The ceaseless Johannesburg traffic faded into memory as Zinhle's grandparents' battered bakkie trundled down the dusty road towards their Karoo sheep farm. At fourteen, Zinhle had never ventured beyond the city limits, her world confined to gleaming shopping centres and the incessant hum of urban life. Now, as the vast expanse of the semi-desert unfolded before her, a mixture of excitement and trepidation churned in her stomach.

"Are we nearly there yet, Gogo?" Zinhle asked, her fingers idly tapping on her silent mobile phone. No signal bars had appeared for the last hour, and the loss of her digital lifeline was beginning to gnaw at her.

Her grandmother chuckled from the front seat, her grey hair neatly tucked beneath a worn sunhat. "Patience, my dear. The Karoo doesn't rush for anyone. We'll be there when we get there."

Zinhle sighed and turned her attention back to the landscape rushing past her window. The cityscape of towering buildings and bustling streets had given way to an endless sea of scrubland, dotted with hardy bushes and the occasional wind-twisted tree. The sky seemed impossibly vast, a brilliant blue expanse unmarred by the smog she was accustomed to in Joburg.

As they crested a small rise, the farm materialised like a mirage – a cluster of whitewashed buildings surrounded by pens filled with woolly shapes. Zinhle's nose wrinkled at the pungent smell of lanolin and dung, a far cry from the synthetic scents of her favourite perfume shop.

"Welcome to paradise, my girl," her grandfather said, his weathered face creasing into a smile as he caught her expression in the rear-view mirror.

The bakkie rolled to a stop in front of the farmhouse, a low, sprawling building with a wide stoep shaded by a corrugated iron roof. As Zinhle climbed out, stretching her legs after the long journey, she was struck by the profound silence. No car horns, no distant sirens, no chatter of neighbours or hum of air conditioners. Just the whisper of the wind through the scrub and the occasional bleat of a sheep.

"Come on then," her grandmother called, already heading towards the house with a bag in each hand. "Let's get you settled, and then we can show you around."

Zinhle's room was small but cosy, with whitewashed walls and a patchwork quilt on the bed that her grandmother had proudly informed her was made from the wool of their very own sheep. A small window looked out over the veld, framing a view that seemed to stretch to infinity.

As she unpacked her suitcase, carefully arranging her collection of hair products and makeup on the simple wooden dresser, Zinhle couldn't help but feel a bit out of place. Her trendy trainers and designer jeans seemed absurdly out of context here, where practicality clearly reigned supreme.

A knock at the door interrupted her musings. "Ready for the grand tour?" her grandfather asked, his eyes twinkling with amusement at her obvious discomfort.

The 'grand tour' turned out to be a dusty walk around the immediate vicinity of the farmhouse. Zinhle trailed behind her grandfather, trying to take in the alien landscape. The sheep pens were her first stop, and she peered curiously at the wooly creatures huddled together in the afternoon heat.

"These are our lifeblood," her grandfather explained, his voice filled with pride. "Merino sheep, best wool in the world. You'll learn all about them while you're here."

Zinhle nodded, not quite sure how to respond. The idea of spending her school holiday learning about sheep hadn't exactly been her first choice, but she was determined to make the best of it.

As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant oranges and pinks, they made their way back to the farmhouse. The smell of cooking wafted out to greet them – a hearty, savoury scent that made Zinhle's stomach rumble despite her lingering unease.

"Wash up, both of you," her grandmother called from the kitchen. "Dinner's almost ready."

As Zinhle scrubbed the Karoo dust from her hands, she caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror. Her usually perfectly styled hair was windblown, and a smudge of dirt streaked her cheek. For a moment, she hardly recognised herself.

This, she realised with a mix of apprehension and curiosity, was going to be a very different kind of holiday indeed.