The Foefie Slide

Having read over the last post, I realise that there aren't yet any tales from the army days, despite my having mentioned that they are the most popular. The reason I always talk of the army and police tales together, instead of separating them, is that they both feature that amazing character, "Bob". He was with me during my national service and later in the traffic police, and without him those days would never have been as humourous or enjoyable as they were. So though you haven't yet heard about us in the army, you do know our antics already. Anyway, here is one of my all time favourites, dredged from a dusty old floppy disc that may have just issued its last gasp in parting with this story:

Place: 5th South African Infantry Battalion, Ladysmith, South Africa
Time: Late Summer, 1992

One fine sunny day we got a call from a girl called Cynthia that we were both trying to impress. Though none of us would admit it, we were actually in competition for her attentions. I felt I had been cuckolded by my steady girlfriend back in Durbs and Bob didn’t have a steady girl at the time, so we were keen on Cynthia, who was by far the most desirable of the local Ladysmith girls.

So here she was, asking what we thought of going with her and her mate Beatrice to the Colenso River for a braai (that's barbecue for you non-South Africans). Of course we were dead keen. Beatrice was short, fat and dark haired, whereas Cynthia was tall, shapely and fair. None of us were interested in Beatrice, but Cynthia had made it abundantly clear that while she would settle for either one of us it would only be on condition that the other one accommodated Beatrice. She played us like a fiddle, but we were happy to accept whatever conditions were imposed, so long as the hope of a night with Cynthia remained within reach. It was tacitly accepted that none of us were capable of getting it on with the tubby Beatrice, but that we would play the game as far as possible and cross that bridge when we got to it. That is to say, hopefully when the other one got to it.

So here we were in the foyer of the NCO's quarters, on the payphone with Cynthia. Knowing that if any of the other off-duty NCOs happened to overhear us they would want to jump on the bandwagon, we tried to keep our conversation low. This was our undoing, because it attracted the attention of my pre-Bob best mate, Padda, who was the last guy we wanted along, as not only was he quite a capable ladies man himself, but he harboured some resentment against Bob and I, as prior to my meeting Bob he and I were basically inseparable. He would certainly give it his best go to try and ruin anything that we had hoped to achieve with Cynthia and Beatrice.

Sauntering past, making it look as casual as possible, Padda gave us a wink and asked where we were going to braai that afternoon.
“What, us? Braai? No, we’re not braaing anywhere!”
“That’s funny guys, ‘cause I just heard you arranging to braai at the Colenso River, so how’s about it? You’ll just have to give me a lift to the Butcher so’s I can buy some meat and then we’re off, eh!”

Nothing for it but to take Padda along, damn. Well that put paid to any romantic notions we might have been cultivating. Once we had been to the Butcher and the Bottle Store, we headed out to the suburb where Cynthia's parents lived. Because she didn’t want her neighbours to see her getting picked up by us instead of her steady Permanent Force boyfriend (whom she had temporarily cut contact with on meeting the two of us) her and Beatrice were waiting for us there instead of at her flat or Beatrice's parents' place. Beatrice still lived at home. We could see their faces fall as they saw Padda, but we made out as if it was all part of our plan, as we couldn’t let them see that we had allowed ourselves to be bullied into bringing him along. The army was like that, especially amongst an elite group such as us that had endured the horrors and rigours of Infantry School together. You just didn’t get outright nasty with one another. It was okay if it was done by omission, such as neglecting to tell Padda that we were off on a fun outing, but it was something else to tell him outright that he wasn’t wanted.

Cynthia was such a lady that it was naturally accepted that she would get the front seat next to Bob, who drove. Of course this left Padda and I with Beatrice squeezed in between us on the back seat. While this sent Beatrice into ecstasies of delight, it did nothing for Padda and I, whose full attention was directed toward the front, in order to see to it that Cynthia was suitably distracted by our superb witticisms and didn’t have too much time to admire Bob's manly profile as he piloted us in that car of cars, the Cream Dream. En route between Ladysmith and Colenso Padda and I must have had at least three beers each, all the while urging another ale on Bob. You see, while we drank for Dutch courage, we were also aware that it wouldn’t do to have Bob appearing all sober and gentlemanly while we degenerated into drunken slobs in the back seat. Fortunately Bob played along and matched us beer for beer.

Soon we found the river and the lovely picnic spot on the banks that Cynthia had in mind when she invited us there. There was a large old tree growing right on the banks of the muddy river, its branches reaching way out over the water. Under the tree was a grassy patch where we could set up our equipment, which basically consisted of cool boxes and braai grids. The big attraction, however, was the very professional foefie slide (known as a Zip-Slide elsewhere in the world) that was mounted in the tree and trailed out over the river, connecting at the far side to some fixed point on the bank.

