Port Elizabeth of Yore : Volume 1 – Defying the Odds – Now Available

This volume is available as follows: Soft cover = R 320, hard cover now discounted to R390 plus shipment costs to SA destinations at R100. Copies of the book can be collected in Port Elizabeth from Alan Montgomery at 084 368 1304. It can also be purchased from Fogarty’s. Alternatively contact me, Dean McCleland at deanm@orangedotdesigns.co.za or 082 801 5446.

As Port Elizabeth celebrated its bicentenary in April 2020, this event has to be celebrated for not only was it the birth of a new town, but it was also home to many of our ancestors. This four-volume set of books records those birth pangs and well as the people and events which over the next 150 years made Port Elizabeth what it is today.

Comments on the back cover

Initially Port Elizabeth was only earmarked as a landing place for the British settlers and not as their destination. Yet in the thirty-year period from 1820 to 1850, contrary to expectations it experienced a tremendous growth spurt. So prodigious in fact was its expansion that it even overtook Cape Town in terms of the volume of exports.

This is the story of the people and events that form the basis of this incredible journey.

This book forms part of a four-volume series which takes the reader on the fascinating odyssey from the original inhabitants – the Khoi – through the town’s development into an entrepôt, wool processor and exporter to its pinnacle as the Detroit of South Africa.

A SMAC in the Face #84: The Almighty Cod

The beginning of Trump’s second Presidency has been without precedent.  It has been characterised by extreme chaos as he has been all over the place like a demented squirrel on tik.  He has declared economic war on everyone (except his secret bff, Putin), threatened to own Panama, Greenland, Canada and Gaza and he is busy taking a chainsaw to the Federal system courtesy of his point man and ‘Tech Support’, Elon Musk.

Continue reading

A SMAC in the Face #83:  In the Belly of the Beast

Trump’s first month in office has been a whirlwind shitshow that has left countries and American citizens rattled and fearful.  But what is driving him?  SMAC has taken a deep dive into the belly of the beast to try to explain this unprecedented phenomenon that is akin to a massive asteroid hitting the Earth (but we didn’t see it because all NASA employees have been fired by Musk to improve efficiency).

Until he started running for the presidency against Hilary Clinton, what did we know about Donald Trump?  Nothing much really except for his successful reality show, The Apprentice.  Some who took a deeper interest knew that he wasn’t a particularly successful businessman.  In fact, he was disastrous.  He managed to bankrupt three hotels and three casinos.  You really have to work at bankrupting a cash machine like a casino.  He had six other ventures that platzed, the most prominent of which were the Trump Shuttle airline and the Trump University.  The latter also left all his graduates with expensive but worthless degrees. 

So how did he get to be president … twice?  His weapons of choice are mis-directions,  lies and exaggerations which he uses like a stripper uses silicone – nothing’s real and it’s just there to attract and distract you to part with your money – and in his latest venture, your votes.  Some of his lies are outrageous:  In 2015 his personal physician, Dr Borstein, released a letter saying that Trump had “extraordinary physical strength and stamina” and he would be “the healthiest individual ever elected to the presidency”.  The superlatives and the style cast doubt on its authenticity which was confirmed by Borstein before his death in 2021 when he admitted that Trump dictated the letter.

Following the playbook of the Nazi Minister of Propaganda, Joseph Goebbels, where one repeats the lie until it becomes a fact, Trump used the far broader reach of social media where his supporters became unwitting propagandists by retweeting his talking points.  An analysis of just Trump’s Twitter feed from June 2015, when he declared his 2016 presidential run, until January 8 2021, when he was booted off, reveals the following: He insulted Hillary Clinton 646 times by calling her a criminal amongst other things with most over less than six months before the November 20 election.  That’s an average of 3 to 4 per day.  Over the full period of around 260 weeks, he denigrated the legacy media 1288 times and used the phrase “fake news” more than 500 times.  This was gaslighting at its worst.  Another feature was Trump’s vile and vindictive personal attacks on people he didn’t like.

