Minimal Farm

A visit to the watering hole

Photo by Ellen White on Unsplash

In the beginning, there was water. Without water, there was no life. Water made the seeds grow, and the trees climb skywards. If you were lucky and had access to some water, it helped to pay a few bills. Water lubricated the greasy wheels of commerce, and it made the world go round.

Except that in the middle of the Kenyan desert (not the dessert), there wasn’t much of it to go round. To be fair, there would have been more than enough water for everyone, but some rich farmers, who dabbled in technology that most of the poor peasants couldn’t understand, hogged far more than their fair share.

These wealthy farmers lived in luxurious and extensive gated properties, with unfeasibly large swimming pools and lovingly watered lawns, and hammocks hung from palm trees, and punkah wallahs to fan them, and security on the gates with large semi-automatic rifles, while the peasants subsisted on the margins, toiling miserably under the midday sun, and unrecognised.

Count Tonks was a numbers person, who had inherited his title but not much else, being somewhat lacking in diplomatic and communication skills. He had been given the loan of his farm (known locally as Minimal Farm) from another farmer, William Evanovich, a tech bro who was far smarter, and more important, annoyingly far richer, who had lost interest in farming and gone off to try investing in AI, or crypto, or one of those other things that no one really understands, least of all the tech bros who tried to foist them on the rest of the peasants. The farm had just enough water from a borehole to keep the crops alive, but it barely made enough to cover its costs. If only he could afford a pool, where he could lie on a floaty and count his good fortune.

Then Count Tonks had a brainwave. It was based on numbers, one of the few things he understood. What if, rather than scraping a miserable existence growing crops, he built an oasis in the desert (not a dessert) where animals could come to drink, and he could sell tickets to gullible, wealthy tourists to come and watch them.

As a teaser, their first three visits would be free, but then they would be hooked. Many would pay to return to view the beautiful gazelles, impala, springboks, zebras and wildebeest (there always have to be some effing wildebeest), and other grazing animals, and perhaps if they were lucky, one of the big five, a buffalo, leopard, elephant, a rhino, or if they were really fortunate, a lion.

---

So Count Tonks excavated a large hole in the ground near the farm, built a channel, and diverted water from the borehole using a pump. At first, nothing. He had wasted all that time, energy and money, and his crops began to shrivel and die. The numbers didn’t add up. Tragedy. Then, mirabile dictu, after a few weeks, the animals began to arrive at this new oasis in the desert (no dessert, we’ve done that joke now), some on their own, and some two by two.

The watering hole quickly attracted all varieties of wildlife, motley and diverse, the weird and the wired, the wonderful and the eccentric. The oasis and the wildlife flourished.

Photo by Zdeněk Macháček on Unsplash

In theory, all animals were equal, but life being what it is, some were more equal than others. The lions were masters of this universe, kings, queens, and self-identifying non-binary rulers of all they surveyed, with the power of life and death over their minions. They had favourites, whom they allowed a bit more water than others, boosting their chances of survival, fattening them up for Christmas and being woke lions, for other festivals as well. The King of the Lions was called John, a magnificent and powerful beast, with a harem of lionesses to cater to his every whim (this is my story, so I might as well make the most of it).

Of course, some animals visiting the watering hole were not so welcome. The rats which brought artificial diseases, the chameleons who just copied the efforts of other animals, the hippos who revelled in rocking the boat, the crocs who liked to snap at other creatures, the chimps, who persisted in telling others how to be as clever as them or live their lives, the warthogs, who delighted in rolling in the mud, and relating how much water they had access to.

However overall, the oasis was a good place to be, just enough water to survive on, though none of the beautiful creatures grew fat. For a while, life was good.

The beautiful wildlife visited and thrived. The tourists bought tickets to watch them. A few at first, and then in their thousands. Count Tonks dreamed up a scheme for loyalty tickets. He toyed with various names for this scheme, such as “Friends of My Bank Balance”, but settled on “Friends of Minimal”, the name of his farm.

Photo by Thor Schroeder on Unsplash

Gradually Count T got very rich. But there was just one thing. Count T had always envied the other rich farmers with their unfeasibly large swimming pools, and their lovingly watered lawns, and hammocks hung from palm trees and punkah wallahs to fan them, and security on the gates with large semi-automatic rifles.

So he paid to have a swimming pool constructed behind the gate of his property, guarded by security with semi-automatic rifles, and diverted much of the water that went to the watering hole to fill his pool. It was so hot that the water evaporated quickly, so it needed refilling often. Then he wanted a lawn, so he needed more water. And some palm trees, which needed watering regularly, to support his hammock. Sorted.

Result. Except for one thing. With less water reaching it, the watering hole began to shrink. Fewer of the beautiful creatures came to visit as the oasis dwindled, and Count Tonks’s income began to shrink in parallel. Disaster.

Then Count Tonks had another one of his brainwaves. Hunting licences! He could sell licences to wealthy tourists to shoot the odd lion or two. No one would notice, and the licences could keep him in clover, or in his swimming pool at least.

---

(to be continued if you are really unlucky)

With apologies to the late George Orwell, a writer I much admire.