out of africaarchive.hmvh.net/ooai/ooai03.pdfgreater part of friday night with the woman befor e he...

out of africaDECEMBER 1999 KEEPING SOUTHERN AFRICANS IN TOUCH AROUND THE WORLD VOLUME 1 ISSUE 3

INTERNATIONAL

Captain Kenlured me to

the US!

Tragic tycoon’smum looks tothe futureZimbabwe’swild, wild wetadventure!

2 out of africa October 1999 http://www.iinet.net.au/~henshaw/OutofAfrica/OutofAfrica.html email: [email protected]

Bill HighamAssociate Editor,Australia (Eastern states)[email protected]

Penny WillisAssociate Editor, [email protected]

Grit and determination showthrough in the stories you send in!

THE Holmes a Court name is almostlegendary in Western Australia.South African-born Robert

Holmes a Court became one ofAustralia’s most successful corporateraiders in the 1980s, building anempire worth billions of dollars in afew short years.

Much less known until recentlywas the story of his mother, Ethnee.All that changed when she waspersuaded to write her memoirs. Thestory is one of joy, tears, inspiration

and courage. In her book, Undaunted , she tells how she wasleft to fend for herself and two small sons both of whom shewas to lose tragically in vastly different ways.

This issue details her life today - a woman brought up bya man who knew Cecil Rhodes now keeps in touch withfriends and family on the Internet!

The Lund family, too has shown grit in the face ofadversity. Unfazed by the fact their children couldn’t playsport in the countries they lived in, they eventually found theirniche in Canada, where one son now hopes to qualify to swimin the Sydney Olympics next year.

Maureen Cram, didn’t let a small thing like moving tothe US stop her either. She’s the lynchpin behind South AfricansWorldwide, an Internet contact site based in Johannesbur g.

Maureen’s running it from Boston, and, from allaccounts, loving it.

Journalist Carolyn Howie returned to the UK after mor ethan 30 years in South Africa to care for her aged father andailing sister. She couldn’t have known a new car eer in radiowas waiting just around the cor ner. But it was, and today she’srising to the new challenge there.

The common thread running through all these stories isone of deter mination to succeed.

Southern Africans are showing they can rise to thechallenges before them and overcome them. Not easily, notalways without tears, but overcome them, all the same.

On a dif ferent tack, Australian journalist Rochelle Muttonchatted to the guides who take tourists on a wild whitewaterraft ride down the Zambesi below the V ictoria Falls.It’s all in this edition. enjoy.

Oh, one more thing - season’s greetings to one and all.May you all have a great Christmas and a happy New Year2000!

Tom Henshaw

Inside

email: [email protected] http://www.iinet.net.au/~henshaw/OutofAfrica/OutofAfrica.html out of africa October 1999 3

Maureen Cram went to theUS, but kept running aJohannesburg-based

websitePage 8

The Great Trek (No. 2): MikeWhite makes the comparison

Page 18

Ethnee Holmes a Court:Living life to the fullPage 11

Wild, wild wet:Rochelle Mutton talks to theguides who take touristsdown the riverPage 20

Carolyn Howie: Radio callsPage 24

4 out of africa December 1999 http://www.iinet.net.au/~henshaw/OutofAfrica/OutofAfrica.html email: [email protected]

A HARARE man who thought he could get away with r efusing to pay aprostitute for services rendered will forever rue his decision after theprostitute cast a spell which resulted in him losing his private organs

recently.Police confirmed the disappearance of the man’s private parts.The man, who recovered his parts after paying his dues, had spent the

greater part of Friday night with the woman befor e he slipped from herlodgings on the pretext that he was going to the toilet, which was severalmetres away.

Unfortunately, his trick backfired when he woke up to find his privateparts missing the following morning.

Fearing his wife’s reaction and desperate to confir m that the parts wer e,indeed, missing, he went to the nearby Mbare Musika toilet, where, onconfirming the parts’‚ disappearance, he ran ar ound the crowded ter minusscreaming and clutching his groin.

Police officers took him to their post, where the prostitute wassummoned after he told them his problem.

Although denying that she had cast a spell on him, the prostitute, inthe presence of the man’s wife, told the of ficers that she could solve hisproblem if he apologised and paid for services rendered, plus interest.

As part of the punishment she said the parts would, however, return tohim the following day.

“The man was here this morning to confirm that his private parts wereback. It is really embarrassing for a married man to have to go through thisexperience for a small sum of $60”, said one officer at Mbare Musika policepost.

- The Herald

Cartoon: Vic Mackenzie

Peeved prostitute putsspell on punter’s pecker

We couldn’t resist reproducing this item of news from The Herald, inZimbabwe. Former Herald cartoonist Vic Mackenzie rose to the occasionwith the above exclusive cartoon

out of africa

email: [email protected] http://www.iinet.net.au/~henshaw/OutofAfrica/OutofAfrica.html out of africa December 1999 5

OUT of Africa International? This has tobe an oxymoron in many ways.Having read a number of the stories

of the scattered Africans around the globe itbecomes so evident as it is for my husbandand I, that you never are “Out of Africa”!

As many have commented Africa issomething that is a part of you that you willnever escape. The smells, the smoke, the dust,the unbelievable beauty and without anydoubt the beautiful people make it such avery special place which only those of us whohad the privilege of having lived and grownup there can appreciate how fortunate weall are to be able to say we are “Out ofAfrica”.

Subsequent to leaving Africa we havehad the good fortune to have travelled toand experienced many countries, cultures,culinary and bacchalian “delights” none ofwhich hold a candle to those of Africa.

Currently we reside in the delightful townof Oakville, Ontario close to the shores ofLake Ontario and between the Niagara Falls

and the city of Toronto. I must add, we areone of many Southern African families in thisarea, which is great.

So, why are we out of Africa. Businessopportunities we would have been foolish notto take up and now having gained lots ofInternational experience we may well at somepoint find ourselves heading home.

Having great difficulty shaking the dustof Africa out of our bones - but then whoknows???

I am the eldest of four children born toJohn, well known Rhodesian Rugby hero (hecaptained the 1949 Rhodesian Rugby sidethat beat the unbeaten All Blacks)!! and AvrilMorkel.

From an early age I was alwaysinterested in sport and in my senior schoolyears played hockey, tennis and swam for myschool. I left Roosevelt G.H.S. after completingmy “O” levels, went nursing and then workedfor Tilcor (Tribal Trust Land DevelopmentCorporation) during which time I met myfuture husband Chris Lund.

Life’s going swimminglyfor the Lunds in CanadaNow they have the Olympics in their sights . . .


Shortly after meeting him I emigrateddown to Cape T own South Africa where wemarried in 1977.

Chris is the youngest of six boys born toRev. and Mrs Martin (Bob) Lund minister andone time Moderator of the Pr esbytarianChurch of S.A.

Chris attended Rhodes University andthen taught in Cape T own at the well-knownS.A.C.S.

It was during this time that he went on arugby tour to Rhodesia that we met! The r estis history.

Both of us have a keen interest in sportand for the longest time wer e involved eitheras participants, coaches or eager spectators.So guess who has been keeping tabs on thecurrent Rugby World Cup Series.

