Tegwan's Nest

"Tegwan's Nest" Guest Farm

Greylingstad, Republic of South Africa

My parents took their holiday of a lifetime in 1960, travelling through Europe for three months in, as I remember, June to August. Aged 10, I was given three months off from Standard 3 in Chingola's primary school, and went to stay at Tegwan's Nest, a fully working farm in the Greylingstad area that took guests. Family friends in Chingoa had recommended the farm through connections with grandma Mrs Allison, who I think was the farm owner, and her daughter Heather who ran the domestic side while her husband Colin Harvey, "Harv", ran the farm.

Grandma

The farm toilet was a little shed over a wooden plank seat over a hole in the ground. Shrek's toilet was modelled on it. It had an interesting smell, not a bad smell, but distinctive, raw soap and disinfectant, it was carefully cleaned every day by one of the farm workers. When you had finished your business, you needed to return to the farmhouse to wash your hands in the bathroom. It was not exactly a convenient or private toilet, certainly not in the highveld winter, and aged 10 and pretty nosey, I got to know everyone's visiting habits. Well, not quite everyone. I never saw grandma. On the other hand, I did see her washing her hands regularly. So one quiet afternoon, I put my eye to the bathroom keyhole while I thought she was washing her hands. The sight of grandma doing her business in the hand basin stunned me. She wasn't following the rules! (The rest of it I thought nothing of. But not following the rules was terrible!) I sought out Mrs Harvey, and explained this to her. She was furious, and for a few moments I thought she was angry with grandma. But no, she was angry with me, very angry. I was exiled to my bedroom for the rest of the day with a thick ear and harsh words not to come out until I had learned to behave properly. For many years, I had no idea what she meant and no idea why she was angry with me!

Horse riding

The major activity for guests was horse riding. Each day I took a lesson. The very first lesson involved a trip into the small town (or "dorp") of Greylingstad where I was fitted with jodhpurs at the local store. The next lesson saw me sitting on a very docile and completely stationary Shetland pony. After a few days, the chief stable hand (I seem to remember the name "Johannes") would lead the pony around the stable area while I bumped up and down fiddling with reins and stirrups. In between times, I learned about riding tackle, feeding, and not approaching a horse from behind. I developed a mild molasses habit, it was held in a huge tub next to other huge tubs of oats and rough raw vegetables.

I've never had any talent for physical skills, apparently being blessed with ten thumbs, and must have been one of the poorest students ever. It took me ages to persuade the Shetland to move if Johannes wasn't leading him, and getting him to trot was out of the question. After a few weeks, I graduated to "Misty", a mild-mannered albino pony. Misty and I stuck with each other to the end of my stay, while the other guests rapidly moved up to ride the other horses of increasing agility and friskiness with their increasing riding skill. The next horse in the pecking order was a strawberry roan, but he (she?) had a habit of biting me when I tried to bridle him. I was easily frightened, and rode him just a few times. Dan was a very large very dark brown ex-plough horse, who Harv would always ride when a party went out. I was told that Dan was a rescue horse and was told that's why he didn't have any spirit, but the times I rode him he seemed perfectly amenable and offered the smoothest canter ever, and I certainly wasn't looking for 'spirit'. Top horse was Araby, a piebald stallion with some Arabic blood and a temperament to match. I never rode him, and never wanted to ride him.

Misty did teach me two useful riding lessons, though. Not just riding lessons, but also life lessons. The first was how wily a horse could be. After our initial training, we had to saddle our own horses, but I could not get it right, the saddle would slip backwards within minutes of leaving the stable yard, and then start slipping over to one side or the other. After a few weeks, Johannes took pity on me. He came over while I saddled Misty, and watched me tighten the girth strap as far as I could. He grunted, moved next to me, and kneed Misty in the ribs; the horse promptly exhaled and I could get the girth strap tightened another 6 inches. My saddle stayed in place thereafter. The second lesson was how wily a horse could be. After a month or so, I was allowed to ride out on my own, and I loved to do that. The thing is, Misty would only ever walk on the outward leg, and my tantrums and pathetic attempts to shorten the reins and press my heels into his flanks might yield the most reluctant trot. But turn him towards home, and I could have a glorious canter all the way back with just the slightest nudge... I heard years later that Misty had been killed when he wandered onto the railway that ran through the farm.

