A loophole in the military system opened, and I took the bait. Before I knew what was happening, I was running at full speed in my civvies towards a Flossie ready to take off. It was waiting for me! I was its only passenger, although it was loaded with cargo.
I was escaping one institution and heading towards another. I boarded the military transport aircraft, alone, on my way to Durban. Little did I know how much this next phase would shape my life.
Having joined the End Conscription Campaign in 1984, I was furious when the army nabbed me. Their timing made me suspicious, and it felt like I was being abducted into the military.
In the repressive political climate opposition to conscription was growing. Helen Zille helped conscripts where possible as she believed we should be entitled to freedom of choice.
I agreed. It is my life and I wanted to study.
We had a stark choice: serve in the Army or risk six years in prison.
Under President PW Botha’s 1986 State of Emergency, refusing army conscription could mean spending a third of our young lives in jail. Most of us were still teenagers.
I wanted to take a chance and go to Austria, even though I would most likely be caught at the airport. I hoped they would just stamp my passport and say Auf Wieder Sehn.
Was I heading for more trouble? Most conscripts showed up when they were called up as the alternative was a nightmare. Army dodgers were considered traitors.
My path had diverged from that of the gorgeous Tarzan look-alike Francois who would have struggled to find a loincloth that would have fitted!
An aggressive recruitment campaign began to channel conscripts into different branches of the uniformed services. The government needed manpower, not only for the SADF but also for the police and other services.
Having completed my basic training, I was now being offered choices that had not previously been available to me. I chose the Prison Services.
Francois passed Parabats selection and headed to Bloemfontein. His calm demeanour, karate training and strength made me think he would pass. He would probably also qualify for the Bat JL course afterwards. It was a year of hell, but the pay was good if you joined the Permanent Force. Danger pay reflected the risks involved.
I passed selection for the psychology section of the Prison Services. At the end of basic training, I was transferred directly to Durban Westville Prison.
I was not allowed to go home but had to go straight to jail! It felt like they thought I wanted to escape.
Dolph packed virtually no civvies for me as he had been to the army and told me fewer civvies were better. He was possessive and probably thought I would make a run for it. He wanted me to return to him at the farm after I completed National Service. I enjoyed my postgraduate farm holiday but did not want to be a farmer. Besides, Brahman stud bulls scared me…
I lived barefoot in a Speedo and T-shirt most of the time, so had little clothing. After getting used to my browns I wondered when I would get my new mushroom-coloured Prison Services uniform, as I had nothing else to wear. Like a mushroom, I was completely in the dark!
I had no intention of pursuing a career in the Prison Services but wanted to learn more about applied psychology. After learning so much while working with Dr Wolfe in the Psychiatric ward, I knew how much I could learn in such a morbid setting as a prison.
I would first have to complete a six-month training course at Kroonstad John Vorster Training College. John Vorster was the architect of Apartheid. The training for the Police and Prison Services was almost identical and done together with the Railway Police for about 23 years until 1968.
I felt incredibly free and euphoric on the Flossie and did not want to think about surrendering my freedom once more. The hypnotic droning noise on the Flossie made me sleepy and I got lost in my thoughts. Those weekends at the Algoa flying club had given me a glimpse of a world in which the sky represented freedom rather than orders, discipline and confinement.
The Flossie brought back beautiful memories of the two years when I regularly went to the Algoa Flying Club over weekends. I had just turned 16 when I sweet-talked pilots to take me with them onto flights where they were logging more flying hours to maintain their pilot licences.
They adopted me like a stray puppy at the club and I became their mascot. I learned how to take off and land a tiny Piper 110. Those were the two most complex hurdles. You could get a pilot’s licence at the age of 16.
My passion for planes made me curious about the Flossie that was noisier than a Bedford! Why was I the only passenger though?
As the excitement wore off after escaping from Diskobolos, I wondered whether I was making a huge mistake by flying so close to the fire.
