against smallpox, which was then in its dying days worldwide. I was also a volunteer at the local blood bank, which she managed, and spent many happy evenings taking a pint from members of the local population.
Following my dream of working in the field of medical research, I applied to the University of the Witwatersrand Medical School. To my great joy, I was accepted, and I obtained an Ernest Oppenheimer Memorial Trust Scholarship based on my matric results.
In February 1967, my mother dropped me at the residence to which I had been accepted, and I set about settling into my studies. My years of hard work were going to start paying off: I was about to climb the first rung of my ladder to success – or so I thought.
CHAPTER 2
A SCHOLAR AND A GENTLEMAN
‘Men are four:
He who knows, and knows that he knows.
He is wise, follow him.
He who knows, and knows not that he knows.
He is asleep, wake him.
He who knows not, and knows that he knows not.
He is a child, teach him.
He who knows not, and knows not that he knows not.
He is a fool, shun him.’
– ARABIAN PROVERB
Residence at Wits University in Johannesburg was awful. First-year students were ‘initiated’, and the hard-drinking louts who headed up the student hierarchy ensured that the treatment of first-years was crude and largely inane.
One evening – which happened to be just before an important class test in zoology – we were taken to meet Phineas, the residence mascot. We were blindfolded and led along the rocky bed of one ofthe tributaries of the Braamfontein Spruit. After meeting Phineas at about 1.30 a.m., we were loaded onto a bakkie, soaked to the skin and, still blindfolded, dropped off somewhere on the western side of the city.
I was wet and cold and completely lost. All I could recognise was the Brixton Tower in the distance, so I made my way towards it. Once there, I ran the few kilometres to the university and, when I arrived in my room, found that my bed had been dragged out and soaked with a firehose. Needless to say, I didn’t get much sleep that night.
My mother fell ill a month or two later, and, unbeknown to me, was taken to a sanatorium in Sandringham. She had been diagnosed with depression and was receiving electroconvulsive therapy – shock treatment. She was at death’s door: the ‘depression’ had been caused by the fact that she was really ill, having suffered a heart attack, a fact that the doctors had completely missed. The ability of her heart to pump blood had been severely affected. The anaesthetic that was being administered to her at the sanatorium as part of the therapy was causing rapid deterioration. The psychiatric oaf who administered the shock therapy had failed to note all the clinical signs of real and extreme illness, and my mother developed severe pneumonia in the sanatorium, which was also not diagnosed. She was dying.
Meanwhile, I was being subjected to the boorish rituals of initiation, and was not enjoying life in residence. I was struggling to deal with the university work, and my mother’s illness was constantly on my mind. Matters came to a head one day when I forgot to do telephone duty, as I had been to see my mother. I was hauled over the coals by the residence committee chairman, who demanded that I kneel down before him and apologise in front of everybody. Something snapped inside me, and I let him have every four-letter expletive in my vocabulary (a considerable number, as I had attended a church school).
I decided to leave residence and managed to find digs nearthe Park Lane Clinic in Johannesburg. It was a dingy little room at the back of a house, and my landlady spoke no English, only French – communication was difficult. After she found out that I liked kippers for breakfast, I had them every day!
The situation was really not conducive to studying. I was miserable, and decided to drop out of university, go home and start again somewhere else when I could find the strength. I went to say
Following my dream of working in the field of medical research, I applied to the University of the Witwatersrand Medical School. To my great joy, I was accepted, and I obtained an Ernest Oppenheimer Memorial Trust Scholarship based on my matric results.
In February 1967, my mother dropped me at the residence to which I had been accepted, and I set about settling into my studies. My years of hard work were going to start paying off: I was about to climb the first rung of my ladder to success – or so I thought.
CHAPTER 2
A SCHOLAR AND A GENTLEMAN
‘Men are four:
He who knows, and knows that he knows.
He is wise, follow him.
He who knows, and knows not that he knows.
He is asleep, wake him.
He who knows not, and knows that he knows not.
He is a child, teach him.
He who knows not, and knows not that he knows not.
He is a fool, shun him.’
– ARABIAN PROVERB
Residence at Wits University in Johannesburg was awful. First-year students were ‘initiated’, and the hard-drinking louts who headed up the student hierarchy ensured that the treatment of first-years was crude and largely inane.
One evening – which happened to be just before an important class test in zoology – we were taken to meet Phineas, the residence mascot. We were blindfolded and led along the rocky bed of one ofthe tributaries of the Braamfontein Spruit. After meeting Phineas at about 1.30 a.m., we were loaded onto a bakkie, soaked to the skin and, still blindfolded, dropped off somewhere on the western side of the city.
I was wet and cold and completely lost. All I could recognise was the Brixton Tower in the distance, so I made my way towards it. Once there, I ran the few kilometres to the university and, when I arrived in my room, found that my bed had been dragged out and soaked with a firehose. Needless to say, I didn’t get much sleep that night.
My mother fell ill a month or two later, and, unbeknown to me, was taken to a sanatorium in Sandringham. She had been diagnosed with depression and was receiving electroconvulsive therapy – shock treatment. She was at death’s door: the ‘depression’ had been caused by the fact that she was really ill, having suffered a heart attack, a fact that the doctors had completely missed. The ability of her heart to pump blood had been severely affected. The anaesthetic that was being administered to her at the sanatorium as part of the therapy was causing rapid deterioration. The psychiatric oaf who administered the shock therapy had failed to note all the clinical signs of real and extreme illness, and my mother developed severe pneumonia in the sanatorium, which was also not diagnosed. She was dying.
Meanwhile, I was being subjected to the boorish rituals of initiation, and was not enjoying life in residence. I was struggling to deal with the university work, and my mother’s illness was constantly on my mind. Matters came to a head one day when I forgot to do telephone duty, as I had been to see my mother. I was hauled over the coals by the residence committee chairman, who demanded that I kneel down before him and apologise in front of everybody. Something snapped inside me, and I let him have every four-letter expletive in my vocabulary (a considerable number, as I had attended a church school).
I decided to leave residence and managed to find digs nearthe Park Lane Clinic in Johannesburg. It was a dingy little room at the back of a house, and my landlady spoke no English, only French – communication was difficult. After she found out that I liked kippers for breakfast, I had them every day!
The situation was really not conducive to studying. I was miserable, and decided to drop out of university, go home and start again somewhere else when I could find the strength. I went to say
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