A few months ago I patiently had a long conversation with a very helpful SARS official who spelled out how those damn fees actually work. I wrote down the formula, but for those who didn’t pass mathematics I’ve put it into an example below using the amount of R1000 as a base.
South Africa is my country, but I’ve felt a kinship with certain places that is not based on language, culture or nationality. One of them is the island of Ithaca in Greece, where some of my ancestors are from. The other is Franschhoek, another ancestral home, but unfortunately one with no ancestral land.
Alistair and I used to go to the Cheese Festival every year and make a weekend of it in Franschhoek, staying in a very private cottage with our own pool. It was an escape from “hectic” Cape Town.
A few weeks ago we went back for the most beautiful wedding I’ve ever been to (except my own of course) and stayed in the same cottage. We took long walks, read our books, and of course ate out – a lot. Franschhoek has a ridiculously high concentration of exceptional restaurants.
I’ve been here nearly two weeks after our “semigration” from my home city, Cape Town. Most of it’s been spent unpacking boxes, drinking too much whisky and driving around the megalopolis trying to find decent furniture.
The GPS has taken me through Mayfair, similar to the rougher parts of Woodstock with its seedy slum feel, and a suburb called Blairgowrie, which could have been directly transplanted from Cape Town’s Plumstead.
Then there was Fourways. Fourways defies comparison, but imagine Parklands mixed with Belville, multiply by 20 and wave a Tuscan wand over it.