Moffie (9 page)

 

T
he shorter the time between the flash of lightning and the sound of the thunder, the closer you are to the actual lightning—so they say.

‘One crocodile, two crocodile, three crocodile,' I count.

On this last frantic day we had to be signed out by every department of 4 SA Infantry. It is called
uitklaar—
clearing out—and as with everything in the army, it is done alphabetically. It is a time of queue upon queue and, with a surname starting with V, being at the back of each one.

The V's are still running in the rain, taking abuse from the angry and exhausted storemen, when the A's are already packed and prepared for the journey South. If we don't finish in time, we will simply be left behind.

We run between departments, wait our turn to hand in our kit, and dodge the storm in entrances to hangars.

Looking up, I feel as though I can define the scale of this thunderous send-off, as though I can trace my finger in the sky defining the size of sound. All the while I am wondering what awaits us in the South.

It is dark by the time we are done. We run from the bottom of the camp to our tents on the hill. Tonight we will sleep on our
pisvelle
, our bedding having been handed in. Our packed
balsakke
, looking like the stuffed condoms of some gargantuan prehistoric beast, are on the bed with us, because on the ground there is already a river of water.

I am three metres from the metal mess hall when a bolt of lightning strikes it. This close the thunder is not a rumble but a white, detonating crack. The force strikes us off our feet and we hit the ground, landing in the mud.

By the time we reach our tents, I am soaking wet. For one last time I go to my private ‘chapel' to pray. Entering the ablution block, I walk past the row of toilets, count to seven and am relieved to find
my
toilet unoccupied. The bowl is filled to the brim. Someone has even relieved himself on the floor.

This filthy cubicle is my last impression of 4 SAI. As I close the door on this scene, I vow never to return. Nothing will make them send me back here.

 

On the journey South, we are in exact same coaches, on exactly the same track, and yet everything is totally different.

We are greeted by a group of battle-hardened corporals who were brought to Middelburg to accompany us. They are the best of the infantry best. These men have chosen the army for life.

Ethan, Malcolm and I stay together. As we descend from the Bedford trucks we are formed into platoons on the platform. The cut-off point for the second train is in the row in front of me, and I am separated from them.

From the moment the train leaves the station the torment starts. Two instructors per carriage make us do physical exercises down the narrow passages—goose-walking in a squatting position, push-ups, pull-ups—until we vomit. No sleep. By midnight many of the boys are crying and most of them have decided to request an RTU (return to unit) the minute they reach Oudtshoorn.

But in the meantime we have been proclaimed physically fit, which gives the instructors the right to do virtually anything they want to us.

 

The train doesn't stop at any station. The journey is swift, and by five in the morning we can see the mist in the shallow valleys and dry riverbeds of the Karoo. By seven, the train pulls into the station—this train of fear and sleeplessness.

The squealing of the brakes is the only sound we hear. Motion has meant delay, but now the images pan by more slowly and linger longer in the frame of each train window. More screeching of brakes, then a jolt . . . quiet for a second . . . and then the shouting.

 

I have a well-structured vision of myself. Each night before I go to sleep, I refine it, over and over again, through dream and fantasy. Here I develop unhindered, unchallenged, into the person I aspire to be. And over the years this image has started blending with reality.

 

 

N
ever shame me, Nicholas, never shame me.' My father rarely speaks to us, and when he does, he is serious and sombre, with some new form of discipline we should learn.

We eat in quiet submission. I can hear my chewing inside my head, and the meat in my mouth simply won't go down. What does he mean, ‘Do not shame me'? Does he know something?

The volume button is missing from the blue portable radio. It looks like a face with only one eye. When it's time for the news we all have to be quiet; but it is not time yet and he has something to say.

My fear is so intense that I can hardly hold my knife and fork. They have been discussing some man at the tennis club who they say is a moffie.

‘
Never shame me.
'
Why does he direct this at me?

‘There are three things I demand from you children: One, you must make your own money. Look at me when I speak to you, Nicholas. I'm saying this for your benefit. I will not look after you. You can be a tramp on the streets and I will leave you there. Do you understand?'

‘Yes, Dad.'

‘Secondly, I want you to excel at some sport and at school. If you fail, you can leave this house; you are on your own. Are you listening to me, Nicholas? What is wrong with you, man?'

‘Yes, Dad.'

‘The third is the most important, and this is for you.' He changes his tone to a sound I have not heard before as he turns to me. ‘If I find out that you are a moffie, that is the end.' He waits for the gravity of the words to sink in, looking at me, looking through me. ‘That will be the end,' he says in a measured way, stepping slowly from one word to the next.

I am paralysed, because that means it is already the end and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.

 

After this talk and others that are also carefully timed, I know that to survive I have to hide the inescapable feelings I carry around inside me. What does he mean by, ‘That will be the end'? I dare not ask him. I am walking on a knife-edge and my only defence against catastrophe is my ability to deceive.

