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Page 4 of 6 Our children - Jemma was born two years after Gareth - joined in with our lifestyle as children do. I can remember Gareth tipping himself, strapped in his bouncy-chair, head first into a river in Lesotho at the age of 7 months; and Jemma's car-chair hooked over the back seat of the Land Rover, bouncing her to sleep as we negotiated mountain passes. Gareth always had to have his own fire in Botswana, apart from ours, which he would tend lovingly; and both children learned to drive at a young age along sandy tracks, far from other vehicles or people, gaining confidence. I remember watching a 15-year old Gareth doing doughnuts in the Land Cruiser on the Magadigadi salt pans where he thought I couldn't see, and a twelve-year-old Jemma driving off by herself into the shimmering distance, raised on a pillow so she could see through the windscreen.And then Jemma got her first horse, taking after her mother, and Gareth an off-road motor-bike like his dad. He and I rode together in the vast plantations around Ixopo where we lived for thirteen years, and in the mountains of Lesotho, following bridle paths up mountain valleys and alongside snow-fed streams, no fences and no people save an occasional blanketed Basotho herd boy with his sheep and Angora goats. Gareth never raced, was never interested in competition, but he developed over the years into a competent rider who grew to know his and his bike's limitations; and he grew to love the wilderness. Together we rode to the top of Thaba Ntlenyana, Southern Africa's highest mountain. He was twelve at the time, I think. I'm sure he is the youngest person to have conquered the mountain on a motor bike and from then on we did it each year. (I'm sure he's one of the youngest, at seventeen, to ride a motorbike across Africa, but who knows? We weren't out to set any records.) But land without fences and where animals roam freely past one's tent is becoming less and less available, and the threat of human predators in the bush and on the streets far outweighs the danger of attack by lion or elephant or buffalo... And so, despite the initial euphoria after the release of Nelson Mandela and the rejoicing over the New South Africa, things in the country began to slide. Armed robbery became an ever-present threat; gun-shots heard at night elicited little more than a raised eyebrow. Our house was burgled regularly, despite our large dogs; farmers developed radio networks, erected electric fences and added to their armouries. Then one night the daughter of a friend was shot in the back while opening the gate to their farm, a friend was shot through he chest when he surprised robbers at a trading store, a man was sprayed in the back with AK-47 bullets when he overtook a Combi Taxi too closely. We had to instruct Jemma, while riding her horse alone in the plantations, to keep an eye open for people and, if she saw anyone, to immediately turn and run. And then we had to ban her from riding in the plantations at all... Sadly, we felt it was time to leave South Africa. Our children had set their hearts on university education and South African degrees were being regarded with suspicion internationally. We decided, after much soul-searching, discussion and prayer, to emigrate to Wales. Glynis and I resigned our jobs. This was July; we would fly to Wales for Christmas, sort out the immigration technicalities from inside the country, and not come back. (A decision, incidentally, with unseen repercussions for Gareth and me on our trip later.)
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