We have three sons, Anthony and Craig(twins) who are 19 years old and Mark our“laatlammetjie” who is 11. Understandablywe were very keen for our sons to be activelyinvolved in sport.

Unfortunately their Primary school inBryanston (Gauteng) only catered for the “A”team type and ther e wasn’t muchopportunity for the “r est” to be competitive.

When we moved to Denmark in 1992 ona business transfer the boys attended theCopenhagen Inter national School wherethere was even less sporting opportunity forthem.

For anyone out of Africa wher e most

people are sport crazy you can imagine ourdisappointment.

We managed to find a cricket club whichwas run by a delightful “beer swilling” ex-NewZealander who is a famed beer taster for theTuborg brewery and who has written severalbooks on both cricket and beer.

He’s fondly known internationally as“Uncle Peter”.

The cricket was fun but being in Denmarknever created much opportunity for them.

When we moved to Canada in 1995 thesporting challenge was upon us again.

At the age of 15 our sons were notcandidates for ice hockey, baseball, lacrosseor American football due to lack of knowledgeand experience of the games.

It was at this point that the twins took upswimming. After one season of basic coachingthey joined the elite squad and proceeded toimprove by leaps and bounds surprising both usas parents and the coach.

After three years of competitiveswimming they both swam Nationals forCanada and Craig has since qualified toattend the Olympic swimming trials for Canadain May/June 2000.

Anthony has embarked on an academiccareer at university which doesn’t allow himsufficient time to train.

As can be expected we are all veryexcited and hopefully look forward to a trip toSydney next year!! Should Craig make theteam, Out of Africa will be the first to know!!

I REMEMBER a 10-day patrol once in the Kandeya TTL near Mount Darwin.We were on top of a gomo looking out for terrs and bor ed out of our skulls until atroop of baboons kindly turned up with the entertainment and started raiding akraal’s mealie patch.They were obviously worried about Phineas’ reaction to their thievery and were ina muur of a hurry.I’ll never forget the hysterical sight of 15 or 20 bobejaans grabbing a mealie withone hand, then stuf fing it under the opposite ar mpit for carrying purposes.They then grabbed another mealie and stuf fed it under the other ar mpit. Thisshould have been sufficient, but Ah No.They carried on in this frenzied fashion for at least five minutes and, of course,ended up surrounded by a pile of plucked mealies, with only two safely tuckedinto their armpits . . . because every time they raised their arm . . . the newly-placed mealie dropped out.Only one was smart enough to gap it with thr ee mealies . . . the third oneclenched between its choppers! - Nick Russell

Monkey business in the mealie patch

Hairy bush tales . . .


AS THE end of another millennium rollsaround, even the world’s oldestbraggart is unable to say: “Been there,

done that.” But at least one ancient baobabtree in Zimbabwe will feel the rising sun warmits gnarled trunk on January 1 2000 just as itdid on January 1 1000.

The tree has been growing quietly in theZambesi Valley near Lake Kariba for at least1020 years, according to radiocarbon dating.

Others of its kind in this southern Africancountry are believed to have already seenmore than 2,000 years go by.

The only millennium bugs likely to givethem any trouble are the usual hopping,crawling and munching varieties. And possiblya tourist or two.

While the big parties will be in theworld’s big cities — some of which, like NewYork, have been around for a pif fling fewhundred years — the more remote spots inZimbabwe are booked solid for the end of theyear.

There, apart from being made to feelyoung and insignificant by the venerablebaobabs, revellers can watch prehistoriccreatures such as rhinos and crocodilesstomping and slithering about much as theyhave done for millions of years.

Zimbabwe Sun, the country’s biggest

Millennium won’t bug the baobab!

leisure group, says that along with its flagshiphotels at resorts such as Victoria Falls on theZambesi River, small safari lodge vacationshave been snapped up by people wanting toget away from the hype and hooplasurrounding the millennium.

“We have bookings from all over theworld,” said public relations official RayMawerera.

Safari operators polled on whether theywere offering any offbeat attractions for NewYear’s Eve appeared confident that theirguests would be happy to remain in athatched bar or r estaurant, and hear the lion’sroar and hyena’s giggle from there.

“In any case,” said one, “if we took ourclients for a midnight moonlit dinner at awaterhole or something they could end upbeing on a millenium menu themselves.”

When the sun rises, the guests canalways gaze at a baobab and r eflect thatwhile they will certainly not be around onJanuary 1 3000, the tree might be.

Zimbabwean tradition has it thatbaobabs, with their big, fat trunks — up to 10metres (30 feet) in diameter — and bare root-like branches, were slammed into the groundupside down by an angry god.

Perhaps they were given long life asrecompense.

. . . but safari operators say they’ve been rushed off theirfeet by people wanting to get away from it all on New Year’s eve

Baobabs: some have beengrowing in the Zambesi Valley since

before the birth of Christ.Picture: Rob Webb


ONCE upon a time, there was a listing of email addresses, services andembassies on a Web site known as South African’s World-wide. Ithad existed for several years and was a great resource to find South

Africans all over the globe.One day the person running and hosting it asked The House of SYNERGY

if they could take it over as he would be leaving university soon and hisuniversity account would be cancelled – meaning that the hosting space forthe site would disappear.

THOS took it over and spruced it up a bit, hosted it of f their directory ofSA sites, South Africa Online and it continued to slowly grow.

I was working for THOS at that time, had no intentions of leaving SouthAfrica and had no idea what SAW represented to those South Africans livingin other parts of the world, as well as those with a wish or desire to leave SouthAfrica themselves.

Then along came Captain Ken! For those who subscribe to SAWmail,you will know all about (well maybe not all!) my beloved husband Ken. For

Maureen Cram tells how she came to be running the Johannesburg-basedSouth African contact web site South Africans Worldwide, whilst living in the US.

Maureen and Ken on thebeach in Boston.

I left SA for a life inAmerica with Captain Ken!


those who don’t, her e are a few details as tohow I came to be a SAW myself!.

I was happily unmarried, working awayas THOS’ Operations Manager and datinghere and there – nothing serious! My sonswanted me to ‘settle down’ as they both had.I think they were worried that their motherwould end up just living with her cats!

So I joined an Internet dating serviceand filled in a detailed questionnaire...

I ended up writing to Ken as just a penpal... I had no intention of ever leaving SouthAfrica . . . but he seemed very nice . . .

I came over to the USA in July 1997 for aholiday/blind date and once we met weknew we were going to be married (actuallywe were about 99% sure before we even metthat we were right for each other!).

I came back, did all the paperwork andarrived in New York on November 1 1997.

Having 90 days to get married, we didthe legal thing on New Year’s Eve with aJustice of the Peace coming out to our house.

But our wedding day was June 27 . . . byour lake with all our family and friends present.

As we were already legally married, weasked Ken’s brother Bill to officiate. We wroteour own service, exchanged rings and areliving happily ever after . . . and get happierby the day.

So now I was living in rural New

Maureen and Ken at their wedding with the childr en: Matthew andEmmett from Johannesburg, Deborah from Coventry UK and Melissa fromMassachusetts USA.

Hampshire in the USA, still working for THOSback in Johannesburg but wondering what Iwas going to do.

