O1B1F4E. PRETORIA 1961

MOMENTS IN OUR LIVES-1 2026-01-28

O1B1F4. PRETORIA 1961

THE GERMINATION OF A DREAM

I knew from about Standard 7 that I wanted to become an architect. During our visits to Oom Pieter and Aunt Salome in Twyfelpoort, I spent hours leafing through her overseas magazines such as Garden & Home. The glossy magazines from the USA stimulated my imagination.

In her magazines there were many examples of architect-designed houses, especially one of a beautiful house on a small triangular piece of land in the heart of New York, around a small courtyard, with glass walls on the garden side of the corridor. This really captured my imagination and I also wanted to become such an architect.

Aunt Salome's own garden was lush, typical of a large farmyard. It did not have the usual Kikuyu grass, but a soft carpet of small round leaves on fine stalks that felt soft under my bare feet. Amidst this natural beauty and the architectural dreams in the magazines, I realized: this is what I want to do with my life. I shared my dreams with my parents, unaware of the paths that fate (and my father’s beliefs) would choose for me.

THE BASTION OF THE NORTH

In matric, one has to choose which direction you want to go if you want to study further after school. There were only two universities in South Africa that had Faculties for Architecture – University of Cape Town (Ikeys) and University of Pretoria (Tukkies). We were Capetonians all our lives, so it was logical that I would go to Ikeys.

But Ikeys was very well known for its liberal outlook, and Dad was very conservative. He said: “Over my dead body you will go to Ikeys – you will go to Tukkies.” Being in Pretoria, which was the bastion of Afrikanerism, Papa felt that I would grow up conservative.

I enrolled in Tukkies and got a place in Sonop, the tokkelok residence, where many of the students who wanted to become ministers studied. The first two weeks were spent in the initiation of all the first years. Most of the first years (ienks) were housed in the Stalle, the largest double-storey building in Sonop. The rest were small rooms in blocks of four, where mostly seniors resided.

Usually just before dinner, and evenings too, all the first years had to line up in front of the Stalle, where they were “inspected” by the seniors. Each ienk had to hang a cardboard sign around his neck with his details: name, age, school, church affiliation and - importantly - a photo of his girlfriend.

I didn’t have a girlfriend, but the seniors insisted on a photo. Desperate, I rode my bicycle to the city center, looking for a photography shop. I found a small shop in Arcadia on Church Street, and explained my problem to the owner. He amicably searched through envelopes from people who had not come to collect their photos, and found a photo of a girl. She became "Maureen van Staden" on my board—a fictional love who helped me through my initiation.

“IENKS” AND THE "NIGHT LIGHTS"

Hostel residence in 1961 was not for sissies. I remember the fear instilled by the seniors. Fortunately, I was quite large and suffered less than others, but I saw those who made mistakes being physically punished.

The "inspections" must have been terrifying for some of the smaller and tinier ienks. Seniors moved slowly down a line in front of the row of ienks, from left to right. The senior usually asked the ienk "Who am I?", then you had to know his name, what he swot and where he came from, and other information as he chose. I was quite large, so I don't think I suffered as much.

There was this thickset senior with wild bushy red hair, Rooies, who everyone was aware of. As Rooies came down the row of ienks, all of them were aware of him. Once he asked Erasmus, a little guy next to me, something that the poor guy answered incorrectly. Then Rooies hit him in the chest with his flat hand so that he slid on his ass across the stoep and back against the wall.

Generally, ienks didn’t particularly like second years, because many of them, last year’s ienks, now abused their status to bully this year’s ienks.

Still, there are exceptions. I remember once there were two second years who were interviewing Antonides, of Greek descent and very nervous. Rooies was approaching. Then the two second years stayed in front of Antonides, pretending to interview him, forcing Rooies to bypass him.

I think Antonides was a very anxious person, suffering from his nerves. Later during the June holidays he apparently had a nervous breakdown and never returned to university. It was probably because some of the seniors told the ienks before the holiday that they would “kill” them when they returned.

One day I went to play tennis on Sonop’s tennis courts wearing black socks - I didn’t have any white socks. That night I woke up to a hammering on my room door. When I opened it, there were 4 or 6 figures dressed in pitch black long coats with black balaclavas showing only their eyes. They pushed me back into my small room. Then their leader asked if I knew why they were there. I didn’t have the faintest idea. Then he said I wasn’t allowed to play tennis wearing black socks. One of them then stood directly in front of me and took my hands with my arms over his shoulders. He bent over. One of the others took my legs and lifted them, so that I was hanging in the air between the two. Two of the others then took stance on either side of me and began beating my buttocks rhythmically with sneakers.

