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My fellow South Africans, you should be proud. You are living in possibly one of the best countries in the world.
You’re probably reading this with less than 30% phone battery life while sitting in the dark, so it’s hard to believe. But you really are.
It’s just that you’ve been hit by a wave of darkness and despair emanating from that ominous cloud looming over our Parliament and power stations. It casts its shadow on one blunder after another in this place, all of which plague our public administration to the point of hopelessness.
But indulge me for a minute with a fantasy: Imagine if we had a magic vacuum cleaner and we ran it through our public sector, sucking out all elements of corruption and mal-administration from the country’s operations and inner workings. Now imagine your South Africa running her day-to-day business of life as efficient as the cogs of the finest clock itself… Oh! how she shines. Can you see it?
I recently returned from Europe – from one of the most revered countries in the world: Switzerland.
Now I am a child of the African soil of old, from a time when Eurocentricity and its ideologies still thrived, and the whole adage of ‘the sun never sets on the British empire’ still carried significant weight.
In my head and general understanding of the world, Europe was the epitome of excellence. It was a land of the most beautiful architecture, clean streets, safe areas, durable infrastructure, efficient businesses, delicious cuisine, as well as the most talented artists and philosophers. It stood out as a nation above all others.
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I couldn’t wait to one day be able to afford to go and behold this land – akin to that of the kingdom of heaven itself.
That day soon came and early this month, I touched down in Zürich for the PMI Smoke-free Technovation conference with several other journalists like me. Now, let me not take away anything from this city’s éclat. It is characteristically magnificent in every way and I truly enjoyed just being there and taking it all in.
But not more so than our beloved South Africa. Let me illustrate:
As soon as my flight landed, I informed the travel company – called Plum Transportation via CWT (a local company) – of my arrival and was told a driver would be there to fetch me. As I walked through the airport, I looked at each of the pick-up signs that the drivers held to see if any of them bore my name.
There was nothing. I eventually tried to contact them again. “It seems like our Swiss-based driver has fetched the wrong passenger. We can’t seem to get ahold of him but we will see what we can do,” I was told.
Two hours passed before I eventually got through to them again and was told: “The driver is unable to come back to the airport and no other driver is available to fetch you”. This was their final message to me.
Are you kidding me? Were they really going to leave me marooned like this?
But they were not kidding. Apparently, they could not locate another Swiss driver to fetch me and left me there stranded in this foreign country to find a way to my destination myself.
Making my way to the info-desk, the smiley lady advised me to “use the trains”.
Did they not realise I was from South Africa?
“How do I do that?”
“Don’t you use the trains in South Africa?” she asked.
“No one uses the trains in South Africa,” I replied. I left out the part that it was because someone had stolen the train tracks.
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Fortunately, my hosts who initially invited me to this foreign land were more sympathetic to my situation and resourceful for it too. “I am so sorry. We will try to uber you to the hotel,” they told me.
Securing an Uber proved challenging at first but the hosts eventually managed to do just this and I was on my way to my destination that cold and gloomy Monday morning.
As we embark on that incredibly long drive to the city of Neufchâtel, I stared out the window to take in the beautiful landscape of Switzerland.
Now I grew up watching Heidi (the series about the 8-year-old Swiss orphan girl) so I was expecting fields of green, houses with massive overarching roofs and mist on mountains and hills everywhere. I was not disappointed.
Switzerland boasted shades of bright green I had never seen before and Swiss Chalets characterised the hills as far as the eye could see.
Crops decorated the open field, and I did my best to look past the unsymmetrical positioning of the seeds that I was used to back home and saw it all for the raw, authentic rural beauty it was!
For at least several kilometres out of the airport, you see just this – along with the glory of Scandinavian architecture and your heart flutters at the reality of it all.
But not long after, we were on the freeways again. Long stretches of road with semi-kept verges. During those times stuck in traffic, I dosed off every now and then but quickly woke up again.
In many of those immediately woken-up moments, I thought we were driving through Pinetown back in KZN. I had to remind myself I was in Europe.
Two hours later, we eventually reached our destination. Now unlike the Pinetown and Rooderport-like region just outside Zürich, the city of Neufchâtel is every bit the European experience you could imagine.
With buildings that look like they were around from the 17th century, it is indeed a place both time and modernism have barely touched, rendering it a truly magnificent relic of its time.
As we arrived at the simple boutique hotel, I could not wait to check in and shower after the long flight I had had and go out to explore this city. But, I was quick to be taught that check-in was only at 4pm. Two hours later than the standard South African check-in time.
Fine. We’ll wait to check-in, I told myself. I will just venture out for a cup of coffee. But I also had to be taught that it was Monday. And most of the stores and restaurants in the city did not open on a Monday. It was long weekend every weekend for these locals.
