Aside from the discomfort I was feeling over our financial condition, it was rainy season and we were advised that many of the bridges and roadways in the Midlands could be washed out. There was also increased terrorist activity in the area we were planning to visit. All the more reason to head back to Salisbury and put the final details together before I started my training.
Once back to our new home in Alexandra Park, we began to take stock of our finances. It was time to begin living within our means from my salary of about Rh$300/month that I would start receiving in a few weeks. We returned the rental car and began to rely on our neighbors for transportation for shopping. Our next door neighbors took us under their wings. He was a retired civil servant and she spent her days caring for her garden and making pottery in a kiln he had built for her in a building in off the garage.
We had tea with them at least once a day and often shared a meal at their table. Their houseboy was also a cook. [Please remember that I am reflecting the local customs and language. Household help were called “boys” or “girls” although they were adults. This was not meant in a derogatory sense. Rhodesian culture was not worried about American political correctness. Of course, there were many derogatory nicknames for Africans, Asians, Europeans and even us “Yanks”. “Yank” sounds cute to the American ear, but it wasn’t a compliment.] Their houseboy/cook would prepare full meals with roasted beef or chicken, roasted potatoes, and vegetables from her garden. A typical Rhodesian meal always ended with some sort of sweet truffle smothered in cream. Hey, we didn’t know anything about cholesterol in those days!
He spent hours filling me in on the history of Rhodesia. Now that he was retired, he no longer had commitments to a territorial unit for call-ups, but did serve one or two days a month with the BSAP as part of a neighborhood watch. They would patrol the streets of Alex Park at night. There really wasn’t a real threat of terrorist activity in Salisbury, but the patrols kept the petty theft that was common, down to a minimum.
All Rhodesian homes had iron grates on windows and doors called “burglar bars.” Since windows and doors were often left open day and night to allow for the cool breezes to circulate, the burglar bars prevented entrance to the petty thief. However, we were advised that we should not leave watches, billfolds or jewelry out on dressers close to the windows as thieves would reach between the bars and grab anything within reach.
Since most homes had servants who lived within the fenced/hedged yards and those servants would have family visitors, there was always the chance of things “going missing.” Whites distrusted Africans, believing that they would “steal you blind” if you gave them the opportunity. Some of this was engendered by a sense of guilt from the disparity in the standards of living between white and black. My neighbor helped me see a different side:
Africans have a different understanding of ownership. In the bush, they are accustomed to taking whatever nature provides for them. If there is a tree with fruit, then they feel free to take the fruit for food. A dead tree is a source of firewood. If maize is growing in a field that they are passing through, they will take what they need for their daily provisions. This is not stealing to them. Whatever is there is there for their need. Ownership is different for them than for those of us who have grown up in a European society.
So what many of us Rhodesians consider theft is not theft for an African. If they see a watch sitting out and they need a watch, they may not feel any sense of guilt in taking it. I need a watch. . . Here is a watch . . . My need has been met.
There was a lot of petty theft and the burglar bars and household lockboxes were there to protect property and protect Africans from their own natural tendencies.
Another neighbor was an Inspector with the BSAP (British South African Police). However, his job as a policeman was in an anti-terrorist role. One night at dinner, he invited me to join him “the field” later that week. He said I would get to see the war from a policeman’s perspective before I went into the army.
A couple of mornings later, he picked me up in his camouflaged Land Rover and we first stopped at his office. There he showed me a large room filled with captured weaponry. There were dozens of Soviet made AK-47 automatic rifles, SKS carbines, RPG rocket launchers, grenades, crates of ammunition and land mines that had been taken off of dead terrorists or left behind when they fled into the bush.
Then, we jumped into the back of a large truck with a dozen police reservists, mostly in their forties. After about an hour’s drive, we disembarked in a large open field. I was handed an FN rifle with a clip of ammo and we “marched” down a trail to a firing range. We spent most of the day at that firing range.
Now, I had no idea that I was going to be in the countryside going through refresher training with these BSAP reservists. I wasn’t dressed for it. I had on street shoes, a pair of long dark blue khaki slacks, a short-sleeved oxford cloth shirt—no hat and no sun lotion to protect my arms, neck and head. By midday, I was burned to a crisp, my feet were blistered and since I didn’t have any “kit”, I didn’t have a canteen with water or anything to eat for lunch.
I was miserable! In that condition, with my glasses slipping off my nose as I dripped with sweat, most of my rounds were going in the dirt and not into the target. At the end of the day I was well-toasted and concerned that my glorious army career was not going to be so glorious.
I had sold my Colt 45 automatic to my Inspector friend that morning for Rh$500. We needed the money and I would not need a personal firearm once I was in the army. Rhodesian soldiers brought their weapons home with them at night. The only personal weapon I had left was a hunting knife that had been given to me as a gift by my friends, Ken and Jill Duckman, just before I boarded the plane in Houston.
However, when I got home, nicely toasted and in desperate need of a bath, Pegi told me that she had been hearing automatic weapons fire all day long. My civil servant neighbor and his wife had already retired for the evening, so I couldn’t discuss my worries with them. We would just have to be alert—after all, my police friend hadn’t mentioned anything about current threats in Salisbury.
After a long soak in the tub, Pegi and I turned out the lights and I quickly fell asleep. Since I had sold my 45, I put the hunting knife on the table next to the bed. About 2:00, we were suddenly awakened by a load noise. It sounded like something had hit the tin roof of our cottage. [Tin roofs are incredibly noisy. Thunderstorms really “thunder” as the rain pounds down on the tin.]
I crawled out of bed in my underwear, grabbed the hunting knife and a torch (flashlight) and crept out into the hallway. Seeing no intruder, I heard another loud noise on the roof. It sounded like it was coming from the kitchen. I decided that I would take the intruder by surprise by exiting the front door and crawling around to the kitchen on the other side of the house.
I turned off the flashlight so as not to give myself away. Barefoot and in my aforementioned underwear, I stole around the bushes in front of the kitchen and crouched, knife in hand to meet the intruder. My toes felt something mushy underfoot. I switched on the torch to discover several avocados split open on the ground where they had fallen from a large avocado-pear tree onto the tin kitchen roof. I guess a knife was the right implement to deal with attacking avocados!
Next: The Rhodesian Light Infantry
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