It wasn’t bad at first, but after about 50 strokes it started to burn. So at 80 I started to writhe in pain. “Lie still!”. I stopped counting after 100. Before they left, they gave me another verbal scrubbing.

Now that is the dreaded Night Lights, who had to maintain their strict discipline in Sonop. I was beaten up by them again, I think because, coming from the countryside, I often rode my bicycle down to the city center during off periods. After such a beating, my buttocks were full of tiny purple dots. The third time, for something I can’t remember now, they humiliated me by having me write out my “violation” 100 times.

I wonder if they have the guts to discipline the hard-core of the hostel like that. One of my friends among the ienks was Eugéne Potgieter, slightly smaller than myself, but muscular and fearless. One Sunday just before dinner he was picked up for another supposed “offense” and a group of second-years started beating him.

One of the beaters was Steyn, a giant of a second-year, and he made the mistake of punching Eugene on the back with his fists. Eugene instantly jerked himself free and grabbed Steyn in front of his chest and said he would thrash him if he punched him again. This knocked the wind out of Steyn and the group of second-years and that was the end of that beating.

RAG, BOXING AND EXTRAORDINARY VICTORIES

The Rag is held annually round about February/March, just after initiation. It is a joyous time during which each residence and faculty builds a float with some theme or another. I think it was mostly the seniors who worked on it - the juniors did the dirty work like loading and cleaning.

Basically, something is built around the cab of a large truck. In Sonop's case, it was a giant pumpkin over a frame of iron bars, covered with chicken fence. It was then covered with paper mache, and then painted. A hole was left in front of the driver to look through. We mostly stood and watched how it progressed.

On the bed of the truck was a giant gorilla sitting on a grass bench. Its feet were hinged and it could stand up and lift its hat - the engineering students of course worked out these mechanics. The gorilla was covered with coconut hair from an old mattress, and over it he wore a fancy satin suit. The crowning glory of this was that when the gorilla stood up and leaned forward, he pooped out a gray cloud of smoke! It was of course someone sitting inside the pumpkin with a vacuum cleaner blowing out smoke from something burning, and it always caused a big laugh.

The day before the Rag, a Rag Princess and 4 or 6 runners-up were chosen - the most beautiful girls at UP that year. On the day of the Rag, all the floats drove one after the other through the streets of Pretoria, even down Church Street, with the float of the Rag Princess and the runners-up girls the most important, which everyone gasped at, because they were truly beautiful girls, dressed to show off their assets to the best of their ability. Our pooping gorilla made everyone roar with laughter, so the whole Sonop was very happy with our float.

I remember one comical incident. During my first year there was a Tukkie boxing competition, in which all residences and private first years participated. Sonop’s seniors wanted to enter someone from our first years for each weight division. They entered me for the light heavyweight division. My objection that I had never worn boxing gloves fell on deaf ears.

On the night of the competition, all of our Sonop first years who were supposed to box sat together. The competition started with the flyweight and worked their way up to the middleweight (160 lb). When Wynand Malan, the first year from Sonop, took a punch, he fell and lay there - as they say, he “threw” the fight, rather than let himself be beaten to pulp.

Then it was my turn - light heavyweight (175 lb). My opponent was from Boekenhout men’s residence and he was on the Tukkie boxing team (first year academic, second year historical).

I slowly moved out of my corner and raised my gloves in advance and held them in front of my face, with my elbows together. My opponent moved towards me in a determined manner. I covered my face more. The next moment the guy hit my gloves hard, so that they hit my face. It hurt, my own gloves against my nose.

I crouched with my upper body so that it was horizontal to the floor. From that position I swung a few punches at the enemy. Then for a few seconds nothing happened. I cautiously got up and peeked between my gloves. My opponent stood with his right arm high in the air and the referee stood by him and touched his arm.

Then he signaled that the fight could continue. With an angry expression the guy immediately came towards me. Suddenly the bell rang and the fight was stopped by the judges outside the ring. The referee called us both to the middle of the ring and raised my hand. I won!??

