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My British Airways flight touched down at Johannesburg International Airport, where a driver was waiting to deliver my friends 4x4, which she kindly let me have use of whilst she was in Europe.

An African Farm

Cindy Dale
2006-04-02 22:10:51

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without having to kill anything or anyone. I soon realised that other than a truck load of soldiers with metal detectors, there seemed to be no option.

Moses saw my concern for the land and its people and assured me that so far, no one had stepped on a mine. He felt it may in fact be that no landmines were on the farm. I felt somewhat assured by this but said I would rethink the issue in the morning with a clear head. That night I dreamt of the ugly lurking threat of landmines and angel goats with wings ploughing the land in armoured personnel carriers.

Moses was waiting for me in the kitchen when I got up the following morning. He was ready to show me the boundaries of the farm and the areas that needed to be mine-swept. Knowing the perils that lay ahead we took the sensible precaution of anesthetising ourselves with several glasses of red wine before departing.

A dense green vastness lay before us. Moses pointed out that the area needing to be swept lay directly ahead – some 80 acres. The photos that Sandra had shown me of Mozambique sprang to mind. They had left me with the false impression that my life would mostly take place on a veranda somewhere, whilst turbaned servants brought me coffee.

“How long is this going to take Moses?” I asked in a small controlled squeak. “You’ll need hundreds of goats,” I added.

“Moses does it well Madam. I have done this for another Master on a neighbouring farm. I herd the goats around the land until they have covered all the ground,” he responded, clearly fearless and evidently confident his goats were indestructible. He continued and assured me the area would be clear for farming within a month. We discussed it some more and it became evident, there was no other option. We would use the goats.

A week later and back under the eaves of the veranda, Moses and I sat quietly, taking a well deserved break from the baking midday heat whilst constructing a paddock. We spoke about the hen houses and milking pens we planned to put up in the weeks to come. I decided to hold off on talks about Sandra’s decision to build a farm school until after our customary Brandy and pipe later that night.

Lunch was served and I became melancholy when I spoke of the dangers of Africa -- being shot or stabbed, stepping on a landmine, being eaten by wild beasts. Mosses nodded in agreement. I had this same conversation with my London neighbour less than a month earlier. She claimed to have read somewhere that for the most, people who had been attacked by wild animals manage a more or less complete recovery – given time and physiotherapy – many even walk again, she claimed.

“There are also the tropical diseases Madam,” he pointed out. “But my wife she says you can get injections for them now.”

There was a distant explosion and a puff of smoke. “A goat,” I calmly stated. Moses nodded solemnly.

I regarded Sandra’s newly promoted Farm Manager while he looked to the horizon, puffing at his pipe. I drew distinct comfort from the fact that I was surrounded by people that were irrevocably committed to what was clearly their Africa.