I became the editor of SAW and soondecided that SAW needed a newsletter andso SAWmail was born!

It has grown from a base of 350subscribers to around 3000 as of writing!

It takes lots of time to write but it hashelped me and I hope it has helped and is stillhelping thousands of other SAWs around theworld. I know in those first few months ofbeing in a strange country (even with myloving husband to help) that SAWmail helpedkeep me sane. Until one experiences it firsthand, I don’t think anyone can understandhow it feels to pack up and move to anotherpart of the world.

I am also in the process of revampingthe SAW Web site – your home from home –and will be visiting South Africa later this yearfor an extended business trip.

Yes I will be missing my dear CaptainKen but for the good of SAW (and mypersonal satisfaction!) I want to get the sitefinalised so it can be the ‘one-stop shop’ forthings South African.

We don’t intend or pr oclaim ourselvesto be the only site out there, but rather seeourselves as facilitators of all things SAW.SAW website: www.saw.co.zw


That’s Africa!All at sea over lost navy

IT HAPPENED in the Swaziland parliament in Mbabane: “The situationis absolutely under control,” said Transport Minister EphraemMagagula. “Our nation’s merchant navy is perfectly safe. We just

don’t know where it is, that’s all.”Replying to an MP’s question, Minister Magagula admitted that

the landlocked country had completely lost track of its only ship, theSwazimar:

“We believe it is in a sea somewhere. At one time, we sent ateam of men to look for it, but ther e was a problem with drink and theyfailed to find it, and so, technically, yes, we’ve lost it a bit.

“But I categorically reject all suggestions of incompetence onthe part of this gover nment.

“The Swazimar is a big ship painted in the sort of nice brightcolours you can see at night. Mark my words, it will turn up.

“The right honourable gentleman opposite is a very naughtyman, and he will laugh on the other side of his face when my shipcomes in.”

- The Star, Johannesburg

Plane passengers deflated by flat tyre . . .

W ESEKA SAMBU asked a hastily convened news conference at JomoKenyatta International Airport: “What is all the fuss about? Atechnical hitch like this could have happened anywhere in the

world. You people are not patriots. You just want to cause trouble.”Sambu, a spokesman for Kenya Airways, was speaking after the

cancellation of a through flight from Kisumu, via Jomo Kenyatta, to Berlin:“The forty-two passengers had boarded the plane ready for take-off,

when the pilot noticed one of the tyr es was flat. Kenya Airways did notpossess a spare tyre, and unfortunately the airport nitr ogen canister wasempty.

“A passenger suggested taking the tyre to a petrol station for inflation,but unluckily the jack had gone missing so we couldn’t get the wheel off.

“Our engineers tried heroically to reinflate the tyre with a bicycle pump,but had no luck, and the pilot even blew into the valve with his mouth, but hepassed out.

“When I announced that the flight had to be abandoned, one of thepassengers, Mr Mutu, suddenly struck me about the face with a life-jacketwhistle and said we were a national disgrace. I told him he was beingridiculous, and that there was to be another flight in a fortnight.

“And, in the meantime, he would be able to enjoy the scenery ar oundKisumu, albeit at his own expense.

- The Standard, Nairobi

These reports seem to be in the same genre as that of the pilot locked out of the cockpit -one that has been doing the r ounds for years, and which led recently to an aspiring US travelwriter’s downfall after she heard it and wrote it in the first person as an African adventur e. Ifthey can be either verified or denied , we’d be most grateful!


ETHNEE Holmes a Court looks up at thewatercolour portraits of her sons Robertand Simon, aged 12 and 10, hanging

in the hall of her cottage on the HeytesburyStud beneath the Darling Ranges atKeysbrook, south of Perth, Western Australia.

Outside guineafowl and peacockroam free around the white-painted fencesof the horse paddocks.

When she walks around her sanctuaryof 27 years with her “shadow”, herrhodesian ridgeback Lara, sometimes,through the haze of memory, burst glimpsesof Robert riding one of his stallions throughthe avenues of lemon-scented gums heplanted, or of Simon fishing beside a dam.

The portrait of the young Robert hashis brown hair combed neatly over thedistinctive high forehead which would hatchdreams of a mighty financial empire.

He wears a pin-striped suit and tie. Hisbrother Simon wears a short-sleeved blueshirt.

The 84-year-old mother touches theimage of Simon’s messy blond hair.

“Typical of both of them,” she says, hervoice rich and warm in the crisp tones of the

English in Africa. Mrs Holmes a Court’sautobiography, Undaunted, pr ovides an insightinto the man who would become Australia’smost impressive gentleman tycoon, art collector,and horse breeder, Robert Holmes a Court.

Or, as his mother remembers on a smallmemorial plaque in her memento-packedlounge room, “A leader of men. He hadcourage, wit, style compassion and integrity”.

He died after a heart attack on Father’sDay, 1990, aged 53.

That plaque sits next to Simon’s memorial,which says: “A sculptor, lover of wildlife and theoceans of the world”:.

She runs her hand over the ridge along theback of a bronzed elephant he sculpted, eachwrinkle in the skin understood as a gamewarden, wildlife photographer anddocumentary maker.

It was this she brought back unfinishedfrom Africa instead of the son she had gonethere to find.

He disappeared at the age of 38. While Mrs Holmes a Court outlives many of

her loved ones, her story remains a simply-told,fast-moving narrative of life in colonial Africacrammed with the adventur e, joy and

Ethnee Holmes a Court looks back on a remarkable life which has taken her fromthe wilds of colonial Rhodesia to the foothills of Perth as matriarch one of WesternAustralia most famous families.Vanessa Gould of The West Australian reports. Photographs: Tom Henshaw

Undaunted Ethneelooks to future


heartbreak of any potboiler. In her frequentlychuckling, warm and grandmotherly way,Ethnee Holmes a Court concedes she hadn’treally thought about whether writing hermemoirs, with the help of her newly-acquiredcomputer skills, had been cathartic.

Her “ghost writer” was Liz van denNieuwenhof.

“Possibly it was,” she said.“It certainly brought back a lot of

memories, and of course I’m a hoarder.I have hundreds of photographs,

throughout my life.”Her writing took her back to those

places: “It became very close to me. I couldalmost feel I was there.

“There are a lot of things there I’venever talked about. I’ve, you know, sort ofskimmed over the top. One or two thingswere difficult to write. But, it’s all true.”

Ethne Holmes a Court’s story began in1915 on a farm in Rhodesia, in the “snug andsilken world” of her grandparents’ home.

They were descendants of SouthAfrica’s first British settlers.

Her mother left her father when Ethneewas an infant and he was never spoken ofagain.

“I hadn’t spoken about him befor e, no.It was just something that didn’t exist,” shesaid.

When she was 10, her mother Florencemarried the man who came to be her father ,Harry Robert Cumming, whom everyone calls“The Old Man”.

They moved to the wilds of Souther nRhodesia, where pith helmets were thefashion, and she was taught to run, ride, shootand go on safari.

With an instinctive connection with

animals, she became a championequestrienne, and horses and pets assumedthe importance of people in her life ofprivilege and position.

