F e a t u r e s
Diary of a Dependant…
Susie Wakeham-Dawson Heading South
The story so far . . . After 14 months in their first posting at Wittering, Andrew, RAF Chaplain, plus dependants (Susie, Humphrey, 3, and Henry, 1) are en route to the Falklands for a year.
July 6. Arrive Mount Pleasant Airfield, about 3pm local time, mid-winter +16 days. Straight away a yawning chasm opens up between the serving members of Her Majesty’s what-nots and their second-class dependants… I’m not bitter, honest – but seeing Andrew trotting off through one door with scarcely a piece of paper in his hand and me and the boys, the pushchair, the car-seats, and our obscene amount of luggage, filling in forms in triplicate, was enough to make anyone question their position in life!
But civilian forms etc duly completed (most of the answers seem to be the dreaded ‘dependant’… or should that be ‘excess baggage’?) we emerged to find the current chaplain, waiting with not one, but two large cars. He and his family had kindly moved out of their quarter into a sort of Welcome House, so we could move directly into their quarter – well beyond the call of duty! This epitomises the community spirit which is an integral part of being posted to the Falkland Islands – I don’t think I’ve ever encountered such a strong ‘we’re all in this together’ feeling anywhere else.
The married quarters consist of around 50 green wooden scout huts raised off the ground. We were never quite sure why
– although the senior officers’ quarters were infested by red spider mites in the Spring (and mice in the Summer) which could only gain access because these superior houses were not raised off the ground…
July 9. Humphrey’s first session at Rockhoppers, the pre-school on the camp, run by wives. This is in a quarter and Humphrey settles in quickly. Henry will not be eligible until January, by which time I will no doubt be eligible for an entirely different kind of institution.
Camp: this is a word you have to use carefully. To the military it’s the military camp, ie Mount Pleasant Airfield (MPA) – or, as I think it’s been renamed, MPC – ‘Complex’ apparently gives it a more tri-Service feel… But say ‘camp’ to a Falkland Islander and they will assume you are talking about anywhere that is outside of Port Stanley. Obviously, apply the word directly to either the military or a Falkland Islander and they will probably land you one.
July 9. Our first trip to Stanley. I am slightly freaked out by the number of minefields we drive through – sorry, between – to reach Stanley. The road is a death trap in itself – a ten foot ditch on either side ensures a) that the
weather has a clear run at you and b) that any minor prang is fatal. But the scenery is superb – the famous Tumbledown Ridge looks like a huge stegosaurus lying on its side. Stanley is small and pretty easy to get the hang of, but there are many peculiarities and it takes a bit of insider knowledge to unravel them. Later in the year my diary states clearly that we bought a sledge from The Wool Shop.
July 11. Andrew manages to set up a Cable and Wireless telephone with an internet option. Trying to work out when to call home is interesting. We begin to work out time-zones. There is Zulu, which I eventually realise is simply GMT, then there is Stanley time, which is the same as Zulu sometimes, but has it’s own extra hour change as well as the two seasonal hour changes plus whatever for the South Atlantic, and finally Camp time – which the farmers use and which stays the same all year round… Confused? I still am.
July 12. Baby Club at the Community Centre. As ever, wherever they are, mothers get together to fight off the impending insanity of nappies and wailing babies. The Community Centre is a hut, with, amazingly, a state-of-the-art ball pit, a tiny kitchen and
8
Autumn 2008
www.raf-families-federation.org.uk
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