Some learnings we took from our first year of moving to the reserve.
Going Wild, Part 1: Off-grid Living
Some decisions look perfectly rational from a distance but turn out to be acts of magnificent optimism. Our move to Haumanskloof was one of them.
We came armed with plenty of books, theories, and conversations about ecology, conservation, and possibility, albeit with an almost complete absence of practical off-grid living and homesteading know-how. We could discuss restoration over coffee with considerable confidence, yet none of us could have claimed any meaningful acquaintance with a shovel, a hammer, or the stubborn temperament of fence posts. We were, in every respectable sense of the phrase, city slickers.
Haumanskloof, meanwhile, seemed entirely unconcerned with our credentials.
To some, it presented itself as barren, untouched, even deserted. A forgotten fold in the landscape. But such conclusions are usually reached by people in a hurry. The reserve reveals itself only to those willing to stop, kneel, and look again. Beneath every seemingly bare patch of earth lives a quiet congregation of flowers, insects, birds, and creatures conducting their affairs with remarkable efficiency, long before we had the privilege of joining them.
And then there was the silence. Not emptiness, but completeness. It cleared away theclutter in our heads until only the important questions remained.
Chief among them was this: What, exactly, were we supposed to do here?
The possibilities stretched before us in every direction, exhilarating and faintly terrifying in equal measure. Beneath every ambitious idea lay a more pressing concern, one that would shape everything that followed: How could we make a life here without disturbing the intricate life that had already made one for itself?
Naturally, before we could embark upon any grand ambitions of restoration or conservation,there remained one matter of far greater importance: Mother and Ouma had to be properly settled.
Ouma, who had reached the distinguished age of ninety-two and had the unwavering resolve of a field marshal, announced that if we intended to uproot ourselves from Pretoria, she would be uprooting herself as well. This came less as a proposal than as official policy. Any attempts to persuade her otherwise were met with the sort of smile that signalled the discussion had concluded before it had even begun.
It followed, quite logically, that a woman of such impeccable standards could hardly be expected to reside in an ordinary farmhouse. A suitable residence was therefore conceived, sketched enthusiastically onto scraps of paper, revised repeatedly, and eventually christenedThe Palace long before it was completed.
Its construction served as our formal introduction to the peculiar discipline known as farm living.
In the city, one makes plans and expects them to unfold. On a farm, one makes plans merely to provide the day with something amusing to ignore. Every morning began with a carefully considered schedule; every evening concluded with an entirely different story. Trucks got stuck, delivery drivers considered new careers, tyres burst at the worst moments, and vehicles had to be towed from places they should never have been. Progress advanced according to a calendar understood only by the farm itself.
Curiously, no one seemed particularly alarmed by any of this. Such interruptions were regarded as part of the routine rather than setbacks. Patience, we learned, was not just a virtue out here but an essential building material, somewhere between cement and hope.
There were many moments, usually between the second puncture of the day and the third unexpected delay, when we found ourselves asking a rather uncomfortable question: What exactly are we doing?
After all, we had arrived with lofty ambitions. We were meant to be building a future: an eco-tourism venture rooted in conservation, complete with gardens that would feed both ourselves and our guests, and the foundations of a business that might one day flourish. Instead, we seemed to spend most of our waking hours dealing with electrical connections,plumbing and heaters, and trying to keep The Palace on course for completion.
And yet, as so often happens with the most improbable undertakings, everything came together at precisely the moment it needed to.
Against every reasonable prediction, Ouma arrived to find a finished home. There was filtered water, reliable heating, and enough comfort to satisfy even her exacting standards. Better still, it was all completed just in time for the opening match of the Rugby World Cup, a deadline that proved more effective than any construction schedule we had devised.
Looking back, it is tempting to believe we were building a house for Ouma. In truth, The Palace was building us as well.