Darek · Central Lombok · May 2026
Two months ago, we reset the farm.
Not because we wanted to. Because it had become obvious. After nearly two years of stewarding this land, mistakes had begun piling on top of older mistakes — and what we were doing was not yet good enough. Not consistent enough. Not productive enough. Not honest enough about what the land was actually asking from us.
Mistakes are part of farming. Especially organic farming. Especially here. The work isn't to avoid them — it's to learn quickly, adapt, and not let yesterday's mistake become tomorrow's pattern.
For a while, we had let that happen.
This hill hadn't been cared for in a long time before we arrived. For years, locals had stripped the natural cover-cropping to feed their animals, leaving the soil exposed to sun and rain. The soil here is heavy clay. The rainy season this year seemed to go on forever. We went through four managers in two years. Then avian flu hit the region, affecting not only our birds but many of our neighbours' flocks as well.
At a certain point, you stop trying to patch the system and admit what needs to happen.
So we reset. Not by tearing it all down — there is real work from these last two years that is still standing, still feeding the soil, still earning its place. But by going back to the fundamentals and asking, honestly, what is working and what isn't.
We rebuilt around what was working. We let go of what wasn't. No shortcuts. No pretending we know what we don't.
Right now, the team is three. Uci, in the garden and with the animals. Deni, in the nursery and helping where the garden needs hands. Bagen, looking after safety and security, and turning up wherever else there's work to do.
This is the smallest team the hill has ever had. And yet more is getting done, at higher quality and higher velocity, than when the team was twice the size. We think we know why. Organic farming, done properly, isn't a job you can clock in and out of. It asks for full attention. It rewards people who care about the mission, who notice things, who keep learning. The three here do.
The farm will stay closed for a little while longer. Reopening before the land is ready would be the wrong decision.
The work now is quiet and foundational.
We are making more compost than ever before. We are planting more cover crops. We are testing seeds variety by variety to understand what genuinely wants to grow here, instead of forcing the land into an idea we had in our heads.
More than anything, this season is about regeneration — restoring the soil first, so everything else can follow.
Farming has a way of humbling you. Organic farming, even more so. Especially here.
There are no perfect conditions. There is only the land in front of you and your willingness to listen.
Last month we built forty new market garden beds. This month we are adding fifty more. We now have pathways running throughout the property, making the entire hill more functional and easier to work. Two new syntropic systems are going in. Between thirty and fifty fruit trees and berry plants are being established. A much larger nursery is being completed this week, built with the help of neighbours and local hands. This place has always been built that way, and this season is no different.
For the first time since we started, it feels like the systems underneath the farm are beginning to match the vision above it.
Honestly, it is the best the hill has looked since we got here.
The animals are part of this reset too.
We recently welcomed two pregnant goats — they will support the land first through manure, and later through milk. We added rabbits last month, and two of the new arrivals have already given birth. The rabbits also feed back into the compost systems, closing another loop. Poultry was paused after the avian flu hit the region. We've spent the time since improving biosecurity measures, and we're now rebuilding the systems. The flock will return — properly protected this time.
Some parts of the farm need more time.
This reset is not only about what is going into the ground. It is also about how we operate and how we communicate.
If we are being honest, we have not always been consistent.
Not in the growing.
Not in the writing.
Not in the promises.
That changes now.
The focus going forward is simple: better systems, better growing, better communication. Quality and consistency.
Some of that consistency is in how we present this place too. New logo, new website, a tighter way of writing — all drawn together to reflect what The Hill actually is, not what we thought it should look like a year in. Same hill. Same work. Same people. Just told more honestly.
That is part of why we are starting these Letters. Not newsletters. Not promotions. Just a proper Letter from the hill — written when there's something worth saying. Never more than that.
A real update. The truth of where we are.
Every bed we build now is in service of the table we will gather around later.
We expect to reopen in the next couple of months. But only when the soil is ready. Not before.
There is always pressure to move faster — to reopen, to host, to sell, to show visible progress. But everything worth doing here starts below the surface first.
Healthy soil.
Healthy systems.
Healthy rhythm.
The rest follows.
Even with the farm closed, the interest hasn't stopped. Neighbours who've bought eggs and produce from our gates. Restaurants asking when we'll have vegetables and meats ready. Distributors and partners reaching out, wanting to know what we're building. Chefs who taste every raw ingredient before they design a menu and want to know where it grew.
To all of you — thank you. The patience and the belief mean more than we can say.
It's also why we want to be careful about getting this right. The food we grow goes first to the team, their families, our neighbours. A couple of veggie stands in the surrounding villages carry what we can spare. Then chefs and partners, quietly and by relationship. Sharing is built into the model — the more we grow, the wider the circle gets.
Most evenings now, after the work is done, we stand on the hill and look across what is beginning to come back to life. The beds are in. The nursery is nearly finished. The pathways finally make sense. The land is responding. Slowly. But clearly.
And for the first time in a while, it feels like we are moving in the right direction.
Warmly, The Hill