If you are a regular reader of the blog, you’ll know that I am Afrikaans, and so white that I’m almost translucent. My family arrived on the heels of Van Riebeeck. (I’m from the Venter-surname stock, so I picture we were hitched behind the Drommedaris on a floating trailer). What you might not know, is that I am, as Trump would call us, “a white farmer.” I identify as this because I have a thriving collection of kombucha scobies, kefir cultures, glorious sourdough starters, cabbage and beetroot happily fermenting, and a compost heap that would impress any earthworm, even though this all happens in a Sandton suburb rather than on a Free State plain.
From my side, it is a hard pass on Mr Trump’s invite to come and settle on American soil while our citizenship gets expediated. The South Africa I love and live in, is not at all what Trump describes with his limited vocabulary. It is much more complex, nuanced, rich, terrifying and glorious. Yes, I am scared, every single day, that I might get raped, but so is every woman I know. This fear is not a whites-only-reality. Yes, the thought of land reforms and expropriation freaks us out. We’ve been told on repeat how the English took my great-grandfather’s farm and burnt it to the ground. We’ve seen the Zimbabwean farmers violently thrown off their land, leaving the country starving. The white farmers suffered, and so did just about every Zimbabwean, apart from the few plutocrats. Yes, I worry about affirmative action, and where my kids will work, but if it were not for this very concept, I would not have been forced out of my corporate comfort zone to do what I love.
I get that we battle with the horror of loadshedding, potholes bigger than cars, filthy Joburg streets and a gazillion Sixty60 scooters driving like kamikaze fighters on our roads. But still I do not want to be anywhere else. I love our will to survive and our enthusiasm for new ideas, our ability to forgive, and the joy you find on the back of every bakkie and in every rattling taxi. I get to share my home with a helper that squeezes me to her ample bosom after I’ve had a hard day, irons my clothes, waits for me each morning before 5am so we can go for a walk, and helped raise my children. Every morning, I arrive at work and am greeted by Colgate smiles and hugs. I get to spend my day with a woman who cannot read, as well as a medical doctor doing her second master’s degree, each one filling a need, adding their thread to our diverse tapestry. One of my Zazen-partners believes in all gods, the other one believes in no god, and I am rather partial to Jesus. It does not affect our ability to work well together or our sisterhood. In South Africa, we expect the government to fail, so we make our own plans. We drill boreholes, put up solar, fix the pothole in front of our house, employ someone’s nephew’s friend’s neighbour, not because we need them, but we try and help. Zazen’s NGO helps many state palliative patients, and offering this tender service to them is our honour, not just because it is the right thing to do, but because everyone deserves dignity and grace.
I love that we can be a safe space at this lodge and (on paper at least) in our country for everybody, that my voice counts despite being a woman, that my gardener matters even though he is uneducated, that there cannot be discrimination based on our sexual preferences, that we allow dialogue rather than sweeping blanket statements. I love that we are pushing out the old hierarchical ideas and adding fresh, innovative solutions.
Recently at Recovery, a gentle British lady living in Kenya came to us to recuperate. She was supposed to go to the UK’s notorious NHS for a complicated surgery, but after her sister was left on a gurney for 48 hours waiting for an x-ray, she decided to come to South Africa and get the job done here. You can imagine the difference between her experience and that of her sister’s. Mrs Williams had the renowned Dr Rob Barrow as her surgeon. (If you live in Joburg and have either a stomach, or a bone in your body, you are likely to cross paths with one of the Barrow-brothers at some stage). Upon discharge, she came to us, where she was welcomed by a soothing cup of English-breakfast tea. Her daughter stayed at our other lodge, and she and I exchanged knitting patterns (another reminder that I am Afrikaans). On a Saturday late morning, Mrs Williams told me she was worried about the dressing of her wound. I popped Dr Barrow a photo, and within seconds he replied that he would swing by. He looked at her dressing, confirmed all was good, and she lay back against her pillow and just said, “How is this possible? Am I dreaming or was a brilliant surgeon just here on his Saturday morning off? How can care be this good? From the second I arrived in this country, I’ve just been overwhelmed with attention, love and incredible medical expertise”.
It is not that I am unaware of the challenges in our medical system. After all, my one daughter is based at Kalafong hospital which has been crippled by years of corruption has a broken infrastructure, bone-tired clerks and a spectacular lack of supplies. However, it is filled with determined medical staff, grateful patients and an ubuntu that I can guarantee you, you will not find on any other continent. Our lodges exist because we saw that our world changed after the introduction of Booking.com and Airbnb, followed by the devastation Covid. That, along with sub-acutes and care facilities focusing on margins rather than care, profits rather than patients and using agency staff instead of investing in their own people, simply forced us to dream up and believe in something different. We had the freedom in this country to create spaces where we could bring new concepts, combine clinical knowledge, financial savvy and a commitment to hospitality that not only benefits our patients, but also promotes staff’s well-being and loved one’s peace of mind. With gentle nudging, maybe we can change the way this country understands care, recovery, respite and the end-of-life.
So, in conclusion, thanks, Mr. Trump, but I think I’ll pass. You’re welcome to take the white farmers who are on board with your ideas, but I’m happy to stay here and help rebuild and take part in the recovery of my own country.