Christopher Wingfield - A Glimpse of Paradise

Copyright 2013 Christopher Wingfield

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To Mum, Dad and Guy, for the adventure!

With thanks to Uncle John.

It is the autumn winds that sweep across the plains and stir a restlessness that heralds the winter chill

The land rejoices at this change of season

It is the drums of discontent that roll the beat of an ancient voice that stirs the soul to hope and fear

The land is chilled by this change of season

But when the dawn breaks and the cold dust settles it is the spirit of the warming sun burning blood red through the trees that brings renewal to this timeless land

Chris Wingfield 2008

Wherever you have been raised in this world that is your home and it can be a special place in your heart. This is where all your early memories are formed and distilled to mould your character and make you the person that you are. People from all different parts of the world are inclined to say that there is nothing quite like their land and that it is beautiful beyond compare, and I think they have a rightful claim to that. The same can definitely be said of my beloved Africa, for truly it is a continent of unimaginable beauty and infinite diversity. When people think of Africa they often associate it with the savannah teeming with herds of antelope and all sorts of wildlife, but that is just the beginning of it. I think the most fascinating thing about it is the enormous variety of landscapes and vegetation and then, of course, there is the amazing wildlife and in all that there are also its people with their fascinating cultures. When I think of Africa it is not a visual image that first comes to mind, but rather the sounds and smells. The sound of the dry wind blowing through the acacia trees, the birds singing and the constant din of the insects in the night. These are mingled with the smells of the dust that a herd of elephant has just left behind after crossing a dirt road, the smell of the rain from an approaching thunderstorm and the wood smoke wafting from an African village. All these remain so vivid in my mind that I can still experience them as if they are real and happening right now, such is the intoxicating headiness of the place.

In spite of its beauty and abundant natural resources, the fortunes of this great continent seem to always teeter on the very brink of an abyss. The intransigence of unscrupulous leaders who plunge their countries into political turmoil and tribal conflict that often erupt into ethnic genocide belies the true nature of the people who can show an unsurpassed ability to overcome adversity. The shortage of arable land and the mindless violence associated with it presents the greatest threat to its pristine reserves and the awesome biodiversity that they support. This is especially true in areas like the spectacular Rift Valley region of East Africa.

My wife, Karen, and I and our two children, Daniel and Pascale, were born in Africa and it has always been our home, but it had also become a place where it was no longer safe to bring up our children. Before we left we were living in an idyllic setting on a small holding half way between Johannesburg and Pretoria in South Africa. Our children, who are twins, were only five years old at the time. Apart from the tranquil ambience of the place it was also relatively safe. It was a healthy environment for the children as they ran around the place barefoot and played with the other children, both black and white, and they had also started to learn the local African language. This was an equestrian centre and we lived in the main ramshackle farm house on the property. There were about seven other rented cottages, all in close proximity to each other and it was a bit like communal living, but at the same time we could still have our privacy. We were quite happy until things started to go very wrong. It was 2002 and the lawlessness that was sweeping across the entire country had now become part of everyday life. Vehicle highjacking, attacks on farms and daylight robberies were a daily occurrence that affected both the black and white communities alike. There was a short stretch of dirt road leading from the main road to the farm about three miles long, which was the access for all the nearby farms and small holdings. A number of vehicle highjack incidents had started to occur on this road and at one stage there were about six in as many months. The attackers chose roads like these because you could not build up much speed on the corrugations caused by vehicles travelling too fast in the first place, which made it easier for them to stop a vehicle. There were also a number of attacks on the nearby farms in the area and these were on the increase. On the property adjacent to us was a farmhouse occupied by an elderly lady called Connie. She lived here with her partner and they provided shelter for five elderly homeless men. She had been renting this place for about thirty years and earned a living by running a shebeen for the local farm labourers. This is a place where the locals could get together, get nicely drunk and discuss the days events, a beer garden under the trees.

One warm summer night, which I remember was a Monday bank holiday, I woke up to hear a strange popping and crackling sound. It was about 3.00am and because this was no normal noise it disturbed me so much that I got up, hurriedly dressed and walked out onto the veranda. Patrick, who was the farm owner, came running along our path shouting to me. Hey Chris, Connie is under attack and I have called the cops; when they get here give them directions to find her place! and with revolver in hand he jumped into his pickup truck and raced down to Connies house. The security police arrived within minutes dressed in camouflage, armed to the teeth and I pointed them in the right direction. With little ceremony they peeled wheel and raced off to the scene. I stood on our veranda with Patricks dog, a large bull mastiff called Yellow and heard more popping sounds, but much louder this time. It was then that I saw the green tracer arcing over the farmhouse and from earlier years I knew that this was rifle fire from a Kalashnikov AK47. There were many thoughts that went through my mind at that moment.

The next morning I spoke to Patrick who told me that the motive for the attack was robbery. They could not get into the house so out of sheer frustration they found a bedroom and sprayed AK47 fire through the window killing one of the elderly men. Patrick tried to give a lame reason for the injustices of the past and I just said to him, Bullshit Patrick, we must stop blaming everything on the apartheid era, this was just plain bloody thuggery! You will see later why this incident had such a profound effect on me. The incidences of crime and attacks in South Africa had increased dramatically and the police became more and more ineffective in dealing with the problem. As a result of this the local landowners got together and hired a private security firm to patrol the area. This by now had become a trend in most parts of the country and the operatives who work for these outfits are usually highly trained, well equipped and are even contracted by the police when they are overstretched and cannot cope. One of the owners of the security firm that patrolled our area was a big black Ovambo man who often used to pop in for tea and check to see that we were all ok. He had very kindly arranged to give one evening to talk to all the people on the farm about security concerns. On his way to us he had noticed a group of people walking on the side of the road and thinking that they looked suspicious he pulled up alongside them and shone his spotlight at them. This was to prove to be a rare and fatal mistake. Usually they pulled up sooner to shine their lights from a forty five degree angle to avoid being shot. One of the gang members pointed an AK47 rifle at him and shot him in the head, and then they ran off into the bush. His colleague managed to get him into the passenger seat and drove to the nearest police station to report the incident, but unfortunately he died on the way.