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An African Farm

Cindy-Lou Dale

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.

“Hell, you are a brave lady,” said Piet, a gregarious, burly Afrikaner as he handed me the Land Rover’s keys. “I don’t know any men that would do what you are doing.”

I smiled, “So many reasons but the root of it all is that my kids have grown up and left home, I’m single, I have grown to despise the inhospitable city life and so decided to leave London and come back to my African roots and help my friend establish a farm. She plans to see her retirement years out cultivating the lands I will be preparing for her,” I responded haughtily.

“But of all places, Mozambique!” said Piet, shaking his head in dismay.

“What can I say – Sandra has this eccentric need to rebuild what was once her home. Mozambique has been raped by decades of war, they have had one natural disaster after the next, but the people continue, relentlessly to build and grow. Nothing deters them. And of course, owning an African farm on the Indian Ocean has been her dream for decades,” I smiled kindly at him, unlocking the car door, indicating closure to the conversation.

“Thanks for all this Piet,” I said, waving at the car.

“Good luck Cindy!” he smiled and smacked the hood as I pulled away.

The following morning I left Johannesburg heading east to the Mozambique border, some 1500 km’s away. My new home, for the next year at least, was a further four-hour drive north of Maputo, the country’s capital.

The journey to the border was lengthy as the rains had taken its toll on the roads.  Once past the border post, I soon realised the journey ahead was going to be agonising as the road was filled with potholes -- potholes so large that I feared I would not emerge if I dropped into one. Some of them were filled in, which lead me to mistakenly believe that the next set may be filled in also.

I became aware of the abrupt change in scenery. The earlier large scale intensive agriculture of South Africa ceased and was instead replaced by an undulating barren landscape. The long dusty road was littered with burnt out tanks. I had an uneasy, almost eerie feeling at first as I passed the first of many parched villages of circular mud huts, devoid of any signs of life, crops, cattle, or even bird life.

I was told by a border guard that there were numerous police blocks along the route I was taking. My first and only ‘road block’ was that of a group of locals who had filled in a big pot hole then placed boulders over the top. Clearly, the idea was to force me to stop so they could remove a couple of boulders whilst I was digging into my wallet. Not me – I was stopping for anyone. The boulders were quite small so I drove over them and waved to the chaps as they hurled abuse at me. The potholes continued but fortunately I caught up with a truck weaving through them so I tailgated him for an hour. It was great, dashing through and missing all the holes.

A long, horrific civil war had scarred Mozambique and left a million land mines scattered around the countryside. The border post official has cautioned me not to leave my car, as there were still many unsigned minefields which would only be discovered when entered.

That evening I stopped off in a town called Manicha. I sat in the shaded bar area in stewing humidity and listened to the torturous chorus of mosquitoes. Through the trees I could see the town’s barber shop across the road, offering the unusual option of ‘Bin Laden style’ haircuts.

The following morning I left early. I bartered a blanket and several t-shirts in exchange for two avocado pears from a street child sitting next to my car. He went away content with his booty. Money was worthless here as there were few shops to buy food or clothing from as the recent floods had devastated the region. But the desperate impoverishment and suffering of the people did not hinder their kind souls. They smiled and waved as I drove past. The contrast to South Africa was incredible. Here it was calm and peaceful -- these folk were busy rebuilding their country.

After numerous detours, due to washed out roads, I eventually arrived at a ramshackle gate with a hand-carved wooden sign nailed to a post, indicating this to be “Orion’s Peak”, Sandra’s farm and my new home, for a while anyway. I later discovered that the hoard of clapping and smiling people I passed at the open gate were in fact the farm labourers.

I followed the winding road through a Macadamia plantation to the top of a hill. The scene before me took my breath away. On my left was a sprawling thatched farm-house with a wrap around veranda, shaded by two large Baobab trees. On my right was a view over the ocean and a beach below. Now I could now see why Sandra had ached for this land.

A rugged, amiable fellow with pitch black skin and swathed in crisp white robes, stood at the bottom of the wide stairs leading to the front door of the house. He opened his arms in welcome. “Welcome, Madam Dale,” he said, bowing low, “I am Miss Sandra’s houseman Madam. They call me Moses.”

“Hey Moses,” I responded, receiving a soul shake, “And they call me Cindy and don’t you forget that.”

“Yes, Madam Cindy,” he beamed, showing a row of brilliant white teeth. “Let me get your bags, Madam.” He turned to the house and shouted a stern command to another yet unseen person.

Later that evening, whilst sitting on the veranda, I quietly contemplated my drastic move and how my life had changed. Just 72-hours earlier I closed the door of my 3-bed semi in London for the final time. Now I sat looking out over the moon-lit Indian Ocean, listening to the sounds of an African night. 

Moses approached with a tray. On the tray was a bottle of Brandy, a tumbler, and packet of rum pipe tobacco. “Madam Cindy, I thought the Madam would enjoy this. It’s been a long day for the Madam.” He produced an ornately carved wooden tobacco pipe out of his breast pocket and ceremoniously handed it to me. “My son, Philemon, he made this for the Madam when he heard the Madam she was a coming.”

“You read my mind Moses. Now go get yourself a glass.”

After feeble protests Moses soon reappeared with another tumbler and his own pipe. We sat quietly, each alone with their thoughts and pipe.

“The Madam Sandra, she wants to farm the land. She says to me that the Madam Cindy will fix the land to make it grow.”

“Correct. But Sandra only want to produce enough food to be self-sufficient and maybe a little more to sell in the villages; perhaps some chickens and sheep too. But I’ll need your guidance, Moses.”

We spoke of the revenue produced by the Macadamia plantation and other crops we should consider. Moses continued to explain how the civil war had affected the farming community. Landmines were prevalent and the only way he could see us succeeding was if we found all the buried mines before starting to plough the fields. 

“Where do you think these mines are and how are we going to find them?”

“The mines they are somewhere there Madam”, he stated, waiving a hand vaguely at east Africa. “… and we will use the goats.”

“You are not serious? Are you? The goats will find the mines by stepping on them?” I asked with difficulty.

Moses nodded gravely.

“No way, absolutely not,” I said without having to think.

We spent the rest of the night thrashing out various plans of ridding the farm of landmines, 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.