In 1936 she married “the love of mylife”, Peter Holmes a Court, a tall horseman ofBritish aristocratic stock (good breeding, be itof people or animals, is always noted) whosename she kept.

Heytesbury was the name of Peter’sancestral home in England.

They settled into married life inJohannesburg and had children.

Peter demanded independence of hissons at a young age.

“He wasn’t the sort of person who wouldpick them up or kiss them,” she said.

“As little boys arriving on the train, I canremember other fathers going over andholding them or picking them up or givingthem a hug, and Peter would stand ther e andshake hands.

“Very, very English. Always been broughtup by a nanny and so on.”

They bought the local newsagencynear her parents in Rhodesia.

When Peter went to war , the businesswent under.

He returned psychologically scarredand suffering from diabetes.

Ethnee started a riding school with aborrowed horse.

The most searing blow came after 16years of marriage when Peter abruptly left herand the boys, then 15 and 13 and boar dingat the prestigious Michaelhouse School inSouth Africa.

Peter cleaned out their joint bankaccount and moved away with anotherwoman.

Dam fine place: One of the stud’s r eservoirs.


Now, Ethnee can be philosophicalabout why he left, saying she was very busywith their sole income, the riding school, andthat Peter wasn’t very well.

“I was terribly hurt, and if he hadturned up at any stage, (she gives a smalllaugh) I’d have been only too happy for himto come back,” she says.

“I don’t think I ever got over it. Evennow. Well, up to a point.

“I mean, all these things fade, don’tthey?”

Her arms are crossedand her eyes appear a littlemoist behind dark-tintedglasses, perhaps with therealisation that writing aboutthings intimate to her is onething, but having to discussthem with a stranger in herhome - a living, breathingshrine to her ownadventuring life and to liveswhich should have beenlived longer - may be quiteanother.

Her sons were deeplyaffected by their father’sdesertion; Simon was silent,while Robert talkedconstantly, “making fabulousand quite fanciful plans forour future”.

Later, determined tomake one last try atreconciliation, Ethnee put ona new dress and took theboys to the town to whichtheir father had moved.

He stood them up inone final, painful insult.

In response, the youngRobert borrowed clothesand shoes from hotel staf fand took his mother to the ballet followedby dancing at a nightclub.

It was an insight into his protectivenessof his mother and early propulsion into therole of man of the family.

A disastrous marriage “on therebound” followed and collapsed.

Then, in 1956 Ethnee married CharlesTrevor.

The couple visited Simon, a gamewarden in Bechuanaland Protectorate (nowBotswana) and returned to pioneer a camp,then a hotel, on the Chobe Game Park(now the Chobe National Park) at the pointwhere four countries meet near VictoriaFalls.

They entertained European royalty aswell as celebrities and white hunters fromKenya.

Robert, supposedly studying law atthe University of Cape Town but alsoopening, and then being for ced to close arestaurant there, left for Perth in 1961 to finishlaw at the University of WA.

Back in her lounge, Mrs Holmes aCourt sits surrounded by Simon’s bronzedwildlife sculptures; a lioness, a charging bull

elephant, a cheetah chasingan impala, and fighting sablebulls swirling withextraordinary, lifelikedynamism.

She says with pride: “Simonparticularly had a wonderfulway with animals. And hewas not afraid of anything.

“I think I said in the bookthe game scouts all said hewas the bravest morena -their word for boss - they’dever known.”

The man whose only suitwas a wetsuit made wildlifedocumentaries in Africa andthen sailed the world foryears making more.

Ethnee Holmes a Court’slife was shattered once againwhen Charles, her husbandof seven years, died afterbeing attacked by wild bees.

In 1964, she set sail forAustralia to visit her son andhis new friend Janet Ranford,the future Janet Holmes aCourt.

They settled her into aSouth Perth high-rise flat.

“That was a horrible timein my life, coming from 6000

square miles of wildlife, to a little flat likethat,” she said.

“I didn’t know anyone, there was notelephone, there was no money, there wasno car.”

Miserable, she would take long walksto the zoo and talk to the animals, anoutsider in a strange new country.

Eager to meet people, she took a job,which turned out to be mucking out horsemanure - an unimaginable shock for a ladyfrom Africa brought up with servants whohad never even seen anyone cook, clean orsew.

She was equally shocked to findAustralians sat down to a meal in their

Rural peace: A pony standssentinel on a dam wall.


kitchen, a place she had never entered as achild and only as an adult to give orders tothe “cook boy”.

She lasted a week. It was just as demoralising when she

worked as a doctor’s receptionist.Three months later, in 1965, as

Rhodesians joined queues for immigrationvisas out of the country, she returned to herhomeland.

But in November 1967 she was luredback to Australia by Robert and Janet withthe of fer of work in their new legal practice.

So for the second time, she threw herselfinto life in her new country, growing to acceptthat her African experience was over.

She remained widowed for 15 years,running the Heytesbury stud from the first 1000hectares Robert bought in 1971.

Robert Holmes a Court was chair man of

Bell Bros and of the Albany Woollen Mills. In late 1977, a late-night phone call from

Simon’s worried friends in Botswana said Simonhad gone missing on a trip to Johannesburg.

His vehicle, stripped of plates and with theengine number filed off, was later found hiddenunder leaves in Tsitsikamma Forest National Park,west of Port Elizabeth in South Africa.

There was no passport, there were noclues.

“I went there. When I was standing inTsitsikamma forest I really felt he was there,somewhere.”

She writes: “It seemed as if the forest wasshrouded in a conspiratorial silence .

But whatever happened to my son in thatremote, eerie forest remained concealed to uson that agonisingly sad day.”

Ethnee returned to WA for what was tobecome a tortured three-year wait.

She credits her fourthhusband Ronnie Critchleyfor helping her get throughthe terrible time in 1980 afterher son’s remains had beenidentified in the forest.

His death remains amystery.

In the study, where shespent a year writing, shedescribes all herphotographs; holding asalmon she caught in Alaskaalmost as long as her ownsmall 152cm frame; Ronniein the cavalry, and duringhis polo days in India.

Her four grown-upgrandchildren.

A photo of Ronnie andField of dreams: Mares and future champions enjoy the lushpaddocks at Heytesbury Stud.

Favourite place: Ethnee among the horses..


herself meeting the Queen Mother has fallenbehind a bookshelf.

She points out the stud’s famousracehorses, “our beautiful MercurialMadam,” and “Black Knight who won theMelbourne Cup, nobody else from the Westhas done that!”

She has photographed every foal bor nat the stud since 1971.

Robert of fered to build Ethnee a houseon the property but she and Ronnie opted tostay in the cottage which had so manymemories.

As Ethnee drives around the manicuredproperty she feigns an indignant huf f whenasked if she is able to jump on to the back ofa ute for a photograph of her feeding thehorses. She whips the car around in a neat u-turn.

When we finish she virtually springs offthe high tray to the ground. She sometimesswims at 6am, plays tennis, rides when shecan and goes to yoga classes.

She judges at horse shows and takestours of Heytesbury to collect money forRiding For The Disabled (RDA).

