A LEAP FROM THE GHARRY

The term “Gharry” harks back to British India. Gharries were horse drawn cabs (usually two wheeled) that transported colonial officials, driven by “gharry-wallahs.” During the Second World War the South African troops picked up the term, and henceforth the short wheel base Land Rover used for transporting small numbers of troops in the Western Desert, got its army slang name. The term clung to this versatile little vehicle all the way into the Bush War along South West African border and Caprivi Strip. In the South African Defence Force the Gharry was a reliable little run around that usually sported an adequate diesel engine which provided useful torque to traverse sand and mud with equal efficiency when four wheel drive was engaged. 

During the Rhodesian War the Rhodesian Security Forces and British South African Police (BSAP) used these mini transport vehicles, too. Dogged by international sanctions, the Rhodesians still had sufficient numbers of these Land Rovers to enable them to flit around the front and chase after “Gooks” (their colloquial term for “terrorists or guerillas”). Wars somehow give birth to a whole specialised lexicon – terms associated with those specific periods and that form a dialect that contributes to bonding and camaraderie. It is a field that socio-linguists ought to spend some time researching. The interesting and unique social dynamics at play, would no doubt shed light on the extent to which the social cohesion afforded by these slang dialects contribute to operational success or failure.

18 April 1980 marked the historical moment that the British flag (that had briefly replaced the Rhodesian UDI flag) was finally lowered and Robert Mugabe’s Zimbabwe came into being. After the smoke and mirrors of the Lancaster House negotiations produced a “settlement”, Bob Mugabe’s utterances hinting at pragmatism and reconciliation may have been widely reported, but failed to convince most Rhodesian white settlers that he and his allies had undergone something akin to a “conversion experience.” Too many months and years had been spent by these old foes in a bitter conflict. Too many had witnessed the horrors of the conflict to be convinced by a few platitudes and well chosen confidence building statements. 

Lord Soames and Prince Charles (on behalf of the British) handed the baton of government over to Mugabe and his ZANU-PF cronies. At that very moment large numbers of “settlement” agnostics who believed not a jot of what was being preached about reconciliation and peaceful co-existence between the old enemies, were crossing Beit Bridge into South Africa. In the chaos of the moment, those that had accused folk who had made their way to South Africa and many other parts of the world, of doing the “chicken run”, followed suit in what had now become an “owl run.” A decade or so later there would only be two types of ex-Rhodesians: those who wisely got out at independence, and those who wished they had. 

Stories abound regarding people who used opportunities that fortuitously presented themselves to score the slightest advantage they could secure for a smooth start to a new life in a foreign land. Many of these stories may be apocryphal, but have the ring of truth and are told with the odd wink and fingers crossed behind the back. The story of the smart and opportunistic Jimmy Welles is just such a tale. He rarely spoke about it, but when coaxed with sufficient lubrication and the odd libation, he would relate an intriguing unfolding of events.

Jimmy not only saw the writing on the wall, as had King Belshazzar in the biblical tale of Daniel, but didn’t require an interpreter. He just had that gut feeling the game was up. He would take the few hundred dollars he was allowed to carry across the border – and then some! He would take everything he could lay his hands on that could be secreted across the Bridge. He was one of the approximately 150 000 white settlers that would form part of a new Rhodesian diaspora. About 100 000 would remain to live well for a few more years, and then be turfed off their farms and have the rug pulled out from beneath them with inflation resulting in an economic catastrophe of Biblical proportions.

Well, Jimmy openly admits that he had no intention of letting Bob’s chaps get their hands on stuff that could make his transition into a new life easier. In his old uniform of the BSAP he entered a vehicle storage base. There he located a Gharry that looked neat, and took it. Filling up with diesel was no problem, as it still looked quite legitimate for a BSAP officer to take a vehicle and fuel it. The blending of the forces into a new Zimbabwean one with a new uniform, had not yet taken place. Remainers who were in the BSAP were still doing duty at that chaotic time.

Jimmy repurposed the Gharry – spanking new spray job and genuine looking plates to boot. Jimmy and his family packed up everything that they could move and his smooth talking jolly demeanour got him and his little crew across the border and into a new life in South Africa. Upon reaching Johannesburg he sold the Land Rover to a Free State farmer. The proceeds joined the moveable nest egg they had taken across the border, and it was without too much bother that they could get themselves up and running with accommodation and a decent job. They had spent a few months getting their paperwork in order and were welcomed into a community where they already had some relatives and friends who had taken the gap some time before.

The Gharry took on a life of its own as it made its merry way into the Free State and a sheep farm near Springfontein. Koos de Wet, the new owner, put it to good use on his farm. It was indeed a robust little trooper!

One fine day, many years later, Koos took the Gharry out along the perimeter fence of his farm. He would regularly check his property and stock, as any successful and conscientious farmer would. This particular day his attention was very focused on the inspection of the property, so he paid little attention to the driving of the vehicle. His feet were so accustomed to operating the foot pedals and his left hand the gear shift, that the tasks did not demand particular attention. Indeed he could even engage four wheel drive without paying much attention to the additional lever on the floor. He would hop in and out of the Gharry to open and close gates where there happened to be no motor grid alongside the farm gate. All the while, there was much foot and hand movement as Koos navigated the gravel pathways – some with overgrown grass patches in the centre, others with the odd ant or termite heap encroaching on the double track. This was not a smooth trip.

As he approached one of the steep gradients along his way, his eye caught a glimpse of an unwelcome and unwanted passenger on the left floorboard. Curled up, head erect and displaying a distinctive hood, was a perfect exemplar of a Cape Cobra. The hand and foot movements of poor old Koos had served to agitate this hooded receptacle of highly neurotoxic venom. The warmth of the engine and gearbox of the Gharry had readied this slithering athlete for an impending strike. Should that be executed with the usual precision of this species, death by suffocation loomed for farmer Koos de Wet. As with the previous owner of the Gharry, he had to energise his mind to effect some quick reflex actions to escape with his life. His right hand unlatched the driver’s door and Koos gracefully slid towards the opening and alighted from the Gharry, his feet hitting the ground running. The Gharry, now without its driver, careened off the double track pathway and landed on its side against a termite mound with its crafty, shaken and bewildered passenger. 

A sweaty Koos scaled fences and hot-footed it across the veld, ‘til he came to a screeching halt on his farmhouse “stoep.” Out of breath and oozing exhaustion, he made it into the arms of his startled wife. The Gharry rested where it landed. The snake no doubt went on to produce another brood of hatchlings at some later time. 

The unceremonious leap from the Gharry would add spice to an eagerly shared story at many a braai on the farm. Alongside a perimeter fence on a property a few miles from Springfontein, lie the rusted remains of a never reclaimed short wheel base Land Rover, that was brought across the border by duplicitous means and hosted one of South Africa’s deadliest creatures as it ended its life on a Free State farm.

©Paul M Haupt