The Cuban

by Paul Eksteen

  Coetzee Family Farm, Vivo — Friday, 27 March

  I drove into Vivo a few days later playing one of Danielle’s Koert Meyer songs on my bakkies’ compact disc player. Danielle and Corlea were singing and dancing in the back seat of the double cab whilst Karlien and I just shook our heads.

  Danielle was in charge of the musical entertainment in the car, and I was glad that her music taste had improved from the previous ‘huff and puff’ Afrikaans music to something more acceptable.

  Or maybe the Afrikaans music has grown to be softer on the ear. Or it might be that I was being brainwashed by my daughter’s taste in music.

  In the 1980s, Afrikaans music went through a resistance phase similar to the 1960s anti-Vietnam resistance concerts in America. Some Afrikaans artists rebelled against the two years’ compulsory national service and the Bush War that the government forced on all European young men in South Africa.

  It was followed in the nineties by hordes of untalented Afrikaans ‘artists’ with their ‘huff and puff’, or what I like to call ‘constipation music’. Everyone started writing songs and singing in Afrikaans even though only a third of them had real talent.

  Some of the more talented artists survived and at last, in the twenty-first century, we were blessed with a majority of Afrikaans music that was fairly soft on the ear.

  I was worried about the car bomb and the safety of everyone around or close to me. I had to get away and try to clear my head…

  A journalist from London had contacted me earlier that week with some annoying questions.

  “Elize Temple,”, she had introduced herself, as she entered unannounced and without an appointment, at my office at Papillon.

  She was one of those girls who would travel the world visiting zones of conflict and writing her opinion about it. Very dangerous. And also, very good looking.

  I tried to get rid of her for thirty minutes by giving her the bare minimum of information. She was investigating farm murders and the political unrest in South Africa and was quite excited about Kwinzee and the bomb. An added bonus for her article. She would contact me again.

  I had also contacted Nic earlier that day to find out if he had any news for me. He said that he was working on it and that he would get back to me pronto.

  I decided to take refuge on the farm in Vivo for the weekend.

  Kwinzee was discharged from the hospital on Wednesday and I told him to go visit his parents in Venda. He might still be a target.

  I collected Danielle from school and picked up Karlien and Corlea from their town house. I was driving a double cab bakkie from the shop with garage plates. I was going to rotate vehicles as much as possible until the ‘problem’ was resolved. It was Friday afternoon and I planned for a quiet weekend on the farm.

  I had to make time to do some painting. I also had to visit my own game farm, a hundred odd kilometres further north of Vivo, if there was a chance. Danielle would visit Dirk the following day on Mercia’s farm. He had spent the last week at home recuperating and would probably return to school on Monday.

  My hobby was painting, with oil. My mother used to be very creative in doing all sorts of special arty things. Decoupage, embroidery, bauernmalerei, making dresses for matric farewells, and much more.

  She taught me the basics of painting. Initially, I copied her with pencil drawings, but my first complete painting was in oil. And from there onwards, that was the only medium I used. All soul and not much technique.

  My first painting was of a wind pump on the farm. The same one my dad would take me to and where we would sit for hours talking about farming, school, sport and even girls.

  Over the years of wandering journeys, I had reversed the painter’s traditional luggage; my suitcase now consisted of the tools of my trade, and my satchel contained my clothes.

  The large toughened suitcase, its interior adapted and fitted by me, was in fact a sort of portable studio, containing, besides paints and brushes, unbreakable containers of linseed oil and turpentine, and a rack that could easily hold two wet paintings safely apart. Pre-cut canvasses, forty by fifty centimetres, as my paintings were always the same size.

  A finished painting would measure thirty by forty centimetres in landscape configuration. There was also a light collapsible aluminium easel, dust sheet, a large box of tissues, a roll of cheesecloth and a bottle of thinners; all designed for preventing a mess and keeping things clean.

