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.

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.

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.