Interesting story this: I was called to the scene of the "accident" to check out the electrics of an excavator that had dropped a bucket load of gravel, just over a tonne, onto the cab of an earthmoving truck. Unfortunately the Ovambo driver was still inside, or what was left of him.
The truck had pulled up alongside the excavator for loading. Two things had clearly gone wrong here: firstly the driver should have switched off his engine and got out of the cab; secondly the excavator driver must have over-swung his bucket and dropped it just as it was over the cab.
This was serious stuff, a case for the Works and Mines Inspector, a personage next to God in those days. If it was a maintenance problem then the perpetrator had not only lost his job, he also faced a civil case which meant at the least a hefty fine but could also carry a jail sentence.
I was pretty damn sure it wasn't an electrical problem and quickly satisfied myself that was the case. Next to arrive was Faas Jacobs, the fitter responsible for the mechanical aspect, which in this case covered the entire hydraulic system that operated the bucket. He was long-faced, and had cause to be. If any of the machine clutches or hydraulic lines were faulty he was in the gun.
Strangely, the machine operated perfectly. Relieved, but still very unhappy, we both put in our reports. Any decision would be made by the Inspector who was right at that moment flying down from Johannesburg. Despite feeling we could both show no fault there was no telling which way he would jump if so inclined, so it was with a sense of forboding that we met again in Casey's that evening, needing to drown our sorrows.
Worse was to come: who should pitch up in the bar but Police Sergeant PPJ Kruger who announced sternly that he'd had a "hellsa job" finding us. Jeez, surely he wasn't going to put us both in chooky while awaiting the inspector's arrival? Be reasonable, I thought, after all in a closed town where the blazes could we run to?
He allowed us to stew for a minute or two while an entranced bar crowd waited for the handcuffs to come out. Then burst out laughing and almost dislocated my neck with a hefty slap across the shoulders.
"Cheer up!", he told us, "youse owe me a drink. The case is solved."
Then the story came out. It seems that the truck driver had just come back from leave in Ovamboland. He had been making suggestive remarks in the compound the previous evening about the availability of the excavator operator's wife. And again next morning - hard to believe anyone would do this while sitting under a tonne of gravel - when he pulled up his truck alongside the excavator on his first run of the day, he leaned out the window and made another disparaging remark directly to the excavator operator.
The rest, as they say, is history. The operator was quickly repatriated to Ovamboland where he faced tribal justice, PPJ got his drink and I have no recall of the rest of the evening.
Bob.
