Part 1
August 1998
I'm writing this a couple of days after I got home, so that I don't forget anything.
My name is Mark Lewis. I'm nineteen years old, and I've just returned from spending my gap year in South Africa. It all turned out quite differently from what I'd planned. I had intended to work on a farm owned by a distant acquaintance of my father's.
*****
I was met at Cape Town by the driver of a pickup truck sent by Conrad Abelsen, the owner of the farm. The driver was a young man about my age who introduced himself as Stefan. As we drove away from the airport he asked me about myself. As I spoke I took in his appearance; he was about six feet tall, with red hair and a freckled face, and had a pleasantly animated character. He kept looking at me while I was talking, nodding and appearing to be very interested. He told me he was born in Johannesburg, but had moved west when he was sixteen to escape the urban violence and because he loved the outdoor life. 'What's the farm like?' I asked. He looked at me again. 'Do you know anything about farms?' I shook my head; 'I've visited them in England, but really this is a first for me.' 'The main income on this one comes from sheep; there's ten thousand of them spread over the land.' 'How much land?' 'About a hundred thousand acres in all, but about a third of that is steep cliffs and scrub.' I whistled; even I knew that that was big. 'How many men are there?' He looked at me again. 'There are twenty blacks who live on the farm. You and I are the only white workers if you don't count the foreman and the owner's family.' I thought for a while. 'What's the foreman like?' He didn't reply immediately. Then 'If you were South African I'd say to you that he's a Boer (that's B-O-E-R not B-O-R-E) but that probably doesn't mean anything to you. He's descended from the old Dutch settlers, and he has all their ingrained character: he's hard, mean, unforgiving, spiteful and unpleasant.' He paused: I wondered whether to say anything, but then he went on 'I know that sounds as if I've got a grudge against him, but you'll find out for yourself. I'd be very careful of him, if I were you.' 'What's his name?' 'Max Vries, but the blacks call him 'Boss' and anybody else calls him 'Vries, SIR.''
It was dark by now. Stefan lit a cigarette: 'You don't mind?' he asked. There was a pause. 'It'll be great having someone else to talk to. I've been on the farm nearly a year, and the only person I can hold a conversation with is Mrs Abelsen.' We'd left the main road about ten miles back and were travelling over a rough track. 'This goes on for another ten miles or so, and then we're there.' After a while I could see lights ahead. It was nearly ten o'clock. Against the stars I could just make out mountains in the background, and some wooden buildings. Stefan stopped the pickup outside one of them. 'This is it.' I jumped out and looked around me. It was deathly quiet, with just distant animal noises, and the odd squawk of a bird, and the sound of a light wind in the trees. 'This is the hut where we sleep. The farmhouse is over there.'
Suddenly, out of the dark, appeared a big white man. 'What are you doing, Stefan?' 'This is Mark, sir, who's just arrived from England. I've been over to Malan to collect him.' There was a long pause, and I could hear the man breathing heavily. He was looking me up and down closely. 'Have you any idea how far you are from the UK?' 'Yes, sir' I said. Stefan said 'This is Mr Vries.' He was about fifty, quite slim, close-cropped and looked as mean as hell.
As you can imagine, I slept extremely well once I found my bed, but it seemed as if almost as soon as my head touched the mattress there was a terrible noise outside. It sounded like a ritual chanting; I looked at my watch ... it was four thirty a. m. The sun had risen; it took me a moment to remember where I was. I was still wearing my outdoor clothes. I could sense that I needed a wash.
The first day or two passed quickly. Mr Abelsen briefly said hello to me, but Mrs Abelsen took more interest. She was about thirty, twenty or so years younger than him; they had two small children. The farm work didn't seem to be going to require much brainwork. It consisted chiefly of managing and feeding the vast flocks of sheep, and therefore remembering where they had been the day before. The nights were cold, but the days quite hot. The blacks avoided Stefan and me completely, but Stefan told me that they would do what we told them to.
