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REFLECTIONS OF A TEENAGE BOARDER: Capricorn High School 1972-1976

GREETINGS FROM SOUTH AFRICA!
MAXMOM here...

Hello there everybody!

This blogpost is specially dedicated to my VERY old schoolmates of

CAPRICORN HIGH SCHOOL

(Class of 1976 - and anyone else who may be interested)

Enjoy!

---xXx---

REFLECTIONS OF A TEENAGE BOARDER by Caryl Moll (nee Pohl)

They were five years of my life. Only five! But they are years filled with distinct images of teenage confusion. Now, 35 years later, my own children have grown up too. South Africa was very different in those days, but I can still recall them as if they were yesterday. While our country was slowly transforming within a larger political framework, well beyond our school borders, we, in childish naivety, were focussed on what was inside the school’s gates. It was a protected world within a unique culture. It was boarding school!

The year was 1972 and I was preparing for my own transition to Capricorn High School – an English medium boarding school, a good hour’s drive from my home town. It was the first time I was going to leave home and it was daunting. I was about to join a few hundred of my classmates, in dormitories, behind closed bars, to receive my education. I was terrified.

Someone once told my mother, ‘It’s not a school! You have to understand,

Capricorn is a way of life!’

Yeah, that person was right. The school did, most certainly, shape me during those years. The most prominent emotion I remember, in that first year, was a desperate need to be accepted. In all honesty, I hated school. But I have to admit that there are many memories which I treasure. They are part of my identity, who I was, who I became, who I am today. And yes, I do indeed feel blessed to have been part of that unique community. We shared some awesome moments.

HOSTEL LIFE

It was the homesickness that hit me first – a desperate feeling of isolation, when your parents drop you off at the entrance to your hostel, with all your suitcases. The dormitory was equally daunting – noisy, with the excitement of screaming teenagers. But behind those faces, lay a mask of nervousness and the dim reminder of our reality. This was going to be our home for the next five years. I suspect we all shared similar angst: – “How am I going to make friends? Will I be accepted? Will I survive the dreaded initiation?” My tuck box at the bottom on my locker quickly became my security. It was a reminder of the life outside those walls – a treasured bit of home.

Our lockers were supposedly our personal space – a secure zone, until ‘inspection times’. Each day, at a certain time – decided upon by a formidable prefect – our lockers were thrown open and rudely inspected. If we were to escape this intrusion, they had to be neat and tidy. Either that or we would lay ourselves open to regular scrutiny, with an occasional ‘order mark’ throw in. If you collected enough order marks, you were doomed to forfeit a precious weekend at home. Some of us did our best to keep up the standard.

Those first few months in boarding school were a baptism of fire. We had to adhere to strict protocol and try to fit in to the boarding school community. We had to learn all the prefects’ names, do various ‘skivvy’ work for them and make fools of ourselves in the initiation period. Our hair had to be tied up in pigtails, positioned precariously, above our ears, no matter how short our hair was. As if this wasn’t enough, we were forced to wear large nametags on our chests and our precious new blazers had to be worn inside out. There was no margin for error. It was important to become ‘cool’ and gain a measure of acceptance – quickly. It didn’t help me, in the least, to earn the nickname of ‘RAW’ for my silly, stupid jokes on my first day in standard 6. My coping mechanism had somehow backfired on me.

No, the way to acceptance was to either model the latest fashions or be good on the sports field. Sports heroes were at a distinct advantage. My own restricted budget forced me onto the sports field and I timidly persevered to try and smile through some of the torture. I had to work towards acceptance if I were to survive the 5 years ahead.

Those were our teenage years – when a few hundred young people, all battling hormones, charted a path to the opposite sex. The way to a guy’s heart, us girls soon discovered, was not through his stomach (although I did occasionally part with one or two prized tuck-box items), but rather by demonstrating our personal skill at sewing on buttons, or making other repairs to their clothing. Somehow, a shirt, or a pair of trousers, often landed in our laps to repair – as a test of our ability as prospective girlfriends for some of the hopeful guys in another hostel. Yes, gender stereotypes were rife! If you were lucky and it all went well, your reward was the unique privilege of having your suitcase carried to and from school each day by a suitor. Both of you, however, would eagerly awaited ‘that first kiss’.

The ‘going out’ couples, relegated to the back row of the movies, in the school hall on a Saturday night, were envied by many of us. They however probably shared a different angst as they constantly suffered the scrutiny of teachers and fellow pupils. Usually they’d rather wait for their chance at intimacy by sneaking under the trees after the movie, to whisper sweet nothings and share a thing or two. We watched them closely and eventually joined them as we got older and learned the ropes.

The first sign of a pending link-up was the school suitcase. A boy carrying a girl’s suitcase was a dead give-away. A ‘St. Christopher’ around his neck indicated that the deal was sealed. They were a couple. ‘Going out’! Hands off!

