Sometimes I do sit and wonder: What do I miss about Gauteng, my old province, and my life before we relocated to an easier (or if my younger son is to be believed – a better) life. And to be honest, there is a lot I miss, but not what you would imagine.

I miss getting things done. Making a phone call or sending an email, and you do not have to ask for a cut off date by when you expect feedback or a reply, which is a fictitious date anyway, as nobody pays any attention to it. Invariably, in Gauteng, it will be within 2 days, and if not, you will be contacted with an unrequired apology, and feedback on when you can expect your wish to be granted. In the Cape, things take longer. Ever wondered why Cape Town is called the Mother City? Because you wait 9 months for anything to happen. I will send you your quotation by Thursday, does not mean this or the next Thursday, it means you will get it on a Thursday, which could be next week, next month or even next year.

I miss the mix of people. There are so many nationalities and ethnic groups in Gauteng, and despite the pockets of Xenophobia that are so often reported on, this mix of races and cultures seem to have found a way to blend and infuse their approaches. A “good morning” can spark the brightest of smiles. Asking how the other person is, can bring on a spontaneous conversation about anything. Asking for directions can be a ten-minute conversation, establishing exactly how near or far “sho’t left” can be, not to mention a straight left. And then, despite what the world says about cultural differences, the paler complexion person will touch their own right arm with their left hand, when shaking hands, and in return they will be respectfully called Mma. There is no agenda or disrespect about any of this. It is just how we know to show respect to each other. Our small mannerism, it became our Ubuntu (which translates into “humanity”, or I am, because we are). I am sure the Western Cape has its own Ubuntu, the thing is just that I have not found it yet.

I miss “reading” a person by how they present. And by this I do not mean how expensive or fashionable a person is attired. It is just that in Gauteng, when someone looks homeless, it means just that. Sometimes I get it wrong here. We were walking on the beach in one of the neighbouring towns a few days ago, and just ahead of us were a couple that would truly have looked homeless in Gauteng. Down here they are versions of local – beach bums, strandlopers (a version of beach bum), call them what you like. At the end of their walk, they and their dogs got into a very new SUV and drove back to their log house up the mountain. In Gauteng, Harlem pants and Indian prints would either be a Flea Market vendor or a suburban midlife crisis fashion statement. Here, it gets sold in upmarket clothing stores. In Gauteng limp, stringy hair is a good indication that the person is recovering from long Covid. Here it is an acceptable hairstyle, compliments of the elements and the never-ending wind or rain. I can completely comprehend some of the outfits. You see, I have learnt to always have a waterproof jacket, a light jersey, a hat, an umbrella, beach sandals, walking shoes and sunblock in the car. The weather here can change in the space of one hour and that is when your emergency pack comes out, and I may find myself dressed in a cotton summer dress, with a pair of walking boots and my husband’s socks (because I forgot to pack mine), a cable knit jersey and a sunhat. Of course, there is no need really for the sun hat, I just use it at the end of a day to hide my, or what appears to be, limp and stringy hair, compliments of the wind and rain, and my born with unruly curls.

I miss going to a restaurant and knowing how to anticipate the menu offering. In Gauteng, 2 people having a slurred discussion over a few empty wine bottles would raise eyebrows. Here in the Western Cape, we bow to their superior knowledge as they discuss the merits of the Cabernet Sauvignon and how it lingers on the breath. I miss the diversity of restaurant menus. Mainstream restaurants here seem to have stagnated in their offering of Pizza or Fish & Chips. Do not get me wrong, sea food is part of the charm of living at the coast, but in most cases the fish on offer will be of the frozen variety. There are restaurants that deviate, but unless you explore (which we do plenty of!) or ask a local where to go, pizza and frozen hake fillets it will be. And then, the fascination with Belgian waffles is another gastronomic delight I need to acquire a taste for. Just how many Belgian waffle houses and Italian ice cream parlours can one dorpie (small town) have? Clearly not enough. All the gelatos are claimed to be home made, yet they all get scraped from the same type of plastic tub. Another explanation could be that these towns have a lot of Italian and Belgian tourists, unwilling to explore local delights.

I miss customer service. In a city that has the most astounding beauty on offer, it would seem that serving a customer with an abundance of Ubuntu is not a requirement. Or maybe it is there, I just haven’t found it yet. Or maybe I need to come back for it on Thursday of next week, next month, next year…..

I miss straight roads. I have a certain empathy here for the Romans when they invaded the British Isles. Imagine invading a country being stuck behind the local vicar’s car, ambling along a little country lane. As much as it is a visual (and acrophobic!) experience to drive all the winding coastal roads and scenic mountain passes, Oh what I would not give to drive on a straight, flat road again!  A Gauteng highway is exactly that. It is an independent road, with off ramps that take you to the suburbs. The Cape Town N2 highway, at times pootle through towns. Had it not been for Google Maps, one could easily fear that you are no longer on the N2. Not to mention that notorious bit of highway that stops mid-air, with nowhere to go but straight down. I guess it is one way of going nowhere slowly.

I miss radio stations. The type where you have all your favourites preprogramed into your car radio. Going to work you can listen to Radio 702 and coming back to Radio whatever. The Western Cape also has radio stations, but then they also have too many mountains, where every time you go through a dip, your favourite song on the radio turns to a hiss as the radio loses signal. Try Apple music, my son said, as he cleverly installed the App on my phone (with an eye roll, of course.) Well, I have news for him. Internet also required signal. And mountains interrupt signal and turns your music into pops of white noise. Sometimes I even forget that the car radio is on and when there is a snatch of reception, I have near heart failure when some artist belts out a bit of unexpected song. But more than anything, I miss my cat. Domino has discovered a newfound freedom here in Botrivier. I suspect he may have joined one of the notorious gangs that the Cape is known for. And so, this morning, he got quite a talking to from me.  I told him that he is turning into a homeless street cat, covered in battle scars. He is even starting to smell like a homeless street cat. He is now grounded for a few days, and to add insult to injury, he got himself bathed, because I will not have a smelly, dirty cat in the house. There are a few times where even I draw the line of what is acceptable. And I need not wait for a Thursday to come around to do so.