Breaking bread with old enemies at our forgotten sites

I'VE been spending a lot of time in the company of terrorists.

To be accurate, however, they are ex-terrorists. Some referred to them as guerrillas and freedom fighters. Two weeks ago, I spent a night under the roof of one of these people in Mahikeng - that's how the old Mafikeng was spelt the last time I checked.

As I took my leave of Jerry Matsile the next morning, we shook hands, hugged and I said the strangest thing. To Matsile, I said: "Thank you for helping to make my children free."

It was an odd thing for me to say because it bordered on the schlitsy-schlop that I don't usually go for, but I meant it.

Matsile was an Umkhonto weSizwe commander who went into exile, was trained in East Germany and all over Africa.

He fought running battles with the apartheid government and Ian Smith's regime. Lord, the stories that man told me.

Matsile is a mild-mannered and charming 57-year-old whose emaciated frame bears testament to his being a cancer survivor. I was escorted to his home by an ex-MK soldier from Paarl called "Blaz" who fought under him. His real name - I had to wring it out of him - is Patrick Ricketts but everyone calls him "Blaz", and he calls everyone else "Blaz".

There was a brief time in the 1980s during which I would have been regarded as a hero by the Nationalists if I had shot either Blaz or Don - Matsile's MK nom de guerre. The Nats dragged my unwilling white ass into playing soldier-soldier on their behalf. Had either Don or Blaz killed me, they would have been lionised by the liberation movement. But there we were, all these years later, breaking bread in Mahikeng.

After we left Matsile, I asked Blaz what Don had done for a crust since democracy. He told me Matsile was a brigadier in the SAPS, who was in charge of border protection in North West. I thought that hilarious. "The poacher turned gamekeeper," I suggested to Blaz - we laughed some more.

The day before, Blaz introduced me to Rod Wilkinson, the draughtsman who blew up Koeberg, and did the man tell me stories.

As Blaz and I headed towards the Skilpadshek border gate, he pointed where he and a comrade, Thelo, had, in early 1990, been on a reconnaissance mission opposite a particular point we were driving past. "It was at night, of course, and suddenly Thelo pushed me to the ground. But there was a thorn bush between me and the ground, and I got an enormous thorn right in my bum. I couldn't scream because Thelo had spotted cars on a dirt road without lights on that were searching for us."

In Lobatse I met Thelo, a Botswana national and MK vet. Blaz and Thelo showed me historically significant sites, which nobody outside of "the movement" of a certain age knows about.

We rushed around meeting people and scouting struggle sites until, as night fell on a hot day, we retired to a scruffy bar to have a beer. While seated on the back of Thelo's truck, I had a beer and wished that I could share this brilliant African evening with them over several more.

In the gathering gloaming I ruminated about an amazing day spent in the company of terrorists - white, coloured and African - who had opened their hearts and memories to me.

I remembered the bewildered, scared troepie who was supposed to fight against these communist demons all those years ago - the same devils, who are middle-aged proud fathers, are now my friends.

I thought to myself, as I wrote a couple of weeks ago: I really do have the greatest job in the whole wide world ever, ever, ever.

It will soon be a new year. We all have troubles and our country keeps getting deeper into the dwang, but it's the only one we've got. Let's make the next a year of renewed investment in this, the world's most remarkable country and reach out to each other.

Let's make those terrorists feel that their struggle was worth it. Oh dear, I must be getting old. That does seem a bit like schlitsy-schlop, doesn't it?

Here's wishing you a happy, blessed and safe Christmas.