Survival. At school I fight for my very survival. Only much later do I realise that threats are only dramatic manifestations of deep fears or desires. But for now there is nobody I can even consider talking to. My security is threatened and I am completely alone. The threats cause anger, and the anger is aimed at me. I detest myself.

 

I watch my father's thumbs play on the steering wheel, almost touching each other, constantly rubbing over the surface.

‘Your mother is going to start farming,' he says, smiling at my mother and checking our response in the rear-view mirror.

‘Where?'

‘In Stellenbosch.' We digest this. I think it can't be a ‘real' farm; a real farm is in the Karoo or here in Namibia, where we are travelling.

‘Really? Are we going to farm grapes?'

‘No. Pigs.'

‘Pigs!'

‘I promise you.'

‘Really, Mom? Are you really going to farm pigs?'

‘What's wrong with pigs?'

‘Everything. Why can't we farm something else?'

‘Nicholas, we've bought the farm and if you don't like it you can go and live somewhere else.'

‘Don't talk nonsense, Peet.' Then to us at the back, ‘Nicholas, you are going to high school next year, to Paul Roos.'

‘And me?'

‘To Rhenish. First to the primary school and then to Rhen­ish High.'

‘But why pigs? It's so embarrassing.'

‘It's not the kind of pig farm you're thinking of. All the pigs are in pens that get cleaned every day.'

‘Where is the farm?'

‘Banhoek.'

‘Banhoek?'

‘Yes, it's very beautiful, over Helshoogte. Between Jonker­shoek and Franschhoek.'

‘It's between high mountains.'

Outside, as if to contrast the place they are describing, Namibia's vastness takes its time to slip by. It's as if the world around us died long ago, but has now sprung to life again, rich in colour, becoming in a strange way part of itself—untouched and unexplored.

 

Banhoek is beautiful, but only in summer. In winter it is much colder and wetter than Welgemoed. Nestled between Buller­skop and the Pieke, the sun has to be high before it peeps over the rounded massif called Bullerskop, and it sets early on the opposite side, robbing the valley of late afternoon warmth.

 

It is raining; it has been raining all day, as it did yesterday and the day before. Between the showers that come down in sheets on the tin roof, there is the water-torture—the constant tick-ticking as the rain, trapped in gutters filled with pine needles, drips on the dark, wet ground.

It is very cold; the kind of cold when the earth feels refrigerated. There is snow on the mountains and the wind travels down the valley, collecting the frozen air and pushing it through one like a blade. Grey skies. Depressing. It is dark outside, and I feel like the weather.

 

 

F
rom the station the
rofie
ride takes us to the parade ground of Infantry School, where a few hundred boys are already waiting, brought there from other infantry divisions around the country.

I start searching for two people and become panic-stricken when I can't find them.

The trucks leave and they arrange us into platoons as we wait quietly.

An hour or so later I hear the trucks return from the station in a loud convoy. The first Bedford gears down to turn into the main gate of the camp and passes the duty room, where the boom is already raised.

The trucks stop. I scan every young man barked out from under the Bedford's canvas, dragging his
balsak
behind him.

Then I see Ethan. A shaft of strength is driven right through me, giving me backbone again. I don't take my eyes off him from where he has disembarked to where they assemble. There is tension in his movement.

I am struck by how ragged he looks, how thin and pale. They walk right past us in single file. He sees me and slips in next to me, without looking around, and drops his
balsak
. None of the instructors have seen him do it and we grin triumphantly.

We are called to attention. It is overcast, the clouds trapping the heat and humidity. Drops of sweat collect in my armpits and run down my body. I lift my arm slightly to prevent the moisture from being absorbed by my step-out shirt.

The entire parade ground is quiet and it feels as if the world is holding its breath. The officer in command of Infantry School steps up onto a podium carrying the camp emblem and walks to the microphone. The PA system makes his voice sound metallic, machine-like.

Something is wrong with Ethan. Sweat is pouring from his pale skin, and his eyes are dark and sunken.

‘Ethan, what is it? Are you OK?' I whisper at great risk. He smiles, but there is no warmth in it. I want to hold him and love him . . . hold him close and make all this go away. I want to rise above all of what I hear and see, all of what lies ahead and hold Ethan; take him into me. My desire and the contrasting reality are perfectly opposed.

If Ethan starts this day at a disadvantage, he will be among the first to drop out. It could take only one missed meal. I look at his neck below the green beret; his ear with the fine white hair. I follow his jaw line to his chin, the contour of his nose, his eyes—those eyes that have chosen to look at me—his brow. Small drops of sweat cling to the skin where the black band of the beret presses into his scalp.

