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Contents PageOur feet were killing us but we pressed on toward the border. The rain had stopped and it was a bit warmer, but it was still overcast and pitch dark. It was so dark in fact that we could not even see the white line down the centre of the road and several times walked off the edge of the tarmac. Our imaginations began to play games with us: the road seemed to be running along the edge of a cliff, then over the top of a mountain, then through a forest - we couldn't tell. Probably most of the time it was winding through forest area, as that was how it was when it grew lighter in the morning.
We talked very little and kept close to each other for comfort. Both of us felt desperately tired. Several times I actually fell asleep while walking, and bumped into Alex. Our food was all eaten and we began to feel progressively weaker, but the thought of friendly territory close at hand gave us succour. Strangely we felt little apprehension even though our common sense told us that we were reaching what could possibly be the most dangerous part of the journey.
As the first taint of dawn pierced through the misty sky we came to a T-junction where a signboard indicated two kilometres to the border gate. We turned right towards the gate and Alex paced out 1,500 metres, from which point we could see the orange glow of the lights at the border gate in the distance. From there we turned left into the forest and walked at right angles to the road for about half a kilometre, then a right turn toward the border. Both of us visualised the border as a high barbed wire fence, possibly two fences with a strip of no-man's-land in between. Maybe there would be dogs, land-mines, alarms, who knew? We had decided that when we reached the fence we would walk along it away from the border gate until we came to a suitable place to cross, perhaps where it went across a stream or over a rocky patch.
After walking some distance a small muddy stream crossed our path at the edge of the forest. At a point where the trees ran up to the stream we stepped over it and scrambled up a steep bank on the other side which was cleared of vegetation. At the top of the bank was a rough track and along the other side of it dense bush which appeared to have been cropped so that it looked vaguely like a hedge. These signs of habitation made us think that perhaps we had not walked along far enough and were in imminent danger of being seen by border guards. Alex suggested taking shelter in the bush and after penetrating it some distance we came to a small African stone hut. As we stared at it we simultaneously came to the realisation that we might actually be in Swaziland. The area up to the border was not a bantustan and seemed to be entirely given over to forestry. Now suddenly there was African habitation. It could be the only explanation. But where was the border fence we'd expected? Where were the dogs, the guards?
The thought that we could be on safe territory (relatively speaking) gave us sudden courage. We turned back on our footsteps, re-emerged from the bush and followed the track in the direction of the border gate and main road. The bush thinned out and through it a small settlement came into view, some of the houses being more substantial than mere huts. Alex suddenly noticed an African woman washing clothes in a tub in her yard. He ran up to her leaving me standing on the track. I could see him speaking to her then suddenly embracing her. He pulled a ten Rand note out of his pocket and thrust it in her hand. The woman stood bewildered as he shouted to me that, indeed, we were in Swaziland. I ran up to the woman and shook her hand, asking her to confirm to me that I really was in Swaziland.
What that woman must have thought when two dishevelled white men appeared out of the grey of dawn and started asking her which country they were in must be left to the imagination. Whatever she thought it is more than likely that her guess was not too far off the mark. To add to her puzzlement we asked her how we could get to Mbabane, the capital of Swaziland, from the village. She pointed to a house further up the hill which had a car parked outside and told us that the person who owned it was a relative of hers who might take us to Mbabane if we asked him.
The time could not have been later than five thirty, but having been up the entire night made us lose all sense of the meaning of the hour. Without thinking that we would probably be waking up an entire household, we knocked at the door of the relative's house for a good ten minutes before it occurred to us that the lack of response could be accounted for by the fact that it was still very early in the morning. As we were walking away and planning to come back later, a drowsy-looking woman in a dressing gown appeared at the back door of the house and asked what we wanted. Amazingly, when we explained, pointing to the car in front of her house, that we were looking for a lift to Mbabane, she did not display the slightest sign of annoyance at having been so inconsiderately aroused from her slumbers at such an unreasonable hour. She replied that the car belonged to her husband, who was still sleeping, and invited us into the house until he awoke.
Having lived all my life in a city, and coming straight from prison, I found it difficult to understand the friendliness of those people. Not only did the woman invite us in after we had woken her and probably her family as well, but after chatting to her for a while she offered us tea and ultimately breakfast. And the extended hand of hospitality did not end there. After breakfast we were offered use of the bathroom and even given a razor and towels for a shave. The thermal and personal warmth of that house revived our bodies and our faith in humankind. We could not help thinking that they must have realised that we were on the run from something and that it would have been more reasonable for them to think we were bank robbers than escaped political prisoners.