Vries spoke to me for about five minutes the first morning: 'You just do what I tell you, and what Stefan shows you, and you and me will get on fine. Mr Abelsen will pay you each Friday, and you get Saturday off completely. You can use the pickup within reason ... I decide what's reasonable. Our main problem at the moment is stock losses ... predators and poachers probably in equal amount. I expect both of you to keep a very good watch on the flocks, and you'll be responsible to me for any losses.' He had a swastika tattoo on his right forearm, and I could now see that his eyes were a piercing light blue colour. Stefan had told me that he lived alone on the compound but seemed to know everything that went on.
As the first month passed, the weather started to get warmer. We were very busy with the vast area of the land to cover; the lambing season was in full swing, although that in itself didn't involve Stefan and me in much work. The pay was reasonable, 700 rand per week plus board and lodging (around £100), and while I found Stefan rather immature, I was greatly appreciating Mrs Abelsen's company when I could get it. I was starting to enjoy myself.
When it changed, it changed very suddenly.
One Saturday morning, my day off, I was lying in my bunk, and sleeping like a log. There was a tremendous crash and the door of our hut burst open. Vries stood in the doorway, slapping a leather crop against the side of his boots. 'Which of you soutpiels was out on Mariensberg yesterday?' Both Stefan and I had no idea what he was talking about, because the area he mentioned was nearly thirty miles from the farm. 'The kaffirs say nearly five hundred of our beasts have disappeared.' I tried 'I've never been over there, sir' ... but immediately he snapped 'you should have been, that's what you're paid for, both of you.' He looked at Stefan. 'Have you told him what happens to boys who disobey my orders?' Stefan looked away from me and said nothing. 'Tell him. Let him hear it from your own mouth' Vries said. Stefan was still trying to avoid my eyes; at the time I had no idea what Vries was talking about, I just wanted to go back to sleep. 'Tell him!'
Stefan finally looked over at me. 'I was supposed to tell you at the beginning, but I thought you'd go straight home again.' He stopped, and quickly looked at Vries. 'In South Africa we're more old-fashioned than Europe, and we still use corporal punishment as a way of controlling people. Mr Abelsen is a strong believer in it, and all of us working on the farm are subject to it. It's the same on all the farms round here.' I couldn't believe my ears: I thought I had escaped from the old Victorian ways of Europe (not that we had corporal punishment in the schools I went to) into a freer world. As coldly as I could manage I said to Vries 'Are you trying to get him to tell me that you can beat me for any misdemeanour you imagine I've committed?' I was actually becoming furious, but at the same time I was very conscious of the terrible danger I could be in on this remote farm. Vries looked at Stefan and said 'Ask him what happened to him last time he lost some sheep.' Stefan looked away again, but before he did the terror in his face told me everything I needed to know.
Inside me my mind was already working on how to get out of this. I knew I couldn't trust Stefan to help me, and realised that at the very least I would have to steal the pickup to get off the farm. Even as I thought this I knew I wouldn't get even as far as Ladismith before the people in the neighbourhood had noticed me. Vries was still smacking the crop against his boots. 'You could be sensible, or you could be foolish' he said directly to me. 'Stefan has made another stupid mistake in not warning you about the rules of the farm, and he's going to pay for it very shortly. I'm actually a reasonable man,' with this he smiled at me, and made me shudder, 'so I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt on this occasion. I suggest you take the five of the kaffirs outside, and go right over to Mariensberg, and let them show you where the sheep may have gone, and get them back. I may then decide that I can forget this lapse.' It shows the power of his personality that I was already scrambling for my jeans and boots as he said this. 'As for you,' he said to Stefan, 'pants on, over to the barn, now.' A few minutes later, as I drove the pickup out of the compound, I heard from the stable the unmistakable sound of the crack of the crop against flesh, followed by a wild cry from Stefan.
