Insight-driven growth for business and lifestyle

The daily cup that quietly adds up

Most people don’t realise how much they spend on coffee—until they do the maths.

A daily cup at around R32 comes to just under R12,000 a year. That’s roughly R1,000 a month on what many now consider a small, non-negotiable ritual.

And yet, many consumers would rather not calculate it too closely. Coffee has shifted from a discretionary purchase to something closer to a lifestyle staple.

The latest figures in 2026 show the relentless growth: coffee consumption in South Africa is not just holding up under economic pressure—it’s growing, and in some segments, accelerating.

Quality over cost

One of the clearest shifts is away from instant coffee towards ground and freshly brewed options. Despite rising prices, consumers are trading up rather than down.

Recent data suggests a surge of more than 50% in ground coffee and bean usage compared to the previous year, with daily consumption hovering near two cups per drinker. This is not a marginal change—it’s a structural shift in taste.

Instant coffee, long the dominant format, is increasingly seen as a compromise. Ground coffee, by contrast, signals quality, ritual, and a small daily luxury.

Even at a retail level, the change is visible. Shoppers who once hunted for instant coffee specials are now browsing for beans, blends, and origin stories. Some still look for bargains—whether online or in-store—but the emphasis has shifted from price to experience.

The café as office

If consumption patterns are changing, so too is where coffee is consumed.

Walk through parts of Kalk Bay or along Cape Town’s busier high streets and the shift is obvious: laptops outnumber newspapers, and coffee shops double as informal offices.

Remote and hybrid work have redrawn the map of daily life. The café is no longer a stop between meetings—it is the meeting room, the workspace, and occasionally the entire working day.

Two decades ago, this would have been unusual. In 2026, it is entirely normal.

Retail and at-home consumption rise together

Interestingly, the growth in café culture hasn’t come at the expense of at-home consumption. Both are rising.

Consumers are buying more ground coffee for home use while still frequenting cafés. The line between “out-of-home” and “in-home” coffee has blurred, with behaviour driven more by convenience and mood than strict habit.

This dual consumption pattern helps explain the steady expansion of the overall market, which is projected to grow at around 4–5% annually through to 2030.

Opportunity—and competition

For entrepreneurs, this is a market full of openings.

Global players continue to test South Africa’s appetite. Pret A Manger has made renewed moves into the local market, betting that urban consumers will embrace its model of fast, premium coffee and food.

At the same time, Starbucks—while present—has not saturated the landscape in the way many expected. That leaves room. Plenty of room.

For independent operators, small neighbourhood cafés, and niche roasters, the barriers to entry are lower than in more mature markets. The demand is there; the question is who captures it.

A market still finding its shape

South Africa’s coffee culture is still evolving. It sits somewhere between mass-market familiarity and premium aspiration.

Consumers are spending more, drinking better, and reshaping where and how coffee fits into their day. What was once a simple beverage is now a marker of taste, routine, and even identity.

And while not everyone is buying that R32 cup every single day, enough people are doing so—often without thinking twice—to sustain a market that continues to grow against the odds.

Daily rituals

Coffee, it turns out, is one of the few indulgences people are reluctant to give up. Even in a tight economy, the daily cup survives—and increasingly so.

In December, I went to Linden to wander through its cluster of small, characterful shops. That’s the charm of the place—you can drift from an art store to a bookshop, from a music store to an Argentinian bakery for coffee, all within a few leafy blocks. The suburb has a kind of quiet confidence about it: mature trees arching over the roads, older homes modernised but still retaining their appeal. It’s the sort of place that invites you to slow down a little.

It was in this setting that we stepped into Ronnie’s ALLBANG & STRUMIT, a music shop that has long been something of a landmark for Johannesburg musicians. Ronnie himself has been in the business for years—previously based near Darrenwood—and his move to Linden feels like a natural evolution, bringing his collection closer to the kind of foot traffic that appreciates it. The shop is independent, family-run, and filled with that particular mix of order and chaos that only proper music stores seem to achieve: guitars on the walls, amps tucked into corners, the faint sense that anything with strings or skins might be found if you look hard enough.

A shop of stories, in other words—and Ronnie is part of that story. As we chatted, he spoke about the instruments he sells, mostly catering to guitarists and drummers, from beginners finding their first footing to more seasoned players looking for something with history. Then he pointed it out: hanging on the wall, slightly worn and in need of some repair, a steel guitar that immediately drew the eye.

What makes this instrument remarkable is not just its appearance, but its age. Ronnie reckoned it dates to just after 1927, around the time the National String Instrument Corporation began producing its now-famous resonator guitars. To stand in front of it is to look back nearly a century, to a moment when the guitar itself was still fighting to be heard.

A louder idea

Before amplification, guitarists had a practical problem: they were too quiet. In the dance bands of the 1920s, brass and percussion dominated, and even the most energetic strumming could disappear into the mix. The National company—founded by John Dopyera and George Beauchamp—set out to solve that problem not with electricity, but with engineering. Their answer was the resonator guitar, an instrument that replaced the traditional wooden soundboard with spun metal cones designed to project sound with far greater volume.

