34. The border crossing at Beitbridge - a small step for mankind - a giant leap for The Chequers.

For the Chequers to get into South Africa we needed proof that we had a job to go to, written proof in the form of a signed contract.

If we turned up at Beitbridge, the South African border post, in a van filled with musical equipment on the pretext that we were five guys going on holiday, they’d say “On your bike”, or in our case, “van”...or the equivalent in Afrikaans, "Op jou fiets".  We needed a signed contract from a hotel or club – but without an agent – we had failed dismally in our attempt to secure Don Hughes – it was going to be difficult if not impossible. We were in a desperate situation and desperate situations call for desperate measures.

The solution when we finally came up with it was as simple as it was clever. I would even go so far as saying it was ‘ingenious’.

Enter stand up comedian, Billy Crauser, who would become our manager.

Billy lived in South Africa. We contacted Billy, told him of our contract dilemma and made our request. Within a week a large manila envelope dropped through the letter box at 146 Victory Avenue... and within a month ‘The Chequers’ had turned pro, left the Rhodesian side of Beit Bridge and were driving across the Limpopo River in our VW Combi van packed with instruments and suitcases to the South African Border Post.  Drawn on the side of the van in pink lipstick was a gigantic pair of boobs inscribed with the words ‘Cape Town or Bust’...we thought our ‘take’ on the phrase was hilarious...not everyone was to share our sense of humour. 

Unfortunately turning ‘pro’ meant a change in the line-up. Hodge who was in his final year at university decided, to our complete horror and utter disbelief, to put his education before rock music and continue  with his studies. This left us having to find a last minute replacement. Frankie Brennan didn’t actually fit in with the rest of the group, for one thing he was older, but he played lead guitar was prepared to give up his day job and throw his lot in with The Chequers. Without a lead guitarist the Chequers weren’t going anywhere so Frankie was welcomed into the fold.

Back to Beit Bridge...  

Jack, Mac, Lea and I together with new band member, Frankie, drove across the Limpopo clutching our passports and a signed contract for a three month residency at the certain South African hotel and pulled into the parking lot outside the South African Border post. 

I better explain how we managed to secure the contract. Billy Crauser had manage to get his hands on a half dozen sheets of headed note paper from a certain South African Hotel which he posted up to us. We then typed out a contract on the letter-headed paper stipulating pay, work times, food and board and other clauses we thought added authenticity to the contract, such as the standard of behaviour the hotel expected from us and so forth.  All in all we were extremely happy with the result. It looked legal, plausible and binding. We all signed it and added the hotel manager’s real name in the unlikely event that a suspicious immigration officer checked up the hotel... better safe than sorry.

So we drew up outside the South African border post, a large white-washed single story building, climbed out our Combi with a pair of boobs and ‘Cape Town or Bust’ inscribed on the side in pink lip-stick... 

                                                               
                                 CAPE TOWN OR BUST

... and sauntered up the steps with our passports and fake contract in hand.

It was at this point my confidence in the fake contract completely evaporated.

A sour faced man sat on the steps of the customs post smoking. He shook his head disdainfully as we passed...I think he had a problem with our slightly longish hair which we had let grow since the prospect of us turning professional had entered the frame - but I hardly noticed of him. My thoughts were focussed on the dodgy contract.  Some eagle-eyed South African Immigration Officer was bound to question its authenticity and that would be that. Game over. The Chequers would be driving back to Salisbury in shame. But I was wrong.  It turned out no one so much as looked at the dodgy contract...it was the least of our worries.

The customs hall was empty. We wandered over to the counter and rang a bell – the type found at hotel receptions in the old days.

Nothing happened so we rang it again. The door opened and the sour-faced guy who had been sitting on the steps smoking came in. Taking a peaked customs officer’s hat from a hook on the back of the door, he pulled it on and crossing sat down behind the counter directly opposite where we were standing. Smiling we held out our passports. He ignored them completely and started reading a magazine.

To coin a 60’s phrase, we stood there like lost farts in a thunder storm. After a a couple of minutes one of us piped up, “If it’s not too much trouble do you think you could serve us...we need to get going” .

Without looking up the custom’s officer mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “Yous (yous is a plural of you) bloody animals are not going anywhere”.

“Our passports...do you think you could check them?” asked Lea.

Flipping a page of the magazine the officer mumbled, “There’s no way yous are coming into my country. No way”.

“Come again?”

He studied the magazine intently, “I said there’s no way I’m allowing any of yous into South Africa”. He continued checking an article for a moment before closing the magazine. He looked at us like we were something he’d scrapped off the sole of  his shoe. “You might as well take yourselves back across the Limpopo to Rhodesia because you’re not welcomed here”.

“But we’ve got a job to go to in Jo’burg” blurted out Mac. “We’ve been booked to play...we got a contract”.

“Tough”, was the reply.

So that was that. We climbed back into the Combi van and drove back across the Limpopo.

