This is the end of the second month of spring for us.  We have not yet had decent spring rains.  For two years our annual rainfall has been less than a third of what it should be and in that time there has not been a decent 'planting rain' (of around 30 mm) for dryland cropping.  As we drove around the province this year I saw more failed crops than I have ever seen before.  It was heartbreaking. 

When we first moved in we knew we should do our water harvesting first, but we were too eager to get going with growing a winter crop.  This winter I finally got round to putting in some mulch pits and diversion drains, creating a network of mulch pits for next to trees and in the middle of some beds.  We have had rain twice this spring.  8 mm and then 10 mm.  There was no run-off - it all just soaked into the ground. Even the run-off from the roof just soaked in.  Which means I still don't know how well my water harvesting system is going to work.  In theory it's just fine, but I want the satisfaction of seeing it in action.

Our decreased rain is a problem.  In the last rainy season, except for the hail storm that damaged our tree (and my windscreen) all we had were light, intermittent showers of around 10 mm.

I understand now why large catchments are so important in dryland areas (such as at Berg-en-Dal). Of course, I can't do that here; this is not our land. 

Our water source is from a borehole. It's not pleasant, but it's drinkable.  We filter it to improve the flavour and take out any unknown undesirables.  What concerns me is that we are probably extracting water at a faster rate than the aquifer is being recharged.  Our neighbours and the other tenants water their lawns liberally and I cringe.  I suppose, in a way it's recycling water back to the underground reserve - at least, that which isn't evaporating.

I don't think I have ever been this focused on water.  I am conscious of it being used, wasted and stored.  I am well aware of how precious it is, how quickly we perish without it.  I worry about the many communities we visit where the rainfall pattern is worse than here.  Although the UN pins my income level as 'below the breadline', I think we are comfortable.  If we are hungry and there is no food in our garden (unlikely), we can drive half an hour and buy food from a supermarket.  The communities with whom we work cannot do that. 

Low rainfall = low harvest.  Low harvest = undernourishment. Undernourishment means people have neither the drive nor the energy to learn, create more gardens or be inspired.  The brain needs food to fire neurons. Climate change is, for many people in this province, a knife-edge that is becoming sharper each year.

Our garden is a test case for dryland cropping, seed-harvesting, biomuti applications and anything else that might help.  Our advantage is borehole water - without this white gold our garden would be dead.

So, as I sit on my verandah (porch) and survey our lush and green garden (and dead grass) that is now almost 18 months old I am delighted with our 80 or so herbs and array of vegetables.  I gaze lovingly at the plants that have over-wintered or bounced back, and I am filled with joy.

There is one thing that astounds me; the basil plants that survived the winter.  They are supposed to be annuals, but last year's basil (growing in a protected corner container garden) has given us fresh basil leaves all winter and is showing no signs of slowing down.

As we say in this neck of the woods; another hard day in Africa... and a sigh of contentment follows ;-)