His second presidency has displayed even more than before that he is a bully.  He has declared war on every country.  With his BFF, Elon, by his side the next phase of human history might become known as World War X.   But it doesn’t stop there.  He has also declared war on everyone (federal workers, LGBTQIA+ people, migrants, Democrats, and anyone who did him a perceived injustice including prosecutors and the FBI) and everything (wind turbines, plastic straws, low flow shower heads).  The last two show how single-mindedly petty he is all because he has a personal gripe.  He does this because he can – firstly, because the USA is by far the most powerful country financially and militarily and whose dollar is effectively the reserve currency of the world and secondly because his toadies in the majority in both the Senate and the House as well as the Supreme Court have got his back not to mention His Master’s Voice, Fox News.  In his first term he tested the limits of what he could get away with and then came four years in the wilderness during which he marinaded in his grievances and victimhood during his court cases.  This has empowered and emboldened him to be off-the-charts outrageous.

His character is a complex assembly of asinine ideas, half-baked conspiracy theories, festering vindictiveness and many other distasteful traits in his amoral bubbling personal cauldron but the most important idee fixe is the word me.  He has no alter ego just ego.

No 7 Through my Eyes – The last years of No 7 as a home

HB Smith was the instigator and progenitor of the plan to rescue No. 7 from a dystopian future unless the house which he recognised as one of the oldest houses in Port Elizabeth was restored. He selflessly undertook this task in the twilight of his life. After writing an article on the role that HB had played in setting this house on its path to restoration, I was contacted by a member of the family, HB’s granddaughter, Angela Hidden (nee Smith). When she told me of her experiences of No. 7 during its final days as a home, I made a humble request that she write a blog of her experiences as a youngster to which she willingly agreed.

Angela Smith was born is 1955 and this blog relates to the period 1959 to 1962 when HB passed away. This is her story in her own words.

Main picture: No 7 Castle Hill in 1962

Continue reading

A SMAC in the Face #82:  DINOsaurus Rex

In the first weeks of his presidency Trump has been issuing executive orders at a faster rate than he lies and insults people.  Then again, most of his orders are actually vindicative insults in themselves and not only affect one person but millions worldwide.  Many are ultra vires but he doesn’t care.  SMAC has delved into this and come up with his own insult (not that he cares just like Melania who wore a jacket with that slogan during his last presidency).

Trump loves to insult people.  It somehow fuels his outsize ego as much as McDonald burgers with a side order of Diet Coke – hold the paper straws – sustains his outsize body.  In fact, he is an equal opportunity serial insulter who will even insult allies if they do not please him sufficiently.  One of his least vile insults was reserved for Republicans who were not fully onboard with his ‘T’ party, the MAGAhatters, was to call them RINOs – Republicans In Name Only. 

Well, he should be called a PINO – President In Name Only – particularly during his first term when he actually lost the popular vote by a significant amount.  Although he now managed to win the popular vote, largely due to Democratic Party ineptness rather than his own brilliance, he is still a PINO as there is nothing presidential about this gloating bully boy with his minions.  In fact, his second term could be referred to as Despicable Me 2.  But perhaps that’s not a good comparison as Gru turned out to be not so gruesome but a rather schmaltzy character, and his minions just a noisy, chucking rabble who are naughty rather than bad.

So, time to retire my PINO moniker and to introduce a new one – DINO – Democracy In Name Only.  It’s appropriate for him that the word, DEMOCRACY, has the vocalisation of MOCK embedded in it as this describes one of the greatest weapons in this bully boy’s thin-skinned armoury.  It’s his go-to attack weapon when defending one of his ill-conceived ideas (like Eric and Don jr – meow), or lies, or exaggerations, or etc.  His first presidency was a trial run for him, like a baby learning to walk.  This time around he’s locked and loaded and is not taking prisoners.  He had the support of millions of minions during his four years in the wilderness while he marinaded in his grievances.  They drew up a long list of actions that he could take legally, borderline legally and illegally to get into the Democrat’s and the Washington establishment’s faces.  Groups like Project 2025 created the poisonous cocktail with a 900 odd page how-to manual and Il Douche has added his sour twist of lemon in the form of petty and vengeful executive orders like renaming the Gulf of Mexico or withdrawing the security details of former top aides who didn’t totally bend to his will first time around.

