It is important to realise that when it comes to going away on holiday, there are two types of farmers – those who are happy to leave the farm for a few weeks at a time and those who hate the idea of being separated from their beloved farm for more than a few days at a time. I am the daughter of a farmer that falls into the latter category.

They believe that in their absence, all the sheep will die from some inexplicable disease, it will rain too much or too little or the entire staff will suddenly decided to leave the farm without notice. So, unlike other families, we had to stay at home over Christmas and New Years to make sure none of the above-mentioned disasters did actually occur. Instead, we had to wait for all the Vaalies, “who always take over all holiday destinations,” to return before we could set off to the coast. 10 days maximum.

These places will usually not be somewhere glamorous (like Margate) or big (like Port Elizabeth), but rather a little seaside town with one miserable shop. Therefore, my mother had to be an expert packer and even had a dedicated room set aside for this mammoth task and had to skilfully anticipate anything we might possibly require during our trip. The packing predictably included a game and sports section for anything that was fashionable at the time and without fail, scrabble was always top on the list. A beach section, a linen, bedding and towel section (not to be confused with beach towels), the toiletries and a medicine kit, all the regular household groceries and by far the most important – FOOD.

The food section would comprise of plenty of meat for all the braais, tins of rusks and biscuits and anything else that could help us fight the big hunger between meals. Naturally, we had to be fully prepared for the great munchies, caused by the fresh sea air, since only one trip to the nearest Pick & Pay could be made to replenish the supplies mid-way through the holiday or if the weather was bad.

How on earth my dad managed to pack all of that and us into the car will remain a mystery to me. On arrival, we loved exploring the new house, each rented cottage having its own quirks while providing us with an insight into the lives of its owners. We had a splendid time at the sea, pretty much like every other South African family that went on similar holidays.

My dad had to phone home just to make sure that none of the earlier mentioned, or any other unforeseen disasters, did occur back home. Contact with the staff back home required careful planning since none of the beach houses had landlines and mobile phones were but a dream back then. My dad would arrange to phone the staff at 6 pm on a specific day from the phone booth at the café from where he would attempt to conduct his farming from 500 kilometres away. I am happy to report that there were never any major disasters while we were away on holiday. The cell phone has truly revolutionised holidays for farmers wherever they might be in the world.

I still remember the 2 litre coke bottles we filled with sea water for the people back home, most of them never having seen the ocean before. I miss the old sea cottages now replaced with huge mansions. I miss school holidays when you didn’t have to ask for leave and synchronize diaries. I miss discovering the shortest route to the beach or getting ice-cream at the shop on the way home. I miss meeting new friends next door or spending time with the cousins and family.

I only hope that the tradition of a yearly family holiday will never be replaced with anything more “fashionable”; each child should have the opportunity to create similar memories and spend quality time with their siblings and parents.

Our days were filled with building our own farms yards and hide-outs and learning each other’s games, languages and customs. We played cricket and football and went horse riding together or joined our fathers in the veldt. But meal times and after hours were spent with our own families. Our milk and meat came from the same source and we both dreaded our inoculations from the sister in her travelling clinic. You were taught to treat me with respect, I was taught to treat you with the same respect. We were too young to understand that we were different because of our skin colour, but we understood that my parents could afford a car because my dad owned the land we lived on.

Then one day our worlds became bigger than the farm we knew so well. We had to be educated, we had to go to school . Your school was on the neighbouring farm, but I had to go to the big school in town. You could walk the 5km to learn to read and write, while I had to be driven the 30km with my suitcase. You could walk home again after school, but I had to stay in the hostel until Friday afternoon.

I didn’t want to go to my school; I wanted to go to your school. I wanted to walk back home and steal figs with you or swim in the dam when it was hot. I wanted to eat the food your mom made for my family (not the horrid stuff they fed us in boarding school) and I wanted to sleep in my warm bed. But I wasn’t allowed to join them join you at the farm school BECAUSE I AM WHITE.

Slowly it dawned on me how things really worked in the world beyond our farm. I can’t go to your school because I am white, you can’t go to my church because you are black. You can’t buy the house next to my grandmother’s in town, not because you couldn’t afford it, but because you are not white. You are not allowed to shop in the same shops as my mom, but could buy your groceries in the part of town I wasn’t allowed to go to because it was “dangerous”. There are many things you couldn’t do that I took for granted. I am only now starting to realise how different our people were treated.

I go back to farm now for holidays, but very little has changed. We still treat each other with the same mutual respect. My dad is still the baas, but you are now a farm worker alongside my brother. A lot has altered in the world outside our kingdom; our children will now be able to go to the same school, our families greet each other while shopping in the same shops, we can all worship whichever God we want to in whichever church building we prefer and some of the houses in my grandmother’s old neighbourhood have black families living there. These changes were not always easy, yet it was natural.

