In this further extract from the manuscript of former security policeman Paul Erasmus, he describes his experiences in then-South West Africa, where he did border duty working alongside Koevoet
ONE day, our group was given supposedly reliable information of a suspect “terr” weapons smuggling network, which was using sympathetic Ovambo long- distance drivers to convey weapons to Swapo members in Katatura township. The contact in the Operational Areas was an Ovambo woman, Rosavita, whose husband had been arrested in Windhoek.
We arrived at her kraal with the usual aplomb, driving through their mealie patch and the surrounding stockade. We identified Rosavita and dragged her kicking and screaming to the vehicle. Names were taken of all inhabitants and a likely looking candidate for a terr (young man, shifty eyes) was also arrested for good measure. A thorough search was made with the assistance of a minesweeping unit and personal belongings and the scanty foodstuffs were poured on to the ground.
My friend Buks and I took Rosavita into the veld. We had plans to combine business and pleasure over a braai, but started the interrogation over the ominipresent beers.
The suspect was unco-operative. After a few kicks and slaps, we established that her husband was the driver in question.
When did he last visit his kraal? Silence. More slaps and kicks, but still no answer. The suspect was dragged around and the top of her dress came off in the process, pendulous black breasts swinging as the blows rained down.
There was a long interchange in Ovambo between Johannes (my colleague) and Rosavita. This interpreting was a continual source of frustration, especially as good morning could take 10 minutes in their culture.
“This woman has a baby. She wants food for the child,” Johannes said.
“We better not kick or hit her any more, guys,” I said, not wanting to be confronted by a woman aborting her child in front of us. But other tactics, such as a burning brand in her face, threats and firing shots next to her ear, produced no results.
After enjoying our braai, with her watching, we returned to Oshakati and put Rosavita in a cell.
Colonel Meyer inquired about our progress. “Give this priority, Paul,” he said. I assured him we would spare no effort, having already decided that “Radio Moscow” (an electric generator) would produce the desired results. And, if she aborted, well, electrical current doesn’t leave marks.
I was sitting in the canteen that night when Johannes came to me. After a while I understood what he had been trying to say earlier in the day. Rosavita wasn’t pregnant, but already had a child. He wasn’t being lewd when pointing at her breasts earlier in the day, he was pointing out that she was lactating.
The following morning, we took Rosavita to her home to fetch the child. She immediately set about feeding and Johannes requested all the baby’s clothes, food, etc — what there was left, anyway, after our earlier search.
On the way back, I stopped for a while and we all climbed out. I pointed my rifle at the child and told Johannes to start asking questions. Even he was impressed by this particular bit of savagery, judging by the smile on his face.
No, her husband wasn’t involved with Swapo. No, she had never seen explosives or that weapon with the banana- shaped magazine. Yes, she had seen her husband three weeks ago. No, he didn’t have anybody with him … We got answers, but not the ones we wanted.
Back at Oshakati, we reported to Colonel Meyer and then set about acquainting Rosavita with Radio Moscow. Ear lobes and mouth, arm pit and toes, nipples and screams, but still no confirmation of what we wanted to hear.
At four o’clock, opening time in the canteen, we had a few beers and decided that the bitch was lying and we would settle her once and for all.
The next day, the same spinning of the Radio Moscow handle, the screams and the same answers. What did it take to break these people’s resolve? Johannes had a plan: insert the electrode into Rosavita’s vagina!
I laughed. Buks laughed. We all laughed. Johannes beamed. We were quiet and then the laughter began again, great gales of laughter rolling around the room.
But I balked at the idea. Me, a white South African, touch a black woman’s genitals! Buks obviously had the same reservations. I said to Johannes: “Well, I’m not doing it. If that’s what you want to do, then carry
Johannes produced a ruler and a piece of cloth. But Colonel Meyer walked in and, after a brief glance at what was going on, quickly looked away.
“There’s a message from head office in Windhoek. They’re driving up to fetch this suspect … See that the baby has food. And by the way, you can stop this business,” he said.