He has surrounded himself with unqualified and unsuitable toadies and given free rein to a prat manchild to destroy the Federal system which he sees as responsible, not only for America’s ills, but his own legal misfortunes.

Giving him the full name of DINOsaurus Rex who would be king suits him insofar as much was made of his small hands during his 2016 presidential campaign and, although fearsome at the present, he will soon become just a footprint in history.

Running Repairs

N’ Boer Maak ‘n Plan (A farmer makes a plan)

In 1970 my elder brother, Dean, was the first in the family to experience the ‘pleasure’ of being called-up to do 9 months compulsory military service at 1 SA Infantry Training Battalion in Oudtshoorn. This was a milestone for the family as he was the first to enter the adult world of hard knocks. Being four years younger and in Standard 8 (grade 10), I was in awe of what he reported in his letters what the Army was like. Little did I know that I would have to serve two years National Service of which a year was spent kakking off on office’s course, 3 months longer than his entire national service. In mid-year he was due for the much awaited 7-day pass and Dad decided to make it a family outing by driving up to fetch him.
This was a great event and another milestone for the family. Apart from the odd day trips to van Stadens Pass or Gamtoos River mouth, Dad never ventured out of the Port Elizabeth area except for a weekend at Louterwater 200km away in the Langkloof. I was preschool at the time and Dad worked there building fruit packing sheds for roughly six months c1962 and he decided to fetch us for a short holiday there. We bunked in the basic dusty site huts for the weekend with Mom having to cook on a primus stove! Way to go Dad. You sure knew how to show a gal a good time. It was an excited bunch that set off in the 1966 Vauxhall Victor early on a Saturday hoping to arrive at Oudtshoorn 360km away at around midday. The excitement soon ebbed as we made our way along the long and deary Langkloof (long valley). Being still kids, Cheryl and I had not yet come to appreciate the stark Karoo landscape. The boredom was
occasionally relieved by tucking into ham and egg fart sandwiches. Midday was approaching and Oudtshoorn was approaching as we hit the final leg about 10-15km away.

A Vauxhall Victor c1966

Suddenly the engine started misfiring and the temperature climbed to nearly the red zone. Dad managed the situation by turning off the engine on the downhills, and then we would pop and bang our way up the next hill. The boring journey was turned on its head and Murphy sniggered in anticipation. With most businesses closing at 1 o’clock, we managed to get to Oudtshoorn and find a garage just in time – take that Murphy. They diagnosed that the spark was not advancing as the revs climbed. Further examination revealed that the governor weights of the centrifugal advance system were MIA – appropriate for a military town. By now the old South African witching hour, 1 o’clock, had arrived when everything apart from the corner café, sports, horse racing and Sunday church closed until Monday morning. This
was the long dark teatime of the soul in South Africa. The garage managed to source a new Vauxhall distributor – an amazing feat in a small town for an unpopular car – and agreed to work after 1 o’clock. Someone was dispatched to fetch Dean. Soon the car was good to go and go we did, happily. Murphy was crestfallen, but not down and out yet.

A Vauxhall distributor with the helical pinion on the right.

That was the end of Part 1 of the saga.

