SO FAR FROM MY HEART

Copyright 2004 by W. D. Howe

My Sarie Marais is so ver van my hart - Old Afrikaner Ballad Prologue It has been said that she was just a legend, for South Africa is a land where legends all too often spring unbidden and unmerited from the shifting sands of the bushveld. The truth is, most legends are not based on heroic deeds; but rather, are born of inflated perceptions from those who would find adventure only through the lives of others. But let me tell you my young friend, that woman was no myth. She walked this land and cast a shadow so long your great-grandchildren will one day see it. We buried her on a hilltop in the Transvaal high above the Limpopo River. Its a beautiful place; one of her favorite places in the world. She said that from there she could see beyond forever and feel the very presence of God. The irony is that her grave is only a stones throw from where her legend began. You can stand in that lovely spot and survey the vastness of the African bush for mile upon mile, until it vanishes into the distant mists. I guess you could say thats the way she went too. Hell, it only happened about the time you were learning to walk and here you are asking me if her story is true. Well, I wasnt there at the beginning; but I was there at the end. It was the time I was covering a coup detat in the Upper Volta. I was in that miserable capital city of Ouagadougou when I first heard of Mattie Van Zyl. You want to hear the story? Then listen up lad and dont interrupt me. It began in the Northern Transvaal on a warm November morning of 1982. Mattie Van Zyl, the daughter of Afrikaner ranchers was of stern and hardy pioneer stock a progeny of Voortrekkers who first dared challenge the trackless bushveld a century and a half before. Long ago they trekked into the wilderness and found a freedom from persecution they would later shamelessly deny to others. It was after a gun battle with terrorists bent on forcing a new political paradigm that she became a reluctant symbol of that blood stained Boer tradition of resistance and resolve.

You see, in winter, the Mistral winds over the African continent blow from the north. It was like those icy winds that revolution and independence swept down and over the land. At times it arrived through constitutional means, at others, through force of arms. Whatever the process, the struggle for freedom cut an unrelenting swath southwards, until at last it marshaled on the borders of South Africa the final bastion of colonial rule. South Africa of that era was a nation in conflict; politically beset by both east and west and faced across its borders the armed resistance of its neighboring states and the economic might of the rest of the world. On one side was a struggle for liberty; the promise long spoken, long denied. The other was a battle to preserve a system that arrogated then granted political power and economic privilege based on race alone. That was South Africa on the troubled road to freedom. It was a time of agonizing uncertainty. Transition to majority rule had all but been accepted as inevitable, but atavism paid no homage to reason. Hers was but a single tale among countless tragedies; of lives disrupted by forces of change and the equally tragic resistance to that change. And her story is one of all that was best, and all that was worst, of that lamentable period. If you want an image of Mattie and her times, picture a strikingly beautiful young woman riding through the wilds of the African bush armed with a well-oiled carbine. Look back to the time when Africa was at the crossroads in the closing days of a painful era. It was Africa amid the countervailing influences of progress and destruction leaving none untouched and few unscathed. It was Africa, in the twilight of the final colonial struggle. GARETH MASTERS Clifton Beach, Capetown November 2004. The patio of the bar on Capetowns Clifton Beach was strangely out of place in that fashionable section of the city. In days long past it was known to have been frequented by the likes of such colorful figures as the Irish Soldier-ofFortune Mad Mike Hoare and Colonel Tom Finan, the former Canadian Forces officer who had formed and led the shadowy Teshi Team in the fabled mercenary days in Africa of the 1960s. Although it was as richly

appointed as the competition along the expensive beach strip, the bar had a slightly seedy aura imparted by hard men who printed a ghostly presence on their oasis of choice in a harder bygone era. It was in this very establishment where they once plotted the overthrow of governments be they freely and fairly elected or tyrannical dictatorships. Money, it seemed, was their sole motivating factor; at least, it was on the surface. The true impetus was violence the addiction of such men to the narcotic of war. They were dangerous and cautious men ever on the watch for a potential threat and in that one sense alone I suppose I had been cast from much similar a mold. My battles began in Vietnam and they had shaped my life ever since. I was constantly on guard and developed the keen senses that alerted me to the strangers attention and approach. The young man was nervous and hesitant. I found out later that he was among those who placed a lot of stock in tall tales, for if my reputation were to be believed he felt that he would be ill advised to get on my bad side. I also later learned that, in his mind, I was almost as famous as the legend he had come to confirm. Little did he know that most of the stories concerning myself consisted largely of vicious rumors initiated by others and perpetuated by me. Excuse me siryou wouldnt beMr. Gareth Masters? he asked apprehensively. Not if you say so, I answered coldly. I beg your pardon. Sorry to have troubled you, the young man said as he prepared to leave in haste. I wasnt being difficult because he hadnt asked a question. Hed made a statement. I grinned to show that I wasnt a threat and to put him at ease. I asked, Why wouldnt I be Masters? Ive heard hes quite a nice fellow. Mr. Masters? Would you be Gareth Masters, sir? Not only would I be Masters; I am, in fact he. And you are? My name is Meaford-Bowles; Philip Meaford-Bowles, sir. Im a writer from England and Ive come a frightfully long way to find you. I did try to ring you up. Twice in fact.

Yes, you did. I got your messages. Seeing the look on his face I told him, Im not in the habit of returning calls from people I dont know. But, might you not then miss some important calls? Important to you; or important to me? Point taken, sir. I took the liberty of going to your home when I hadnt heard from you. I really must apologize as I had the temerity to arrive quite unannounced. Your man-servant was good enough to tell me that I might find you in this establishment. That would be Luca and hes a business associate, not my servant. I motioned for him to sit with a casual gesture that was gratefully and swiftly accepted by the eager young Englishman. Thank you sir! he said as he waived for a waiter. Ill have a Castle beer if its not too much trouble. Then he looked questioningly towards me asking, And perhaps another of whatever youre having? I nodded acceptance, raised my glass and said, Oban, whiskey would be fine, thank you. No ice. Just the way it comes. Young Meaford-Bowles was seemingly well pleased at having been accorded my hospitality, such that it was. He began rapidly; Well sir, I You dont have to keep calling me sir, I said, interrupting him. I havent needed that since I gave up my sailor suit. Call me Gareth for now. Anyone who stands me a tot of this fine single-malt is allowed that; at least, up until the time they piss me off. Then mimicking his supercilious British accent I asked smugly, You dont have any immediate plans to piss me offnow do you Phil? Heaven forbid, no sir! Gareth, that is. Most assuredly, not, he said easily. He smiled as he tried to play along. He called after the waiter. Make that a large whiskey please! Then he said, You see? I can toady with the best when necessary.