The guitar at Ronnie’s likely belongs to that first wave of experimentation and invention, roughly between 1926 and 1931. These early models came in several forms. The most intricate were the tricone guitars, with three resonator cones producing a layered, almost orchestral tone—favoured by early masters like Sol Hoopii. Later came the Triolian models, initially wooden-bodied before evolving into steel, and then the Duolian, a more affordable single-cone instrument with a rawer, more direct sound that would go on to shape blues music.

All of them shared a certain visual and sonic identity: metal bodies, industrial elegance, and a voice that cut through the noise. If Ronnie’s estimate is right, the guitar on his wall is part of that lineage—a survivor from a brief but extraordinary period when craftsmanship and necessity collided.

On the cusp of electricity

By 1931, that same drive for volume led George Beauchamp to take the next step, developing the first electric pickup and attaching it to a lap steel guitar—the now legendary “frying pan.” It marked the beginning of a new era, one in which amplification would redefine not just the guitar, but popular music itself.

The instrument in Linden, however, belongs to the moment just before that shift. Its sound would have depended entirely on its construction and the touch of the player—metal, air, and technique combining to create something both fragile and powerful. It is, in a sense, a piece of pre-electric history still waiting to be heard again.

The players who shaped the sound

Of course, an instrument like this only truly comes alive in the hands of a musician. The early language of the steel guitar was shaped by pioneers such as Sol Ho?opi?i, whose fluid, vocal style defined the instrument’s possibilities, and later refined by players like Jerry Byrd, often called the master of the non-pedal steel guitar. As the instrument evolved, innovators such as Buddy Emmons expanded its range and complexity, while modern players like Robert Randolph brought it into new genres with energy and flair.

Closer to home, there is a quieter but equally compelling South African lineage. Coy Pereira helped popularise the lap steel sound during the mid-20th century, while Neil Flanz carried it onto international stages, working in Nashville and beyond. Contemporary musicians such as Tony Cox, Guy Buttery, and Richard Onraet continue to explore its textures—sometimes directly, sometimes by echoing its techniques in more modern forms. It’s a small, passionate community, and one suspects Ronnie knows many of its threads.

A counter-culture soundtrack

That sense of musical lineage isn’t confined to instruments—it lives in scenes, in bands, in moments. Johannesburg in the late 80s and early 90s had its own energy, and few bands captured it quite like Benny B’Funk and the Sons of Gadaffi’s Barmitzvah Band. Chaotic, irreverent, and musically sharp, they fused funk, punk, and ska into something that felt entirely their own.

They were fixtures of the alternative circuit, closely associated with the Free People’s Concerts at Wits and the bohemian pulse of Yeoville. Their name alone—tongue firmly in cheek—captured the mood of a country in flux, while tracks like Phoning Benny and One More Shot carried that restless, hybrid sound.

The lineup reads like a roll call of serious talent. Chris Williamson—the same Chris I watched playing recently at the Bush Pub in Lekkerwater Road, Sunnydale, Cape Town—was a versatile guitarist even then, moving easily between sharp ska rhythms and fluid funk lines. Alongside him were players like Dax Butler, bringing fire on alto sax, with brass muscle from Llewelyn Alberts and John Trafford. The rhythm section—Simon Faulkner on drums and Paul Rapley on bass—held it all together with a groove that allowed everything else to push outward.

It was a time when South African music was becoming more integrated, more experimental, more willing to absorb global influences and reshape them with a distinctly local edge.

Worn wood, living sound

That history came rushing back watching Chris play recently. They were performing at the bush pub in Sunnydale, and his guitar told its own story—worn along the edges, battered in places, unmistakably lived-in. Yet the sound he coaxed from it was extraordinary.

It’s a familiar paradox: the more an instrument is played, the more it seems to gather something—character, perhaps, or memory. The same could one day be true again of the steel guitar in Ronnie’s shop.

Waiting on the wall

And so it hangs there in Linden: a near-century-old instrument, built at the dawn of modern music, shaped by a need to be heard. It may need repair, certainly, but more than that it needs purpose. Instruments like this are not meant to remain static; they are made to resonate, to respond, to live in the hands of someone willing to understand them.

For now, it waits—quietly, patiently—for the right axeman or axewoman.

In 1994, the South African sky was a canvas of state ambition. Between South African Airways (SAA), regional state-owned partners, and a formidable Air Force, the state’s total aircraft count was often cited as high as 129. It was a massive, centralized fleet that signaled national prestige.

By April 2026, that number has withered. SAA’s mainline fleet, which once numbered over 60 aircraft during its mid-2000s peak, has shrunk to just 20. The broader state aviation footprint has virtually vanished, with former state-linked regional carriers either collapsed or fully privatized.