The return journey was an anti-climax as the car did not break down and Dean was soon asleep as most troepies soon perfected the art of falling asleep if no Corporal was around. The next Sunday the family piled into the car again and trundled off to Oudtshoorn. It was uneventful journey until mid afternoon on our return. Somewhere in the middle of the Langkloof the engine suddenly went silent and Dad freewheeled to a stop. He immediately suspected the distributor and checked for a spark. Nada! All the connections seemed fine and there was power to the distributor so he popped the cap off. Yep, the governor still seemed to be fine. After scratching his bald pate for a bit, he turned the engine by pulling on the fanbelt. The distributor looked at him and laughed and Murphy cackled. He pulled the
distributor out and, peering into the hole, he saw that the gear on the layshaft did not turn when he turned the engine. Inspecting the brand-new distributor, he found that the cotter pin fixing the helical drive pinion to the bottom of the shaft had sheared. Murphy guffawed. What to do?

Dad always kept a greasy box of random tools and bits and pieces in the boot. Rummaging around he found a mortice key whose shaft was roughly the diameter of the broken pin. He also found a broken hacksaw blade and proceeded to cut a pin of the right length. It fitted. Voila! Using a large shifting spanner as an anvil he peened the ends over with a hammer thereby fixing the pinion to the shaft. A little more fussing around and the distributor was refitted, the timing set and we were good to go.
That was the end of Part 2 of the Saga.

Who would have thought that a mortice key would constitute a spare part for a car?

Dad was justifiably proud of himself and nearly broke into song. It was too good to be true. 10 minutes later the engine gave us the silent treatment again. Dad knew exactly what to do and had the distributor out in a flash. What! His jury-rigged repair job still held. Sticking his finger in the hole again, he rotated the engine. Nada! The driving gear was not turning which could only mean that the timing chain had broken or worse. Murphy wet himself laughing.


That was the end of Part 3 of the Saga.


The rest was just endless hanging around waiting with a brief frisson for Dad and me. Luckily a car loaded with a family stopped to help and they managed to squeeze Mom and Cheryl in and take them home. Mom only got home that night and contacted Uncle Bryce who managed to locate a mechanic in Humansdorp who was prepared to come out to find us and tow us in. This took quite some doing to arrange it all as there were no cell phones let alone internet to check for available mechanics. Possibly Uncle Bryce phoned the police station there they asked around. I don’t know. Whatever method used worked as sometime near to midnight the mechanic pulled up and connected a 2.5m tow rope. That was scary as he put foot and dragged us the 30 to 50 kms to Humansdorp at high speed through the dark to where Uncle Bryce waited for us in Humansdorp. Dad and I returned the next Saturday with Uncle Bryce to pick up the car. But Murphy wasn’t done yet. The car served us well except for the time Dean allowed me, 16 at the time, to show off my driving to a girlfriend and the clutch linkage broke in the middle of the night on the Kragga Kamma Road near Cows Corner or the time that Dean and I and our partners accidently tried to burn the car up.

But those are stories for later.

Takeover

When Norman Crawford Smith was invited to join Metropolitan-Vickers in 1949 he could hardly believe his good luck. In his final year at U.C.T. many of his lectures were delivered by Prof. Goodlet. He was a brilliant man and an excellent teacher. When asked by a student how a particular operation was performed he would consider for a moment and then say that you could do it this way or that way “But at Metrovick we always did it this way”. (He had received much of his training and engineering experience at M-V) So he came to understand that as far as electrical engineering is concerned, Metro-Vick was the Rolls-Royce of the profession.

In this blog, Norman Crawford Smith opens a window on what life was like in the maelstrom of corporations where sometimes idiosyncratic management styles and behavior created resentment and anxiety.

Continue reading

International Relationships

At the end of his “brainwashing tour” for the Company in 1963 Norman Crawford Smith and his wife departed on their own own “Grand Tour of Europe“. They left London in an Air France aircraft and, after a smooth and uneventful flight, landed at Orly Airport just outside Paris. Cleared through Customs, they chartered a taxi to take them to their hotel. It was a “first” for both of them so they sat like a pair of country bumpkins, soaking up the passing scene.

Norman Smith provides a melange of episodes that comprise and define an overseas trip. Partly the issues that arise are a consequence of misunderstanding of different cultures but they can also arise due to not having a lingua franca.

Continue reading