Blade Runner (2 page)

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.

W
HAT 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.

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.