To cut a long story short, we never did find the
sheep. Well, we found the odd one or two, but the boys told me the
rest had been stolen. When I got back to the farm, Vries' face was
like thunder. 'I trusted you and Stefan to look after them,' he
shouted. 'I shan't forget this.' When I found Stefan he was lying
face down on his bunk asleep. I shook him gently and he woke with a
start. 'What did he do to you?' I asked. Stefan shook his head at
me. 'You don't understand. This is South Africa. He is perfectly
within his rights to use
Two days later, I was working behind one of the barns, when Vries
rounded the corner and collided with me. He grinned at me, showing his
yellow teeth. 'You think you're above the Republic's laws because
you're English, don't you? Well I think it's time you found out that
you're not.' 'I'm sorry, Mr Vries, sir, I didn't see you coming.' 'Oh
yes you did, boy.' He called to two blacks working near me. 'You
two. Over here. Take this boy into the punishment barn, and get him
ready.' I couldn't believe what was happening. As Vries turned and
left, the two blacks came over to me; they looked apologetic. One of
them said 'Don't make a fight of it. He'll only get more of us to grab
you. Just come with us and we'll try our best for you.' But with that
they each grabbed one of my arms and started to frog-march me towards
the barn I'd heard Stefan's cries coming from. Vries was already
there, tapping his crop against his boots. I looked more closely at
it; it was quite thin and whippy, with just a small patch of leather
at the end. He pulled out his keys and undid a padlock on the door,
and then stood back and gestured to the boys to take me in. He
switched on a light. It was basically a storage barn, with bales of
straw stacked up all round the walls. In a clear area in the centre
there were two bales on top of each other. The boys pulled me over to
them, and then before I could make any effective resistance, pulled me
over the corner of the pile so that my legs were astride it, and moved
round to the front of me pulling my arms down. Without making an
extraordinary effort I couldn't move. Almost immediately Vries came up
and stood on my left. 'Right, boy. This is not going to be a proper
punishment; it's just to teach you to watch your manners in a foreign
country. I'm only going to give you twenty this time.'
Immediately he brought the crop down across my backside. I shouted, I
couldn't help myself. I had never ever had any pain like that
deliberately inflicted on me before. As I cursed him, the blacks
grabbed me even more firmly, and I heard the swish of the crop coming
down again, and then again felt the searing pain across my seat. Each
blow seemed to be forcing me into the straw. I couldn't move. When I
tried to turn my head I could see him smiling as he raised the crop
again. All I could feel was the vicious agony across my bum, and the
strokes kept falling. One of the blacks whispered to me 'Don't cry
out. It just encourages him.' I was literally biting my tongue. I
tried to count the blows, but I couldn't. Suddenly it stopped. 'OK,
boy. Stand up.' The blacks released me, and I staggered to my feet,
and immediately started to rub my hands against the back of my jeans
to try to relieve the awful pain. 'As I said that was just a mild
correction, and a reminder to you to watch your manners. You can ask
Stefan about what happens if I have to actually punish you.' I
spent the next twenty four hours trying to think how to get out of the
farm. I had no unsupervised access to a telephone, the pickup was
theoretically available but would be instantly recognised once I got
off the farm, and there was nobody else I could talk to about my
situation other than, possibly, Mrs Abelsen. I wasn't sure, but in my
eighteen year old self I thought she fancied me: I still didn't think
I could discuss what was happening with her. Even if I did get off the
farm I had no serious money, though I thought my parents would
probably bail me out. Stefan was no help at all: he seemed to be a
spaniel in front of Vries, accepting that he had to turn his backside
towards him when commanded to. I fretted to and fro in my mind: there
was no way I was going to let him do that again to me ... and he had
said that it was just a mild correction. How much more could he do to
me? I took to keeping my important possessions in a case in the
pickup truck in case an opportunity arose to escape. A couple of days
later, while I was still in this state of mind, events overtook
me. Late one afternoon, when we were going into Ladismith on our day
off, Stefan crashed the pickup into a boulder, probably going too
fast. There was an almighty crash, and the truck turned over. Neither
of us was hurt, but the vehicle was clearly not going any further that
day: it was making an awful hissing, and there was what looked like
steam coming out of the front, but it could have been anything. 'What
the hell do we do now?' he said. 'You are so stupid, Stefan' I shouted
at him, temporarily exasperated beyond reason. He looked dumbly at
me. 'We shall have to walk into Ladismith ... fifteen miles is it?' I
said, '... and then phone Vries, and then God knows what's going to
happen. It's doesn't look good for you, because he knows you were
driving, and I don't expect it's going to be much good for me either.'