As we pass by the two red-floweringsaplings which are memorials to her sons - justreplanted after being ringbarked by sheep -she is, above all things, practical when askedhow she has managed to rise above somuch tragedy.

“I don’t think I get angry, I get very sadat times.

“But I’m very busy and I’ve got somuch to do I don’t dwell on it.”

Skilfully and repeatedly she avoidsanswering when pressed for the sorts ofpersonal qualities that have enabled her tosurvive so much.

Is she particularly determined, orstrong, or has she just learned how to roll withthe punches?

“I think that’s more like it,” she finallyconcedes.

“Take it day by day. I think you copewhen it happens, you’ve got to. You shoulddo. Although, some people don’t, do they?No I think you’ve just got to, or SHOULD cope,as things happen.

“Something always good comes out ofthings, you know?

“Yes I am, I am an optimist.”Ethnee’s website: http://www.southwest.com.au/~ethnee/

©West Australian Newspapers

Ethnee in the plotting of fice at Thornhill AirStation during World War II. Flt Sgt ColinCampbell is in the foreground

Ethnee greets her son,Simon, in 1967.

In her Women’s Auxiliary AirServices uniform (1943).

Son Robert, in 1988.


ETHNEE Holmes à Court meets me atthe electronic gates of HeytesburyStud south of Perth with an apology:

“We’re in a bit of a mess,” she says.“Follow me and mind out for thebranches on the road.”

She’s not joking. Trees lie acrosspaddock fences and branches litter theroad bearing mute testament to a wildstorm that ripped thr ough the propertythe day before.

I follow the diminutive 84-year-old toher home near the stables – a modestcottage covered in ivy and wistaria andsurrounded by towering bluegums withdappled skins.

“The trunks look beautiful whenthey’re wet, the colours really come outthen,” she says as we shake hands. “Weplanted those when we first came her e28 years ago – this was Robert’s firstweekender cottage”.

In fact, everything around us hasbeen planted and laid out by the Holmesà Court family and helpers.Avenues of tall lemon-scented gums,native bushes, fenced paddocks of lushgrass and stables have all developedfrom a bare patch of ground.

“Robert planned it,” she tells me. “Itcame together slowly, but he wanted itto be natural – wher e horses could runwithout being hindered.”

Inside the cottage is pure Africa.Mementos fill every available space.Photographs by the score, bronzesculptures of elephants, fighting sable

antelope and a hunting cheetah in full flightmade by her son, Simon, during his days inBotswana, sit on the shelves, hi-fi andfireplace. Paintings of the Cape ador n thewalls.

“I’m a hoarder,” she says with achuckle.

It’s hard to miss this point.Ethnèe of fers tea an biscuits and we

settle in, interrupted briefly by a blue wrenpecking at the window. “They are so tame,”she laughs, “I had one sitting on my hand theother day.”

Then, matter-of-factly: “Now, whatwould you like to know.”

I know much of what she has donefrom reading reviews of her biography,Undaunted.

What, I wanted to know, is next?“Well,” she says, “I’m thinking about

writing a sequel to the book and I’m workingon that. W e have a big wedding coming uphere in November, I’m going to the easter nStates at the end of that month and nextyear will be going to a Greek island ownedby friends and to New York to see my twingreat-grandchildren.”

This is one octogenarian who’s notletting the grass grow under her feet. Noteven that of one of Australia’s mostrenowned studs.

Since the June 1998 launch of her book,Ethnèe has travelled constantly. First to theeastern Australian States.

It was a whirl of television talk shows,

By Tom Henshaw

Cottage home: Ethnee tur ned down Robert’s of fer tobuild her a new house. “This one has all my memoriesin it”, she says.


press interviews and appearances in townsand cities in Victoria, New South Wales andQueensland. Most recently she launchedthe book in three African countries –Zimbabwe, Botswana and South Africawhere, she says, sales were very strong.

Answering fan mail is almost a full-timejob now.“I answer every one,” she tells me. “Here,”she holds up some correspondence, “I havetwo here I will answer tonight.”

Brought up by a man who knew CecilRhodes in the 1800s, Ethnèe is heading intothe 21st century a thoroughly modernwoman.

She has a computer in her study,communicates with friends, colleaguesand fans by email and has her own website.

“I’m not too up-to-date with that sideof things,” she says candidly, “But I plan tobe soon.”

You can bet on that.Up until a few weeks before I spoke to

her, Ethnèe shared her life at Heytesburywith fourth husband Ronnie Critchley. Hedied on August 27.

“Ronnie would have been 94yesterday,” she says. “You know, he hadmany problems, but never complained. Inthe end he said he was ready to slip away. Iwouldn’t let them take him to hospital.”Ronnie – Lieutenant-Colonel RonaldAsheton Critchley, DSO, MC to hissubordinates – was a man to be reckonedwith in his prime.

He had a distinguished career in theBritish Army before championing the cause

of conservation in the then Norther nRhodesia.

He was founding president of theNorthern Rhodesian Wildlife ConservationSociety.

From 1959 to 1963 the society playeda pivotal role in mounting Operation Noah,which rescued thousands of animalstrapped by the rising waters of the newLake Kariba.

Ethnèe’s constant companions noware her beloved ridgeback, Lara and bluerussian cat, Zhivago.Lara goes everywhere with her, travelling inthe back seat of the car.

The only time Lara leaves her side iswhen she’s taken for her after noon walk bya staff member. And then, only underprotest.

Zhivago, Ethnèe says, is an intelligentcat.

“He never catches birds, and wehave hundreds coming to feed every day.

“But he sometimes brings in babyrabbits. He doesn’t hurt them. I take themoff him and let them go. I’m afraid we havequite a lot of them her e.”

Outside, the late after noon sun lightsup the Darling Ranges.

“We have a monument to Robert atthe top,” she says, “and sometimes we goup there by 4WD for a picnic or barbecue.”It seems a fitting time to leave.

“Would you like a drink before yougo,” she asks, then with a smile, “perhapsnot, you are driving , aren’t you?”

Memories: Ethnee pauses at the foot of the memorial toher son Robert. It faces directly west, towards Africa.


ONE of the reasonsfor the Great Trekof 1835 to 1848

has a parallel in thecircumstances whichprompted the massmigration of whites fromSouth Africa during thesecond half of the 20thcentury.

At the core of thediscontent of manypeople such as myselfwas a frustration born outof a lack of meaningfulrepresentation ingovernment.

Just as the Englishcolonial authority hadruled the Cape Pr ovincewithout givingsympatheticconsideration to Boergrievances, so theNational Party dismissedpetitions for a morereasonable approach todomestic and regionalconcerns.

When my familyand I decided to move toAustralia in the early1980s, it appeared thatthere was no hope ofreconciliation betweenblack and white politicalfactions in the Republic.Furthermore, there wasnothing that I could envisage that wouldalleviate or break down the impasse.

So we sold our townhouse inPietermaritzburg on a falling market, lostheavily on a partnership in a residentialdevelopment scheme and realised about half

TheGreatTrek

(No. 2)

of what we had beenoffered a year previouslyfor our highly successfulsteakhouse. Hardly thestuff of happy memoriesor an auspiciousbeginning in faraway,hostile climes.