I am a little sad though – the school on the farm next door had to close down. The money that was meant for the teacher’s salary disappeared with the school books. Instead all the farm children, regardless of skin colour, have to stay in town during the week.

Some words and expressions just sound so much better/dramatic in Afrikaans – one of them being deurmekaar. That word sums up my attitude towards a language I grew up with.

My English speaking mom (from the Free State) was told it’s better to bring up your kids with a single home language and since we lived in an Afrikaans community with Afrikaans schools she managed to master “die taal” for our benefit. In hindsight we were lucky since most of the good kid’s TV programs were dubbed over into Afrikaans anyway. Even though we only spoke Afrikaans I quickly realised that our English mother earned us a “foreigner” status amongst my peers who insisted that I say our nightly prayers in English. I started to associate Afrikaans with narrow-mindedness and viewed Afrikaners as boring and conservative. So when my parents suggested that I continue my education in English I jumped at the opportunity.

Only armoured with a limited English vocab I entered a different world. One that taught me that there is a difference between English and Afrikaans speaking South Africans. Afrikaners might be viewed as a parochial nation responsible for apartheid, but the same time English do have the tendency to appear as being snobbish and having a better-than-you attitude*.

It was only at Stellenbosch, a University with so many language issues, where I started to feel at ease with the cultures associated with both Afrikaans and English. For the first time I could relate to the music we had to do volkspele to when I was little – “Afrikaners is plesierig dit kan julle glo”, transformed into one of my favourite Karen Zoid songs. But, it was while working on a demographics project for the US I realised that the Afrikaans youth is embarrassed to admit that Afrikaans is their home language.

As a lecturer I had to present a class in Afrikaans and English. I assumed that everybody understood English, but since we had a few international students I asked the following question in Afrikaans – “is daar enige van julle wat glad nie ‘n woord van Afrikaans verstaan nie”. I was overwhelmed by a sea of hands produced by a bunch of students who obviously had to pass their Afrikaans exam to get into University and who managed to understand the question without any difficulty. I asked the question again, but this time for the benefit of the non South Africans. Their attitude was remarkably different, they fully understood that they might have to master Afrikaans at an Afrikaans university and were perfectly willing to attempt this. I find that even though it opens them to ridicule, Afrikaners are always willing to communicate in their second language, but English speaking South Africans most often refuse to reciprocate that courtesy.

I understand that the world language is English. I thank my parents for providing me the opportunity to be comfortable to communicate in English, but I love the idea of speaking a language which is unique to my heritage without typecasting me. I enjoy the new wave of language preservation I’ve come across in Europe even if it means translating documents into Welsh. I hope that young South Africans will stop thinking of English as the “cool” language as I did once and that people will not be stereotyped based on the language they speak.

I am looking forward to seeing young South Africans being proud of their language regardless of what it might be. It means a future with brilliant music, TV shows and theatre productions in Afrikaans and hopefully regain that sense of belonging we seem to have lost.

* Expression provided by my German speaking South African friend.

I have been aware of my South African status ever since I was first introduced to the concept of countries and borders and I am constantly being reminded of it when I have to apply for visas. On the other hand, understanding what it means to be South African is a concept I am only now beginning to comprehend. For me, appreciating my South African nationality only started once I left South Africa’s borders. Comparing my culture, beliefs, values and heritage to other nationalities enables me to realise that I am South African.

My first introduction to my “South Africaness” occurred at Fishermen’s Wharf in San Francisco one rainy day just after I matriculated. I was trying to hide from a downpour in a warehouse when I heard somebody shout at me that this area is not open to the public. I apologised, but as soon as they realised that I’m a South African I got invited for coffee. I had to explain to Americans what it means to live in a young democracy such as South Africa and for the first time I started to realise that growing up in South Africa in the 80s and 90s was a unique privilege.

Not only have I realised that being a young South African means that you have been exposed to such a historical event, that you are part of the rainbow nation, but also that we, South Africans, are a unique bunch. I was traveling to work through London early one morning on a rather packed tube when I spotted a very pregnant woman standing in front of an occupied priority seat. I told the youth to get up for the lady and after a few moments of awkwardness he got up. A businessman then commented “only South Africans would do something like that”.

A few years ago I found a small pub in a French village that was broadcasting the French Rugby tour to South Africa. Naturally when South Africa scored the first try I had to cheer, informing the entire pub that I was South African. We lost the game, but afterwards I got given a beer and received a huge cheers from the French patrons – “Au Sud Africains ”. While traveling through Europe I have realised that as a South African we have inherited so many traditions from other parts of the world, yet we also have such a rich African heritage, helping me to understand the European/African traditions I was brought up with. A white Christmas is so foreign, yet so familiar.

On a daily basis, while sitting on a red bus, chatting to a cab driver in Belfast, going through customs, meeting up with friends for a braai, hearing the expressions ja and now now, I am reminded of the fact that I am South African. Discovering my routes and heritage is a wonderful experience; so my only wish is that I will never stop discovering that I am a South African.