Eulogy of Byron George Venturas

WHEN I was a child and I listened to my fathers stories, they were so colourful and epic.  I thought they could not possibly be true.  I thought I was haring about a character out of a movie.
    
As a young adolescent he was conscripted to fight against Hitler in North Africa. He told stories of driving his jeep through sand dunes in the great Sahara desert using only a map and a compass. Of how he played rugby in the dust of Toruk with the Kiwis and Australians, how he started a bar fight one night in Cairo and then hid under a table and was the only one who the military police didn’t arrest.

He told stories about the trenches and hand to hand fighting around Monte Casino and about how when the Allies thrust north in mid 1944 that he learned to his dismay that the army planned to march  him 10km west of Rome.

My father got out his jeep and at the fork in the road where a sign clearly told the 5th American Army to branch right, he turned it 10º and deviated pall of his battalion east for five days of fun in Rome and almost a Court Martial at the end of it.

He told stories of a blind date where he hitched a ride on a plane for a night of clubbing in Palestine, and a narrow escape as a hung over POW from a German camp in the Po Valley.  He and a group from his anti-tank battery happened on a recently looted wine shop. They fell amongst the spoils and awoke in a cage in a German camp. They had all but given up hope of rescue when someone found a box of Nazi uniforms and they picked the locks and stole a jeep and drove back to the American lines where they forgot to remove the uniforms and nearly got shot.

There were times from a distant era that had a profound affect on my father.

The Pirate Captain

In my mind my father has always been a bit of a Pirate Captain.  With his silver hair and love of scotch, happiest in the heaviest of seas, with his hand on the wheel of his ship and with his loyal crew toiling slavishly around him.  Like a pirate he had very little respect for man made laws and a deep and abiding revenance for the laws of the universe.

He collected a lot of booty in his life, and he also had this habit of picking up human strays.

Strays

People whose life had been hard on and whose spirits needed healing, and the more they wanted to fight, the more he liked them.  They flocked to my Dad for protection and for his wise counsel and he would bring them home and his wife would mother them and cook for them.

Wolfgang

There was the mad brilliant German scientist Wolfgang who claimed there was uranium in the Botanic Gardens and once used my fathers sword to hack his way through the door to answer the call of nature.

Anita

The Dutch contessa by day a cripple laden with precious jewelry and who had a fleet of Scotties around her. In the early hours of the morning my mom would catch her dancing in flowing robes barefoot on the lawn.

It was a colourful and often dramatic childhood that my sisters and I had at the house at 22.

We had late night visits from African nationalists, from Emerald dealers who had popped out of remand for a hot meal, Jewish diamond dealers from Zaire who spoke wistfully of Rhodes Island.

Ron Craig Smith

A red bearded Viking whose Chimurenga name was “Mau Mau” Smith and whose friends worshiped Dad and were known as the “Fixing Gang” all serial drinkers, gamblers and smugglers and had they lived now would have all bee diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Nkomo

In the late 70's at a time of upheaval not too dissimilar to the times we are going through now, my sister Jackie woke me late one night.

“Chris, Chris wake up there are terrorists in the house.”

I leopard-crawled to her window.  Sure enough, there were three black men standing on the lawn with automatic weapons.

“Where are the folks?”

“In the lounge talking to their leader.”

We tiptoed quietly down the wooden staircase avoiding the stairs that creaked.  Half way down there was a good view into the lounge.

There sat a large black man with a wide grin.

Jackie whispered- “What’s his name?”

“Mr. Nkomo.” I replied

“Is he going to shoot Dad?”

I looked harder, then realized it was ok.

“No. They are drinking that bottle of scotch Mau Mau brought Dad.”

Isaac the Caddy

My father was an enthusiastic golfer and there were always a string of caddies loitering at home. My Dad’s favourite was a large warrior called Isaac.  The other caddies feared him as he was an Apostolic High Priest.  Isaac was often at home fixing my Dads Jag, working on his boat or cleaning his clubs.

They had a unique relationship.

My Dad always under tipped him and Isaac always made up the difference helping himself to balls, gloves or umbrellas. One day Isaac got arrested at a remote jail near Bindura. My Dad told us about it and said it served him right. The days turned to weeks and there was no sign of him. My Dad started to bet worried.  Isaac had a unique knack of teeing up the ball in the rough.

Eventually my Dad got in his jag and started looking for him. It took several days. Early one morning my father drove to the remote district Court on Isaac’s remand date. He parked the jag and got out and waited under a jacaranda tree.

Eventually the prison truck arrived. Out stepped the prisoners, shackled to each other.  Heads shaved and cawed they shuffled along under the watchful eyes of the jailors.

Isaac had lost so much weight my Dad did not recognize him. Then a head popped up and one of the prisoners in seeing the Jag started walking erect and glared at the prison guards.

Bailing out Isaac was a highlight in a long and distinguished legal career.

He drove Isaac back to Royal Harare and their relationship carried on as before.

