Author: Kim du Toit

Outlanders

Africa, Immigration

New Wife forwarded this on to me, and I repost it here without comment.

The Bittersweet Reflection

Dear Fellow South Africans,

From the shores of this stunning land they call Aotearoa, where the air is crisp and the landscapes breathtaking in a different way, I find myself reflecting on the journey that brought me here – a journey I know many of you are either contemplating or have already undertaken. It’s a move often painted with the broad strokes of seeking something “better,” but I wanted to share a more layered perspective, a “bittersweet” truth that resonates deeply within me.

There’s no denying the magnetic pull of New Zealand. The promise of safety, a different pace of life, and opportunities for our families. The beauty here is undeniable, from the rolling green hills to the majestic fjords. There’s a sense of peace and tranquility that can be incredibly appealing.

Yet, as I settle into this new rhythm, a profound sense of longing often washes over me – a longing for the vibrant chaos of a bustling South African market, the warmth of the African sun on my skin, the familiar lilt of Afrikaans or the expressive clicks of isiXhosa and isiZulu in everyday conversation. Here, the silence can sometimes feel a little too quiet, the landscapes while stunning, lack the raw, untamed spirit of the bushveld or the dramatic coastline of the Cape.

And this is where the “bittersweet” truly lies. In making this move, we are not necessarily escaping a land devoid of value. South Africa, in all its complexities and challenges, is a place of immense beauty, resilience, and a vibrant spirit that is unlike anywhere else in the world. It’s a land etched into our souls, filled with the laughter of friends, the comforting presence of family, and a cultural richness that has shaped who we are.

We carry within us the strength forged in the face of adversity, the warmth of Ubuntu that binds communities together, and a unique perspective on life that the world could learn from. The challenges we faced in South Africa have, in many ways, made us stronger and more adaptable.

Moving to New Zealand is not an admission that South Africa is inherently “bad.” It’s often a deeply personal choice driven by a desire for different opportunities or a sense of security. But let us not forget the incredible beauty, the deep connections, and the inherent worth of the land we leave behind. Let us not allow the narrative to be one of pure escape, but rather one of seeking a new horizon while cherishing the roots that have nourished us.

As we build our lives here in Aotearoa, let us carry the spirit of South Africa within us – our resilience, our warmth, our vibrant energy. And let us remember that while our physical location may change, the love for our homeland and the bonds with those we left behind remain strong.

This journey is indeed “bittersweet,” a chapter filled with both the excitement of the new and the poignant ache for the familiar. Let us embrace both, and in doing so, perhaps we can build a bridge between these two beautiful lands, carrying the best of South Africa with us as we contribute to the tapestry of New Zealand.

With heartfelt thoughts from across the Tasman Sea,

A Fellow South African in NZ… missing home.

Rethinking The Bucket List: Part 1

Bucket List, Travels

Many of the things I’ve wanted to do before I shuffle off this mortal whatsit involve travel, most especially to places I’ve not been to before, which would mean mostly Central Europe:  Budapest, Prague, Krakow and so on.  Note that these are cities, because I’m a city boy at heart and while I like beautiful countryside scenes as much as anyone, I prefer that I see them en route to the next city rather than as an end unto themselves.

That said, Hallstatt in Austria may have an inside track, for obvious reasons:


(Doesn’t seem like the season matters too much, does it?)

When it comes to revisiting some of my favorite cities — London, Paris, Vienna and so on — well, there things start getting a little more problematic.

…except, of course, that these pics were taken back when I last visited them.  That’s not what they look like now.
#ThirdWorld

None of the Western European cities, therefore, is likely to be anything like the cities I remember so fondly, as Lincoln Brown discusses in Europe’s Death Spiral Picks Up Speed, with this memorable statement:

“A cruise up the Seine sounds tantalizing. Spending time in a foreign ER with a subdural hematoma or being forcibly relieved of all my valuables does not.”

Understand that the prospect of some random street violence has never much bothered me before;  but I’m older now, slower and frankly less likely to engage in some kind of physical altercation that doesn’t involve (my) use of a gun.  And as any fule kno, Euroland has all sorts of stupid laws which forbid carry, let alone use of same, so I would be to all intents and purposes completely helpless.  The newspapers and TV are full of stories that outline how tourists and travelers have been attacked and robbed, and worse, raped and/or killed, and I have not the slightest interest in becoming just another of those statistics.

I’m not a fearful man, but I’m not a stupid one either.  In the past, when threatened with violence, I’ve responded with, shall we say, disproportionate violence in my self-defense (and most not involving firearms, by the way).  But I can’t do that anymore because I don’t have anything like the physical wherewithal to respond like that (which is one of the reasons why today I never leave the house without my 1911).

So any travel items on Ye Olde Bucquette Lystte have perforce been severely modified, to the extent where I’m most likely only going to visit places that are 1) safer than most in general (which rules out Paris and London altogether), and 2) are not infested with Muslim- or African “migrants”.  (The “Romanies” — gypsies — are a constant threat everywhere, and always have been, so not much to be done there.)

In fact, international travel per se  has increasingly become considerably less alluring than back when I was just an air ticket and packed suitcase away from [insert random destination here].  The only alternative would be to go on one of those riverboat cruises down the Rhine or Danube, except that I hate, absolutely loathe being tethered to someone else’s itinerary.  That’s just not how I run, to use the modern expression.

And yes:  I’d truly love to go to the Goodwood Revival in Britishland, for example, except that it would only be that reason (plus a visit with my old Brit friends like the Sorensons, the Free Markets and The Englishman) that could ever entice me to book a DFW-LHR air ticket.  Okay, driving around the gorgeous English countryside might also be tempting, except that one can’t do that in summer because said English countryside becomes like rush hour anywhere in the world, only with narrower roads .  Pass.

This whole topic makes me ineffably sad, because being a traveler (in the literal sense, i.e. not just being a simple tourist going from one church to another museum as part of a sheep-like group) has always enticed me with all its wonders of being exposed to foreign cultures, foods and customs.

But if modern travel in Western Europe means a much higher chance of being mugged etc., hell, I could have stayed in Johannesburg for that.

It seems as though Poland, Hungary and Czechia seem to have got on top of the whole immigrant criminalization problem simply by not letting any of the Third Worlders into their respective countries.

So maybe I could just tour Central Europe — but as I’ve written before, the problem with that is that I cannot speak any of the languages, and said languages are extraordinarily difficult to learn, especially for someone of my advanced age and failing mental faculties.

Sucks, dunnit?

When Gammy Cuts Loose

Men & Women

Here’s a heartwarming story for y’all:

A grandmother who is using dating apps at the age of 70 said she looks and feels decades younger – and is having the best sex of her life.

Well, fine;  and good for her.  If you rediscover the fire at whatever the age, then go for it.

My simple question:  Why do does she have to tell us all about it in the flipping newspaper?  

Of all the things we’ve lost in recent times, I think the loss of personal modesty is one of the worst.  Personally, I blame the Baby Boomers for starting it all — and at age 70 (my age), our proud shagger above is a perfect example.

Spread your wrinkled legs all you want, dearie.  Just don’t feel you have to share your story with the world.