We arrived in Perth,Western Australia, inJanuary 1986 under thenow-defunct familyunification scheme. Mysister had married anAustralian she met inLondon in the 60s and sheguaranteed our financialcommitments, whichmade us personae grata.

My wife, Aliki, is aradiographer withexperience in hospitalsand private practice inEngland and South Africa.We assumed that shewould have no troublefinding a job in that field,but had reckoned withoutthe intervention ofhospital unions andmedical insuranceagencies.

After severalexhausting weeks, weabandoned the idea andshe found work in thefashion industry. She is stillhappily and gainfully

employed in a small boutique owned by anItalian family, selling designer labels to thosewho can af ford such luxury.

Our sons, Justin and Paul, enrolled atuniversity immediately on arrival and had nodifficulty finding work when they graduated.

Mike White: Latter-daytrekker


Justin has a B.Comm and an MBA which took him into finance andbusiness management and Paul has a B.Sc in Computer Science. Heworks as a contractor to agents in Sydney and London.

Paul lives in Perth with a charming lady who came across fromJohannesburg at much the same time that we did. Having them her eagain with us after periods of absence in London, Canberra andMelbourne is a source of great happiness for Aliki and me.

Much to our disappointment, Justin went back to South Africain 1995 for a holiday and returned there permanently a year later tomarry a fine girl he met while at school at Maritzburg College. Theyare doing exceptionally well in Johannesburg and serve as areminder that parents have little or no influence on decisions theirchildren might take in later years.

After working as a sub-editor for West Australian Newspapers for11 years, I quit structured employment at the end of 1996 and joineda team of fr eelance writers who contribute house reviews to thepaper’s real estate section.

Seeing some of the city’s magnificent homes is interesting, butmy satisfaction comes from writing a weekly sports column for TheNatal Witness, the morning daily in Pietermaritzburg.

Now that sporting links between Australia and South Africahave been renewed, there are lots of opportunities for comment -and a chance for me to r evive an association which started in 1975.

Would I return to live in South Africa? At my stage of life and inthe diminished circumstances in which my wife and I find ourselves,Medicare - the superb government subsidised health care system - iscentral to our well-being.

We could not af ford to be ill anywhere else, no matter howmuch I might pine for a day on a Drakensberg trout stream or a sightof the fairest Cape of all.

We’re here- although in fairness I should add that Aliki wouldnot move if she could.

For her, Africa is gone. Home is a three-bedroom town housewe own in a quiet suburb a short stroll from Perth’s beautiful SwanRiver.

Sadly, some South Africans still see migrants as deserters of thegreater cause.

I prefer an image of the tr ekkers who crossed the Orange Riverinto the wild unknown.

The only difference, surely, between what they and we did liesin distance and direction.

Michael White,Perth, Western Australia.

EXCITED chatter rises from the 100 metregorge where several dozen tourists withlifejackets firmly tied, pile into rubber

rafts. Few have any real concept of thewhirlpool adventure which lies around thebend from the tranquil starting point.

Each guide picks a raft, checking out hiscrew and deciding whether the for eignersbefore him need reassurance or aredaredevils at heart.

Rowdy youths from the overlander trucks

are likely to be given a good run for theirmoney and shown why the river deservesrespect. The company rule - that guides arenot to deliberately flip their raft - may just getbent.

The fine line between an adrenalinpacked adventure and flirtation with realdanger is in the guides’ hands and they knowthrough years of experience that the power fulZambesi River offers both in abundance.

Eliam Mushamboza, 27, has been a


The WildWild Wet!

. . . and the guys who get you that way

AFRICA’S scope for adventur e does not get better than raftingdown the thrashing rapids which surge from the mighty VictoriaFalls on the Zambia-Zimbabwe border.

But behind the hype of a thrilling whitewater ride is thereassuring brawn and bravado of the rafting guides who makea mission out of giving tourists the ride of their lives whileconquering their personal fears. Rochelle Mutton talks to aguide to check what they’r e made of.

Zambesi whitewaterguide for eight years andfinds patience and acool demeanour to beessential to his trade. Hisimpressive body, tautwith muscle, combinedwith charisma and goodhumour, no doubt goes along way in gaining thetrust, respect andattention of his crew.

There are two typesof rafts. In one, a guiderows with oars while thetourists hang on.

In the other, theguide sits at the backwith a paddle andshouts commands to his crew of about eighttourists, each with a paddle, who sit on therim of the raft.

For the latter type, successfulcommunication is just as vital as working outwhich path to weave thr ough the torr ents.

“The paddle boat’s a mission - youneed to be in total contr ol of your clients,”Eliam said.

Some Japanese tourists who thoughtthey were in for a river cruise turned up forwhite-water rafting in suits and cocktaildresses. It demonstrates how mentallyunprepared some tourists are.

Before the journey begins, each guidegives detailed instructions to his crew andputs them through the paces of paddling leftand right. The oar boat passengers practiceflying pile-ups from one side of the raft to theother, without appreciating it is seriousbusiness, in the art of rafting rapids.

Falling out or having the whole raft flip isa fair bet during the course of the trip whichmay include three metre waves. But if theguide’s instructions are followed, there is noneed for alarm.

The sheer ferocity of the undercurrentswhile doing some “downtime” - theexperience of tumbling through the rapids asif in a giant washing machine for up to 20

seconds - can terrifyrafters to the point theyrefuse to continue thetrip.The $US95 upfront

payment be damned!Eliam said one of the

biggest hurdles waslanguage barriers withnon-English speakingforeigners. At times hewould urgently yell forhis crew to paddle right,only for them topaddle left, directly intodisturbingly turbulentwaters.Other tourists on the

paddle boats fail torealise the need to paddle hard throughrough patches. Some sit on the raft’s floor andhang on for dear life when tr ouble hits.

There are definite spots to be avoided,none more so than a treacherous wedge atthe notorious seventh rapid, Gulliver’s Travels,called Patella’s Gap.

Its named is derived from an incident inwhich a tourist went overboard anddislocated his knee-cap in the wedge. Itholds claim to numerous broken arms andlegs.

Eliam was horrified during one tripthrough Gulliver’s Travels when one man wentoverboard and his entire crew threw theirpaddles in the water in a bizarre attempt toaid him.

Bruises, aching muscles, severe sunburnand cuts from stray paddles arecommonplace.

But with the benefit of lifejackets andnearby rescue kayaks, the odds of seriousinjury are slim. About 60,000 peoplewhitewater raft down fr om Victoria Falls eachyear and deaths have occurred about onceevery year or two.

The most recent victims included anAmerican who apparently untied hislifejacket and another who had a heartattack.


Eliam Mushamboza: You have tobe in total control of your clients.

Tourists who emerge from a day’s whitewater rafting feeling courageous should spar e athought for the blind and paraplegics who have taken up the Zambezi challenge.

Eliam said the disabled were allocated a personal guide who had a key rule: “If they goin, you follow”.

There has been need for special attention to the tourists who have fainted climbing out ofthe gorge at the day’s end. A septuagenarian had to be carried up by several guides.

Shooting rapids on the Zambesi River has only become a commercial sport since 1981when an American company set up the first whitewater rafting business.