  In a separate bag inside the suitcase was my camera bag, with my digital Nikon, and spare wide-angle lens. I would use the camera to capture certain light conditions and also wind pump scenes, when travelling through the country.

  Due to the nature of my work with the SSA I travelled a lot, but did not always have the time to sit down and paint a scene.

  I might start a painting in the veldt, but almost always finish it in my studio at home. Most of the time, I would paint at home with the aid of an array of enlarged glossy photos, taken at the spot.

  I seldom painted for more than three hours at a stretch, because, for one thing, the actual muscular control required was tiring, and for another, I would find my mind starting to drift due to a lack of concentration.

  I never worked the picture as a whole like most painters do. I concentrated on the subject — the wind pump — and spend eighty per cent of the time on that. Wind pumps were my passion. The wind pump must be one hundred per cent correct, to my standards. Only then, would I fill in the background.

  I do three to four paintings per year. I almost always connect a painting to one of my SSA jobs.

  This weekend would be an exception. I would do a painting for Mercia. The painting would be about a farmer and his son, and some Brahman cattle in a kraal, with a wind pump in the background. An Aermotor wind pump.

  Well, not completely an exception. I would be able to connect it to Jan, Selina, two Zimbabweans and a sangoma.

  I would need to have a chat with Simon this weekend as well and make him understand that my family was out of bounds. Or any white families for that matter.

  ***

  Nigel, East Rand

  Mario was sitting in his office, looking at some plans for the new mobile phone towers he had to erect. He was deep in thought when, all of a sudden, Chicco burst into the office, unannounced.

  Mario jerked upright, but relaxed when he saw Chicco’s face.

  “We’ve got him, Mario. We’ve got him!” Chicco exclaimed.

  “Who, Chicco?” Mario’s mind was still filled with numbers, angles, bolt sizes, hot dip galvanising coatings, and other intricacies of steel tower construction work.

  “We got the identity of the jamook, Mario. He’s mezza morta.”

  “You mean you haven’t had him wacked yet?” Mario asked.

  “Col tempo la foglia di gelso diventa seta,” Chicco answered.

  “Pucchiacha, I thought this here shakedown cafone was a goner?” Mario exclaimed. “Don’t you be clever with me!”

  “We got his true identity this morning, Mario,” Chicco exclaimed and carried on. “Now Dino can burn him. You won’t believe it, but the jamook is from the East Rand.”

  “Well, let the cugine do his piece. Tell Dino that the books are open.”

  “Don’t you worry, Mario. This thing of ours will be settled soon. Real soon.” He turned around and left Mario’s office.

  Mario was sitting behind his desk, his feet straight out under the table.

  He took a little black cigar from a wooden box on his desk and lit it. He felt much better already. Now Dino will be getting his button. He blew the smoke from the cigar in circles towards the ceiling, a grin on his face.

  ***

  Indermark

  Kwinzee was having a few beers at the TUT tavern in Indermark. It was Friday night and he was sitting by himself in a corner of the tavern and was looking and listening to the local crowd. He wanted to identify two persons tonight — Zvombo and Chatunga.

  He dropped his wife off in Venda after Tom suggested that
they should get out of town. But instead of staying in Venda with her, he decided to go to Indermark to find the two farm murderers.

  His ribs were strapped, and he had a bandage on his cracked left arm but, as a whole, he felt much better every day.

  He had his first beer at Mantwa bar lounge at around seven but decided that he had to move to another tavern. At Mantwa all the local groups would gather, sitting under trees outside the tavern and drinking together. It was no place for foreigners.

  His next stop was at the Highway tavern. While Mantwa bar was situated on the first turn-off into Indermark from Vivo, the Highway tavern was situated on the second turn-off.

  It was at Mantwa bar where the attack on Dirk took place, and where they had to collect the wrecked Cruiser earlier that week.

  He was drinking another beer under the trees outside the Highway tavern when he heard a loud noise and some cheering from across the adjacent soccer field. He stood up to investigate. The noise was coming from another bar, hidden away further back between some residential houses. It was the TUT liquor bar and restaurant.