My father under tipped on the basis of free legal services rendered and Isaac stole balls on the basis he could always sell them back to my Dad.

Luck of criminal lawyer

My father refused to take security precautions of any sort.  He refused to lock his car doors, roll up windows, shut the gate or hide his wallet.  He always figured that a thief would be highly stupid to steal from him as he would only have a sub standard lawyer represent him after that.

One day while idling at a red robot with his windows open and his brief case on the back seat and all the doors unlocked he noticed a melee and watched as a mob meted out instant justice on a hapless thief.

Eventually just before the light turned green a figure detached itself from the crowd and walked up to my Dads window.  He handed my father his brief case.
“Sorry boss.  We gave him a good hiding and cautioned him with some claps.”

A nimble fingered thief had put his arm through the open window and latched onto my father’s brief case, but some onlookers had witnessed the theft and pursued him.  All the while my father thought that the commotion was on account of the unseasonable hot weather.

War Vets

One day in early 2001 a group of War Vets invaded our offices at Tanganyika House. They marched into the accounts department and started making a nuisance of themselves. Eventually my Dad walked down the corridor red in the face to see what the commotion was all about.

“What the blazes is going on?” he thundered.

The leader a big guy told him, “We are War Vets.” thinking that was the end of the matter.

“Well so am I.” said my father

“In fact I am not one of the other white war vets in this place.  I won my war and if I hadn’t all of you would have been put in the gas chamber.  Do you know what a gas chamber is?”

The war vet took a step back.

My father proceeded to give them a lecture on 20 Century history.

Then he stopped.

“Look I haven’t got time for this.  I tee off in half an hour.  You are all welcome to come have a chat with me at my bar.  But make sure each of you brings a bottle of scotch.  And I don’t want any of this local rubbish!”

They came back the next day and gave my Dad a badge and a hotline number to call if he got himself into trouble.

Often I would walk into my Dad’s office and would catch him looking at the badge a wry smile on his face.

Zimbabwe

My father was passionate about this Country and extremely fond of all the tribes that made up the nation of Zimbabwe.

His first client was a Chinaman and a wise old Greek lady told him that it was a good omen.  He would become a great lawyer.

In recent hears it troubled him that certain people spread lies designed to create boundaries between the tribes and that the same people tried to engender hatred to exploit the divisions for their own selfish ends.  If anything this gave him the drive and passion to continue with his legacy and be a symbol of unity, fairness, strength and comic relief.

Whenever the wider family spoke of emigration he would say,
“But this is Gods own Country.  You can travel where you want but the best people, the finest characters live here.”

Dad’s Fight

My father spent most of his life teaching other people to fight and in recent years he’s had his own battle.

A new crew joined the ship.

He was lucky enough to have a real live Saint join him, and I wish to thank Aniá Efterpi for the many times she has intervened in his life.

My mother, Dawn – who my gran, Kay Venturas declared a Saint for putting up with my father for so long.

My sister, Jacquie – a talented physician who shared the desert warrior a bit about urban war fare and together they pulled an endless string of stunts on his illness and confounded some of the greatest experts in modern medicine.

My sister, Anna – who although she doesn’t know it yet, is a mediator in a highly dysfunctional family.

Di Blake

My father’s secretary.  Only an ex cop could put up with his cantankerous ways.

Dr. Mavros

His life long friend born on the same day as him. April Fools Day.  Dr. Mavros never missed a Wednesday visit to my parents home in the last 10 months.

Dr. Stockil

A friend of mine who I casually asked to look after my family in January and who made one of the worst business decisions of his career.

The Four Mystics

My father assessing was aided by four talented mystics, Heather, Sammy, Pippy and Lucy.

The new crew helped my father in his last voyage safely find his way to the port he left a little over 85 years ago.

I also need to thank my extended family.

John and Pips for their unconditional loyalty.

Carol and Coly: Coly over the last few years you and Dad have reminded us of a combination of Ariel Sharon and Al Capone, and I think we can count ourselves lucky you never got your hands on any weapons.

My aunt and cousins who dropped everything to be at my dad’s side when he flew the distress flag.

Jonathan and Tsitsi for their unfettering support to my family.

As my Dad pages through his Captains log I would like with respect to give God a bit of advice.

My Dad needs a good rest. But then I think you need to give him some hard work otherwise he is going to make a terrible nuisance of himself.

There are going to be a few people from this part of the World who are in need of a good lawyer in the next few years in the Celestial Courts.

You will find them guilty and send them on their way out paradise and then listens to my fathers mitigation and call them back and let them off with a warning and cautioning.

And I don’t know what your public amenities are like up there or if the Celestial Courts have any washrooms with soaps or towels or toiletries, but if they do make sure to bolt them all down, otherwise they are going to go missing.

A month ago my Dad fleeced his bathroom in the Donald Gordon of all the soap and would have taken the towel if there was one.

And one more thing:  Thank you God for his life.  It was an extraordinary one.


By Chris Venturas