Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

WHY WE CAME TO FRANCE

 

There is a blog post doing the rounds, causing much friction on either side of the pond, and a degree of assertion on the continent, (of South Africa that is, not France).  The post on the blog is a follow up piece regarding angry ex-pats, to a post she wrote about returning to South Africa after 8 years in Northern Europe, and that blog has ‘gone viral’.

I have now read it twice, and both times it has made me take a big gulp of air to counter the sob that sits in my throat and the tears that well up.  Naturally it serves as a stark reminder that I will be sitting with a very grey, gloomy post Christmas-lights-and-Gluewein January that will stretch into Alex’s birthday in March, and probably even Easter. 

It also serves to remind me why we are doing this, as I feel I need to defend my hypercritic self.

I have currently got many friends who don’t live in South Africa any longer.  Some of them have been gone a long time, and some have even returned to their birth right in South Africa.  Others have married on, and some have just immigrated.  It is no secret that I was sad and angry with them, and I am going to put an apology in right here for my attitude to you at the time.  Hypocrisy is a nasty place to be.  It really was never my intention to be a hypocrite.  Please believe me when I say this.  I am sorry.

 

The other reason for writing this is that a few weekends ago, we had coffee with a French family who has recently returned from a holiday in South Africa.  After an hour of looking through their photos, they eventually questioned us as to why we left South Africa to come and work in France. (Cue another sob and bleary eyes session.)  They fell in love with the country, and were blown away by the African-ness- is that Ubuntu?  It has a world of European and American-ness that makes it possible, and yet it smells different, it feels different, and all in an amazing special way.  Well, that’s the jist of what they said.  And it is true.  Africa- South Africa, although torn with its destiny and its past, is beautiful, rich in passion, and, the weather is just as good as Australia, if not better. (Less extreme drought and/or flooding).

Work.  Careers and jobs.  Finances and income.  This year has been our downfall.  We scraped through 2012 with our bank balances looking very tired, a car in need of replacing, and a decision to be made for where our eldest child should attend school.   I know that I we are not alone in feeling like this.  I have single mum friends who deal with these issues alone.  We woke up each day, ready to tackle what was thrown at us, praying that SARS tax returns would blanket that credit card bill. 

In order to be pro-active about our circumstances, Anton put his CV on the market, for an opportunity to work for the competitors in his field of expertise.  In applying to the competitors, the disregarded stories of Employment Equity became apparent.  There were no vacancies for my husband in his field of expertise.

 

Do you know; that I never actually believed it? I honestly did not believe that we would have to deal with one company’s petty labour practices, and that the world was our oyster?  Naive, yes.  Sadly once we realised there was no escaping his irrepressible employers, and their inability to value experience and Human Capital, it became very difficult to look forward to anything.  Their atrocities became even more apparent after Anton eventually resigned, which is a story for another day.

Last November Anton’s employers in South Africa sent him to Strasbourg for training.  It was while he was on the training that an ex-colleague (from when he lived and worked here in 2003-2005) mentioned that they had positions open, and jokingly asked if Anton would consider applying.  Can I just say; it is not an easy discussion to have on Skype, across 9000 odd kilometers and a time zone?  And then we didn’t have to make the decision- the position was made unavailable for a few months.

Christmas and holidays followed, and very soon January and all of its bad news and emotions tumbled onto our doorstep.  Apart for a request for maintenance money from our already depleted bank accounts, I was charged at work with a disciplinary hearing.  Can I say that 6 loaded charges based on a ‘broken telephone’ account of a bad situation stinks of wanting to get rid of an employee?  I was truly horrified at the idea that I could lose my job.  I was truly horrified that the managers I had to report to had had such a quick jump to finding a solution, without actually taking into account my version of events.  6 weeks followed without the actual hearing taking place- after it was postponed- and eventually I was able to fill in my own ‘written warning’ charge sheet to put on my file.

It was during this time that Anton received a phone call from The French, an interview, I guess.  One thing I found amusing about THAT call, that interview, was that it was not a job interview per se, but more an interview to determine what MY feelings and thoughts were. 

We had been told to expect the phone call, so we had discussed it at length.

1. My sentiment to my      employers at the time was quite minimal.       I was angry with the company at how I had been treated with the      disciplinary charges. 
2. Anton’s position in his      job meant that he was on call every third weekend- different to previous      times where he had to be available every seventh week.
3. Added to being on call      every third week, he was travelling for entire weeks at a time.  Considering the fact that I started work      at 06h00, and my own workload, we were relying heavily on family members      for assistance. 

Our finances were spiraling downwards, our stress levels due to work became the focus of our conversations.  The French job offer came like that bolt of lightning I often talk about, unexpected, and somewhat necessary to kick us out of the rut we found ourselves in.

I had my reservations.  Being labeled ‘hypocrite’ was one of my top concerns, as was the idea of moving so far away from my beautiful family.

I desperately tried to assess our budgets, considering which part of our lifestyles we could afford to cut back on, but few reliable alternatives presented themselves.

We looked at our French budget, thought long and hard about the pro’s and cons of moving to cold, wet dark Europe, I spoke to anybody who would listen, seeking opinions, advice, a reason not to go.

Do you know what eventually sold me?  We decided that this is mostly for Alex and Beth, and not to say no to an opportunity that does not present itself often,  to just anybody.  The chances of Anton and I simply applying for visas for Australia based on our limited diploma qualifications, and being able to afford everything that goes with it are slim to non-existent.  Yes, I have thought about the escape route.  Often.  I have read countless stories of Kenya and Zimbabwe to the so called colonialists, and although I don’t want to think that of my homeland, an escape route is just necessary.

Thus, France has become my-our- escape route.

Alex and Beth, who are, and always will be little boertjie kindertjies, will also experience an old style European culture, where their lives will be filled different languages, history going back to medieval ages, buildings that are older than most buildings in South Africa, trends that are ahead, a little safer to cycle to school by the time summer arrives, and a Mom who does not necessarily have to work.  They will receive an education recognised internationally, and should they want to, will be able to study anywhere else in the world, except South Africa, without the tarnish of not having the appropriate African name. 

 

We do not consider ourselves to have emigrated.  Our house in Tshwane still remains our own, and we still have our bank accounts.  Before I even think about attempting to garner a French passport, I need to be able to say more than “Bonjour, une espresso s’il vous plait”, as I will need to write a French test in order to claim a passport.

In the mean time, I will continue to browse the Times Live and News 24 websites, and peruse through my Nokia ZA music account for some Afrikaans music, for all of us, and although the idea of braaing a rump steak is already a distant dream, I can at least grill German sausages that resemble boerewors.  In time, I might even try my hand at making my own on my Kenwood, and maybe if I can slaughter my own cow, I’ll get Anton to make me a biltong cabinet.  We know enough French locals who do relish a stukkie biltong.

One thing is for sure, I am not going to give up my passport without a fight.