When the 'head' of the house appeared it had already been decided what should be done with us. The sister of the woman, who also stayed in the house, would take us up to the shop they owned on the main road from where she would be able to arrange a lift for us. The shop had a petrol pump in front of it and as they knew practically everyone who stopped for petrol they could ask someone to give us a lift.
After eating their breakfast they escorted us to the shop where we waited for about an hour before a lift was arranged: an uncle offered to give us a lift to a point on the main road half way between Mbabane and Manzini. Unfortunately the uncle turned out to be a businessman who owned half the booze shops in Swaziland and that day was the day he had to pay a visit to each of them before going on to complete his business in Manzini. But escaped convicts cannot be choosers and anyway we got to see some of the more unusual and beautiful parts of the country. As interesting as it was we were not tourists and were impatient to get to Mbabane and out of the country as quickly as possible. Just as we were about to announce that we would prefer to try for another lift he dropped us at the place he had promised to take us, about 30 kilometres from Mbabane. From the drop off point the traffic was relatively heavy so we quickly got a lift into the centre of Mbabane.
In Mbabane the first thing we did was to buy newspapers to see what sort of response there had been to the escape. It was headlines in all the South African papers: 'Three Prisoners Escape: dummies left in their beds' read one; 'Prison Official Held Over ANC Escape' read another. So they must have arrested poor old Vermeulen, was our obvious immediate thought. An Afrikaans paper read: 'Polisie Jag Drie Wit Terroriste Landwyd', - 'Police Search Countrywide for Three White Terrorists'. Details were given of how the police had been mobilised throughout the country to make it impossible for the escapees to cross the borders into neighbouring countries. Obviously their efforts hadn't been very successful! All the papers reported that we had escaped in shorts, white T-shirts and running shoes, the implication being that we had jogged our way to freedom. Most insulting of all was the offer of a R1,000 reward to anyone offering information leading to our recapture. Was that all we were worth!
What next? We had considered going to the Swazi police to ask them for protection and help but were not quite sure if that was the right thing to do as we'd developed an innate aversion to police forces generally. I had heard somewhere, sometime (incorrectly) that the ANC ran a bookshop in Mbabane and had thought that maybe we could avoid the police by going directly there. We went back into the stationers where we had bought the newspapers, as it was also a bookstore, and asked one of the attendants if the ANC had a bookshop in Mbabane. The attendant hadn't even heard of the ANC, but when we explained what sort of organisation it was he suggested that we contact the United Nations High Commission for Refugees - they knew about people from South Africa. This sounded a reasonable idea and in the light of no other bright ideas we took a taxi to the United Nations building in the town.
Alex went inside alone while I waited in the taxi. When the attendant at the enquiries desk asked what his business was Alex abruptly demanded to see someone important. At first the attendant did not know how to respond to this unusual request, but when Alex said that he was from South Africa he was taken to see a worker concerned with refugee affairs, to whom he briefly explained his plight. At first the worker, a Swiss woman, was reluctant to believe the fantastic story but when Alex showed her his mug-shot emblazoned on the front page of the newspaper he carried, she hurriedly told him to summon me from outside so that she could hear more and decide what to do.
Together we explained to the startled woman how we happened to be where we were, using the newspapers to verify our story. When we mentioned that we had thought of taking ourselves to the Swazi police she was horrified and said that if we had done that we would probably be on our way back to South Africa at that very moment. Thanks to our good fortune she was sympathetic to our plight and mentioned that she would be able to get us into safe hands, that is, to the ANC. Most of all, she advised us, we should keep out of sight of the Swazi authorities, as they were totally under the influence of the South Africans. Later we were to read in a newspaper report that a Swazi police spokesperson said: 'If they are here they will be arrested for illegally crossing our borders no matter what their motives are...Apart from breaking our law they are criminals who have escaped from jail'.
The Swiss woman made some hasty phonecalls and then took us in her car to see the High Commissioner for Refugees himself, a man by the name of Godfrey Sibidi, a Ugandan citizen. While we explained again the circumstances of our escape he made contact with the ANC over the phone. He found our tale fascinating and laughed his head off when we explained how we had done it. It was good to share our victory with someone in sympathy with what we had done. But he too was horrified that we had considered going to the Swazi police and to ensure that none of his helpers, some of whom were Swazis, saw us he locked us in a small room. He sent one of his staff to buy us some food, which was our first proper meal since the last midday meal we had eaten in prison two days before. Food never tasted so good.
