.
In the evenings after supper the table would be cleared and my mom would bring out the family Bible. My dad would read a passage and we would sing a familiar hymn. Then we children had to answer questions about the night’s reading. If you couldn’t say who had been in the lion’s den with Daniel, you had your ears pulled. Before you got into bed, you had to kneel and say your prayers. And heaven forbid if mom or dad heard you swear or take the Lord’s name in vain.
And then there was grandma who had a harmonium and would sit down at any time of the day, playing hymns and singing along in High Dutch. We thought it sounded like a pack of wild dogs on heat! Of course on Sunday mornings we all had to go to church, followed by Sunday school and yet another church service in the evening. It was very hard for an energetic young boy.
My three brothers and I were indeed restless – at times downright naughty. On my grandpa’s farm there was a disused stone quarry where we used to swim in summer. Bordering the hole was a stand of poplars; it was the ideal place for throwing kleilat (clay pellets). Tired of swimming, we took one another on. When that became boring, we plucked two-metre switches and tried to toss our clay pellets into the road, about a hundred metres ahead.
Some of the older boys found it easy. It was just our luck that a big truck came past one day and we shattered its windscreen. We took fright and ran to our home which was close by, not thinking that this would lead the driver directly there. My grandpa merely shook his head when the driver came knocking on our door but my dad was not so forgiving.
Another favourite pastime was to set traps in the footpaths used by the black boys on the farm. Making a sturdy knot, we would tie together bunches of grass across the path. It was great fun to see them running down the path and falling down in a tangle of arms and legs!
Of course they weren’t stupid and knew it was us. Riding along the path on our bikes, we were caught short one day by a length of galvanised wire slung between two trees. We knew where it had come from. The same went for the day one of us fell into a hole covered with a sheet of corrugated iron and a little soil.
We were wild and often waged war with home-made catapults and stones. We would choose sides and square up in the dirt road before launching our attack. This game ended when one of my brothers was struck on the head and fell down unconscious.
After the catapult battles came cowboys and crooks, during which we fought with stick rifles. That also ended badly when my brother, Jacques[1], fell into his own stick rifle, piercing his stomach. My dad and grandpa had to rush him to hospital.
When I was about six, I saw a dead body for the first time. Our family was on the way to fish in the Bronkhorst River. At a T-junction on the old Delmas road, near Bapsfontein, my dad failed to stop completely and didn’t see a car approaching from the direction of Pretoria. There was a terrible collision. Our car spun round completely, and the other car veered onto its left wheels, careened along for about twenty metres and rolled.
Apart from being severely shaken up, no one in our car was injured. When we came to our senses, we ran to the other car. A piece from the door had struck the neck of the driver, an elderly gentleman, severing the artery. I stood watching as the last of his life blood pumped out and he died.
When I realised what I had seen, I was hysterical and ran blindly into the mealie fields, where my sister later found me.
At the age of eight my dad trusted me with the .22 rifle. I loved going out in the afternoons to shoot guinea fowl or doves. I would roast the birds over the coals – to my mother’s disgust, for I would subsequently refuse to eat supper. My dad was strict, and if I had taken five bullets, I had to return with five doves or explain why I had missed, and account for the rest of the bullets.
On the farm we children – four brothers and a sister – all had our chores. My eldest brother, Ben[2], was in charge of the cattle and the milking, while the second one, Jacques, saw to the pig farming. Len’s chores were divided among the cattle, horses and chickens, and I was the official shepherd. As the older boys left school and started to work, the responsibilities shifted down to the younger ones, and I was the youngest.
We boys slept in a long bedroom, almost like a dormitory. We each had our own wardrobe and an assortment of pets, from snakes to chameleons, bushbabies, frogs … anything imaginable with paws and wings. My mom and the domestic workers often refused to enter the room for fear that a creature might jump from a wardrobe.
Weekends were great fun, as we were all allowed to invite a friend or two to visit. We would ride horses, shoot birds, swim and do every imaginable thing a boy could do on a farm.
About half a kilometre from our house was the source of the Blesbok River, which flowed into a big dam on the farm. When the river flooded, we would cling to floating clumps of reed and race downstream for kilometres.
The refuse dump of the Sappi paper factory was right next to our farm, and every Saturday we boys would train our binoculars on the black youngsters who came to collect copper, bronze and aluminium to sell as scrap metal. We would lie in wait for them and take the scrap from them. On Mondays after school we would ride our bikes to the local scrap dealers and sell our loot. We had more pocket money and more friends than most other children at school.
One day, out of sheer boredom, we took pot shots with our airguns at our neighbour’s donkeys. His herdsman saw us and told his employer. The airguns didn’t have much effect on the donkeys, but the owner called the police anyway. My sister was nineteen and attractive, and the policemen seemed more interested in her. They nevertheless threatened us with death and incarceration if it ever happened again. And dad was waiting in the bathroom, to give us a hiding.
Just before my dad could make his belt do the talking, he got news that my eldest brother, Ben, who hadn’t been part of the escapade, had fallen from his horse and was seriously injured. My dad let us go and rushed my brother to hospital, where he spent about two months. He had to undergo several skin grafts on his legs, where the horse had fallen on top of him.
One weekend our family went camping at the Vaal Dam with friends. I was ten years old. My dad’s friend had a sailing boat and I desperately wanted to go sailing with him. He was keen to take me, but for some reason didn’t want my brothers or anyone else in the boat with us.
Not far from the shore he subtly moved closer to me, placing his hand on my thigh. Something didn’t feel right to me. He told me everything would be fine as long as I kept quiet and didn’t tell anyone, especially not my parents.
When his hand came to rest on my private parts, I got the fright of my life, dived overboard and swam back to our campsite. I told my dad what had happened. When his friend returned, they had a serious altercation, but nothing came of it. Today I realise that the incident caused me enormous emotional damage. I still can’t endure being approached or touched by any man.
By the time I was thirteen, a boyhood routine had emerged. Every Saturday I would get on my bike and ride the twelve kilometres from the farm to the town centre of Springs. In the afternoons a friend and I would slip into the St James snooker club in the local hotel. We would pick a table as far as possible