In my mind I was intending to get out altogether, and return to the
UK: I could imagine the events of the next day or two otherwise. Just
as I was thinking this I saw a Land Rover approaching from the
direction of the farm. I assumed it was Vries, but as it got
closer I saw that it was not. It pulled up by us. The driver was a
man of about thirty five, well-dressed. As he walked over to us I was
aware of his effortless upper class aura. 'Are you all right, boys? Do
you need any help?' Stefan was about to open his stupid mouth, so I
said immediately 'Thank you very much, sir. We were on our way to Cape
Town ...' (I saw Stefan's jaw drop) 'but I'm not sure what we're going
to be able to do now.' 'Can I give you a lift somewhere? Do you want
to get to a garage?' 'Thank you, sir. That's very kind of you. I'll
just get my case out of the truck.' Stefan gaped even more. As we
drove along the man introduced himself as Anthony Russell. He told us
he lived the other side of Ladismith where he said he had a small
estate. He was obviously curious about us. To prevent Stefan saying
anything stupid I said 'We've been working on Mr Abelsen's farm, but
we didn't get on with Mr Vries, so I'm returning to England, and
Stefan's going back to Johannesburg.' 'I thought you must be English'
he said. 'How long have you been in the Republic.' 'Just under four
weeks, sir.' He turned and looked at me. 'How long had you planned to
stay?' 'A year, sir. It's my gap year before I go to university.'
'Things must be bad at the Abelsens for you to want to leave so
quickly. You don't look like troublemakers. Are you druggies? What
happened?' Again Stefan looked as if he was about to say something
stupid, and as I thought I had nothing to lose now, I said 'Mr Vries
was physically abusing us.' Anthony stopped the Land
Rover. 'Physically abusing you. What do you mean? You're both almost
grown men.' I paused, wondering what I might be getting us into, but
then I thought 'what the hell, it can't get any worse.' I said 'He was
whipping us quite severely. I gather it's legal in this country for
males under twenty one.' Anthony looked at me wide-eyed, and then
started laughing. 'Where did you get that from, boy? What sort of
country do you think this is?' He pulled out a cigar case, and lit
one. As he blew the smoke out of the window he said 'Did Vries tell
you that?' Stefan blurted out 'He told me that, and I told Mark.'
Suddenly the scales fell from my eyes: I had been almost as stupid as
Stefan; 'You mean it's not legal?' 'No way ... Men like Vries can get
away with it because they're miles from anywhere, and no one's going
to be able to complain. I'd imagine Conrad Abelsen turns a blind eye
to it, because he knows Vries runs an efficient farm. Tell me exactly
what Vries was doing?' I said 'I'm a visitor to this country. I don't
want to get into trouble with the law, and I don't want to get mixed
up in anything illegal.' 'Calm down, boy' Anthony said. 'I'm just
interested, from the technical point of view, in what he thought he
could get away with ... particularly with a visitor from England.'