My views were considered political, although they were not. I just felt strongly about my right to study wherever I chose. Was the net closing around me? Would I bump into jailed End Conscription Campaign activists?
I shrugged and decided to go with the flow. Let’s see how much trouble I will get into this time. They seemed to want me, and I was not used to being wanted anymore… I guess I was less cocky than before. I was knocked off my pedestal.
We landed and I was back in civvie street in Durban. It felt like a steam bath. Within minutes I was drenched and hoped to spot other recruits like me. There were none!
A sweating pink-faced, fat sergeant in a prison services uniform approached me and asked me who I was. I showed him my ID, and he seemed relieved to have located me. I guess being Baldilocks in civvies hanging like a bag on me made me easy to spot.
He took me to his car and apologised for the state of the dented car that felt like an oven. And I thought Kimberley was hot. Thank goodness we headed to jail, and I could at least open the window. The friendly sergeant was the personnel officer in a small department. Judging by the shortage of recruits, Westville Prison seemed an unpopular posting.
It was a twenty-five-minute drive from the airport. He took me to the single quarters to drop my tiny bag with almost nothing in it and I felt like an orphan. Unaccustomed to the humid heat, I was drenched with sweat. There was no time to shower. We were running late, and paperwork awaited in the personnel office.
At the personnel office he introduced me to Sergeant Meintjies who clearly approved of my appearance, even though I was dishevelled.
Sergeant Meintjies said, “Please complete these forms and provide me with copies of your ID, bank account details and any school certificates” I stared at him in disbelief and said, “I have just come out of the army after basics and have nothing to show you other than about R50 in my denims.”
He stared myopically at the transfer documents and my green identity book and politely said, “Welcome, Rubin. I’m not sure where to assign you. The Prison Services assumed you had only passed Standard Six, as we have no record of your Standard Eight or Matric Certificate.”
I almost fell over when he addressed me by my first name. I was used to unflattering nicknames or, at best, being shouted at by my surname. This bureaucratic mistake angered me and I was uncomfortable in my wet sticky civvies. “Sergeant, I have a degree and was recruited to work in the psychology section,” I said.
“Well, they obviously made a mistake, Rubin, as we have no correspondence confirming anything other than that you have been transferred here from the army. I must assign you to work in one of the sections in the prison to guard prisoners and to lock them up. Sergeants in charge normally refuse to allow you to handle the keys.”
I was horrified and stammered, “Sergeant, is it not possible for me to work administratively until the bureaucratic muddle has been fixed? I really do not want to work in the prison which sounds worse than Diskobolos!”
“I’m sorry that your first day here is such a mess and that you have not even had a chance to shower. You look tired, hot and sweaty. Maybe we can use you in this office so long, as we are short-staffed, and only if your handwriting is neat,” he said.
I could have kissed his feet and instantly liked him tremendously. I replied, “My handwriting is neat and I learn quickly and work hard, Sergeant.” He seemed to like me, and my grovelling saved me from prison for now!
He smiled and asked if I liked my room. I told him I loved that my white painted room with a view. “Sergeant, I detested the hideous brown army barracks. That sounds awful, he said jovially, and grinned at me.
He introduced me to his gorgeous subordinate, Sergeant Schlebusch, who completed my enrolment documents in extremely neat handwriting while smiling at me. Was he flirting with me?
“We knock off soon, so I’ll just show you the control room and a few sections nearby. This prison is huge, and I don’t have the energy to walk around the whole place in this heat,” sergeant Schlebusch, said.
I felt relieved and beamed at him.
“Let’s go and get this over with,” he said.
I felt quite claustrophobic as gates were locked and unlocked by grim-looking warders every few metres. As soon as we were out of earshot, he said that if we were alone, I must please just call him Deon, being the same age.
We went to the impressive modern control room with monitors and gadgets everywhere. Deon introduced me to a camp sergeant named Ferdie who was busy talking into a microphone and giving orders to the prison staff and prisoners.
