Tale guide

It's misty and other anecdotes

It's Misty

In the nineteen eighties, I found myself in the Republic of Transkei long before it was reintegrated into post ‘94 South Africa.

It is the homeland of the Xhosa nation and lies between the Umtamvuna river in the north and the Great Kei river in the South.

Its eastern boundary is the Indian ocean seaboard along a wild and untamed coast of rolling hills and long stretches of soft white sands.

Inland, the majestic Drakensberg mountains create a natural boundary with the Kingdom of Lesotho to the North.

The undulating landscape of grassland and ever flowing rivers that wind their way from the mountains down to the sea, offer ideal conditions for hydro-electric generation and at that time there were four such stations in operation under the management of the Transkei Electricity Supply Corporation (Tesco).

The biggest of these was the Collywobbles station, which was built on the Mbashe river, sixty kilometers south of Mthatha and north-east of Dutywa where the rugged terrain of the Wild Coast creates a 64 km long series of twists and turns that cut their way deep into a valley.

From the air the river resembles intestines of the stomach, winding back and forth, which gave rise to its name ‘Collywobbles’.

Tesco deployed its own helicopter to reach its generation and distribution network across the region quickly, as the roads were generally difficult at the best of times and virtually impassable during the rainy season.

I remember tropical storm Domoina that came down off Madagascar, through Mozambique and into Natal and Transkei in 1984 causing 100-year floods and raging rivers that isolated hundreds of villages and displaced thousands of mostly rural people.

Every resource available to us from civilian to military was called upon and we spent days and nights taking supplies out to people stranded on the high ground and saving people and livestock with every means at our disposal, including helicopters.

In the end it caused 42 deaths and four hundred million Rands worth of damage.

But back to my story. On one occasion, I was flown to the Collywobbles power station in the corporation’s helicopter on a routine mission. I no longer remember the pilot’s name, but he was very accomplished with much experience in the Rhodesian bush war.

As we lifted off the station’s helipad, clouds of fog that are typical of the Eastern Cape in early Spring, started to roll in and by the time we had lifted above the height of the Mbashe ravine, the fog became quite thick, and visibility started to become restricted.

The pilot said he would fly us to the main road that linked Mthatha to Butterworth and pick up the telephone lines that in those days, were strung on wooden telegraph poles all along the main road.

We found the road and the telegraph lines, and the pilot swung north and kept the helicopter just above the cables which he kept in sight to navigate back to the city.

At this point he picked up his mike and radioed Mthatha Control tower and the conversation went something like this:-

Pilot, “Oscar Bravo, 1468 calling Mthatha control tower. Oscar Bravo, 1468 calling Mthatha control tower. Come in, over.

The radio crackled, “Mthatha control tower receiving Oscar Bravo 1468, over.”

Pilot, “Oscar Bravo, 1468 to Mthatha control tower. We are inbound Mthatha at five degrees North, north west; altitude seven hundred feet, visibility poor; ETA thirty minutes; what are the weather conditions like at Mthatha, over.”

Now it is my experience that the answer should have been a routine technical one in which information such as the temperature, wind speed and direction and altitude of the clouds would be communicated. However, on this occasion, there was an unusual and puzzling few minutes of silence before the radio crackled once again.

“Mthatha control tower to Oscar Bravo 1468, over.”

Pilot, “Oscar Bravo receiving. Go ahead, over”

Tower controller, “It’s misty.”

Pilot, “No shit Sherlock.”

I occurred to me that the controller must have thought it necessary to step outside his all-glass control room at the top of the tower to confirm his suspicions, before returning to his radio!

Flying Sky high

On another occasion, I accompanied a couple of senior government officials to a meeting in Durban and we had to travel in a twin-engine Cessna out of Mthatha airport.

The seating in the aircraft cabin was set out so that the seats faced each other which allowed for conversation between passengers.

One of the officials on the trip was a weathered, elderly Xhosa gentleman who had that reserved but quirky air about him that is so typical of civil servants with decades of experience behind them. Accomplished, considered, experienced, and understated with a sharp sense of humour and entirely unflappable.

On our return journey the gentleman sat opposite me and we chatted about matters of the day. But the weather was pretty inclement and én route from Durban we flew into some strong side winds that regularly picked up the small Cessna and swept it to the left and right like a plastic bottle in the waves or dropped it 20 feet or so as it pitched its precarious way through the storm.