So I recounted my own story. Stefan was strangely quiet; Anthony
turned to him and said 'What about you, Stefan? How long's it been
going on for?' When I looked at him, I could see Stefan was close to
tears. 'Nearly a year. That sadistic bugger has whipped me once a
week for nearly a year. If he hadn't thrashed me by the end of the
week, I always got it on Saturday, and sometimes it was both. It was
only the farm that stopped me from killing myself, but I could kill
him.' Anthony said nothing. It was quite still outside, as we were
miles from anywhere. The sun was low in the sky. 'What do you boys
want to do then? I can offer you my house for a short stay if that
would be any help. I would have to let Abelsen know of course, but I
am sure I can convince him to keep Vries away from you both while
you're with me.' 'Thank you, sir' I said. 'That's very kind of
you. We'd both be very grateful for that.' Anthony's 'small
estate' was something like two thousand acres of grazing land, with a
large two story house near the centre. As we drew up, the door opened
and a young man about our age came down the steps. I figured he must
be Anthony's son, but the ages didn't tally. 'Mark and Stefan
... meet Chris. He's my nephew from Johannesburg.' Chris was a
good-looking lad, with an athletic build. He gave us a wide smile, and
shook our hands, and then helped us in. We were very comfortably
accommodated. For myself I felt under-dressed in this arcadian
setting, but as Chris was wearing the same as us so I guessed it must
be acceptable. We had drinks on the veranda, and then a long and
excellent dinner. By now I knew that there was no Mrs Russell as
Anthony was a life-long bachelor. He kept us all talking through the
meal, even Stefan, and after quite a lot of wine we were freely
exchanging experiences and jokes. I discovered that Chris was in the
same situation as me, between school and university, and was spending
an indefinite period with Anthony. There was a short
silence. Anthony said to me 'Tell Chris what happened to you on
Abelsen's farm. I think he'd be interested.' As I told my story again,
I could see Chris's grin getting broader and broader. 'That's an old
trick, but I've never heard of it being tried on an English boy: you
mean you actually believed it was legal?' I looked at Stefan, but he
was staring at the floor. Anthony said to me 'Had you ever had
anything like that before? I mean, were you caned at school for
example?' I explained how beating boys had almost completely gone out
of fashion in England. Anthony said 'It still happens here quite a
lot. You've been beaten over the years, Chris, haven't you?' 'As a
matter of fact, the last time was less than a year ago. I was found
with a girl in my study ... we hadn't even got to the important bit
... and I got twelve strokes of the cane the next day. Yes, it's quite
familiar to South African boys. How did you like it, Mark?' 'It hurt
like hell, and made me _d_a_m_n_ed angry. I feel very sorry for Stefan
who was getting it for a much longer time.' There was a period of
silence. Anthony was gently swirling a brandy in his
glass. Looking at no-one in particular he said lightly 'Twenty years
ago when I was your sort of age there used to be a parlour game we
sometimes played after dinner ... it depended who's house we were
in. All it needed was a wealthy benefactor, some boys and a cane.'
There was a deathly silence; even Stefan seemed to have woken. Chris
looked at his uncle: 'Well go on, you can't leave it like that. What
happened then?' but I thought as I watched him that he already
knew. Anthony pulled out a cigar and lit it slowly. 'The wealthy
benefactor put a suitably attractive sum of money in the centre of the
table, and told the boys that they had to compete for one of them to
win it.' I said straight away 'Where did the cane come into it?' 'Ah
... that was the nature of the competition. Each of the boys was
given six of the best across his backside with the cane. Then the
process was repeated over and over again until one of the boys asked
for mercy: he was then eliminated from the game, and the cycle started
again with the remaining boys. The winner was the one who didn't ask
for the caning to stop.' 'It doesn't sound like much of a game for the
boys' I said. Anthony said nothing. Chris looked across at me: 'It's a
typically South African recreation. I've actually played in a match
like that' he said to his uncle. 'I won.' There was a silence
again. Chris picked up his wine glass, and downed the rest of the wine
in a single swallow. 'With your tame background in England, you'd be
at a big disadvantage against a South African if you ever took on a
challenge like that.' Anthony was sitting back with his cigar, seeming
not to want to take any further part in the conversation, but I could
see that under his hooded eyebrows he was taking it all in. I was by
no means drunk, but the wine had lightened my tongue; I could see
Chris looking macho across the table and I thought to myself 'Why are
you even thinking about it? He's just a _d_a_m_n_ed colonial, being
insulting to a scion of the mother country. Ignore it.' So I reached
over and poured myself some more wine, and said nothing. After a
while, when there was no more conversation, Chris started to get
restless. 'When I played the game, there were five other boys, and
three men doing the caning. When I won I'd had seventy two strokes.'
