Robert the Westie. My life. By me.

8. Into the nineties. A hero and a villain.

So entry into 1990 saw me adjusting to the new nuances of my reformatted family. Only one nuance gave me any grief. The New Forest cottage disappeared from the agenda, passed across to Danny as part of what Steve termed the "divorce settlement". That apart, it was a year of relative domestic stability that contrasted dramatically with events occurring elsewhere in the world. Two particular moments resonated in our lives. They both originated in that strange otherworld of politics.  

As you will have gathered, Steve's political instincts were essentially liberal, instinctively subversive and definitely anti-fascist. Unsurprisingly, then, he was no fan of the principle of racial separation practiced in South Africa. This policy, called "Apartheid", seemed to him completely iniquitous. I, of course, had no idea what it all meant until the day in early February of the release of an imprisoned former agitator, Nelson Mandela.  

Originally a lawyer from the Transkei homeland and a high-profile campaigner against the doctrine, he had been convicted of treason and sabotage in June 1964. Sentenced to life imprisonment, his incarceration had lasted for more than 27 years. As the news bulletins on television revealed, here was someone who really could justify a deep-rooted bitterness and antagonism towards those who had wrecked his life in defence of their repressive social system. 

Steve said exactly that. Jason agreed with him. But the impression I received from the scenes on the television was of someone who had graduated to a state of mind far beyond vindictiveness. There he stood at the gates of Victor-Verster Prison in Paarl with his then wife, Winnie. Holding her hand, wearing a light brown suit and tie, he smiled at the cheering throng and punched the air in a victory salute before being driven away in a silver BMW sedan to Cape Town, 40 miles away.  

The scene cut to crowds of people dancing in the streets across the country and then to the thousands waiting his arrival at a rally in Cape Town. Four hours later he had appeared on the balcony of Cape Town's City Hall to address a crowd by then swollen to more than 50,000. As he delivered his speech to the enthusiastic crowd, South African state television broadcast a profile of Mandela. This was, of course, the first time he had been shown speaking on TV. That option had not existed at the time of his imprisonment. 

"My God, that makes you think, Steve exclaimed. "He has been in jail for more than three-quarters of my life, more than all of yours, Jason and more than twice your whole life expectancy, Robert."  

How typical of Steve to include me in his mathematical analysis! 

"He is now seventy-one years old. His life has been destroyed, but here he is calmly discussing a future full of hope for his nation and for the repressed black population. If only the world had a few more politicians of his caliber, maybe it truly would be a better place." 

It came as no surprise to me that Steve announced a few days later that he wanted to go to South Africa and experience for himself the sense of hope and liberation that this event had unleashed. Something in his nature always drew him to the big events of the time. It's the same instinct that took him to Russia, China, Cambodia and Vietnam in subsequent years. Anyway, three weeks later, he and Jason deposited me at a kennels in the New Forest and jumped on a plane to Cape Town.  

I was uncertain how to feel about being deserted in this way. Although Steve had left me behind on his travels before, there had always been a Danny or a Jason to keep me company, inadequate replacements though they were, of course. Steve had told Jason that I would benefit from the company of fellow doggies. I was intrigued and inclined to agree that the ability to play silly games with my own kind might indeed make a pleasant change. I decided not to be difficult and treat the whole experience as an adventure. 

"Don't worry Robert. We'll be back even before you begin to miss us," he called over his shoulder as he returned the car.  

The lady who would take care of me for the next ten days, Mrs. French who, going on Steve's briefing on the way down, was apparently German, patted me in a reassuring way that made me even more nervous for my disappearing master. South Africa was too far away for me to feel confident of the welfare of my master. The news programmes on Africa itself always painted anything but a comforting picture. Poverty everywhere, repetitive famines and crop failures, corrupt politicians in ill-fitting suits perspiring profusely over their often ape-like features. Well, I wondered, had anyone actually designed Africa for human habitation?