The first time I ran from the cops was about 1970 in the wee hours of a Vrystaat morning. We were lurking, having climbed out of our bedroom windows to rendezvous on the dark streets of the silent metropolis (Harrismith) as unaccompanied minors.
Near Greg’s cafe we spotted one of The SAP’s Finest drunk behind the wheel of his grey cop van (remember them? Ford F150’s with that metal mesh over the back windows). Being upstanding citizens we phoned the pulley stasie from a ticky box to report him. Next minute we heard a squeal of tyres and we were being chased in the dead of night by the drunk himself – his buddies had obviously radioed him. Or maybe his stukkie was on desk duty.
No ways he could catch us fleet-footed schoolboys in his weaving van. We ducked and eventually dived under the foundations of Harrismith’s (Alet’s) new block of flats and watched him careen past us. We emerged boldly and walked home, knowing we would hear him LONG before he could spot us. Anyway, we didn’t want to be late for school.
No doubt he took another sluk of brandy and went looking for someone dark to beat up.
That was also the last time I ran from the law, come to think of it.
The gendarmes are coming!