Our farm is a haven for lost souls

He was turned out in a crisp bush ranger’s uniform and handled his assault rifle like a man hardened in the field for years to take on bandits and elephant poachers. ‘Ah Mario, what a pleasure it is to meet you again after all this time,’ I said. His severe military face collapsed into a beaming smile as he snapped to attention and slope-armed his weapon. He then relaxed and we chatted for a while on the roadside in our farming district, where I’ve been around so long now that I frequently encounter people whom I’ve known all their lives. Some, like Mario, even have a few wrinkles, greying hair, a couple of wives and several children.

The farm has always been a refuge, remote from towns and the life outside. Over the years, we’ve had a succession of guests who also made it a temporary haven, passing through to forget their troubles among our herds and flocks and fever tree woodlands.