Buurman

 Some fourteen years ago we lost almost our entire farm in a runaway fire that I can only describe as demonic. It was a truly horrific day. 

On that day a baby burnt to death on her mothers back and the young mother was left with scarring over her entire body after months of skin grafts and agony. 

Entire farms - buildings, livestock, pets, equipment, homes all disappeared in minutes. Houses with thatch roofs did not stand a chance and were obliterated into nothing. 

Winterton was declared a disaster area and rightfully so. It was shambolic.

The day started with two runaway fires - one on the other side of Winterton and one three farms away from us. The wind was incredible. I have never known wind like that. It was the kind of wind one could lean into. And I distinctly remember a moment in the chaos when I found my ancient grandfather discarding his walking stick as he stumbled out of his home to survey the chaos. The wind held him up.

By midday the farm was empty. Our staff’s farm on the other side of Winterton had been hit and so they had left armed with all our tractors and firefighting equipment to try and do damage control. My Dad had gone with them and when the fire changed direction and started heading towards the direction of the farm he came careering home. So it was me, Dad, Mom, my grandfather Kulu and my step grandmother Anne. Not exactly an army.  

I will never forget when my Dad and I were trying to get a pivot going in order to try and wet the winter tinder of the land when the fire appeared on the other side of the river. My Dad said, ‘If it crosses the river we must get out of here.’ And then we watched as the fire jumped the river, a field of green wheat, a firebreak, a road and hit the thatch roof of one of the homesteads on the farm. I would say that would have been a good 500 meters and it jumped it in a matter of seconds. As we raced home to tell my Mom to pack all our valuables I remember watching in terror as the other runaway fire appeared no more than a kilometre along the horizon and made its way swiftly across the hill to meet up with the fire from Winterton. We had to get out and it had to be immediate. 

I raced down to my doddery grandparents to get them out their house and out the valley of the farm. As I got to the farmyard I was faced with a herd of cattle galloping (the first and last time I’ve ever seen a cow gallop) right towards the oncoming fire which was now racing straight towards the farmyard. I ran in front of the herd and stood in the manner of a deranged person with my arms outstretched screaming and waving my arms in order to stop the cattle. And they stopped not two meters from me looking at me with bovine confusion. 

We had nowhere to put the cattle. Someone had put a padlock on our stone kraal where they would have been safe and there was nothing we could do. We had no help. 

It was in this moment of utter chaos and fear that Piet Maritz emerged surrounded by a cloud of dust and smoke and carnage. I have no idea where he came from. And in his arms he had a tiny new born calf. This moment will always be something deeply biblical for me.

I couldn’t believe he was here. I couldn’t believe he was helping us. I couldn’t believe he would risk his life for a distant neighbour. And yet here he was. And he helped in every way that he could. I still have no idea where he was when the actual fire hit the farmyard but he was there somewhere.

It was only later that I had a big cry about that moment but to me it was the most important one of that dreadful day - and there were many.

There was the moment I finally got my grandparents into their car and sent my weeping grandfather out the valley of his beloved farm.

Saying goodbye to my Dad in a frenzy as my Mom and I raced after my grandparents, our car loaded with photo albums and dogs.

There were the silhouettes of our horses desperately racing along the fence, the fire meters away from them as we drove out of the farm. 

There was the view from the top of the hill as we finally turned back to see what had become of our farm. A forest of thousands of poplar trees raged with fire engulfing the entire farm in smoke. We could not see a thing. 

Minutes later the wall of fire had passed incinerating everything in its wake. Everything, that is, except our thatch house which stands on an exposed hill. When we returned home the entire house was surrounded by a ring of about a meter of dry, burnt grass. Someone very strong and all-powerful protected our home that day. But that’s a story for another day.

And so is the fact that my father leopard crawled up our driveway with the fire passing over his head - this fire that incinerated entire cows.

Despite all the moments of that day, both miraculous and painful, today I want to remember Piet emerging from that smoke holding that little calf. Because yesterday Piet left this world of fire and smoke  and chaos and returned to the Shepard. 

I know Piet as one knows all the members of a small farming community- well enough to greet him and share a laugh but not well enough to have ever been able to thank him for what he did on that day. I have the feeling that he always knew. When you face hell with someone (no matter what that hell is) some things just don’t need to be said.

But today Piet I want you to thank you for honouring that deep, difficult commandment - ‘love thy neighbour’. Thank you for arriving when there was no one else. Thank you for risking your life for us and our farm. Thank you for giving me hope in the goodness of everyday people. And thank you for saving that little calf.

It is not often that we can experience very real moments of Christlike sacrifice in ordinary, complicated and imperfect humans but on that fiery day I got to have that experience. So thank you Piet for being that person for me.

I have no doubt that you now find yourself in the arms of safety, much like that little calf you saved all those years ago. 

Dankie Buurman.