The Rhodesian border official was nonplussed when we told him we had been denied entry. “What do you mean he won’t let you in? Why the hell not?”

We shrugged, “He didn’t give a reason”.

“That ludicrous...He has absolutely no grounds for stopping you guys entering South Africa.  No grounds at all.” He checked all our documents then, in case he had overlooked something he checked them again, but everything was in order. He shrugged, “I don’t get it”. Shuffling our papers and passports together he slid them back across the counter. “Go and ask him why he’s denying you entry”.

We clambered back into the Combi and for the second time drove the quarter of a mile or so across Beitbridge to the South African border post. 

The sour faced customs official greeted us like we’d just mugged his mum.

“What the hell are yous doing back here?” he snarled at us from his side of the counter. “Are yous deaf or something? I told you there’s no way yous are entering South Africa. No way. Entry has been denied. Do I make myself clear?”

“On what grounds are you denying us entry?” asked Lea.

“On what grounds...?” his sour face puckered up like he’d sucked a lemon. “On what grounds...?”

“Yes, I believe we have a right to know,” Lea continued.

“That’s right”, “Absolutely”, “We have a right to know”, we all started chipping in.

The sour-faced official held up his hand for silence. “Yous wanna know why I’m denying yous entry? Okay I will tell yous why. Yous are denied entry because yous are undesirables”.

“Undesirables? Us? Says who?”

“Sez me!” hissed the twat in a cap. “I call the shots round here. Understand? No one crosses this border without me stamping their passports. And there is no ways on God’s earth I’m gonna stamp the passports of a bunch of long-haired degenerates who are out to corrupt the morals of the South African youth... Now get outta here...bleedy animals!” 

Okay, I know we had a faked contract and were trying to get into South Africa under false pretences so it is hard to hold the moral high ground...but the contract hadn’t come into it, the sour-faced official hadn’t even asked to see the bogus contract. No, we had been denied entry because the sour-faced official had taken exception to our hair which was only slightly longer hair than the customary short back and the sides of the time...possibly the pair of boobs we had drawn on the side of our combi had also played a part.

Once again we climbed back into the combi and drove across Beitbridge to the Rhodesian side and explained what had happened. The Rhodesian customs officer was at a total loss.

“I don’t know what to suggest. Obviously you can make a protest but I know how these things can drag out. It could take weeks before you heard anything and you haven’t got weeks, right?”

“Right”.

“When are you actually supposed to start the engagement in Jo’burg”?

Mac didn’t need to check. “Two days”. 

“Well my advice is you contact the manager at the...where are you supposed to be playing?”

“Simons Hotel”, Mac had it off pat.

“Well contact the manager at the Simons Hotel”, continued the Rhodesian official, “I’m guessing he booked you...”

We nodded.

“... and get him to put pressure on the border agency”.

“Good idea. We’ll definitely do that”, we lied.

“Or if you like I could phone him on your behalf”.

“No!” we almost shouted in unison.

The custom’s officer looked slightly startled by the vehemence of our collective response.

“No, no, no, you’ve been more than helpful”, added Lea hurriedly, “we’ll – uh – dig out the – uh – telephone number and give him a call tonight...from the – uh – hotel...when we – uh – book in...he doesn’t usually get in till much later”.

It was getting dark when we finally left the border post. We booked into a nearby motel for the night and phoned the folks to tell them what had happened. We said we’d start back to Salisbury in the morning. We went to sleep that night really down. The Chequers professional career was over before it had begun... we had had fallen on the starting-line; we hadn’t even managed to get to the first hurdle. However, unbeknown to us whilst we slept actions were being taken on our behalf.

Early next morning we were woken by a banging on the door. There was a phone call for a Mister Lea Heather. It was dad. He had spoken to some people and that as soon as the South African border post was open we should try and make the crossing again. He assured us there wouldn’t be a problem. After the previous days experience we found that hard to believe.

When we arrived at the South African border post we were greeted on the steps by the sour-faced official...except he was no longer sour-faced. Overnight the twat in a cap had been transformed into a friendly, smiling mister nice guy who welcomed us if not with open arms, with a shake of the hand. If that wasn’t hard enough to stomach the smiling benign nice guy looked us straight in the eye and without a hint of embarrassment asked who it was that had called us “animals” and “degenerates”. When we pointed out it was either him or his identical twin brother. With the solemnity of a vicar at a funeral, he told us that he would never, he emphasised the word ‘never’, have used such words. “Yous must’ve heard me wrong, because I would never call yous animals or degenerates, I swear, as God is my witness.” Without waiting for the Lord on high to smite him down, he led us into the custom’s hall to stamp our passports. This completed we were ushered to the door and sent on our way with, “Safe journey, guys, and good luck... I’ll be rooting for yous”. How the mighty have fallen.

Apparently dad knew the South African High Commissioner in Salisbury. He got on the blower and explained what had happened.  I don’t know what the high commissioner said but whatever it was it worked.