Valentine’s day, was particularly cruel, as we all waited eagerly, in the dining room, after supper, to see if we were one of the lucky recipients of a treasured Valentine card. It was a tense time. Would I ever get one? I did receive a single card during those tender years – as an awkward joke between two boys who had taken a bet with each other about my response. Most often, though, the piles of cards were reserved for one or two of the popular girls. The rest of us were forced to watch their blushing glee.

Our meals, however, were memorable – the distinctive smell of cabbage and rice… or fish, on Fridays. Besides that, it was bread, bread and more bread! Sometimes we were treated to French toast, or powdered scrambled eggs. Inevitably, pupils brought their own condiments. On one occasion, I brought a whole 4kg cheese round and suddenly discovered its magic – I had a stream of instant friends. Together, the group polished the whole thing off after supper one night, in one sitting – all 4 kgs of it! My parents were horrified.

(Rosemary Alport and Joan Armstrong)

But everyone was always hungry. Occasionally, we’d steal bread from the kitchen and have a midnight-feast of ‘toast’ and marmite, using hot irons as make-shift toasters. Or we’d stir up mixtures of powdered milk, instant coffee and sugar in our rustic mugs and savour the slimy texture as we brooded over our textbooks. Occasionally, some brave soul would bunk out of the school grounds, to the local café, to buy a feast. The rest of us waited expectantly at the gates for them to return – armed with a stream of excuses if a teacher happened to enquire.

On arrival back from holidays, we were always met with the stomach lurching smell of starched sheets and antiseptically scrubbed bathrooms. We huddled together – all ten of us in a dormitory – as we chatted away, well into the night, sharing stories of holiday romances and anecdotes. Usually, one or two of us got ‘order marks’ on those first nights back at school, for our infringement of the ‘silence’ rule, but it usually didn’t curb our muttering.

There was nothing to beat the stringent timetable of Mitchell house though. The strict routine was a clearly disguised attempt, by management, to divert our potential delinquent behaviour to more acceptable past-times. Somehow, they had to make a plan to keep us all out of trouble. Generally, it worked. If not, then the threat of getting into trouble and losing out on precious weekends, at home, was a strong deterrent.

The old slave bell, in the courtyard at Mitchell house, constantly kept us up-to-date with our timetable. Prefects were always on duty to ensure its strict regime. Sometimes, however, they’d get their skivvies (slaves) to help them out.

6am Wake-up bell. Scramble out of bed, brush teeth, put on your school uniform and shoes, pack your books, brush your hair, tidy your locker and quickly check yourself in your little locker mirror. When that was finished, you’d retrieve your washing (already washed the night before) and take it out to the wash lines. On winter mornings, your fingers would freeze up in your effort to get the pegs on the line.

6.30am: First warning bell – Breakfast. Everything had to be ready before you ran to line up at the dining room.

6.35am: Second warning bell – order marks! Stragglers were quickly corrected.

The day would start with a quick ‘grace’ in the dining room while we stared, open eyed, at the closed lids of the food on our tables. Once that was over, it was free-for-all. Porridge, eggs in a basin of oil and cold toast. (No wonder our diets always failed. If you wanted to lose weight, you’d simply had to stop eating anything)

6.55am Dormitory and locker inspection. A parade of prefects ensured that everything was up to standard.

7.00am First warning bell – school. At this stage you started thinking about your tests and the academic school day ahead.

7.05am Second warning bell – order marks! You should have been out of the hostel by now.

7.10am: More order marks…for the stragglers. (Remember, three order marks during the week and you were gated for a weekend, serious stuff! I heard that the record was 15, although I stand to correction)

7.30am The school day starts.

* First lesson of the day – Mathematics, with Mr Cedric van Duyn (who always wore his academic gown and would remind us about our need to concentrate by writing ‘T-H-I-M-K!’ on the chalkboard)

* If we were unlucky, the second lesson was swimming, with Miss Lavers, who took great pains to become our gynaecological monitor. Her little black book was always present, in which she recorded the times when girls excused themselves from the lesson. Beware! She was on to you, if you happened to excuse yourself more than twice in a 28day cycle!

* Swimming was followed by our History lesson, with Mr Hohmann, also in his academic gown. He displayed never-ending horror when his pupils slunk towards their desks still dripping with water. “RATS! DROWNED RATS!” he screamed. If this didn’t help his ruffled demeanour, then we’d have to duck flying chalk dusters. I was petrified of him and elected to drop History as a subject at the earliest opportunity.

(Stuart Christie and...?)

* Our flamboyant Mr Marais took our accounting classes. He also loved his academic gown. What was with the academic gowns?

(Michael Hamilton and ...?)

9.30am First break: By this stage, we were all starving again and would rush to line up for our sandwiches in the courtyard. These were laid out, in front of us, on two large aluminium trays, piled high and precariously balanced. (We really envied those day scholars with their inviting lunch boxes.) Ours usually consisted of peanut-butter & syrup sandwiches, or jam sandwiches, or ‘make-shift’ anchovy-paste sandwiches. The latter left us smelling of fish for the rest of the day. The unlucky ones who had lost out on food during break, smelt good for the rest of the day.