  As the TUT bar was no more than three hundred metres away, he decided to walk there and take a look around. As he walked into TUT, he knew that this was the place to be. There was a beer hall on the left as you entered the premises, and a scattering of tables for dining on the other side.

  At close to ten, two suspicious looking gentlemen walked into the tavern. They did not greet anyone and were clearly on their own. They bought two pints of Castle Lager beer and went to their own table, not too far away from where Kwinzee was sitting. From the few words he picked up from their conversation, he could identify them as being Zimbabweans.

  After they finished their first draft, a young waitress dressed in a very short, revealing red dress and having dreadlocks tied in her hair walked up to their table. “Hi Zvombo, another round?”

  His suspicions were confirmed. He finished his beer and left the tavern. He returned to his car which was parked behind a brick wall on the furthest side of the Highway tavern. He drove closer to the TUT bar and parked between some other vehicles under a tree next to the soccer field. He was able to see the entrance to the tavern clearly and should be able to spot the two Zimbos leaving the watering hole.

  There was a continuous movement of people to and from the tavern but, at half past one the next morning, he observed Zvombo and Chatunga leaving.

  After leaving through the entrance gate, they turned left and followed a narrow dirt road that passed between some houses and a primary school.

  Kwinzee got out of the car and followed them at a distance. A block further they turned left at the ModjhaDji General Dealer. Another two blocks further they entered a yard via a small pedestrian gate. There was a house in the front section of the stand with a row of four rooms at the back. They disappeared into one of the rooms.

  Kwinzee was satisfied with the nights’ work and walked back to his car. He drove to Vivo and then turned right towards Polokwane.

  CHAPTER 21

  Jan Steyn’s Farm, Vivo — Saturday, 28 March

  I was sitting at the kraal where Jan was murdered. The sun was rising in the east and I was sitting facing south-east, to get an angle on the scenery.

  I had the Nikon out and was taking photos every now and again, as the light changed. I had a canvas on the easel and was busy drawing lines in pencil on it. I had stretched and stapled the canvas over a frame made from stretcher bars the previous night. The lines were there to assist me when applying primer to the canvas.

  I bought my canvasses unprimed, and used white gesso to prime the canvas. I applied the gesso unevenly, with the horizon normally in slightly thicker layers, adding texture to the canvas from the get-go.

  The gesso was poured in a saucer and I applied it with a sponge in thin layers from right to left. I would put two to three layers of gesso on the canvas before I would get the texture I liked.

  The Blue Bulls were playing against the Highlanders in New Zealand later in the morning in the Super Fourteen tournament. I would paint for three hours, and then join some of the local farmers at a pub in Vivo, to watch the rugby. It would be a good opportunity to listen to the local gossip.

  The Blue Bulls were playing well that season, and would be returning to South Africa, after playing their away games, by the end of April. I hoped that this mess would be sorted by then, so that I could take the girls to support the Blue Bulls at my favourite rugby stadium — Loftus Versfeld — in Pretoria.

  I remember the days with my dad, when we went to Pretoria for a weekend to support the Bulls. We would arrive at Loftus at nine in the morning and would watch school rugby teams playing on the B field. After that, we would move to the main stadium to watch the local club teams playing, and then the provincial B teams would play in the curtain raiser.

  The main match would be at five in the afternoon and the stadium would be packed with thirty thousand plus enthusiastic supporters. And, to me, it would be a fun filled day eating boerewors rolls, spookasem and drinking lots of Coke. Luxuries we did not have at home.

  It did not bother me that my mind drifted a bit, as it gave the gesso a chance to dry. This starting-up process of a new painting was both exciting and boring at the same time. I applied the second layer of gesso and then sat back with my mind wandering again.

  I was planning on leaving early the next morning for my game farm just over a hundred kilometres further north, close to the Botswana border. It used to be quite a substantial farm which my father used for cattle farming in the 1970s.