The pilot must have been flying on instruments because there was very little visibility. The further we flew, the stronger the storm raged, the more the little plane pitched and rolled and the more concerned I became.

My knuckles turned white as I gripped the seat I was sitting on while I tightened my seatbelt in an attempt to minimize the uncontrolled tossing.

The old man couldn’t help but notice the fear etched on my face and lent forward to speak. “You know,” he started matter-of-factly, “I have been flying this route for quite a few years now and I remember a few years back being in an almost identical situation that we find ourselves in here.”

He paused, thinking back, and collecting his thoughts in a contemplative manner.

“Really?” I asked hesitantly but glad of the distraction. “What happened?”

“Well,” the old man raised his eyebrows, “the pilot was very good, and he made it as far as Umtata dam. You know the dam that lies just next to the airport?”

“And?” I urged.

 “On that day we ended up having an emergency crash landing in the dam and had to swim to shore!” he concluded.

I could see that he was quite amused with himself with a glimmer of a smile and twinkle in his eye, but not long afterwards I discovered that as I believed it be from the start, it was a true story.

“It wasn’t too bad,” he continued. “The water wasn’t too deep, and we were able to wade most of the way out!”

I'm pleased to report that on that occasion we landed on the runway, safe and sound, and I lived to tell the tale.

The ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER – An African Fable (Apologies to Aesop and all those that followed)

Two different versions with two different lessons

THE ORIGINAL VERSION:

The ant works hard in the withering heat all summer long, building his house and laying up supplies for the winter. The grasshopper thinks the ant is a fool and laughs and dances and plays the summer away. Come winter, the ant is warm and well fed. The grasshopper has no food or shelter, so he dies out in the cold.

The moral of the story is ‘Take responsibility for yourself!’

THE SOUTH AFRICAN VERSION:

The ant works hard in the withering heat and the rain all summer long, building his anthill and laying up supplies for the winter.

The grasshopper thinks the ant is a fool and laughs and dances and plays the summer away.

Come winter, the shivering grasshopper calls a press conference and demands to know why the ant should be allowed to be warm and well fed while he is cold and starving.

SABC, SKY, CCN, M-Net, BBC, and Carte Blanche show up to provide pictures of the shivering grasshopper next to a video of the ant in his comfortable home with a table filled with food.

The country is stunned by the sharp contrast. How can this be, that in a country of such wealth, this poor grasshopper is allowed to suffer so?

Kermit the Frog appears on Jerry Springer with the grasshopper, and everybody cries when they sing, 'It's Not Easy Being Green!

The ruling party’s youth league stages a demonstration in front of the ant's home where the news stations film the group singing, ‘we shall overcome’.

Then an esteemed Reverent has the group kneel down to pray for the grasshopper's sake.

The President condemns the ant and blames apartheid, Jan van Riebeek, and the British Empire for the grasshopper's plight.

The far left exclaims in an interview with TV News that the ant has gotten rich off the back of the grasshopper, and both call for an immediate tax hike on the ant to make him pay his fair share.

Finally, the Government drafts the Economic Equity & Anti-Grasshopper Act retroactive to the beginning of the summer. The ant is fined for failing to hire a proportionate number of previously disadvantage bugs (BBE) and, having nothing left to pay his retroactive taxes, his anthill is confiscated under the Government Land Repo Act and given to the grasshopper.

The story ends as we see the grasshopper and his free-loading friends finishing up the last bits of the ant's food while the government anthill he is in, which, as you recall, just happens to be the ant’s old anthill, crumbles around them because the grasshopper doesn't know how to maintain it.

The ant has disappeared to Australia, never to be seen again. The grasshopper is found dead from too much of the good life, and the anthill, now abandoned, is taken over by a gang of Nigerian spiders who take control of and terrorize the once prosperous and peaceful, neighbourhood.

The entire nation collapses and the President tells the UN that the world should be ashamed of itself for letting the situation deteriorate so and the Chinese Horseshoe Bats offer to step in and ‘help’ recolonise the land.

Meanwhile a lone voice from across the sea, tries to convince everyone that it is easy being green.

The moral of the story is ‘Be careful who you vote for in 2022.”

Author: An unknown ant