After waiting for a couple of hours in the room the Commissioner drove us some distance out of Mbabane in his car to what appeared to be a seminary or church school of some kind. There we were introduced, I think, to the Bishop of Mbabane, and, at last, a representative of the ANC. The ANC comrade introduced himself as Stanley and shaking hands with him was like firmly grasping the hand of freedom. There was no going back to Pretoria now.
Having delivered us to the ANC the Commissioner bade farewell. Then Alex did something for which I have never forgiven him. The Commissioner had expressed great interest in the 'pea', which Alex still carried tucked into his belt under his shirt. As a token of gratitude Alex handed him the 'pea' as a souvenir. Since we possessed nothing else to offer as a gift it would have seemed rude if I had objected too loudly. That was how we lost the 'pea'.
The Bishop took us to the dormitories where we were given soap and towels to have a shower. What luxury it was just to stand in those showers and let the water do the scrubbing. After two days' walking and after diving into muddy ditches the night before our bodies had accumulated a great deal of sweat and grime. The warm water soothed our tired and aching limbs. Alex had trouble just standing up as his feet were massively swollen and his leg muscles so stiff that they were virtually incapable of flexing. Both of us just collapsed on the beds that were offered to us after the shower.
A few hours later we were woken by some other ANC comrades and taken to a house in Mbabane where we were given a first class meal. Then on to another house where, finally, we were told to rest for a few hours because we were going to be taken across the border into Mozambique at dawn.
*****
General - that was his name - picked us up at the crack of dawn. Our destination was the Mozambique border he told us.
The drive to the border took about an hour, maybe longer. It was exciting to watch the sun rising above the hills and light the beautiful greenness of the countryside, a scene we should not, by rights, have been witnessing. It also made us realise how much we'd taken such sights for granted in the past.
General's plan was that when we got near the border the two of us would lie hidden on the floor of his car and then he would drive us through the border gate. Just like that. It seemed too easy to be true but he assured us that he did it every day and had never had any problems. The Swazis, he explained, did not bother much about traffic going out of the country in the direction of Mozambique and the Mozambicans would not mind too much even if we were discovered - it was the sort of thing they expected.
A few kilometres from the border gate General drove off the road and stopped the car behind some bushes. He opened the car doors and we hid on the floor. Alex objected that once our heads were covered it would be too much like a prison cell and that he would feel unbearably claustrophobic. He would prefer to walk. If it had been so easy to walk across to Swaziland from South Africa then surely it would be no problem walking across here. General agreed that it could be done but clearly he was contemptuous of such a method of hopping borders and upset that we displayed such little faith in him.
To walk across safely meant taking a roundabout route which would involve a walk of two or three hours. Alex's feet were still in a bad shape, swollen and stiff. He could not walk for ten minutes, let alone a couple of hours through the bush. There was one more alternative, an extremely risky one, but if we were prepared to take the chance we could be over the border in a matter of minutes. Another chance? What the hell. We'd taken so many up to that point that one more did not matter a damn. The proposal was accepted without further ado and we set off in the direction of the border gate.
Almost within view of the gate General turned into a rough track and drove towards the border fence. He stopped the car behind what appeared to be an abandoned shed and pointed to a sturdy two metre high fence topped with barbed wire about thirty metres further on and to another the same height about five metres beyond the first. The fences, he explained, ran along the borders of Swaziland and Mozambique respectively. The strip in between was no-man's-land but there were no mines or dogs in it, he assured us. All we would have to do was scale both fences and we would be in Mozambique.
On the other side of the fences we could see houses beyond a row of trees and bushes but there appeared to be no sign of life in that direction at all. What was the big deal? We would be over in thirty seconds and it was too early for anyone to be up to see us.
Our escort explained that we would have to wait for about an hour on the other side as he would only be able to get through the border gate at seven o'clock. In case we encountered any problems he gave us each a loaded pistol and told us to wait in a quiet backstreet of the town before moving on down to the gate shortly before seven. He explained briefly how the guns worked and then made us tuck them in our belts under our shirts.
At a corner post all three of us climbed over the first (Swazi) fence and as Alex and I were mounting the second we noticed an old man in a long coat and wielding a knobkerrie charging towards us from the Swaziland side. General told us to get over the fence and run: he would deal with the man. The two of us leapt over the fence and started to run towards the houses on the Mozambique side. As we reached the bushes we heard the sound of a scuffle as General engaged the old man in a fight. Alex turned around and with a loud battle cry ran back towards the scene with his pistol drawn. But all we could see was General running for the car and pulling away with the tyres skidding on the sandy road, with the old man in hot pursuit.