The locals looked on in disbelief as their young men would try their hand at guiding raftsdown the torrents which had remain unchallenged since time began.

“Ah! You guys are crazy! You can’t play around with the river,” was the typical response togreet the Zambesi rafting pioneers.

Eliam said he had seen many aspiring guides throw in the towel as the pressures anddangers got the better of them. Their mettle is tested long before they are allowed to take

responsibility for tourists with a gruelling training programin which only the courageous and committed pass.

No kidding, these guides are tough.When Eliam signed up as a l9-year-old, the test was to

withstand a six-week training program withoutchickening out.

The guides had to quickly learn to read the rapids orface the turbulent consequences and wer e literallythrown in the deep end.

“You had to swim rapids and see how brave you were -a good couple of kilometres on your own,” he said.

“At some point you would think ‘when am I going toreach the surface again’.

“The drop-out rate for guides used to be 80 per cent(but) people now know exactly what they’r e gettingthemselves into. You need to have a passion for it tokeep going or you can easily give up or becomesusceptible to fear.”

Eliam’s zeal has made him a Zimbabwe whitewaterrafting champion he has competed in severalinternational competitions in the last four years.

When asked whether the adoration which guidesreceive from women was per haps also a incentive tokeep paddling, Eliam dismissed the notion out of hand.

“I have a few drinks with my colleagues after work andthat’s all,” he said.

“I just love to play with water.”


Bridge over troubled waters:Rafters pass under the linkbetween Zimbabwe and

Zambia.

Tall order: The downstream view fromthe Victoria Falls Bridge.

out of africa October 1999 23email: [email protected] http://www.iinet.net.au/~henshaw/OutofAfrica/OutofAfrica.html out of africa December 1999 23

From CV in the UK

I AM eight. Mother is in hospital leaving me in care of doolally uncle. Uncleinforms me we are going camping in Kariba. Funny thing about eight-bedchalets. They don’t take nine.

Which bod is gonna sleep in the car?Our brave little hero says it’s OK - he will...All goes well . . . The pyjamas, the teddy, the sleeping bag, the final

farewells, the assurances of assistance et al.About 02h00 some philandering cousin flushes the loo en route back to his

own bed.General awakening. General realisation of something knocking the car

(not a small one either). Look out of back window to be confr onted by hippo -jaws agape and war ming up for the mating cry . . .

When the windows stopped vibrating, and befor e the hair had time tosettle the night was pierced once more, with our eight year old hero shriekingfor said cousin.

Partial amnesia occurs until waking up in bed in chalet in comfort in themorning

After three-year judgment to stay the hell away from wild animals of anysort, (rigorously enforced so I am told by Parks officials up and down theZambesi), I was allowed to return, sans parental control.

Eight in two vehicles pitch up at camp site in Mana Pools (whereapparently three years previously there’d been a huge influx of animals fromupstream).

First thing to do when you decamp is for adults to fish out a beer . . . W ell,and good.

Then an elephant lumbers through the camp site calmly munching fromevery second tree. Time to make a run for the cameras and shoot - I mean thisbeast is going to walk past about 10 metres away.

Women clinging to various men for support (sometimes not their own).Then the sky caves in and someone douses the sun..It’s dark! Look out the car to find the elephant standing the thickness of

glass away and reaching over the vehicle for a second course . . .I was actually trapped in there for about 20 minutes - I didn’t dare move,

although I did take about thr ee rolls of film.Sadly, even a simple 35mm lens doesn’t allow you much more than a

square metre of an elephant at a time when it’s that close to you . . .I have some great molar shots! The bugger was in my light for the rest,

and I didn’t fancy using a flash.The poor woman in loco parentis nearly wet herself and wasn’t able to

have children of her own until her early 40s.If any of you have been to Nyepi Camp in Mana Pools, you’ll know the

jumbo I mean.Friendly sort - isn’t he??

Knock, knock . . . who’s there?Just the hippo from Hell, that’s who!

Hairy bush tales . . .

Do you have a hairy bush tale?? If so, send it to us at [email protected] we’ll publish it.


I AM Carolyn Howie, a British-trained journalist, who went toDurban, South Africa in 1969 to join the morning daily - TheNatal Mercury - and later the afternoon newspaper, The Daily

News.They were exciting, turbulent years in newspapers. I was one

of the first women reporters in the Mercury’s newsroom and whenI left, having done many of the beats - shipping, education,municipal, the arts, pictures editor - half the reporters werewomen - that says something about our ability to work hard!!

After a stint as PRO for the Mer cury I went to The Daily Newsas Promotions Manager and I really learnt what har d work was -running exhibitions, competitions and promotions.

When I married Eddie Howie in 1970, I married a Scotsmanby birth, a journalist by profession, a South African by residency,but a Rhodesian at heart.

Eddie was copytaster on the Mer cury when I arrived andlater he became Chief Sub and Deputy Night Editor . He too“crossed the street” (there are only two dailies there!) andbecame features Editor of The Daily News and Sunday Tribune.

Having done his “time” on the Bulawayo Chr onicle andlived there in the 1950s, he told me he would take me to “God’s

Stand by for the UK’snew Radio Carolyn!Return to Britain sees SA journalistseeking a new career on airwaves

Carolyn at the mike,recording for BBC

Southern Countiesradio course.


country” and for 22 wonder ful years he tookme once or twice a year to enjoy the fabulouscompany of friends and work with some of thefinest Lions it has been my pleasure to meet.

All during this time Eddie was presidentfive times of Lions Clubs - Durban, the Ridgeand Richmond (Natal), and it was thr ough hiswork for the folk in Rhodesia during UDI, thatwe had our happiest times.

He raised money inSA and on two occasionswe went to London tobuy supplies. Firstly, it wasmeasles vaccine to sendup to the rural areasbecause destruction ofthe clinics during the warmeant children weredying. Then we boughtequipment for the blindlike white canes, but themost spectacular werethe surgical instruments.

The surgeons at theSharp End were workingin Casevacs (mobileoperating theatres) andhaving to amputate usingcrude instruments,because the correct oneswere unavailable. Eddiegot clearance from Prime Minister Ian Smithpersonally and we flew up to Salisbury oneFriday evening. The next day we were taken toregimental headquarters to see the instrumentsbeing placed in the Casevacs and watchedthem pull out to the fr ont.

Then in 1980 Elfie Eltherardis, who wasDistrict Governor of 412 (Rhodesia, Botswana,

Mozambique and Malawi), explained to Eddiethat Kariba had no ambulances - pregnantwomen were being driven to hospitals in Land-Rovers!

With the help of the Lions Clubs ofSomerset West, Richards Bay and the Ridge, heraised enough money to buy an ambulanceon a Durban municipal second-hand auction.He had it overhauled and fitted out with

stretchers and railed it toSalisbury. Petrol wasrationed but Dave Kay(who became a dear,life-long friend) filled thetank and Eddie drove itto Banket and stayed thenight with tobaccofarmers, Yvonne andArthur Larter.

There he was met byan old chum andmember of the LionsClub of Kariba, Jet Baker,and Jet rode gunshot outthe passenger window asthey joined the convoy.The convoy before was“revved”, as was the oneafter. But whether it wasthe Red Cross painted onthe side or the hand of

the Almighty, I leave you to speculate, butthey got through. The Medical Superintendentcried when he saw the ambulance, he was sothrilled.