“Not even for a cup of coffee?” I had asked.
“No. Not even,” the front desk agent responded.
I sighed in disappointment. Nevertheless, I walked through the French-speaking city to take it all in.
The cobbled streets were incredibly iconic of the city and were characterised by the trendiest of individuals decked out in trench coats, designer sunglasses and stylish boots, walking briskly to their destinations.
Some were on peddle bikes, while others go around on manually propelled scooters, that I often felt was about to crash into me but they manoeuvred their way around quite effectively. No wonder it was so hard to get an Uber. People just walked or rode everywhere.
But I simply loved it. The streets meandered around fountains, through tunnels and into narrow alleys just like you see in movies like Eat Pray Love and the Netflix series Emily in Paris.
European street and pavement culture were as beautiful as the mise-en-scene on our screens leads us to believe with serving tables and chairs from restaurants encroaching onto the roadway. There was also no litter and complete adherence by pedestrians and motorists alike to the rules of the road.
But my sensitive nose soon picked up that even the tunnels in Europe still smelled like urine.
Small, inconsequential mishaps, I told myself. All-in-all, it was truly one of the most perfect examples of rustic beauty.
I finally found an open restaurant and settled in to eat something. As I sat there with my other journo colleagues, staring at the menu, trying my best to figure out the language, a man in a soiled hoodie approached us with a paper cup in hand.
Are you kidding me?
Were we seeing clearly? Was this really a vagrant begging for money? Ah, but it was. We told him all we had were rands and didn’t have to do or say much else for him to quickly move away.
We ordered our food through phrases of broken Swiss-French and I was ready to be blown away by it all. When it finally came, I can’t really say I was as mind blown as I thought I would be.
A basic meal out there is no less than R300 a pop and it was great, but it did not boast a quality or taste experience that even South Africa’s most simple of franchise restaurants didn’t meet.
Even in fine dining, I realised there was just as much passion, technique and palatability in our offerings as there were in that of this first-world country.
Four o’ clock eventually rolled around and we were finally allowed to check in. As I made my way up to my room, the front desk agent followed and asked me to wait another 10 minutes to allow the maids to clean it first.
Are you kidding me?
This seemed like a constant reaction for me now. It was 38 minutes later that I was able to finally enter my room.
Upon doing so, I was shocked at the extreme simplicity of the place. But this, the city’s tour brochure told, was one of the best hotels in the region. A simple bed, a desk and a flimsy coffee table decorated the room. Mismatched curtains covered the large windows.
The bathroom had a simple plastic tub, a shower phone and plastic shower curtains. I checked the pricing per night of the rooms again. Yep, it was definitely at the price I saw and priced way higher than a room at SA’s Marriot group or Togo Sun offerings. But so, so way below that standard.
“It’s all part of the character and culture of the city,” I told myself. “Just take it all in”.
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But centuries-old buildings meant old plumbing and nosy pipes that shouted viciously at you every time you opened them for a shower. Rustic beauty comes at a price beyond a price tag, I guess.
As I showered I noticed a faint brown ring around the tub. Had they seriously cleaned this properly? I cringed. I made a mental note to relate this experience to my domestic helper when I was back home.
She had previously worked as a maid in hotels before she lost her job during Covid 19 and came to work for me. She was truly the epitome of black excellence betrayed like the scores of ‘self employed’ domestic helpers in our country. I knew she would laugh herself sick at the idea of this, that I would subject myself to a standard anything below what they were used to delivering.
I could now appreciate the pride our workers took in their daily tasks in our own country. So much of our excellence was built on their backs and the discipline, dedication and work ethic of our private sector. It might be Workers’ Month, but have we really given them the credit they deserve?
Our private sector is world-class. It even opens on Monday. It’s no wonder there is as much tax revenue to be ill-managed by the public sector as much as it has.
As I stood there in that shower, thinking of the standard of hospitality I was accustomed to in SA and comparing it with that of Europe, I felt endeared to my people; to think how hard they work, how much passion they pour into their jobs, their businesses, their communities and their culture.
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It made me angry to think these were the people our government was not just failing but blatantly stealing from. A people so resilient, so warm, so humble and so determined in every way.
South Africa really is a country of incredible diversity, natural beauty, and a vibrant culture. She has a rich history of resilience, perseverance, and overcoming adversity which is reflected in the strength and character of her people.
Despite all of its challenges, she remains a land of promise, a place where the impossible is made possible every day by the ingenuity and resourcefulness of her citizens.
How much potential this beautiful land holds. If only she can secure the right sort of leadership to harness it, instead of those who constantly choose to defile her and the very core of her integrity.
But there is hope for her yet. Her leaders may betray her, but her people will always bring her home.
They will always lead her back to excellence. For this reason, I have hope for the future.
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