Memory Project: W Martin Contractor
What prompted my father to move to Southern Rhodesia in 1956 was the news that good money was to be made from carting gravel for the construction of the country’s expanding road network. He went ahead on his own and my mother followed a few months later with us children. He probably chose Gwelo for its central geographical position.
He worked for about a year before acquiring a 5-ton Bedford tip truck and going into the transport business. He drove the truck and, being a mechanic, did his own maintenance and repairs. He called himself W Martin Contractor and my mother kept the books. I still have her Cash Book, Ledger, Journal and Analysis, and it appears that the business lasted from April 1957 to October 1959. In those two and a half years he was away from home much of the time, spending a week to two weeks in the bush before coming back for a weekend.
He must have done quite well at first, because he bought a second truck and employed a native driver. However, he had joined the gold rush a little late and by 1959 most of the roads had been built. When the work dried up he sold his trucks and took a job at Afrox before moving to the CMED, where he worked on Gwelo Municipality’s trucks and earth moving equipment. Then he tried going it alone once more.
This enterprise involved buying second hand cars, doing them up and selling them at a suitable profit. I can remember one type of car that he overhauled and refurbished, there having been three of them. It was the Citroen 11 CV, a stylish and sporty looking car with a long bonnet, headlamps on stalks, running boards and a boot that was moulded to fit over the spare wheel. The bonnet was hinged down the middle and opened like a pair of wings, and the gear lever protruded from the dash and was moved in and out to change gear.
I sometimes helped him to bleed the brakes and clutch by getting behind the wheel and pumping the pedal until he called out from under the vehicle to hold it down while he released the trapped air.
This business did not flourish, and by the end of 1962 the future for whites in Rhodesia was looking increasingly uncertain. In 1963 my father packed his suitcase and boarded a train back to South Africa in search of work. He first went to East London and stayed with ex-Rhodesian friends, Ivan and Madge Kernick. Unable to find a decent job he served a short stint as a battery salesman and then headed for Cape Town.
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