Ek Is Afrikaans. I Am African.

Ek is Afrikaans.  I am African. Very few people realize that the word ‘afrikaans’ literally means african.

I love South Africa. I was born here and I feel my roots here.  I am white, but this is my home country. My parents were born here. My grandparents were born here. I am African.

I do find parts of my heart resonate with Europe, undeniably. I have been there three times and I certainly have some close-to-my-heart memories. I cherish the Buen Retiro Park in Madrid. The whole city seemed asleep at 08:00 one August morning so I discovered my way to the park and spent a sunny, solitary hour there. The next lovely morning I opened my eyes in a Copenhagen loft, looked out and saw a cluster of tall white windmills (standing in water!) just outside my window. That was so foreign and so Scandinavian I caught my breath. Then there is the romantic Saar Loop in Germany, and the nautical Afsluitdijk in Holland.

 

I literally felt like the only person in Madrid that morning!

 

‘Lying sunlit and still, just waiting for me.’

 

First view of Copenhagen

 

Fresh water on the one side, salt water on the other

 

I understand the language of Germans and the Dutch and Belgians. But I am not German. Or Dutch. Or Belgian. I am African.

I love listening to Zulu choirs and singing along when I can. I love the quiet mist of the Kwazulu Natal midlands and the thunderous storms of Pretoria where the raindrops are so fat they literally pelt the pavement. When I was given the opportunity to study abroad, absolutely inviting as that sounded, I didn’t. I studied five kilometres from the house I grew up in, at UP.

And my who-I-am memories are here. The experiences that make up the fibers of my mind, were had here. Nature’s Valley. My family has visited Nature’s Valley every December from when I was still in school. I have so many happy memories of the beach, Douwurmkop, the lagoon and Klippiesbaai that I go there in my mind when I hurt the most. When I want to escape, I escape to Nature’s Valley.

 

Where the Groot River flows into the sea beneath Douwurmkop at Nature’s Valley

 

Next, the Drakensberg. I love Cathkin Peak. For our first wedding anniversary Martin and I climbed all the way to Blind Man’s Corner. And in later years my own young family more than once rested and drank in the beauty in the shadow of Cathkin.

 

Cathkin Peak

 

Our own secret hide-away

 

The strongest 20 years of my life were spent among the huts of rural KwaZulu-Natal.  Hundreds of little Zulu children learned the sounds of English in my lessons. I have served dignified ndabezithas on my knees. I sat with the women on icansis while the men ate at table. I did it by choice and I loved it. I don’t live like that in my own home, but I feel close to those who do.

 

These twins were our neighbours and spent a lot of time with us

 

Growing up together

 

What is my heritage? What happens to European genes that spend three generations in Africa? The braai and the rugby, yes. And so, so much more.

Washing a Floor Is a Skill

I was over eighteen the first time I washed a floor. Can you believe it? I remember early in my first year at TUKS telling my friend Kholofelo I had never washed a floor before. She was flabbergasted. Her reaction made me realise that there was a part of life I had up to then not participated in. The next weekend at home I took a bucket and a mop and washed the kitchen floor. It wasn’t horrible. It wasn’t terrific. But it resulted in a clean floor and I could say I’d washed a floor. I felt enabled.

The reason I missed out on all those life skills of course is that mine was a traditional South African middle class family of the eighties. We had a sleep in maid most of the time. The maid always washed the floors!

I started late but I’m an expert by now

Well, I am forty now and for most of my adult life I have done the cleaning myself. No-one can count how many times I have washed floors. In fact, I am quite a pro. I can even write a blog about my preferences. 😉

  • I hate traditional mops. They stink. And all they do is slop dirty water around on the floor.
  • I hate dipping my mop into a bucket of dirty water. I cannot imagine dirty water cleaning anything.
  • I dislike wax based detergents that promise to clean and polish your floor at the same time. They cause wax build up that eventually discolours and then your grouting is permanently dirty!

Regular bucket and a bit of clean water. The mop is fabulous: flat swivelhead with a detachable microfiber cloth.

The microfiber cloth is easily and securely tucked into the sides of the swivelhead. Note that the head can ‘fold’ in half when one steps on the little triangle lever on the right.

My soap of choice

My method

My method? I like a broad, flat microfiber mop. I spray our very own FLOOR onto the floor, neat, and wipe it off with the mop. Then I rinse the mop in clean water (normally running water at the bath or whichever tap is closest at the moment) and repeat until the job is done. The next time I go over the floor with water only. This way I know the microbes are on the floor long enough to do their job, and the soap is eventually rinsed off. Not that leaving it on the floor would be a problem, really. FLOOR does not contain anything that could build up.

Sharing chores gets things done but it also creates moments to connect. We often chat while cleaning.

And my kids help. I will not let them turn 18 before washing a floor. Washing floors is as much a part of life as brushing your teeth and I will teach them how to do it. I will resist the notion that certain mundane skills are not important to learn because someone else will do it. Any skill enables. And being able to just ‘get on with it’ is priceless too.

Still, my house is only ever spotless two minutes before guests arrive. Even with help. Please tell me I am not alone?

Till then