13h00 End of school. Time to rush back to the hostel and our dormitories, before lunch

13h25 Lunch bell. I don’t remember any warning bells – I was too starved to notice.

13h55 End of lunch

14h00 Rest period. This was very important – a half an hour of silence, while everyone rested on their beds – always under the watchful eye of a prefect.

14h25 Sports time. This was our opportunity to get out of our dormitories and make our mark on the sports field - if we had any talent in the field. Athletics, Swimming, Netball, Tennis, Cross country, Shooting, The School cadet band, etc.

The sound of loud hailers could be heard across the grounds, throughout the afternoon as Mr Malcolm Wallace got his athletics team up to scratch, and the smokers watched with disdain from behind the cafeteria building. The school had a lot of pride and we were tasked with keeping its name elevated in the upper ranks of the school athletic circuit.

Our Tennis Team:

Back row standing: Mrs Mathey, Peppie Brummer, Michael Mathey, Andre Volbrecht, Sharon Donnelly, Michelle Mathey, Kim Jackson, Marco Francesconi (deceased),

Middle: Lee-ann and Cheryl Hawken,

Front: ..Hawken and Russell Mathey0)

14h35 Second warning bell – order marks! Those who weren't sports orientated had to find something to do – outside the dormitories!

16h00 Call to enter dormitories again. This was our opportunity to catch up with our dirty washing, ironing, tidying and cleaning…or catching up on the gossip of the day. “Did you know that … was caught smoking? He’ll probably have a shaved head by tomorrow morning,” we giggled.

16h30 Time to scramble for showers. It was a busy, noisy time of the day, where girls strutted around naked in their shower caps and shared razor blades. The gossip continued.

17h55 Supper – first warning bell. Many of us would ignore this, to catch the last of the episode of ‘Jet Jungle’ on our transistor radios. We were riveted.

18h00 Supper – second warning bell. Order marks! After supper we’d rush back to our dormitories to collect our school books.

18h30 Prep/study time – first warning bell

18h35 Prep/study time – second warning bell. We’d all make our way to the prep hall…very reluctantly.

19h30 Five minutes break – coffee time and an opportunity to queue for the single ticky-box to make our phone calls to our loved ones. (Yes, the age of cell phones hadn’t yet arrived! Our modern kids don’t know how lucky they are!)

20h30 Prep over, back to dormitories to get ready for bed.

20h45 Quiet time! And this meant….SILENCE!

Most kids read their bibles, (or penny-horribles under their blankets) Some of us continued to catch up on gossip.

20h50 First warning bell. Why, on earth did we need a warning bell? Afterall, we were all already in bed and silent anyway? Well, most of us were…

20h55 Second warning bell.

21h00 Lights out! Finally, the opportunity to plan our midnight feasts and to keep lookout for the give-away shadow of the prefect trying to catch us out.

In the morning, the whole 24 hour cycle would start again.

Those years, though, were impressionable years. They were all about participation, organisation and deviancy. It was a time of ‘Bell bottoms’ and David Bowie, of ironing pleats into our uniforms, of polishing shoes and attending weekend first team rugby matches.

For me, it was also a time for tennis and short skirts and wondering why we always had boys watching our matches. They were times of angst about swimming galas and athletics trials, carrying prefects’ suitcases and learning their names... And singing those ridiculous nursery rhymes to the matrics! They were times of being creative with excuses, going on diet and thinking about boys. They were times of practicing for music exams on derelict pianos and bearing the brunt of jokes. It was also a time of humour - as I watched in fascination as a group of matrics carefully lifted and placed a teacher’s car on the elevated corridor outside the classrooms. Wow, those boys were strong!

The memories of those years are also filled with a measure of academic pride. Our team, (in our matric year), won the prestigious ‘Business Game’ title, making more than R2million profit. Sadly, we couldn’t keep the fictitious cash.  What a disappointment! 

And then there were the memories of the guilt I felt, on Friday afternoons, as I waved goodbye to my ‘Gated buddies’ who were crouching over stubborn weeds, as punishment for their infringements during the week. I really felt sorry for them. And yes…I also experienced my first love, my first heartbreak and my first spiritual lesson.

(Final Valediction parade 1976)

But it was the rustle of the plane trees in early spring and their sticky pods that stuck to my school shoes, that gives me the most pleasure. Those beautiful trees and their musical leaves, heralded in my long awaited Christmas holiday. I would put my carefully packed suitcases under them and sit on them - waiting for my parents’ car to finally arrive and transport me away from all this – to the comforting sounds of the wild and the sanctuary of my family’s farm.

---xXx---



Sending lotsaluv to you all and hoping that you, too, will share your memories.

Caryl a.k.a. "MAXMOM IN SOUTH AFRICA"