Later I figured out what had happened. As I was standing there hunched over in front of the guy, he wanted to throw a huge punch to end the fight, and swung his arm out of the socket! The judges saw that this was murder, because it was clear that I knew nothing about boxing, so they stopped the fight and awarded it to me - a technical knockout!

For my efforts I received a small silver cup. My Commercial Law lecturer, Advocate Mostert, congratulated me on my victory in the first class we had afterwards and asked if I was going to defend my title the following year!! I was so ashamed of that cup that I hid it deep in my suitcase.

During such a first year there are of course occasions where male students make contact with female students, and at one such occasion I got to know Isobel Fourie and we very quickly came to understand each other and became attracted to each other. She came from Westonaria. I think she studied Physical Education (P.E.).

I remember once a bunch of first-years were all gathered together and everyone was sitting on the grass under blankets. I held her hand. It’s nice to love when you’re young. During the university holidays we wrote each other very long letters, mine sometimes going on 20 pages. When we went back to university for our second year, she wrote me a nice little note and said she felt towards me like a brother. I was very sad about it, even though she tried to make the farewell as light as possible. She was a more active person than I was, so maybe it was a good thing.

I remember once afterwards I went with a nice girl to see Ben Hur, with Charlton Heston, in the 20th Century Fox just below Church Square, which ran for about 4 hours. We both shed tears several times. She was a deeply religious girl.

ACADEMIC CROSSROADS AND INITIATION

1961. I was a poor student. During the first term, our class was held in the Architecture building. I remember once we had to draw a bicycle from the front with the front wheel slightly turned. It was pretty difficult and my attempt didn’t come out as well as some of the other students. I began to doubt my ability to become an architect. What particularly bothered me was Applied Mathematics, which was very difficult for me.

In matric, with about 30 pupils in the class, it was normal to ask the teacher to explain something if you didn’t understand. At university it is quite different. There are perhaps between 100 and 200 students in a lecture hall, and when the lecturer comes in and gives his lecture, there is no opportunity to ask him anything. When the period is over, he simply walks out. Coming from matric in a fairly large school where I won the book prize for First Class Position, it was difficult for me to accept that I was struggling, and I wondered if I should change course.

During the March holidays I discussed it with my parents. They were naturally concerned about it and after I had returned to Pretoria by train, they drove up in the Corvair and went with me to the Tukkies Guidance Officer. He said that according to my aptitude tests, which all new students had to take, I had the ability to successfully study any course at Tukkies. But my problem is that when I get into a problem, I tend to go around the bush, not through it. Medicine and Engineering both have Mathematics as a major, so I couldn’t choose that.

Architecture only had Applied Mathematics in the first year. Dad said I could just do Applied Mathematics the next year, but by then I had gotten myself into such a mess that I wanted to change to B.A. Dad was not at all open to this, because he said I would struggle to get a job with a B.A, I should do a B.Com instead. In the end I agreed to it, which was a big mistake, because I had no desire or interest in commerce or economics.

I was now a term behind, but it wasn’t a big problem. I passed all my subjects except Auditing, which was actually half a first-year subject, all just learning, with just one small textbook.

Around September, our group of ienks were put through our final initiation. The seniors set up a long plank high on a terrace with the end above a lawn, of which only a narrow part was clear - the rest was strewn with broken bottles and shards of glass. Each of the ienks had to walk to the end of the plank and look carefully where he had to jump.

Then you were blindfolded and you walked carefully forward step by step to the end of the plank. Then you had to jump straight with a giant leap so as not to end up in the glass shards. When you had finished jumping, they took off the blindfold and you saw that the plank was lying flat on the grass and no glass shards!

After that, we all had to be “buried”. Everyone had to lie down in a ditch, with your upper body on another ienk’s legs. Everyone is then sprayed with water and covered with soil. Each person holds a cement slab upright in their hands - it's their gravestone - and you have to blow out smoke - you are rotting.

The worst happened late in the evening. All the ienks were pushed into a room in the Stalle, two by two, with at least two seniors as well. The built-in cupboards are built of bricks, with a cement slab on top where everyone kept their suitcases. The cupboard door was a normal wooden door with a knob.