One weekend, a small group of four school kids turned up with their teacher for some riding lessons. I was at the stables investigating a row of terracotta plant pots upside down on a heap of soil, curiously poking at the weedy pale sprouts of something underneath them. I could see that one of the farm workers had made a silly error after being asked to grow some vegetables, they didn't know which end of a plant pot was the right way up. As I started to replant the rhubarb correctly, the farm worker returned, pushed me away, and repaired my damage. So I went over to help the teacher with her pupils. I remember that the pupils were uncertain about getting onto their horses, the horses were just not standing still as they normally did, and the teacher (let's call her Miss Jones) was fumbling with stirrups, reins, girth belts, and calling out for Johannes. But it was Saturday and Johannes had the weekend off, so I stepped forward to adjust a stirrup, saying something like, "No, that's not the way, you do it like this" in my resident expert voice. Miss Jones spun around, raised her hand, and slapped me hard across my face. I staggered back to my bedroom and exiled myself for the rest of the day, weeping continuously, completely shocked how good intentions were so viciously rejected. Mrs Harvey found me later and gave me a comforting jam bun, but I couldn't understand her explanation of what had happened. It seemed to revolve around me making problems for other people, and I knew that could not possibly be true, since I was only trying to help.

Game hunting

At the time I was there, Mrs Harvey and Harv's son Leonard, always called "Len", was aged around 15 and was mostly at boarding school in Johannesburg. He visited for two or three weeks during a school vacation, and persuaded Harv to buy an old banged-up large V8 American car so he could learn to drive on the farm tracks. Len could drive perfectly well, of course, having learned years earlier at the wheel of the beat-up farm Landrover. Mrs Harvey was unimpressed by the unnecessary expenditure of what I remember as 25 Rands (perhaps £500 in 2012 money). To improve the old car, Len cut off the roof, bonnet, and boot lid, and I spent many a happy hour scraping off the black mastic that sealed the boot interior and floor pan with a small, flat blade screwdriver. I have no idea why I spent so much time doing that, I suspect it was Len's idea to keep me occupied with no chance of me causing any trouble and well out of his hair. It worked perfectly...

The car was a terrific run-around and I was occasionally invited to join the gang on hair-raising bashes across farm fields. The greatest bash was the evening Len loaded up with his .22 rifle, threw me in the back seat, and we went off to shoot some hares for next week's dinner. I thought it an absolutely crazy idea to set off in the pitch dark with the intention of game hunting, but then I got it. As we bumped over a field, a hare crossed in front of the car, stopped, and looked into the headlights. Len cut the engine, coasted to a stop, and with all the time in the world loaded, aimed, and shot the frozen animal. Another half-dozen followed, and the following day I was given some trophies, proudly putting a brown hare's foot in one trouser pocket, and a white tail in the other.

I fell out with Len, sadly. He had grown fond of ruffling my hair whenever we met, and I'd have to stop and comb it back again. Being reasonably neat was important to me. I didn't mind that much, actually, but began to plot a reciprocal gesture. One evening, as he was combing his hair in the bathroom in preparation for a big dinner, I sneaked up behind him and ruffled it. He was outraged. While not quite as big a frame as Harv, Len was a sturdy farm lad and I knew that he'd hurt me if he got hold of me. I fled through the house in terror and barged into the guest-filled dinning room with him in hot pursuit. That was another day exiled to my bedroom, and for many more years could not understand why it was OK for him to mess my hair but not OK for me for me to mess his hair. Actually, I still don't understand.

The farm

Mrs Harvey had lung cancer some years earlier, and during my stay explained to me how she ran through a procedure every morning and evening to keep her remaining lung clear. More than a little curious, I had no trouble peeking through keyholes, and saw that she needed to lie on her bed with her feet higher than her head, coughing sputum from time to time. She also told me some stories from her own past, often recalling the love of her life, an early pioneer aviator who would fly over the farm and waggle his wings when she ran outside and waved. She said he died in an air accident and she was heart-broken...

The farm kitchen was a wonderful place to be, especially on weekends when the farm filled with guests. The smell of fresh farm food would mix with the scent of the wood-fired stoves and ovens and the Xhosa kitchen women would bustle around with aromas of cows and the veld. We'd get a different breakfast porridge every day for weeks. White, yellow, chocolate brown, tan brown, smooth, rough, biscuity, nutty, oaty, every type from grains grown and ground on the farm itself. We'd have "sudza", a savoury stiff porridge-like dish of ground maize that was perfect with boerwors and gravy. And there was the most exquisite watermelon jam, again entirely farm-made. Cubes of the white rind of the melon were boiled and then soaked for up to a year in syrup, turning them crunchy-sweet and honey-coloured. I asked for its name and was told, "konfyt". Now konfyt is simply Afrikaans for "jam", but I didn't know that. So wherever I went for, oh, maybe 20 years afterwards in southern Africa, I would ask for konfyt at any remotely rural tearoom, guest house, or restaurant, but somehow never was served watermelon rind preserve. Strawberry jam, sure; but never konfyt.

