THE GREAT SEPTIC TANK SAGA

 A forgettable moment in Rhodesia’s history.

 Lewis Walter (Intaf)

The Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland was established, with much trumpeting, in 1953.  This set off waves of enthusiastic development aimed at the country’s future.  Waves which eventually, some years later, washed up on the shores of Rusape, a small town easily passed un-noticed on the road from Salisbury to Umtali.

Rusape rejoiced in a Town Management Board, which  immediately leaped into action.  Something momentous was needed to mark this historic event – and what more important than to replace the time honoured “Mafeking Mail” with a more modern sewerage system.  For the uninitiated, the so-called Mafeking Mail consisted of a wagon drawn by some long-suffering mules and manned by an enthusiastic and jolly crew of “Zambesi Boys” whose mission in life was, at about 3 a.m. daily, to travel down the sanitary lanes replacing soiled buckets with sparklingly fresh buckets for the next day.

A story, no doubt apocryphal, is that on one occasion the toilet was occupied.  “Morning Madam” called out the operative cheerfully as the buckets were deftly exchanged, and the cavalcade proceeded on its way.

But I digress.  The decision of the TMB was that by a certain date, all bucket systems were to be replaced by septic tanks.  This was enthusiastically hailed by residents of the town, and procedures immediately set in motion.  The government houses in the village were conveniently paired, and for reasons of economy it was decided that one septic tank would be provided to serve each pair of houses. In one case, the house of the Postmaster (Federal Government) was paired with the adjacent Native Department Mess (Territorial Government). Pits were dug, contracts entered into, and all proceeded well.

Proceeded well, that is, until some obscure minion in the Treasury discovered an equally obscure regulation which forbade the sharing of facilities between Federal and Territorial establishments, without high-level approval.  Clearly, it was unthinkable that the Postmaster (Federal) and the Native Department Mess (Territorial) should share the same septic tank. Letters were written, telegrams flashed, but to no avail – no valid reason could be found to override the regulation.

Stalemate.  However Rusape rejoiced in the presence of two diligent Members of Parliament – one Territorial and one Federal - who farmed in the area.  Messrs. Barrett and Straw if I remember correctly.   They became embroiled in the saga, and eventually in desperation unearthed funds which enabled the provision of two separate septic tanks – one FEDERAL and one TERRITORIAL – to serve the needs of the postmaster and those of the Native Department Mess.

The necessary motion was passed, and work resumed immediately.   Very shortly the TMB was able to host a reception to celebrate the completion of its project. 

The unthinkable had been averted  - Federal officials, who considered themselves superior, did not have to share a septic tank with Territorial officials.  And, more important, Territorial officials, who KNEW themselves to be superior, did not have to share with the Feds !

Native Department Mess, 1950s. 
Brian May on motorbike, and my dog Shumba in foreground

End

Thanks to Lewis for sharing his memories and photograph with ORAFs.

Comments are always welcome, please send them to Eddy Norris at orafs11@gmail.com

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The following comment received from Stephen Clarke exceeded the permissible amount of text allocated, therefore it is added as an addendum. Eddy Norris  

Stephen Clark (UJS, Chancellor, UBHS 1947-1955) Writes:-

The Septic Tank saga evoked happy memories for me.  Herewith a short reminiscence of my exploits as a six-year-old in Umtali [Mutare].

My sincere apologies for all those who suffered at the time....

The Mdenga Patrol

The story of the Rusape cesspit saga recalled a series of escapades of the 1940s, in which I played a unforgivable part.

Give idle times, idle minds are led to devious ways.  This applied no less to myself and my friend Ray, who oft-times found ourselves of an evening pondering what fun and games we could enjoy.  

Sometimes, fully armed for the quest,  we crept between the stilts underneath the wooden houses of old-time Umtali [Mutare].  These bricked stilts were built to lift the home above the level of marauding termites which might otherwise eat the entire house.  This left a large space underneath, for the full length of the house above.  It was usually neglected, dusty  and unthought-about.  Of an evening, an unsuspecting house-holder might be enjoying a quiet relaxation by the radio, perhaps, or even savouring an early evening meal.  Suddenly, through the floorboards, a heavy pounding would emanate upwards from the space below, rending the tranquillity.  This was done with the end of a broom handle, or somesuch implement.  It could induce firstly, panic, then howls of rage.  Frustration would soon follow, as we had long since escaped the wrath and indignation to hide behind a bush or wall out of range of the apoplectic resident we had disturbed.  We saw otherwise gentle folk jump up and down in torment.  Such hilarity!!

Tying a stone to a door knocker was, perhaps, the next daring exploit we undertook.  Pulling and releasing the string from behind a bush, etc, and then witnessing the perplexity of the innocent drawn to the door, late in the dusk, by this unexpected arrival at the front door.  A couple of turns at this would usually elicit howls of invective and an eon’s worth of threats and incantations to the Gods for the blood of the invisible oppressors.

As most of the roofing materials used in those days were a combination of wood and corrugated iron sheeting, what better orchestration could be found in the silent eventide than the combination of strategically hurled handfuls of gravel; tossed high into the sky, to fall and then roll, bounce and slide with horrendous noise into the guttering.

Oh, what fun we had!

But the most devastating prank of all was to watch for any unwary and discomforted soul who was forced under the cover of darkness, to visit the pikanini kyia [‘P.K.’ to all veterans] at the end of the garden.  The lane along the back gardens not only provided the route path for the ‘Zambesi Boys’ cited in Lewis Walter’s tale of Rusape.  But these lanes also provided the means of ambush for those digestively-challenged souls who nervously trod the darkened path.  Unbeknowingly, this path led straight to two small boys quivering with excitement and anticipation in the dark shadows beyond.  The sounds of occupation of these small premises were unmistakable….. The lifting of the latch, and the closing of the creaking door. The squeak of the rickety hinges on the seat above the squalid bucket and the thud as it was propped against the back wall.  The creak of the scrubbed board as the weight of the visitor was distributed upon it.  Maybe, came the sound of a sheet of paper being torn from the nail on the side.  Then, perhaps, a sigh of relief and anticipation might escape into the darkness and solitude of this haven of peace.  And then ….. 

TIME TO STRIKE!!!

Small hands grasped eagerly at the under edge of the hinged flap between the bucket and the lane.  Lifted as high as it would go, the flap was opened.  And then, with as much strength as could be applied, the hinged flap was hurled downwards against the back wall of the outhouse.  The resounding crash and concussion might well lift the unwary and enthroned captive several feet into the air, in surprise and shock!!  Shrieks of mirth emanated from the lane.  Then the hammering of feet on the pebbles as they sped away in a delirium of ecstatic fulfilment was all that this unfortunate, interrupted soul might hear as it sought to re-gather dignity and calm once again.  

What did we do without television?!

End

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Rob Burrett Writes:-
 This is one of the few remaining metal license disks on the little houses on the sanitary lanes in Suburbs, Bulawayo.

Ref. Rhodesia