Then the seniors shouted "What are you doing on the ground? Jump on top of the cupboard! Jurie, who was limping a little, was with me, so I gave him the doorknob to step on. We barely fit on top of that slab - you're actually sitting with your shoulders hunched against the roof. We were barely up, when they roared "What are you doing there? You're not monkeys! Get down!". When we were down, they shouted again that we had to get up. Then again "Where is your bedding? Get off!”. Then we were up again with the mattress - our bedding.

This goes on several more times. In the meantime, the seniors take pictures. Not everyone has a “flash”, so the light is turned off, everyone opens their camera shutters and the one with a “flash” provides the light.

One of the ienks, Johan Malan, a well-built guy who studied L.O., could not be broken. He kept jumping up and down comfortably until the seniors lost interest.

Then, long after midnight, they made us all strip naked and gave us big cans of black and Military Tan shoe polish, with which we had to smear each other from head to toe. I still have a slide where a bunch of us ienks were standing, with Chris Verwoerd in front, one of Dr. Verwoerd’s children, who was studying medicine.

Then we were all chased to the bathrooms. They had drained all the hot water beforehand and we had to wash the polish off with soap and ice-cold water under the showers, and it was just past winter. When we were eventually clean, there were a few hours left to sleep.

The next morning I could barely put on my shirt, I couldn’t lift my left arm. My left pectoral muscle was so swollen that it looked like a woman’s breast. This was of course because I had to pull myself up against the cupboard door with my left arm.

As a result of my experience with the Night Lights, I decided to go to private lodgings for my second year, just a few houses away from Sonop. It was just boarding, and I still took my meals at Sonop and thus kept in touch with my fellow second years.

At the end of my second year, Wynand Malan once asked me to go with him one weekend to his sister’s matric farewell function. She had a friend who didn’t have a boyfriend. We danced a lot. I couldn’t really dance much, except that I enjoyed swinging across the floor with waltzes.

The next morning, Wynand said I had to come with him to his parents’ bedroom. At first I refused, but he dragged me along. His parents were still lying in a large double bed and Wynand’s two beautiful sisters were already sitting on the bed. Wynand said we should climb up too.

His father was a prominent lawyer and they lived in a large double-storey house in Randburg. I had never experienced anything like it - the warmth and comfort between all the members of that family.

When we drove back to Pretoria early on Monday morning with our lift, a student in an old Peugeot 203, the Peugeot stalled several times and we laughed our heads off at the driver's seat, the backrest of which had completely collapsed - the driver had to hang on to the steering wheel, and it was of course difficult to control the pedals!

I don't know what went wrong, probably the greater freedom, but at the end of 1962 I failed three subjects - Economics II, Commercial Law II and Auditing again. Economics and Commercial Law were major subjects, which meant that it would now take me four years to get my three-year B.Com degree.

Dad and our family had moved to Hermanus in the meantime. It was very nice for me to be by the sea. While I was still in Pretoria, I asked Mum in one of my regular letters to get me a holiday job during December on one of the fishing boats. It didn’t work out that way – which was a good thing, because I later discovered that I didn’t have the stomach for the up-and-down motion of boats.

She did get me a job to go abalone diving with the woodwork teacher, a Mr. van Zyl. He took his boat and a helper to just behind the waves. There was a small engine that pumped air down to him, where he walked around on the sea floor with a lead belt below, picking abalone off rocks with a screwdriver and throwing them into a bag that he dragged around.

At home I put on a few layers of warm nightwear and over that a black rubber “dry suit”. It had a big hole in front of the chest where I could get in and it fit tightly around my wrists, ankles and face. The hole had loose rubber sheets that you could then wrap tightly and tie with a long piece of rubber as wide as a ruler. When you go into the water, your whole body except your hands and feet stays completely dry.

I got ready to dive in the boat. I had an inflated inner tube with a sack inside to hold the abalone. I dived with just a diving mask, snorkel, flippers and screwdriver to where I thought the abalone were. They like to live in colonies against rocks. There were also usually tall bamboos in the area with such broad leaves at the top, anchored to rocks. I often heard such “click-click” sounds when I was looking for abalone - I don’t know if they might make those sounds.

With a snorkel you swim on top of the water and look down through the clear water to see if you can see abalones, those characteristic large round shells. If you see one, you “jack-knife” so that your legs push you under the water, then you swim down to the abalone with your flippers. Normally they sit with the shell about half a centimeter away from the stone or rock. You have to get very quietly to it and then quickly push the flat end of the screwdriver under its foot and pull it free from its seat, then it will easily come loose. But if you don’t get the screwdriver in far enough fast enough, it sucks fast so that you can’t get him off his seat, even if you break off a piece of his shell.