  He befriended the famous Dr Jan Bonsma and a specialist farmer, Manie Eloff, who assisted in developing the Bonsmara cattle breed at the Mara experimental farm near Vivo. It was Dr Jan who convinced my father to change from commercial farming to stud farming with the Bonsmara breed on his farm in the north.

  After my father passed away, my mother sold half the farm to the De Beers Group, who started mining diamonds in the area at their Venetia mine. She also moved the cattle to Vivo, as stock theft was becoming a serious problem.

  I inherited the farm from her when she passed away ten years ago and was currently using it to breed with Livingstone eland.

  There are three eland subspecies listed in Southern Africa, the Cape eland, Livingstone eland and Patterson’s or East African eland. A fourth subspecies, the Lord Derby, was found further north in Central Africa.

  In the early 1970s we used to see the Livingstone eland subspecies migrating from Botswana in the north, to the farm and back again, but the South African Defence Force erecting the kaftan fence on the border stopped the natural migration.

  The kaftan fence was erected in the 1980s, to stop illegal immigrants from crossing the Limpopo River and entering the country. These immigrants supported the terrorist ANC party, and would usually bring landmines and AK 47 rifles to the freedom fighters.

  By the time I inherited the farm, the kaftan fence was no longer operational. I enclosed three sides of the farm with game fencing and, when a herd of eland migrated onto the property, I closed the fourth side to fence them in.

  The portion of the farm which had an old farmhouse on, was sold to De Beers, so I had no house or cottage to stay in. I would usually camp next to a dry riverbed between huge acacia trees over a weekend, when I need to get away from the city.

  I added another decent eland bull to the herd as well as fifteen more selected cows. I bought these from other breeders and made sure to select different blood strains for my stud.

  Most of the other game was removed from the farm and the Livingstone stud was multiplying at their own pace. I removed weaklings in the herd from time to time, and farmed with only the assistance of James, an old black helper who used to work on the farm at Vivo, when my dad was still alive. James was a Venda whose ancestors migrated south from the Great Lakes of Central Africa to settle north of the Soutpansberg Mountains. His family still lived in the vicinity of the sacred Thathe Vondo Forest where he quarterly attended s
acred rituals.

  I moved James to this farm when I inherited it, as he was getting too old for active duty on the Vivo farm, and this farm was also much closer to his family. He was living on the property and his only duties were to attend to the watering holes and the fencing. And, of course, the water all came from wind pumps.

  I would drive there in the morning and return to Polokwane in the afternoon, driving via Messina and Louis Trichardt, enjoying the scenic drive through the Soutpansberg Mountains with the family.

  I applied a third and final layer of gesso to the canvas with the sponge and decided to call it a day. I washed the saucer and sponge in the crib and packed up, while waiting for the final layer to dry.

  ***

  Local Pub, Vivo

  The Bulls had just lost the game against the Highlanders, and the local farmers were in a foul mood.

  I was sitting at the end of the bar counter, after finishing a plate of pap and wors — a local specialty — watching and listening to the stories of the farmers.

  They had held a community meeting earlier that week, with farm workers and the SAPS from Mara in attendance. A captain from the SAPS chaired the meeting, and when he introduced the first farmer to comment, all chaos broke out.

  “I hear gunshots at night. Those shots are the sound of people illegally coming onto my land, with their dogs and their guns to steal my game. In the past, I phoned the SAPS at Mara, and reported it the same night. I would make the effort the next day, to open a docket at Mara.

  Between ten farmers here today, we have opened eighteen criminal cases at the Mara police station in the past six months. And how many cases were solved? How many arrests were made?

  None.

  From now on, when I hear shots at night, I will get up, and if I find an armed poacher, I will take action.”

  According to the farmers, the meeting did not last long after the opening speech. They were all up in arms and, after watching the Bulls lose their match and having too many beers, they were making the rules.