He looked round at everybody as if expecting applause. I couldn't stay
quiet: 'I suppose the men were actually nuns in drag?' Chris went
white: 'Have you any idea what a proper caning feels like? Eh? Of
course you haven't. In England the boys are so soft now that the
teachers aren't allowed to hit them in case they make them cry.' He
pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. Anthony was still
impassive. I was determined not to be drawn into this. Quite
deliberately Anthony went over to a picture on the wall, and hinged it
back to reveal a safe. He opened it and took out some money. Putting
his cigar back in his mouth, he returned to the table and put the
money in the centre. We all stared at it. I could feel my stomach
going cold. It was going to be difficult to get out of this now. All I
could think about was the pain of Vries' crop across my bum. Exhaling,
Chris asked 'How much is it?' Looking at both of us Anthony replied
'Ten thousand rand.' I was still a bit slow converting rand into
pound, but after a moment a figure of fourteen hundred pounds started
to form in my head. Fourteen hundred pounds! That was more than enough
to get me back to the UK and have some left over. The man must have
more money than sense. Chris was licking his lip and looking at
me. 'What happens if these two won't play?' he asked Anthony. 'It
goes back in the safe of course. You don't need the money anyway,
you've got more than enough of your own.' I think it was hearing that
last remark of Anthony's that made something snap in my head. I'd show
this arrogant sod what being an Englishman was about. I said to
Anthony 'Are you challenging me?' He simply indicated the money in a
self-deprecating sort of way. 'OK. I accept the challenge.' Anthony
looked at Stefan: 'What about you?' 'No way' said Stefan; 'I'm trying
to get away from whippings, not enter a caning competition.' He
turned to me. 'Be careful, Mark, think again. These people can get
very rough.' But my blood was up now, and even more, I was determined
to trounce this South African upstart, and get the money as well.
'Chris?' said Anthony. 'Certainly. This ought to be a doddle against
just a soft northener.' He grinned at me. 'Excellent' said
Anthony. 'I was afraid we were going to have to listen to the radio,
or read a book. Let me elaborate the rules before we start. The prize
is the money on the table. In a moment we'll go out to the stables,
and I'll toss a coin to see who goes first. Before we do that I want
you both to go to your rooms and take off your underpants, or any
other garments you've got on under your jeans. You can put your jeans
back on ... this is a civilised country, after all ... but there's to
be absolutely nothing else underneath. I may ask to check you on this,
and if either of you are cheating I shall call off the competition.'
'Who's going to do the caning?' I asked. 'I've been wondering about
that' he said; 'Last time we did this I got a couple of blacks over
... they're very good at it, you know ... but as there are only the
two of you, and in honour of your first visit to this country Mark, I
think I may do it myself. The sequence will be six strokes for the
first boy, then six for the second, then another six for the first,
and another six for the second, and so on, until one of you asks me to
stop. If it's the first boy who stops, the second must then take at
least one more than the number the first one had got to. The one who
takes the most will be the winner. All the stokes will be given with
the same cane, across your backsides, as hard as I can do it. There's
not going to be any favouritism. Be warned, Mark, it's going to
hurt. Any questions? Either of you want to back out?' My stomach was
in a knot, and I could feel my heart racing, but I shook my
head. Chris did the same. 'Right boys, go to your rooms, and then meet
me in the hall. Do you want to watch, Stefan?' 'No thank you, sir, I
don't want to watch' said Stefan, 'I think you're being really stupid,
Mark. Call it off.' To be continued
reasonable chastisement
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