Ferdie did a double take. Maybe he liked what he saw, and he gave Deon a questioning look. Deon shrugged his shoulders, and I realised by their silent body language that Ferdie was curious about me. Deon’s shrug indicated he did not know. Obviously, they were both gay but did not want me to know that.
“Can I offer you a lift back to the single quarters and show you around where everything is, like the mess, where the food is divine? I think you need to shower and change your clothes,” Deon said.
“Thank you, Deon, I would love to get a lift with you and appreciate you offering to show me around. I am filthy though, as I’ve been running around since sparrow fart.
Deon had a sense of humour. Grinning, he replied, “Umm, you do have a bit of a whiff!” I was mortified that somebody else could smell me, too. “I’m sorry, Deon. I feel quite embarrassed being smelly!”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I think you should shower first. Then I’ll come and fetch you in about an hour to go for dinner.”
He showed me the shower and leaned over me to show me how everything worked. I liked his eau de cologne with a hint of fresh lemon. Maybe he didn’t mind my smell after all, I thought, feeling a little better because he seemed slightly turned on by me. I thought he was cute!
“Deon, it feels strange to have a shower all to myself,” I said. “We do share the showers, and I can always help you wash your back…,” he kidded. “I would love that as nobody has washed my back in a while,” I flirted back.
We both burst out laughing and I hoped we were going to become friends. He was still not sure whether I was straight, but he noticed my awareness of the unspoken questions with Ferdie.
I asked Deon if I was getting a uniform soon as I had almost no clothes. No, he said. You’ll only receive a training outfit at college until you pass the course, then you will receive a uniform. “Working nude in this heat can’t be too bad!” Deon said.
“Deon, I’m happy that you find my predicament funny, but I am now starting to panic. Where am I going to get clothes? I have no money, nor transport and I don’t know Durban at all.”
“Rubin, I’m sorry. I had no idea you really had no clothes or money, but I’ll ask Deon Meintjies to arrange an advance on the 15th of March or next month,” Deon said. “We can’t have you running around in your birthday suit!” he chirped.
“Thank you, Deon. I’m stinking, starving and have R50, so I guess I’ll be able to buy some basics at least. It would be fantastic to shower and then eat with you.” After three months of doing everything with 30 or more other guys, I wasn’t used to being alone, even though I had craved it.
He darted off to his room, and I rushed to the shower with my towel.
My long shower was refreshing, but while I was drying off, somebody knocked on the door. I managed to wrap the tiny towel around my waist and opened the door. Sergeant Meintjies stood there, staring at me. “Are you okay?” He asked.
“I’m next door and Deon and Ferdie are a few rooms away,” Sergeant Meintjies said. He could not hide his pleasure at seeing me with a tiny towel around my waist. “Join us for dinner in a few minutes. Just knock on my door when you are not wearing a towel, I mean dressed,” he said with flushed cheeks.
I struggled to keep a straight face! As I got dressed in my stunning room with a view, I could not believe my luck at ending up working with three gay men who liked me. In the Army my instructors detested my rebellious nature, so this was a relief.
It was also the first time in three months that I had a mirror and not just polished metal to see my reflection. I was stunned when I saw the hot, bald stranger staring back at me. Suddenly, the penny dropped, and I understood why the personnel office wanted me, even if they thought I had only a Standard Six education. The Army had told me how ugly I was almost daily, and I had started to believe them. The bald stranger in the mirror pleased my vanity.
Dinner was sublime, and it felt incredible to also have great company. My luck had finally turned, and maybe I’d made the perfect decision to come to work here.
This is a brief excerpt from Rubin van Niekerk’s upcoming Memoir/Autobiography, titled Mentors, Family and Friends Matter, chronicling the people, places and experiences that shaped his life from early childhood to later adulthood. We all relate to this universal experience.
New chapters will be published regularly in the Magazine section of the landing page of Gay Pages website, alongside our favourite archived articles, as the journey unfolds.
