I Had a Farm in Africa

I had a farm in Africa…is how Karen Blixen’s book, Out of Africa starts.

Ours was a 50 acre farm in Botswana that we called home. We were struggling to find somewhere to stay since I really wanted to continue working with the San and the family was enjoying our laid back life.

On Tuesdays, Peter would stand in line with the Afrikaner wives waiting for the vegetable truck to arrive. “They have cabbage and onions today.” He would call to tell me. 

Macallan caring for one

animal after another, a baby ostrich, then two more, a day old baby goat, chameleon and tortoises that we had to make sure the Bushmen didn’t eat on us. “These are our pets.” Was a conversation we would have with some of our “gardener’s” friends. One time, one of the Bushmen I worked with at Gantsi Craft told me, “When you look at this, you see turtle, when I look at this, I see lunch.”

And then there was Markham. He would spend the entire day playing with boys, not one speaking the same language as the other. He could shoot an arrow better than most of the kids he played with and that kid didn’t have shoes that fit him, basically because he never really wore any.

We had left Gaborone, the capital, although we didn’t want to leave Botswana. Unfortunately, we couldn’t find anywhere to live in Ghanzi, until Peter, by chance, met a woman who was moving to Namibia. One person after another had compared us to this family. Our children were the same age, her husband was an engineer, they drove a land rover...people kept remarking that we were stepping into their lives, taking over where they had left off. They hadn’t sold their home, so it made sense for us to replace them in it as well.

And because we were so desperate to stay, we wound up agreeing to this outlandish business deal that gave us partial ownership of their property, that we absolutely loved calling our home.

Again, we were never going to leave…until never came around again and we had to say good-bye to Botswana, for what we hope would only be for now, and not forever.

Just as we were packing up to leave Ghanzi to move back to the USA, I said to Peter, “The one thing I regret is that the kids never really got to know Bushmen kids.”

And wouldn’t you know it? (And I swear this is true!) The very next day, there were 10-12 people lined up along the outside of our interior fence.

I sent Peter out to see what they wanted, but when he came close to them, they scattered. He returned and so did they. From a distance, you couldn’t tell. But once I saw a few of them run, I realized they were children. “Go back.” I told Peter, “They’re kids. Bring Macallan.”  And when she got close, one of the girls called out to her, “Muck-Ahl-len! Muck-Ahl-len!”

We were not sure who these children were. There were children that roamed the streets of Ghanzi. They were definitely homeless. Some others were very poor children who most likely had families and homes to return to at night. One day, while Macallan played in the Ghanzi Craft yard, a little girl came in. She and Macallan started to play. The girl learned Macallan’s name quickly. From then on, whenever she would see Macallan, she would call to her. With other children around, many of the kids learned her name as well. Maybe that’s how they knew Macallan, but how did they know when to come, that this is what I wanted and this would answer a question I had asked a long time ago?

The children played for a few hours. I thought they would just run around, but they seemed to want something to do, so I brought out paper and crayons. Then we pulled out some toys we hadn’t yet packed up. The moving company would be here in a day or so, which meant we would have to leave shortly afterward. But for now, we still had some things for the kids to use and somethings we had planned to give away. 

After a few hours, Macallan and Markham came inside and shut the door. “What’s the matter?” I asked Macallan. “Nothing.” she replied. “Why aren’t you playing anymore?” I asked her. “We’re done playing.” was her response. There was only so much they could do together, I guess. Seemed odd since on other occasions even if they couldn’t communicate verbally, they still spent a great deal of time with one another. Why not now? She couldn’t explain it and I couldn’t understand it.

So, after the moving vans came and went, we packed what was left and headed out, at the gate. As we got to the gate, we saw one of the older boys. He opened the outer gate for us. I asked Peter to stop. We had some food and other things that we put aside to give to some of the Bushmen families that we knew lived down our road. I hopped out and gave him the things instead. Did he come to see the kids? Did he come for work? As he watched us pull away, he waved and shut the gate behind us. ‘Yet another Lekowa (White People) family leaving Ghanzi.’ I bet he was saying to himself. Did he wonder, ”Why do they get to come and go, and I must stay here?” Or did he ask, “Can I leave too?” or “When will I leave?” or maybe “Why would you ever want to leave?” I wondered if he questioned, “Will I ever see them again?”

Isak Dinesen, aka Karen Blixen, loved her time in Kenya. When she tearfully said good-bye, did she know that she would never return? In 2008, we did return for a brief visit. But it is 2015, I wonder if we’ll ever go back?

I pine for Botswana, but not just the country, but the Botswana we once knew. I’m afraid, it is no longer there. As the money from the purchase of the remaining 25 acres of our plot trickles in, I have mixed feelings. I am relieved because I didn’t believe we’d ever see that money again. I am thankful because we really could use that money now. But I’m also so very sad that there truly is nothing that ties us to Botswana.

I had a farm in Africa. I always thought I knew where I would be by now. But now, I wonder, where will Peter and I wind up and what adventures will we have over the next 10+ years?

“If I know a song of Africa, of the giraffe and the African new moon lying on her back, of the plows in the fields and the sweaty faces of the coffee pickers, does Africa know a song of me? Will the air over the plain quiver with a color that I have had on, or the children invent a game in which my name is or the full moon throw a shadow over the gravel of the drive that was like me, or will the eagle so Ngong Hills look out for me?” – Out of Africa