Except something cast a pall on this day. Not the weather this time. Not an arrogant Aussie or a self-righteous Brit. Miraculously it wasn’t one of our children either: puking in the paddling pool, clubbing another child in the face or destroying property. Thank goodness for small mercies. The source of our instant downer was the fact that virtually every couple we met (besides our hosts) absolutely hated life in the UK. We’re talking depressed and desperate hate here. Each couple took turns to confess their plans to head back to South Africa as soon as possible. No one enjoyed living here. “I fecking hate this hole.”“We’re outta here bru, as soon as we can” was the common sentiment. These aren’t newcomers either. They’re current residents of the United Kingdom. People who’ve committed in excess of seven years of hard graft, sworn allegiance to good old Lizzy and her posse and have absolutely no intention of remaining in Britain beyond what is necessary in their personal circumstance. Many have even had children here. Laaitjies who’re born to 100% South Africans, however their birthright offers them an undisputed claim to British heritage that will be wholly honoured and acknowledged by aforementioned Queen and country.
For us newbie 5 month olds with our freshly severed umbilical cord to Africa still tender and sore, it was shattering. We left the braai that evening feeling disheartened. And a little sad. We felt that perhaps we didn’t get the memo. We’d missed the boat. Did they know something that we didn’t? Why after 10 years in a country where a couple have been able to secure good jobs, purchase property, raise healthy children, enjoy travel, develop a network of friends – would their automatic default setting be to return to South Africa? And for little justification beyond, “We hate it here. We’ve always hated it here” and “We miss our family.” Is it really that terrible here? And if it really is so bad, why in the hell would you stay for 10 years?
I admit that I’m no stranger to the popular practice that sees Saffas arrive in the UK, achieve residency status, make some money and then head back to South Africa with the currency exchange rate in their favour and the sun on their back. Surely though there’s a little something called life somewhere in that equation. Tucked in between all the visas and residency permits. The hard slog and the homesickness. There is life in there. And under these circumstances is one really living it? At what cost? And for what gain? A passport to travel in Europe, a couple more zeros in one’s bank account. Hardly seems worth it to me. Certainly when it’s stacked up against the misery one needs to endure to achieve it. I can also appreciate that there’s a tricky lady called nostalgia who creeps into this equation with a pair of rose-tinted glasses on her nose. She starts making her presence known to Saffas pretty much the moment they arrive in a foreign land. She creates a hazy utopia, paints a pretty picture of life in SA that’s a mirage of unrealistic expectation. She cultivates a sense of ‘grass is greener’ and in this garden plants crafty little seeds of doubt that grow into mother-ass sized weeds that can choke you. John Wyndham’s Day of the Triffids springs to mind here. We did this book as a set work in Standard 7 English and I’ve spent 18 years looking for a context to reference it. Finally! Anyway, back to Lady Nostalgia. She’s dangerous. To give life in a new land a fighting chance, one needs to keep her banished until she can be enjoyed responsibly. Kind of like cane and crème soda. Lovely in moderation, but a complete dogshow if you over-indulge.
By no means do we possess the elixir of knowledge on how to handle living in a foreign country. We’re struggling just like everyone else. We’re taking strain with our new reality that sees virtually everyone we know and love located at best a 10-hour plane ride away over the expanse of an entire continent. We’re making this thing up as we go along. We’re doing our best. Through our experience on Saturday though, we’ve resolved that we’ll be damned if we’re going to be sitting at braai in 10 years time as residents of Britain bemoaning how bleak life is. Bitter and depressed. Lamenting about how we can’t wait to return to the land of our birth. No way bru. If we are still here in 10 years time, this will be home. We refuse to live life in future tense. We see enough tragedy and heartbreak of lives cut short, of destinies unfulfilled. If life is bleak here for us, we go back to South Africa. End of story. Finished and klaar as my Gran would say. Residency or not. We owe that to our children. We owe that to ourselves. And in a way, we owe that to Britain.
I’ll end off in the words of good old Frank, who’s eloquently managed to sum up the point of what I’ve attempted to achieve in the 1000-odd words before this. The point of it all. To strive to live with little regret. To do it your way. Your best way. Whatever that is. My sincerest wish is that it’s not being sad in a place that you hate away from everyone you love. I cannot conceive of anything that would be worth that.
“My friend, I'll say it clear I'll state my case, of which I'm certain.
I've lived a life that's full. I traveled each and ev'ry highway.
And more, much more than this, I did it my way.
Regrets, I've had a few. But then again, too few to mention.
I did what I had to do and saw it through without exemption.
I planned each charted course, each careful step along the byway. And more, much more than this, I did it my way.” - Frank Sinatra
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| Our children. Doing it their way. |
