Babylonstoren, A Garden of Dreams: Nostalgia and a story about tangerines

Jun 20, 2021
3 min read

Updated: Sep 18, 2022

A long long time ago, I had the distinct impression that I should be anything but a gardener or a farmer. Perhaps it was the secluded education at a strict Catholic boarding school out in the countryside, in the tea-estate hills of Mukono district Uganda. Perhaps it was the city life at university and my misguided aspirations of becoming a lawyer ( law school does not a lawyer make).

Growing up, I played in my grandma's banana gardens. In my secret gardens, which were inter-cropped here and there with all manner of root vegetables, edible greens, wild gooseberries, sugarcane, and tomatoes, I dug up dark soil with my tiny bare hands to unearth tiny baby potatoes. Our grandma would indulgently allow these unearthed treasures to become a play meal, cooked in empty Zesta jam tins over coals stolen from the wood kitchens, a childish game of playhouse. I remember the neighbor's fruit trees that I longed to climb but was spoiled from doing so by an abundance of willing helpful older cousins who would throw down ripe mangoes and guavas for me to indulge till I was sick on the syrupy juices and my lip sticky and sore. Mind you my grandma had plenty of her own fruit trees but stolen fruit just had that extra temptation, deliciousness, and short-lived gratification that comes with pre-pubescent crime. Grown-up me thinks this farm life is not too bad.

For most Ugandans, gardening, or rather farming is the family business so to speak. In my travels as a post-graduate student abroad, I was astounded at how much daily access to a garden, grass, or trees was treated as a luxury. In large Chinese cities like Guangzhou made of forests of towering concrete homes, a balcony with patches of plastic flowers and grass, concrete communal recreation spaces, a view of a dense network of rail and road flyovers, and in the back, dump alleys and ventilators caked in soot, black dust polluting the air were a stark contrast to the paradise of my grandma's gardens. I saw no appeal. What is development without air to breathe?

On my family's latest tour out to the Babylonstoren farm, in Western Cape, SA, I am reminded of what gardens mean to me. I had been having a slight mental and emotional breakdown. Over the past few months, I had been contemplating what career decisions to take after I had just graduated with my master's degree from China. The nature of my graduation was abrupt as was the case for most people who graduated in 2020. I had absolutely no game plan for what to do next. I had tentatively decided to continue with a Ph.D. degree as the employment market was dry. After months of courting the best options I could find, I ended up with a shaky partial scholarship in one country and a rejection from another University. The trip to Babylonstoren was my pity party. My parents figured a day out in the countryside would help nurse my battered spirit and get me out of my head.

It's autumn and therefore the citrus season in South Africa and the gardens at Babylonstoren offer visitors, for a small entrance fee of R20, the opportunity to pick from the trees, sit under their shade, and munch away. It's been a long time since I have last tasted fruit ripened on the branches. The day is warm, and the scene is awash in the warm colors I love; the yellow in fall leaves, the orange in the citrus, the reds and browns in the soil.

The peeling of soft tangerines feels uncomplicated. In lieu of an older cousin, my mother plucks large low-hanging fruit, handing them down to my father and me. Like that, I let my worries go with the passing season, awaiting the bleak winter months. But I still hold my anxieties to me like a comfortable blanket, I have lived with them for so long. There is much to be grateful for, the sweetness of a tangerine, the warmth of a rare sunny day in autumn, and the comfort of a hand passing on a new juicy fruit. My fingers itch for rich dark soil and baby potatoes.