Someone had attached a proper steel cable, about 10mm diameter, to the tree trunk and across the river. Suspended from the cable was a welded stainless steel inverted T-piece that one could hang from by the hands. At the base of the upside down T was attached a grooved pulley wheel with a proper roller ball bearing on an axle. I had never seen such a professional foefie slide, and naturally we three guys were as eager as hell to try it out. Of course Cynthia had known the reaction that we would have to the slide, and as she seemed to take a perverse pleasure in pitting males against each other to win her attentions, she was more than keen to encourage us to display our manly capabilities. Fighting the other two off, I was the first up the tree. Gripping the shiny stainless steel crosspiece, I launched myself and attempted a somersault as I let go mid-river. Half-stunning myself as I landed flat on my back in the water, I quickly recovered and cast my eyes shoreward to see what reaction I had engendered amongst the watching ladies. After my inglorious and pathetic crash-landing, they had no eyes for me and were intent on Bob and Padda, so I grabbed at the trailing rope (it hung from the T-piece so that you could drag it back to the shore) and headed hurriedly for shore to reclaim my share of the attention. As Padda managed to grab the rope out of my hands, so Bob was up the tree. Padda was left holding the rope for him. Outfoxed by the wily gentleman!

Swinging out over the river, Bob's jump wasn’t much better than my dismal attempt. It wasn’t helped by the disparaging shouts from Padda, who had quickly sussed out that Cynthia was the type to go for whoever was the most impressive and hadn’t actually chosen any one of us yet. Padda didn’t do much better either, and I think we were all left with the impression that we needed more speed on take-off, in order to achieve a more impressive leap into the river, not to mention that he who went furthest would be deemed more manly. With the order of sliding established it was my turn, and I determined that this time I would kick off from the tree with as much might as possible in order to gain the desired velocity. As I gripped the smooth stainless steel handle with my wet hands I gave an almighty push with my feet against the tree trunk. My legs shot out in front of me and the momentum created such a force that I had a moment of desperate panic as I felt my grip slipping on the crossbar. Only the unthinkable fear of making a fool of myself in front of the ladies gave me the necessary strength to retain my grip on the handle, but it was a very close thing indeed. Making a rather weak twist and somersault into the rushing waters, I surfaced thinking how lucky I had been and wondering if the females were suitably impressed.

Once I reached the bank again, rope trailing, I handed over to Padda. Bob had already scrambled up the tree and was waiting for Padda to pull the handle bar within his reach. I knew that he would be thinking exactly the same thing as I had been, and I shouted for him to beware of pushing off with his feet when his hands were wet, but I was too late. He had grasped the handles and pushed off with both feet, full force. To make matters worse, Padda had retained his grip on the trailing rope and was running below Bob, who was suspended a good 8 feet off the ground, pulling with all his might in order to give Bob a boost. As Cynthia, Beatrice and I watched in horror, Bob took off at high velocity, his outstretched arms just maintaining their grip against the force of Padda’s strong pull below. As the force of his kick-off took effect his feet and legs overtook his body, and, as I had feared, the momentum was just too much. His wet hands couldn’t maintain their grip, and the handle was ripped from his grasp by the forces in play. With the forward swing of his legs his torso was forced downwards, hands dangling groundward. The momentum kept him turning, and the everlasting picture burnt into my brain is of Bob descending, arms and legs outstretched like an evil spider dropping onto its unsuspecting prey, as Padda, eyes rolling in terror as he looked over his shoulder at the descending Bob, continued his run with an extra burst of speed to try and avoid the impending impact. Bob kept on turning, and eventually landed on Padda with his back, his head facing down and to the rear, firmly wedged up Padda's crack, while his backside rammed Padda powerfully on the back of his fleeing head.

With a might thump the two collided and Padda went down under the dead weight, arms and legs splayed, literally biting the dust as eyes, nose and mouth were buried in the dirt with the splayed out Bob on his back. Now bear in mind that liberal quantities of alcohol had been consumed, and we were all loose-limbed and brave. What with Padda having taken the brunt of his impact, Bob was immediately up on his feet, albeit somewhat groggy, and ready to regain his stature in the eyes of the ladies. As for me and the girls, we were dumbfounded. What we had just witnessed was normally enough to kill someone, and while both were knocked breathless, and seemed a little dazed, here Bob was insisting that it was only a minor mishap. I realised that, true man that he was, Bob was, in his befuddled state, only following that unspoken manly rule that you don’t let on to women who you are trying to impress that you are mortally injured. Knowing that we were all as drunk as lords, and that Bob was seriously concussed, to say the least, I felt it my duty to dissuade him from another attempt. But he was adamant. “My Uncle Jumbo always told me, Bob, that if you fall off a horse you get straight back on!” he mumbled groggily. Something in his eyes warned me that it wouldn’t do to interfere at this stage, and I let him have his way. Padda was having nothing to do with this round, and stayed far away, nursing his bruises.