He is so striking. If beauty is the correct relationship between shapes, where line, texture, colour and space are in perfect harmony, then that is what I am looking at. So close, it's like a jolt when he turns to me. We look at each other. On a parade ground, where everybody is supposed to look at the commanding officer, we are two people staring at each other.

It is a plea that I see, that draws me. His blue eyes are begging. Then they glaze over slightly and dampness collects in the corners; enough for one drop to hover, grow and then fall from his eye. He wipes it away with the back of his hand.

‘It will be OK. It will. We're together.' How does one sound convinced? How does one embrace with a whisper? I have to help him, but then we notice the look of an instructor three rows ahead. Ethan bends slightly forward, as if his stomach muscles are shrunk by a cramp.

After the CO's speech, instructors move between the ranks in pairs. One checks the company name (from Alpha to Golf) and the other takes down our names. Ethan is Alpha, I am Golf and we are separated, moved apart, each to be slotted into our rigidly regimented grooves. In a split second of calling a letter in the alphabet, with random fatality, our new destinies are instantly sealed.

‘We'll find each other. Think of it this way, at least we are in the same camp!'

‘See you, Nick.'

‘See you, Ethan. It's going to be OK. Be strong.'

‘Golf commmmpany . . . form up, form up, FORM UP!' We move briskly and knit together in a neat rectangle.

‘At ease! We are going to march you to your bungalows, and then we are going to divide you into platoons. Do you hear me?'

Silence.

‘DO YOU HEAR ME?'

‘YES, SERGEANT!' the brand-new Golf Company shouts. He walks to the front of the company and faces us, waits a moment and gives the command.

‘COM-PA-NEEEE, commmpaneeee, ATTENNNN-SHUN!' Our step-out shoes strike the dirt unevenly, sounding like machine-gun fire. ‘TERRIBLE, NEVER SEEN SUCH A HEAP OF USELESS SHIT. Just you wait. You will see, this will become the best company in Infantry School. You will see, and those of you who can't take it can fuck off to the trains right now! Is there anybody who wants an RTU right now?' He doesn't wait for an answer, because we wouldn't be allowed to leave now in any case. Our days of making any decisions are over. Then he continues, ‘COOOOMPANEEE LEEEEFT TURN! Thaaaaat's better. FORWAAAARD MARCH. Hick-ya, hick-ya, hick-ya . . .'

As we march away, I think of Ethan. The yellow dust of the parade ground, tired of being drilled on, tired of rising, but still obedient, hovers around our boots.

An enthusiastic sergeant drives us. He drops the ‘-ya' at the end of the ‘hick-ya' once the rhythm is established. ‘Hick . . . hick . . . hick,' on every second beat. It feels pathetic to me, and my obedience to this sound vexes me even more.

As we turn the corner of the parade ground, we come parallel with the groups still left standing. My eyes find Ethan and lock onto him. He is in the last row of his company, looking down. Then I see his
balsak
slip from his hand. He makes no attempt to balance it as it knocks against the man next to him. Then he falls. His body cantilevers over the end of his bag, exaggerating his collapse.

I stop. The person behind me collides with me, and then the next, causing a ripple effect which disintegrates our formation and leaves the front part marching on, unaware of what has happened.

One of the instructors sees the collapse. ‘Cooompaannee, HALT, two, three!' but not everyone hears him. The sergeant in charge, proudly parading his troops in front of the entire Infantry School, keeps on hick-, hick-ing until he glances around and sees the elongated formation, some still following him, others having halted, and the rest hovering in between.

His embarrassment at what is happening under his command needs immediate venting. His face is blood-red, the veins in his neck bulging as if they are glued to his skin. The company's sergeant major comes marching towards us. It is clear that the instructors trying to hold us together dread this man.

With everyone keen to shift the blame, I am immediately isolated as the culprit. So many people want to shout at me at the same time, that everything becomes blurred. And all I want is to see if Ethan is all right. I try to keep the group now gathering around him, in sight. Millimetres in front of my face a man is shouting so loudly that his breath, his saliva and his fury hit me full on. ‘LOOK AT ME, YOU! Who are you?'

‘Van der Swart,
Sammajoor
!'

‘Take this one's name. I'll remember you, you piece of shit!'

I try to say something, but he orders me to shut up. The formation is reinstated and all the while I hear the fantastic threats of being driven to an RTU via hell.

Golf Company. My new world. Without Ethan. Malcolm and I land in Golf Company together, and so does Gerrie. Not in the same platoon, but the same company; close enough to see each other, close enough to talk from time to time.

Gerrie, whom I have known for five years, adopts a survival strategy of sucking up to the instructors. Many people do this, as captives often do. So I find that Gerrie and I drift apart. The few moments we have to ourselves during the first months at Infantry School, I spend with Malcolm.