Years later we went back to Kariba andthe ambulance was still doing yeoman service.

Eddie couldn’t have done all he did inRhodesia without the wonder ful support of the

Carolyn and Eddie in his specially-built Lions pub in theircountry cottage in the village of Byrne, Natal, where theyhosted so many Rhodesian friends.


Lions Club of Marlborough - one of the mostsuccessful clubs in Salisbury. Regularly 95 to100 Lions sat down to meetings. No wonderthey were so successful with their service andcare in the community! We were proud to bemade honorary members.

But I am supposed to be telling youabout how I settled down in my new homeafter I left Africa.

But first I must tell you that just six monthsafter retiring in 1993 my beloved Eddie died ofa heart condition. He was only 57. I had bythis time left the newspaper and started myown public relations consultancy but throughthis work was able to keep in touch with all myold friends on the newspapers, and that’swhat kept me going.

In June 1998 I returned on holiday to seemy family in England and four days afterlanding, my only sister was diagnosed withrenal failure. My stepfather, by then 86,needed my support too, so it was clear that Imust return to the UK.

I found a per fect flat (still only at roofheight) half way between my sister’s homeand the hospital to which she has go fordialysis treatment so that during the cold,snowy months, she can stay with me. (Ibought it only 2 weeks before I left but evenfound a solicitor who got all the paperworkdone in that time…because he was going onholiday the day before I flew back to SA!!!).

While in Surrey I went to a concert andthe comperes were on Radio Redhill, ahospital radio station - something I had neverheard of. I told my sister that’s what I would

like to do when I returned.After seeing her through an operation

and into the dialysis treatment programme, Ipromised my sister that I would be back inthree months. I returned to Durban with thedaunting task of closing my business, sellingmy flat and some of the contents, packing upafter 28 years there, shipping my furniture andabove all saying goodbye to friends of 30years.

Whether you believe in guardian angels,fate or whatever, I can tell you each step ofthe way was planned for me. i.e. I sold my flatwithin 10 days of my return, when there wereFIVE in the block of EIGHT flats for sale at thesame time. It was pre-election time and theproperty market was flooded. But not only didI find a buyer, but he paid me cash - unheardof in South Africa at that time.

I mention this to illustrate how my nextsteps were plotted for me too. W ithin five daysof returning to the UK I read in the local paperthat Radio Redhill, was looking for volunteersto train as broadcasters. Out of 18 trainees Iwas one of six chosen for training. I gained my“stripes” in May.

The following week I went to RadioRedhill’s AGM and the programme directorasked for volunteers to join their NewsProgramme. He thought I was manna fr omheaven, I knew I was lucky to be gettingexperience.

He later asked me to join the news teamof Susy Radio, an RSL (temporary licenceradio station raising money during two monthsa year for The Children’s Rainbow T rust for the

(From left) Jet Baker, then Lions President of Kariba, with Yvonne andArthur Larter of Banket, and Eddie in fr ont of the ambulance, sayinggoodbye at dawn to join the convoy on the last leg of the jour neyto Kariba.


physically handicapped.) My experience in anewsroom and recording and editing booksfor Tape Aids for the Blind in Durban stood mein good stead. I was sourcing and writingstories and reading the hourly news bulletins. Idid another month’s stint in May.

By this time I was hooked on radio andin March I was invited to join a teampreparing for Reigate FM, a 24-hour classicalmusic station for the Reigate Music Festival.Once again it was run by volunteers, butmany were BBC-trained, and once more Ilearnt a great deal.

I was asked to record and produce ten14-minute programmes entitled “A day in thelife of…” This was a real learning curve andthe editing was horrendously long winded butit prepared me for running (almost single-handed) the news for the daily 15-minuteNews Report. This included actuality inserts,which were recorded in the after noon andedited before we went on air at 5pm.

To keep up with the news I listened tolocal radio stations and one day driving alongI heard on BBC Southern Counties that theywere to run a six-month radio competencyand journalism course for unemployed,mature students in September and wer elooking for applicants. The course is a City andGuilds qualification.

Just five days before I was due to takesome holiday, I was called for an interview toGuildford. On returning home the phone rangand I was told that they had had 60applicants but if I wanted one of the onlyseven places on the course, one was mine. I

grabbed at it.Now this OAP has a chance of a new

career in radio. There are no illusions. Thereare no places as staffers but hopefully by theend of the course I shall be competent tocreate (and hopefully sell) programmes tolocal stations.

Granny here is holding on by herfingertips while computer-literate 30 and 40year-olds pick up the technology like greaselightning. It is 40 years since I last wrote examsand the thought of writing (not typing)examinations, let alone studying for them,gives me nightmares.

But life’s a challenge - that’s what Africahas taught me. I am grateful for all thosewonder ful years. My heart aches for the bush,the mopani trees and breakfast over a braaiin the Matopos, but I have those wonder fulmemories to sustain me through the horridBritish winters and I have email to chat to allmy friends in Australia, Canada and SouthAfrica and now Out of Africa on the Inter net!

Breakfast in the Matopos: (from left) Ewart Armstrong,former manager of the Bulawayo Chr onicle, a friend of his,Eddie and Carolyn.

28 out of africa October 1999 http://www.iinet.net.au/~henshaw/OutofAfrica/OutofAfrica.html email: [email protected]

Back Page

Christmas story

This brief Christmas story with a difference is from the notebookof the Political Commissar of a group operating in the Mr ewadistrict of Rhodesia in the late 1970s. Names have been

changed - because I don’t recall them but the message remainsafter all these years.

Dated Dec 26: “Comrade Phineas today given 10 lashes forunacceptable behaviour as yesterday he became very drunkand went ar ound the town shouting ‘Pamberi ne Jesus, Pamberine Christmas’ – Rough translation “Forward with Jesus, Forwardwith Christmas”

No doubt Phineas would have been extr emely embarrassedand upset receiving lashes on top of what must have been amighty hangover.

Ian D

Province of InhambaneMinistry of Fish and Wildlife

MOZAMBIQUE

WARNINGDue to the rising frequency of human-lion encounters, the Ministry of Fish and Wildlife,Inhambane Branch, Mozambique is advising hikers, hunters, fishermen and any motor-cyclists that use the out-of-doors in a recreational or work-related function to take extraprecautions while in the bush

We advise outdoorsmen to wear little noisy bells on clothing so as to give advanced warn-ing to any lions that might be close by so you don’t take them by surprise.

We also advise anyone using the out-of-doors to carry “Pepper Spray” with him or her incase of an encounter with a lion.

Outdoorsmen should also be on the watch for fresh lion activity, and be able to tell thedifference between lion cub shit and big lion shit. Lion cub shit is smaller and containslots of berries and dassie fur. Big lion shit has bells in it, and smells like pepper.

Enjoy your stay inMOZAMBIQUE

(Hey, I didn’t write this . . . it came in an anonymous email!

out of africaarchive.hmvh.net/ooai/ooai03.pdfgreater part of friday night with the woman befor e he...

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