The title of this post, is the opening lines of the film: Out of Africa. The film starred a rather young Meryl Streep (who has turned into a noble vintage with age) and Robert Redford, (who should have stayed forever young, and is now only to be used in Gluhwein.) She was speaking about The Ngong Farm, at the foot of the Ngong Hills in Kenya. Meryl played the part of Karen Blixen, who penned the book, even if it was under the name of Isak Denisen. She (Karen, not Meryl) came about this name as her maiden name was Denisen, and Isak being the Danish version of the Biblical Isaac, which means laughter. Which is quite ironic, as she did not have the best of lives. She faced a few more trials than the average person. In the end, she only lived in Africa for 18 years, before returning to Denmark. I suppose it sounds better to have a farm in Africa, than what it is to have a lejlighed in Rungsted, at the foot of the Gunnbjorn Fjeld Mountain, in Denmark.

At least, for the next few months, I too can claim to have a farm in Africa. Even if it is just a tiny picture perfect little house on a very big farm. What I do know is this: no matter the location, living on a farm comes with interesting experiences. Colin and I went for a short stroll the other night, and we did have a laugh at ourselves at how well we have actually adjusted to living on a farm. Now, farm life is not completely alien to me. My Father’s parents farmed just outside Senekal in the Free State. I recall many a holiday on the farm.

By today’s standards, their farm was rather primitive. The old manor house did not have an indoor toilet. For that you had to go outside. You had to pass through the Grand Parents room to get to the “veranda” where the toilet was, and this was simply not going to happen at night, so each room had a small wooden closet, with a hole in the top, and a lid to cover the hole. Perched directly below the hole, was – most of the time- a potty. And we all used it. Big and small. I am not sure what Karen Blixen had on her farm, but ours, fortunately has a proper indoor ablution. At times the very brown river water that is used to flush, can leave one wondering if flushing was such a good idea. But we have learnt. The moment a guest asks for the bathroom, we say: do not get a fright should you look into the bowl. You are perfectly fine, there is nothing wrong with you. No, you do not have cholera. It is just river water.

Some of my memories of my Grandparents farm definitely has to be the very industrious kitchen. There was a constant bustle of women making jams and chutneys. Fabulous meals were cooked. A simpler meal for the children, who sat at the table in the kitchen to eat, and a bigger dinner for the adults who sat at what must have been the longest dining room table ever to be found in a farm house. Of course, my Ouma (that is an Afrikaans Granny) did not get her hands dirty to make any of the delights. She did plenty of supervising and delegating. But, when the meals were served, the chutneys dolloped and the jams spread, she would graciously claim every compliment as her own.

Being left on my own to figure things out, without an army of bustling women, it took a Google search to find out that the funny things growing in the orchard behind the house are quinces. You have to pass the fig trees, to get to the quinces. The figs also pose a problem. A couple of small cheeky problems. The war is waged every morning between me and the Mouse Birds as to who gets to the figs first. Mouse Birds clearly do not understand the meaning of “voetsek”. Yelling at them, just has them cocking their little heads at me, before they tuck into the biggest, ripest figs. Then, there is the spinach. I did not recognise the plant as spinach until our son pointed out that there was spinach growing. Now, I am out there every evening, clucking over MY spinach plants, commenting on how well they are growing and soon we can harvest. That is off course, providing the caterpillars understand the meaning of voetsek….

I often recall and tell the story of my Oupa (an Afrikaans Grandfather), and the Guinea Fowl in the tree. There was a very big tree on the farm, and at night, the Guinea Fowl would fly up into the tree to sleep. Guinea Fowl are very noisy, and sleeping in the tree came with a lot of noise. Every so often, when things got out of hand, Oupa would go out and stand beneath the tree, and randomly  fire into the tree with his shotgun. The Guinea Fowl that had quick reflexes would hurriedly fly away, and the less fortunate ones would drop to the ground, giving the army of kitchen women something to bustle over the next day. My Ouma would be on hand to accept the compliments. Apparently, the meat is tender, and is said to taste the way chicken used to taste before they were raised in batteries and ate fish bone meal and their own dead babies. Whether this story is true or not, there have been many an evening that I wished that I owned a shotgun.

A year ago, living in Botrivier Village, and walking on the beautiful Beaumont, we would walk up to the quaint little stone bridge. At the top of the bridge was a sign saying that only permit holders could cross over onto the next farm. All the farms are part of the Botrivier Mountain Bike Trail. We would respect the request, and since we were not on a mountain bike clutching a permit, we would not cross the bridge. This is the farm we now live on. I take my walks along the fields. I guess at the crops that are being planted. I hang my washing on the very long line where it can dry in the wind (I won’t mention how many pegs it takes to keep it on the line). I laugh at the two calves that come running when they spot me opening the gate.

And in that moment, in my best Meryl Streep voice, I say: I had a farm in Africa.

(PS: she never owned the farm. Like me, she purely lived on it, and eventually managed it for a short period of time.)