JONATHAN JANSEN | A day in the life of a death campus

I was slightly on edge when I arrived at East London’s King Phalo Airport two Sundays ago. My two bodyguards were late as I stood in the freezing cold outside. The thought did run through my mind, would I meet Jesus today? Of course, my friends feel I am far too optimistic about the destination. 

Still, I had been a staunch critic of the callous and corrupt (allegedly), from the premier up, who are still hell-bent on destroying one of my favourite campuses, the historic University of Fort Hare (UFH). I have no doubt that these criminals knew my itinerary and popping off a professor would certainly not be the first time in recent history. After a few anxious calls, two huge bodyguards appeared. They were, as one would expect from burly men in black attire, the silent type. When I tried to start conversation on juicy subjects like politics or universities, one of them mumbled something while the other looked straight ahead.

I gave up trying to do small talk. The big, black Mercedes broke all the speed limits as we rushed towards the Hogsback mountains for my overnight stay before I was to keynote the Research Week of the beleaguered university that refused to bow down to the mob. I realised that in the Eastern Cape the traffic lights and the speed signs are only a rough guide to action, a suggestion in case you bothered.

The pattern was now familiar and terrifying: we would rush along at incredible speeds only to come to an almost complete stop out of respect for a pothole, then off again at lightning speed before the next hole in the ground. I was too nervous to ask about the shattered lines running across the windscreen, and how it happened.

I spent time working through the UFH research vision and policies. It was hopelessly too ambitious, I told my friends in leadership, when their primary task was to stay alive.

The ramshackle hotel in the otherwise beautiful Hogsback mountains would break the spirit of any Pollyanna. No hot water, no Wi-Fi (except in spotted places like the bar which closes at 8.30pm and where the only other companion was a lazy-looking dog), and horrible food. I could not sleep on the hard and uneven bed. And the locals decided to sing (howl, would be more accurate) around the bungalows till late that Sunday evening. By the early morning I had a headache and a sugary breakfast that would warm the heart of any diabetic. We leave at 7.30am, instructed the guards the previous night; by 7.40am they were still tucking into the saccharine-cum-breakfast as I sat outside my room with overnight case on the ready. 

We arrived on the Alice campus of the UFH, but none of the senior managers was in sight. Up and down the stairs. I peered into one of the offices where the man responsible for “assets” was leaning back in his chair on a Monday morning as if Christmas was already upon him. Eventually, my inviters appeared and complained about the lack of Wi-Fi because load-shedding happened earlier. We are in a rural university, said the dear friend who invited me, as if I did not know my geography or that most universities had a Plan B for these kinds of disruptions. But I did not say much because the bouncers-cum-bodyguards were all around us and I did not want to embarrass my friends. 

Off to have tea with the vice-chancellor and the deans before my talk. As we entered a beautiful building I was told the UFH students had burnt it down and it was only recently restored with insurance money. What struck me was the casual sharing of a catastrophic event; it sounded as normal as saying, “oh the students went on a field trip”. I then realised that the relentless assault on this university came from the inside as well as the outside. One of the criminals arrested for the murders of campus staff was a former SRC president.

Eventually, I was whisked off to the main venue for my talk. I tried to mask, unsuccessfully, an irritation. Why was I more than an hour late given the time stated on the programme? My colleagues in the Eastern Cape have found a way of wasting time, and in my speech I pointed to the effects this has on building a lively research culture and a productive research enterprise. It did not matter. The programme in the Eastern Cape, like the traffic rules, is a rough guide to action, a mere suggestion. The student choir sang (they were bloody good) and the audience erupted with grateful applause. Then the chairperson came on with a South Africanism: “another round of applause.” In my speech I made the point that if you did that 20 times, you would have wasted another hour or so.

I spent time working through the UFH research vision and policies. It was hopelessly too ambitious, I told my friends in leadership, when their primary task was to stay alive. Build strong undergraduate education, secure the campus, rebuild the university’s reputation, and design a much more realistic research plan. In other words, rethink your priorities around first principles of university management, making sure staff and students stay alive and thrive. 

I had hardly spoken when this week the university’s head of investigations and vetting (no shit) was arrested in connection with recent campus murders and attempted murders. I felt for the vice-chancellor and his leadership team. They are rebuilding a great university against all odds. But even they must realise that on their best days, they are sweeping porridge uphill.