The part of the town in which we found ourselves must have been where the Portuguese colonialists once lived as most of the houses were large and stately. To avoid being spoken to by the few people who were up and wandering about, we kept moving, slowly but purposefully, around two or three blocks of houses. Neither of us knew a single word of Portuguese so did not even know how to greet the friendly but undoubtedly suspicious passers-by. Our first lesson in Portuguese was quickly learnt: everyone bade us a courteous bom dia, quite obviously meaning 'good day'. We felt almost at home after that, casting smiling bom dias at everyone who appeared. There still seemed to be quite a number of white faces around so we could not have appeared too out of place that morning.
After about an hour of strolling around we stopped to rest our still-weary feet. There were more people about by then so we thought it would not look too strange for two of them to stop and sit on a low stone wall for a rest. This was a big mistake for as soon as we stopped someone approached us and asked something in Portuguese. Not being able to answer we replied clumsily that we were looking for someone from FRELIMO. Obviously this answer, especially coming in English, aroused the person's suspicion, for he quickly turned on his heels and walked back in the direction from which he had come. Approaching him from the opposite direction was a man dressed in uniform. The two met and stopped in mid-street. We could see the one who had spoken to us point over his shoulder and then both of them began to walk in our direction. At that moment we thought of making a bolt for it but realised that it would not have been the appropriate action.
As the official approached us he asked in broken English what we were waiting for. At that very inconvenient moment the pistol tucked into the top of my trousers began to slip down my leg. I turned around to conceal what was happening but the official saw me suddenly groping myself. Stepping right up to me he asked brusquely what it was that I had hidden under my clothes. I had no choice but to reach into my trousers and haul out the gun and hand it to him. He turned to Alex and asked if he also had one. Realising that he could do nothing else, Alex withdrew his gun and handed it to him as a friendly gesture. Lucky he didn't have the 'pea' on him as well, I thought - almost forgiving him for giving it away!
The official asked us to follow him and we set off down the street into the town. Neither of us knew what to say but did not want to appear as if we were feeling guilty. I asked casually if he was a member of FRELIMO and when he said that he was, we both shook hands and tried to be as friendly as possible. We explained who we were and where we were going but he didn't seem too impressed or convinced - but then who could blame him after discovering two suspicious-looking, English-speaking, armed, white men loitering in the streets of a border town?
The official turned out to be a member of the border guard and took us to the offices at the border gate. There we were shut in a room with someone to watch over us. Once again we were in captivity and wondered what the outcome would be. Neither of us enjoyed the prospect of being locked up in a cell until the matter was sorted out. That could take days. We had explained to our 'captor' that we were members of the ANC and were due to be met by the ANC (i.e. General) as soon as the gate opened and just hoped that the FRELIMO government's declared attitude towards the ANC was the same in practice.
Fortunately it was not long before the gates opened, and General was one of the first to come through. Our official must have known who 'the ANC' was because we could see him and General frantically discussing the matter in the road outside. Alex and I were not asked to join in the deliberations and had to be content just watching through the window of our room. After a while General joined us and appeared to be completely unperturbed by his altercation with the guard and with the fact that we had been 'captured'. All that worried him was the possible loss of his guns - or 'irons' as he called them. As for the old Swazi man who had given chase as we were mounting the border fence: General had 'dealt' with him when he saw him again near the border gate. What that meant we weren't allowed to know.
After another long wait several members of the local police or militia arrived as well as a van-load of ANC comrades, resulting in a gathering under the car shelter in front of the offices to discuss what should become of us. After an hour or so the gathering broke up and the two of us were taken into another room and subjected to a humiliatingly thorough strip-search by a surly border guard.
The strip-search signalled the end of our wait and was followed by a more friendly attitude by the official who had disarmed us. He led us to a small hut closer to the border gate where we were asked to fill in a form - an ordinary visitor's entry form. What had troubled them was that we had tried to sidestep their administrative entry requirements and had avoided filling in the requisite forms. Climbing over the border fence and loaded pistols were rather unconventional ways of entering a country!
Having completed the forms we were handed over to the ANC and driven to a house a short distance away in the town. (A year later this particular house was blown up by the South Africans.) At the house were a number of ANC comrades, including Sue Rabkin, Dave's wife. She gave us a warm welcome and produced from somewhere a full bottle of brandy. On our empty stomachs the alcohol quickly worked its way to our heads, but it felt good after not having touched a drop of the stuff for so long.