Rumpus room

After the morning's riding and lunch, many of my afternoons were spent in the games or "rumpus" room, furnished with board games, a gramophone, stacks of 78's, a fold-down table tennis set, and cushions. I became word perfect on lyrics from Buddy Holly and the Crickets, the Kingston Trio's "Tom Dooley", and other depressing tales of failed loves and lives. Mick, perhaps 19 or 20, was a visitor from time to time, riding down from Johannesburg on his BMW motorbike, having the farm atmosphere ease his black depressions. He took me for a ride on the BMW a couple of times down the farm road, thrilling and exciting me and putting a broad smile on my face. He'd challenge me to explain how my Meccano model of a car differential worked, and that kept me occupied for some time, I never could do it to his satisfaction.

Mandy, who I guess might have been 15, was an occasional guest with her family and friends and took some pity on me. She'd change the record, get me to beat her playing draughts, and encourage me outside to join others horsing around on the grass or taking tea under the tree. Naturally I wanted to marry her as soon as I could, but she just laughed. We wrote a couple of letters to each other a few months after my stay ended. I don't think she knew how her kindness and tolerant acceptance kept me buoyant for years afterwards.

Crab fishing

Another fun farm activity was crab fishing. I knew about fish fishing, but crab fishing? With fish fishing, the rules were very straightforward: bait a hook, the fish eats the bait, the hook lodges in its mouth, the fish struggles mightily to be free, you reel it in. I'd done that with my dad from a boat on the Zambezi river some years ago while we were in Livingstone. Mrs Harvey gave me some string with a piece of meat tied to it. "Hang that down the side of the dam wall", she said, "Wait two minutes, and you'll pull out a crab. Put it in this tin can for the chickens, they need the calcium." That couldn't be, I knew that, the crab would just let go when I started pulling. But I couldn't say anything, Mrs Harvey and I were still uncomfortable around each other since grandma. Without a hook, it was clearly hopeless, and I was sad that I was to waste the day at the dam for no good reason. I dragged myself down to the dam that was at the bottom of the farm's approach road, and spent some hours skimming a few stones and whittling a bow and a couple of arrows. Before throwing the meat away and tying the string to the bow, I thought I'd better do as I had been told, otherwise I would get into trouble, so I threw the line into the water and went off to see if I could catch any frogs. When I returned, I could feel some tension on the line, and carefully pulled it out. There were two crabs hanging on to the meat by one claw each, legs waving in the air and, it seemed to me, fighting each other off with the other claw. And they hung on while I swung them around and lowered them to the bank. They hung on while I jiggled the line. They hung on while I whirled the line around my head. They still hung on while I dipped them back in the water and pulled them out again. They hung on when I finally put them into the tin can. I was just flabbergasted. I'd caught them, why were they not struggling to get free? I looked carefully to see where their claws must have got hooked in the meat or string, but no, nothing was preventing them from letting go. Except for their overwhelming desire to hang on to a piece of meat. Another life lesson.

Another life lesson

At some time during my stay I fell quite ill, possibly gastric influenza, and in due course the doctor was called. I was terrified when he told me I'd need an injection, and when he produced what looked like a foot-long syringe and needle I started howling piteously for my mother. He returned each day, and by my sixth injection I was able to sit quite peacefully and cheerfully watch as he pricked me. It turned into a life lesson for me when I understood that I could decide whether to be afraid, whether the pain would bother me, and whether I was going to make a fuss.

Links

A Google search on "Tegwans Nest" turns up few links. Some folks who visited around the time I was there have posted some snaps of grandma, Harv, and the turning off the main road, but that site has disappeared. Some other folks have mentioned visiting and horse riding. There is grandma's story of her life and the origins of the farm. Apparently there was a Greylingstad concentration camp during the Boer War, whose enlightened commandant was apparently one AA Allison, grandma's husband. A guest house in Australia is named after the farm, and owner Stuart German hosts a very sympathetic history page. A photo on Stuart's page of a memorial plaque tells us, "Ian Colin Harvey, 30.10.1913 - 13.02.1994. Heather V.P. Harvey, 22.02.1917 - 07.07.2001. Leonard Colin Harvey, 15.04.1945 - 15.07.2002".

Interestingly, a short film has been made about the farm. The notes say, "In 2005, Tegwan's Nest Farm outside of Jo'burg was transferred by surviving Dutch/Anglo family members to its Zulu manager, Wilson Vilakazi. Rare historic footage provides a glimpse of the past, as well as the challenges of present day farming. A subtle perspective on race, land and memory in South Africa."