I keep as low a profile as possible, never standing out, never coming first or last, and always keeping out of our trainers' way.

Malcolm and I grow closer, gravitating effortlessly towards each other and establishing an imperishable, uncomplicated and understanding friendship.

But we aren't in the same platoon. If we had been, I might never have befriended Dylan.

 

***

 

As we are lugging our heavy
balsakke
into the bungalow, his first words to me are, ‘I think we've fallen out of life. No, we've dropped completely out of time.'

He uses the words to test me—a litmus test of the person I might be. Do I comprehend? Do I really grasp? Do I respond? If I don't, I am like all the others, and he will remain where he is—deep inside himself.

He is dark in more than just complexion; silent and hidden. We share a cupboard, and our beds are next to each other. But we sleep on the floor, for the beds are made up with such precision and squared with starch, with our teeth and with irons, that we dare not spoil them.

He doesn't speak often, but when he does, I listen. I am drawn to him, not just because I like him or because I understand him, but because I respect him. I am drawn to his tenderness.

Building a fantasy around him, I imagine that I can see a grown-up Frankie in him. There is no anxiety in our acquaintance, as there often is when one wants a friendship to work. But we are thrown together, and where friendship is normally a choice made by two people to spend time together, here someone else chooses for us.

I am the only one in the platoon he talks to. Only with me does he use words like, ‘The problem with these people, Nick, is that they are all deeply sad. They have lived this way for too long; they know nothing else. They don't know how to let happiness in; they have lost the tools to identify it. If you think of it in that way, you could lose your anger towards them.'

Everything we talk about, the way in which he constructs his sentences, even his humour, is different. And these small nuances constantly remind me that he is not like anybody else.

He gives me his favourite book as a gift and uses the word ‘betterment.' Then he smiles, for he uses it knowing it is pretentious and knowing that I know it. ‘It is the most remarkable book I've ever read and I want to share it with you.
One Hundred Years of Solitude
. . . it's fantastic.'

In the front he writes:

 

To Nicholas, my friend in dismal places.

May you win the fight against solitude, for I won't.

Love, Dylan

 

I rarely feel as if I get to his true centre, except perhaps on two occasions, under extraordinary circumstances.

The exposure to such logic, so vividly different from the mindlessness, is like moving beyond a physical level. He never criticises, never resorts to the army bashing we all succumb to, even though he has the most reason to do so.

I describe him in my diary:

 

Dylan has pitch-black hair; a sallow skin. He is a dark ghost in too sharp focus; remarkably attractive but not affected by it. He does not exude the obvious sex appeal that is flaunted by those wielding the power of such beauty. He would rather you discover the matrix of his hidden self.

 

Over and above his arresting exterior and unfathomable intellect there is something more: When he listens, he seems to hear more keenly, understanding the history of every sentence as though he can see behind it.

‘If we could understand why people do things, absolutely comprehend, then there would never be malice. I guess that would make it easier to forgive, but not necessarily easier to live with.'

Another thing I notice when we meet is a small scab, round and solid, on his hand—on the little triangular web between the thumb and index finger. I notice it subliminally. There is so much to take in during these first days, but I notice it. And later I remember that it was there.

 

***

 

Armed with Dylan's unique brand of insight and Malcolm's ease and humour, I discover a way of seeing each day to its end—one day at a time—in Golf Company.

The course is physically exhausting, but I get by and my faith grows. It seems to be all I have, and I walk my days with my Father of the Universe, not with the judgmental God of the
dominee
of the face-brick church in Welgemoed. The God that walks with me is the God of Philippians 4, verse 6:

 

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

 

Yes, this is what I want: The peace that transcends all understanding . . .

 

There is an inspection every day, with preposterous rules. One entire set of browns is reserved for the exclusive purpose of being in our cupboards, with so many specifications that one needs a manual for it. We stitch wood behind the facings of the garments within tolerances of a millimetre. We don't sleep on our beds because they have to be made, squared and stitched. Even the fibres on the blankets are brushed into a specific shape. We don't walk on the floors; we shuffle on ‘taxis'—rectangular pieces of felt—to eradicate any evidence of our presence.

Then, after sleepless nights and weeks of cleaning, training and exercise, a corporal walks in and dribbles golden syrup over our inspection parcels, breaks the carefully constructed internal spines, rubs dirt on everything, destroys our starched beds and tells us we must have it all ready again for the next morning's inspection. It takes us all night.

This existence erodes the spirit; chips away at one's endurance, and people start requesting RTU's, or in most cases simply give up.

The principle is straightforward: The instructors can do what they want with us. If we feel we can't go on, or will not obey an order, we may request or be forced to take an RTU. Later in the year, only half of the troops are left and the authorities decide to block this way out. They start denying trainees the right to leave. After all, the growing border war needs platoon commanders.