The comrades served a delicious meal and then at about midday took us to the local police station to clear up a few more bureaucratic obstacles and attempt to retrieve the two 'irons'. Why Alex and I had to be present I'm not sure, as again we were entirely left out of the negotiations. The comrades disappeared into a room with the police and after an hour reappeared with smiles and handshakes all around. General was the most pleased of all - he had got his precious 'irons' back.
After that it was back to the border gate where there was another long wait, this time for the arrival of some FRELIMO officials from Maputo. After further lengthy discussions we were asked to climb aboard the FRELIMO Land Rover which had brought the officials, and then driven at high speed for Maputo with the ANC Kombi in pursuit.
In Maputo the Land Rover stopped outside an office where the uniformed front-seat passenger got out and another in civilian clothing got in. The vehicle moved off and immediately we sensed a more friendly attitude. The new passenger offered us his hand and said that we were now safe and would be well looked after.
They drove us to a tall block of flats and took us up to a large apartment on about the ninth floor: our place of residence for the next few days, they informed us. The flat was well equipped and had an endless supply of alcohol. After settling in, a nurse arrived to attend to Alex's feet, which by this stage were so swollen and painful that he had difficulty in removing his shoes. She carefully rubbed in an ointment and then strapped bandages around his ankles.
After a few hours of adapting to our new role as 'guests of the State' our mentor asked if there was anything special he could bring us to eat. In unison we explained that in prison our dream had been that as soon as we arrived in Mozambique we would like our first meal to be giant prawns, for which the country is famous. Not believing for one moment that this fanciful wish would be fulfilled, that evening the most incredible meal of giant prawns arrived on silver platters from the famous Hotel Polana. Two bodyguards left in the flat with us were glad to join us in the meal, although obviously worried that someone would come in and catch them eating on the job. Thereafter three times every day until we left the flat similar enormous meals arrived from the Hotel Polana.
Several times each day we were visited by a government official who appeared to have been placed in charge of us. He spoke no English but was fluent in French so Alex was able to converse with him. He was interested in details of South African prisons so I drew him a number of pictures of the layout and cells of Pretoria Prison (on which diagrams x-y are based) and of the uniform worn by the warders. He gave his name as Antonio Paulo and came across to us as someone completely devoted to the Mozambican revolution. In long discussions with Alex, which Alex would briefly translate to me every fifteen minutes or so, he talked about the struggle being waged by FRELIMO to overcome the superstitions of the peasantry, about South African aggression and subversion and other similar subjects.
Paulo contrasted with the character who first brought us to the flat and who also paid us several visits. Although friendly with us and apparently supportive of the FRELIMO government, we found out several years later that he defected to apartheid South Africa where he provided the racists with a wealth of information about Mozambican security. Unless he was an agent from the start it is difficult to understand the motivations of someone seemingly committed to the fight against racialism to go and sell out to the racists.
A number of top ANC officials also visited us at the flat. To each we had to repeat the tale of our escape from start to finish; from each we received equally hearty congratulations for having defeated the racists and for making them look like monkeys. One comrade revealed that there had been a team of people mobilised to assist in the escape and that they were planning to use a furniture-removal van to carry us off. A safe-house was being set up and other arrangements were in an advanced stage of preparation before they had received word calling it all off. They had been surprised by the cancellation of the request for assistance and even more surprised when the escape actually took place shortly after that.
After four days in the flat Antonio Paulo took us downtown to buy us some new clothes and other items for travel. We were still wearing the clothes in which we had escaped, so greatly appreciated the opportunity to change into something clean and new. He bought us each a large suitcase, a shoulder bag, two suits, two pairs of trousers, five or six shirts, underpants, socks, a belt, a tie, handkerchiefs, shoes and sandals, deodorant, toothpaste, etc. In all, a complete kit to turn us into respectable people again. Later he brought us each a brand new portable typewriter and between us a leather briefcase filled with sundry items of stationery and drawing equipment.
On the sixth day we were handed back to the ANC who took us to a flat close to the beachfront. There we stayed with a foreign couple who were teaching at Maputo University. The couple took us on a number of sightseeing trips around Maputo Bay which made us feel well and truly free. Three days later we were taken to Maputo airport and driven right up to the aircraft on the apron: clearance had been given for our departure without documents. From Maputo we were flown to Luanda in Angola via Lusaka.
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