Moshe (Part 4)

The young doctor, Moshe, had his practice in the Mothusi complex up and running in less than a fortnight. He had no idea how desperate the community had been for a district surgeon in their own village. The folk living in Taung had to travel to Mmbatho some 200km away for medical care, since Bophuthatswana was given so-called “independence” earlier in 1977. Bophuthatswana was an archipelago of self-governing islands, surrounded by South African territory under the direct administration of provincial authorities of the South African central government. Stripped of their South African citizenship by the stroke of a pen in 1977, they would henceforth have to exercise their rights as citizens and utilize state facilities that fell under the control of the fledgling Bophuthatswana government.

The queues outside his consulting room snaked around the Mothusi buildings. These queues of desperate patients rivalled those that stretched across the country during the first New South African democratic elections in 1994. The numbers were formidable. Moshe dutifully attended to those who showed up from shortly after dawn each day, until the light began to fade at dusk. He was his own receptionist and nursing assistant in those early days, so worked himself to the point of near delirium. Tea breaks and lunch were taken on the trot. There were a few hours each day that he did the rounds in his government Land Cruiser to attend to those too infirm to make the journey to his consulting room on foot. He soon set up consulting hours and village visits to give structure to his day and improve the efficiency of the practice. 

His housemates performed their duties as vets and lecturers with similar dedication. Moshe would sometimes be accompanied by veterinary doctors on his visits to rural outposts and “kraals” where he would attend to the frail patients whilst they dealt with the ailments of the herds and flocks. He soon learnt the value of cattle to these communities – most of their personal wealth residing in the welfare of their livestock. Often the human ailments could be ascribed to anxiety about the health of the beasts they owned. On many occasions he would assist the veterinarians – pulling calves out of birth canals, punching venting holes in the guts of ruminants, trimming hooves and helping to stitch lesions. No sooner had the ailing beasts been restored to health, than the old “madala” (esteemed elder) who owned this modest display of personal wealth would make a miraculous recovery. The doctors – for both humans and animals – developed an appreciation for the skills each had, and they began to collaborate more frequently to serve this poverty stricken rural community that came to rely on the professional service rendered. 

The vets roped in the conservationist (ornithologist whose knowledge of birds was legendary) many a time. Except for Archie (whose veterinary knowledge was encyclopedic, but often unavailable due to his own heavy workload), they relied on James Davids to give much needed advice on the treatment of the ubiquitous African chickens that were notoriously susceptible to disease and died like flies. Sometimes, if they didn’t arrive at the homestead soon enough, a whole coop would succumb to whatever airborne disease was doing the rounds. 

The linguists were of incalculable value in this local upliftment project. Neither the vets nor the doctor could cope without the skills of interpreters. In the deep rural areas of Bophutatswana most of the folk (especially the madalas) could only speak Tswana. Communication was vital if the health of man and beast were to be effectively improved. Many a visit to the doctor or vet could have been avoided had preventative medicine and treatment been adequately communicated to these chaps. Learning a working knowledge of Tswana and later on, the development of an adequate level of fluency in the language, was vital.

Weekends, though, were sacrosanct for all who worked together and resided in these houses. Rest and relaxation was vitally restorative. The SADF insisted that the servicemen use the weekends to pursue their own interests – sport and simply just clearing the mind of the weekday work schedule. The “Bop” government also insisted in the “so-called contract” that Moshe should not work over weekends. An emergency (be it among the community or their livestock) was, of course, an exception to the rule. Those were the days before twenty-four/seven availability brought about by the infernal invasion of privacy of cellular phones and social media via the smart phone. Contactable only via the notoriously unreliable landline channeled through a manual telephone exchange, some degree of “time-out” was afforded. Calls would often not be connected because the operator at the exchange was drunk, sleeping, stepped outside, answering the call of nature, or all of these simultaneously – bar the sleeping, obviously.

Weekends started at 18h00 on a Friday and ended on a Monday morning at 07h00 with a makeshift “Parade” run by the SADF in one of the gardens. Officers took turns to be in charge for the week – since all held the same rank. Moshe was rather bemused by this spectacle, as he was exempt as the only non-National Serviceman in the houses. He noted that Jeff, the secular Jew, dutifully acquiesced – readily participating in prayers to a God he didn’t believe existed. Moshe wondered if Jeff could be considered to be talking to an invisible friend, given his attitude towards religious observance. The antics of Archie over weekends also contrasted acutely with the formal adherence to the military code and the role of prayers and a brief scripture lesson on parade. A wry smile lit up his expression when he thought of these fellows approaching the pearly gates and having to explain the discrepancy between their weekend cavorting with their seedier, somewhat disreputable natures, and the lip service they paid to reverence for God and prayer at these parades every Monday. 

Friday nights were party nights. Braais (BBQ) and copious quantities of alcoholic lubrication reduced this motley crowd to stages of intoxication ranging from loquacious banter to drunken stupors. Moshe had not been raised to be given to debauchery. His resentment towards his father who dragged him to Shul every Friday night to pay heed to the Rabbi, had waned somewhat over the years. He had mellowed to a degree and began to appreciate the sincerity of his parents in paying homage to their culture. The hypocrisy he observed around him gave him an appreciation for the solid upbringing he had been given. Some of the lessons he had been taught as a child lit up more than a few lightbulbs in his consciousness. If anything, the lessons about treating others respectfully, hating poverty and not  the poor and the value of kindness towards people and animals alike, began to grow in his psyche. As he frowned upon the behaviour of his housemates, an even more important lesson he had been taught in one of the rabbinical readings, came to mind – namely, don’t be judgmental. That thought jogged his thoughts sharply. He came to the point of view that he would live his life as he’d been trained. He would not hand himself over to excess. However, he would desist from passing judgement on how others lived their lives. He would be an example of good, clean, cultured and compassionate living, but not a self-appointed judge. He determined to try and attend Shul in Kimberley if he could make it there on time, but would not look askance at Jeff whose attitude to the Jewish culture and faith differed so greatly from his own. He observed that few of the other housemates crossed the threshold of their churches, but he would continue to go to the Synagogue and wear his Yarmulke unashamedly – each to their own. He could only hope sober values and a deep respect for his own culture would rub off on folk with whom he had the privilege to rub shoulders. His respect and compassion stretched far and wide – for the poor and downtrodden to the wealthiest and most robust of health. Life doesn’t deal all people the same hand – work with what one has.

Moshe came to value his weekends in Taung. Regardless of the boisterous commotion his housemates so liberally shared with all and sundry – blaring ghetto blasters, noisy parties …. – slow and steady did it for him. He found the time to reflect, not on his traditional Sabbath, but on Sundays when the rest were sleeping off hangovers or reading quietly. Sundays were more mellow in the lives of these young fellows. It was a time for him to think – to reflect.

In the words of René Descartes, his mantra would become: “Cogito, ergo sum” or in his native French: “Je pense, donc je suis” (I think, therefore I am).

Next week: Moshe – more about his weekends in Taung. There was a time to work and a time to rest; a time to think and a time to play. He finds his equilibrium

©Paul M Haupt