I was a reluctant soldier, and a very bad one. I spent several months in 1979 in Oshakati, the Owambo capital, and one of the things I learnt there was that dagga did a lot to smooth the rough edges that came with the sandbagged drudgery of national service.
One Saturday morning, quite stoned, I left the base and strolled off to the post office. It was a risky thing to do. Firstly, the place was out of bounds to conscripts, something to do with the public phones. There was a great fear that, first chance we got, we'd be telling our parents and girlfriends all sorts of details about troop movements and the next moment the Cubans would be in Pretoria.
What got me into trouble, though, was the Hawaiian shirt. The hibiscus print had a little louche something and offset the faded brown fatigue trousers and open sandals rather well, I thought.
Anyway, leaving the post office, a toppie in a safari suit stopped to chat with me. He seemed a bit too friendly though, and I was a little worried when he followed me at a distance as I drifted back to the base. It turned out he wasn't some sort of sex pest, as I feared, but the battalion commander, which was much worse.
Later, during punishment drill -- dragging a gun carriage around the place for the afternoon -- it dawned on me that when I'd been asked, back at the post office, where I was from, the toppie meant which military unit -- and not, it seemed, my home town. Little wonder, then, that he didn't press me for details on the bright lights and splendid attractions of Randburg.
I mention all this because, unlike the regulars here at the Mahogany Ridge, I was not that outraged when the SA Air Force's Lieutenant-Colonel Ruth Ndayi was photographed shopping in a Pretoria mall earlier this year wearing her military uniform but with shocking pink slippers.