REMINISCENCES OF ROB PIENAAR

Growing up at 28 Nicholson Street in Pretoria there was a huge Mulberry tree on the South West side of the house which, at this time of the year, would more often than not find me and my long-time friend and then neighbor Rob Pienaar high up in its branches literally stuffing ourselves with its sweet black fruit, and much to the consternation of our mothers, getting our clothes horribly stained with the unavoidable juice of the ripe fruit. 

A few days ago I was busy picking mulberries off the tree at the bottom of our Bathurst garden and was obliged to spend some quality time with Rob, casting my mind back and remembering those childhood days along with a great many others that we shared over the years. Rob is no longer with us, having taken leave of this mortal coil a little over a year ago, almost exactly two years to the day after he was diagnosed with incurable bone cancer.  

The last time that I saw Rob was about three weeks before that fateful diagnosis when we met at the Himeville Inn late on the evening of the 14th August 2016 with a view to tackling the Sani Pass the next day and spending a couple of days thereafter traveling through Lesotho before heading our separate ways back to the daily drudge.

Rob with his trusty Landy half way up the pass (Annie was behind the wheel going for her Sani ticket)

Earlier that year Rob, Peter Davidson, Sean Lance and Donald Kennedy had all very kindly made the trek to Cape Town to help me celebrate my 70th along with a whole bunch of other good people, and at my son Caradoc’s bequest Rob took up where he left off after his speech as my best man at our wedding almost 50 years earlier and said a few well chosen words littered with reminiscences. 

Annie, Rob and Pat at the 'Highest Pub in Africa'

Himeville and Lesotho were different. There, over a couple of extended dinners, and over lunch and drinks at the Highest Pub in Africa, we played prolonged games of “when we” - reminiscing about the times exploring the then wild and wooly stretch of river that is now Magnolia Dell - re-enacting the Tarzan legend until it literally became a part of our personas - dressing up as Knights of the Round Table and jousting with broom sticks until one of us inevitably got hurt, and jumping our bikes over barrel ramps - again until one of us had an accident and plasters had to be found. Nights when we would sneak out of our parents’ houses and go and play Tok-Tokkie, happily riling the neighbors to the point of having some of them appear at their doors with pistols.

We remembered when we each got our Fiat 850’s within a few days of each other sometime in ’67 or early ’68, and the camping trips we took with Pat and Laura up to the then newly opened Blyde Rivier Dam, the Canyon, and a host of other obscure but very beautiful Eastern Transvaal spots ……….. driving roads in those little cars that today we would think twice about doing in our respective 4x4’s.

We talked about our times in the UK - our trips down to Devon and Cornwall, the walks on the rocks and beaches around Polperro - the shows we took in and the pubs we visited during that period of our lives in London. A lot of great memories.

Then from around 1977 through to about 2013 ……………… nothing! We lost touch until fate had us searching for each other on social media and seemingly finding each other literally within hours of starting the search. The rest is recent history.

Rob visited us in Cape Town thereafter on a couple of occasions, and plans were made to get together for various overlanding trips, but somehow work always seemed to get in the way until we were able to hook up briefly for the Lesotho time together.

Our move to Bathurst in May of 2018 sparked a new barrage of plans for him to come down and visit a part of the world he had never seen, and it was at his funeral that Laura mentioned to me that he had apparently booked a flight to PE just a couple of days before his passing - confiding to her that his plan was to hire a car and surprise us before carrying on down to Stellenbosch for his Granddaughter’s christening. 

Alas - this was not to be. On Sunday the 9th September Rob’s sister Louise called me to tell me that Rob was gone. In his inimitable style he quietly unloaded his coil at his flat on the Thursday before. No notes, no names, no packdrill. I had spoken with him just a little over a week before and had been given no inkling of any intentions in this regard ………….. but we had often discussed the possibility of an exit action should things approach limits beyond our control. Well done Rob, I only hope that I am able to muster the kind of courage you have displayed when I reach that stage. Whichever road it is that you are travelling, ENJOY! I remember you oh so well.