Because of the amount of dry air in the “dry suit” you shoot up like a cork when you stop kicking with your flippers. I didn’t have a weight belt. I don’t think we actually ever dived very deep, probably only 6 to 10 meters. At the top I throw the abalone in the bag and then repeat the process. At the end of the day the teacher counted my abalone and then paid me for it.

At that time (1962) the abalone were still plentiful and we took a lot. Once I was tired after a while, so I got into the boat and sat and waited for the teacher. I was still sitting so drowsily in the sun and waiting, when I suddenly felt nauseous, and fortunately realized that it was the up-and-down rocking of the boat, which lies just behind where the waves break. I immediately climbed back into the water and the nausea disappeared almost immediately.

The average difference between high and low tide is about a meter or more. At high tide, the bamboos stand upright with their leaves on the surface, and when it is low tide, there is a thick layer of bamboos on the surface of the water.

So I once almost came to my end. I struggled to get abalone free until I was almost out of breath. I let go of the abalone and shot up like a cork. But it was low tide, and there was a thick layer of bamboos above me. I couldn’t get my head through. Fortunately, I kept my wits and stuck the snorkel between the bamboos to get air. I very nearly drowned that day.

TIDES OF CHANGE

We lived in Musson Street, near Hoy’s Koppie. Right behind us, in Moffat Street, was the holiday home of Uncle Mike and Aunt Lena du Toit, who farmed at Oukraal in the Caledon district, on the Napier road. Mum was always someone who, when Daddy moved to a new area, quickly got to know the new neighbours. She soon made friends with Aunt Lena, and when I came on holiday, she told me that the neighbours had a lovely daughter and that I should visit her. Mum simply had Daddy build a staircase over the fence between our houses.

Thus began my relationship with Heléne. We enjoyed each other’s company and she was a sparkling little person, only 5 feet 2 inches tall. We walked everywhere together, including along the coastal paths, where I took many beautiful photos. Hermanus is a beautiful place, still a small town at the time. We climbed Fernkloof, explored the old harbour, and I fell in love. We had our first kiss on a stoep of the Marine Hotel.

Later during the holidays, Dad called me into the lounge one day and said that the fact that I had failed three subjects did not sit well with him. It would mean that I would have to study an extra year at university and I would have to pay for it myself.

He gave me a choice of going to work next year while taking the three subjects I had failed extramurally, or that I would take all my subjects intramurally and then study the remaining subjects extramurally the following year while I worked. Perhaps partly because of the strangeness of going to work, I asked him if I could still study full-time for my third year, to which he agreed.

THE CORVAIR AND THE POWER OF BROTHERHOOD

Dad had a Chevrolet Corvair back then and Louis and I drove it to Grotto Beach one day and drove to that big hard packed sand area next to the Kleinrivier lagoon where many people parked their cars. From the swamp the river flowed into the sea. With typical young bravado I drove along the riverbank in the direction of the beach. After about a mile I turned around to drive back to where all the other vehicles were parked. The Corvair started to struggle, so I shifted to a lower gear. I must have let the clutch out too quickly, because the rear wheels dug themselves into the soft sand and there we were.

My heart was in my throat, because we were not very far from the sea and the tide was coming in. Luckily there were 2 old seat covers in the trunk. So we dug open the rear wheels and pushed the seat covers under the rear wheels.

Louis had never driven a car before, but he would have to now. I started the engine with the transmission in neutral and explained to him that he should hold the clutch and put the transmission in first. When I shouted, he should step on the gas pedal and release the clutch. I pushed behind the hood and shouted at him.

Fortunately, the Corvair’s six-cylinder engine is behind the rear axle, like a Porsche, and then it got traction on the seat covers. Its front wheels were running light because there was no engine. The Corvair bucked every time it took on a new patch of sand, but the most important thing was that it was moving. Louis held on to the steering wheel until the Corvair was safely out of the soft sand.

Louis has a very good sense for vehicles and was later the champion in every class he participated in for many years, at numerous motor races all over South Africa, but especially at Killarney racetrack in Cape Town. That day he drove me out of big trouble. Of course, we never told Dad about this episode.