Up the tree Bob went again, loudly proclaiming to all and sundry that it was merely a minor setback, but no worries, this time he had everything under control. Noting the glazed look in his eyes I was not so sure, but recognising a fellow male recovering his pride I looked on as he made a repeat performance. Grasping the handles with his still wet hands he gave another almighty push with his legs and this time it was almost instantaneous as his legs shot out in front of him and his fingers relinquished their grasp on the crossbar. Performing a graceful but somewhat loose half somersault, he landed in a puff of dust, splayed out as if caught in a star jump during Army PT.

Dead silence. As we all looked on I was certain that he was dead. One could hear the birds chirruping and the bees buzzing. A couple of kids shouted on the far bank of the river. Bob didn’t move. As we all glanced at each other, wondering if he was alive, I gathered my wits about me and approached the “body”.
“Hey Bob,” I whispered, “Are you alright?”
A low moan emitted from the splayed out form on the ground. Relief! He lived, if only for now. “Bob, speak to me!” I said.
Another long, drawn out moan. Coming close enough to prod him, I gave him a nudge in the ribs. “Are you okay, pal?” I asked.
Loud grunts at the prod in the ribs, and another prolonged groan.
Realising that he was going to live, my usually sadistic side took control again, and I stepped back to view the effect he was making on the rest. Recognising of course that there was the ever-present need to impress the ladies going through his battered thoughts and that he would be extremely worried about the loss of face in front of Cynthia, I began to find the situation extremely amusing. Every time he hauled himself up on all fours he would collapse again in a cloud of dust with a groan. It was all we could elicit, a groan. He was so badly winded that he couldn’t talk, but in his desire to make out to the ladies that it was no big deal he kept on trying to talk, and the more he tried the more he groaned.

It was, of course, the end of the festivities. Cynthia, displaying that other, more mature side of her nature (she was older than all of us, I think) took over completely. Although Padda and I would happily have left Bob to recover on his own (we had after all been through far worse punishment in Infantry School) and thus had the field to ourselves with the handsome, debonair lieutenant out of action, we were quickly put to work by Cynthia who gathered up the car keys from the stunned Bob's possessions and set Padda and myself to packing up our things and getting everything into the car.

Before I knew what I was doing I found myself in the backseat of the Cream Dream with a subdued Padda and Beatrice. While Cynthia drove and Bob sat in the passenger seat protesting that he was more than capable of driving his own car, I sat brooding that I hadn’t taken the initiative myself. After all, he was my mate, and no woman should have been driving the Cream Dream!

Looking back, I realise that it was disgruntlement at the kid glove treatment that Bob was receiving at the hands of Cynthia due to his fall that was causing my irritation. You see, we were all at the absolute peak of fitness, Padda, Bob and I. As I watched Bob I could see his recovery in his eyes, but he, wily bastard that he was, was busy realising that as long as he hammed things up he was going to continue receiving preferential treatment from the luscious Cynthia.

Unfortunately for him Cynthia was wiser than we knew. Once again with hindsight I think that we underestimated her. She was a pretty, single girl saddled with a child from a liaison with her Permanent Force Corporal, and she stood no chance with the locals, who had branded her, but she was able to make a big impression on us “newies” passing through on our military service. While she had intimated to us at the time that she was through with her Corporal, I think he was under the impression that she was wanting a little ‘breathing space’ and not aware that she was dallying with a couple of national servicemen. She must have realised that if Bob was seriously injured then it wouldn’t take long for her name to come out as having been present. This would have put paid to any form of respectability that she may have hoped to retain after we had passed through her life. In fact everything we ever did with her was, without our realising it, kept in secrecy. But that’s another story. At this time it was her priority to dump us safely back at the base where we were dissociated from her. As we arrived at her parent’s house she and Beatrice hurriedly grabbed their belongings from the boot. Once they had entered the house I sauntered around to the drivers door, only to find that Bob, miraculously recovered, had assumed the driver’s seat and was snarling at me to “get in, we’re going!”

“Are you sure, Bob?” I asked, in the hope that I may still recover the chance to pilot the Cream Dream.
“Yeah yeah, only a little bump on the head,” he said.
Ensconced in the back seat Padda just shook his head.
As it turned out, when we got back to the base Bob checked into the sick bay and was treated for concussion. After he was settled in his sickbed it occurred to him that we had arranged a night out on the town that evening, and he wasted no time in signing himself out again. As you can imagine, it was a cheap round for him that evening, what with the medication and concussion. We had survived another rigorous day in the South African Defence Force.