The Private Surge

The collapse of state dominance created a vacuum that the private sector has rushed to fill. FlySafair has emerged as the clear heavyweight, now operating 36 to 40 aircraft—double the size of SAA. Meanwhile, Airlink and Lift have carved out specialized niches, ensuring that while the state airline faltered, connectivity remained intact.
However, we must remember Comair, the private sector pioneer that operated British Airways and kulula.com. At its peak, Comair operated 25 aircraft profitably. Its 2022 liquidation was a sobering reminder that even a robust private player can be crushed when forced to compete in a market distorted by a state-subsidized rival.

The Next Generation

While the state struggles to maintain its 20-plane fleet, the private sector is doubling down. At the recent Dubai Airshow, FlySafair confirmed a major investment through lease agreements with AerCap for five new Boeing jets. This includes three Boeing 737 MAX 8s—the first of their kind for the airline—and two additional 737-800s.
The 800s are scheduled to arrive in late 2026, with the ultra-efficient MAX jets following in 2028. This represents a massive multi-billion Rand commitment to modernization and fuel efficiency, a luxury the state-owned carrier simply cannot afford without hitting the taxpayer for more.

The Regulatory Sting

The “sting” is that this private sector investment is not truly “free.” The recent forced divestment of Irish shareholders from FlySafair highlights the government’s continued hand in the cockpit. By enforcing strict B-BBEE ownership caps and foreign investment limits, the state has created a paradox: it needs private capital to replace its own failing services, but it imposes regulatory speed bumps that make that capital difficult to secure.

The R133 Billion Pit

The question often asked at dinner tables in Constantia and boardrooms in Sandton is: Why is the state so hellbent on keeping SAA afloat? Since 1994, it is estimated that the state has pumped over R133 billion into SAA through direct bailouts and government guarantees. The bankruptcy wasn’t a single event but a toxic cocktail of chronic mismanagement and state capture. From disastrous fuel-hedging losses in 2006 to the systematic corruption documented in the Zondo Commission, the airline became a piggy bank for the politically connected.

Prestige vs. Profit

If the private sector is already doing the job better, why continue the life support? The answer lies in the ideology of national prestige—the belief that a “sovereign nation” must have a flag carrier to project power. There is also the practical reality of the “ministerial bus,” ensuring official travel convenience that a purely commercial airline might not prioritize.

The Final Approach

The aviation industry is arguably healthier today because it has been forced to harden itself against state failure. But the cost to the public purse has been astronomical—money that could have funded schools or modernized the rail network. The state has paved the way for private investment, not through a clever plan, but through a decade of disaster. The government still wants to hold the reins of an industry it no longer has the planes to fly.

For many South Africans who grew up in the 1960s and 70s, rooibos tea was never a trend. It was simply there—brewed strong in enamel kettles, poured generously, often sweetened with honey. A household constant rather than a commercial phenomenon.

What is remarkable, in hindsight, is how this humble “mountain tea” transformed into one of the country’s most distinctive agricultural exports—what farmers across the Cederberg and Namakwa now call green gold.

From Wild Harvest to Scientific Breakthrough

Long before it was cultivated, rooibos (Aspalathus linearis) was harvested in the wild by the Khoisan people of the Cederberg. They understood what modern agriculture would only later discover: that this plant thrives where almost nothing else will—on poor, sandy, acidic soils under punishing summer heat.

Yet for centuries, rooibos resisted domestication.

That changed in the 1930s with the work of Dr. Le Fras Nortier, a medical doctor and botanist often described as the father of the rooibos industry. Nortier’s breakthrough was deceptively simple but transformative: he discovered how to germinate rooibos seeds, which in nature only sprout after fire cracks their hard outer shells.

This single innovation marked the beginning of commercial cultivation.

The Move North: When Rooibos Reached Namakwa

While rooibos existed in the broader region for centuries, formal cultivation in Namakwa only began in earnest from the 1940s into the 1950s.

As farming knowledge improved and demand slowly increased, cultivation expanded out of the Clanwilliam heartland:

• Into the Bokkeveld Plateau

• Around Nieuwoudtville

• And further into the Namakwa region

These areas proved ideal: similar soils, the same winter rainfall pattern, and crucially, land where few alternative crops could survive. For many farmers, rooibos wasn’t just another crop—it was the only viable crop.

When the Market Truly Opened

Rooibos did not become commercially significant overnight.

Pre-1960s: A Local Beverage

It remained largely regional, consumed within South Africa with little structured marketing.

1968: The Turning Point

The shift came when Dr. Annetjie Theron published research highlighting rooibos as a natural remedy for colic in infants.

This reframed rooibos as a health product—and demand surged domestically, embedding it into households during the very decades many South Africans remember so vividly.

1980s–1990s: The Global Breakthrough

The real expansion followed:

• Japan embraced rooibos as a longevity drink

• Germany became a major importer and blender

• Health-conscious markets drove international demand

By the 1990s, rooibos had evolved into a serious export commodity.

The Seedling Mystery: Why Cuttings Are a No-Go

During my travels, I asked a farmer’s wife for a simple seedling—or even a cutting—to take home. Her answer was polite but firm: they were still nurturing their seedlings and had none to spare, and certainly no cuttings.

There is a botanical reason for this.

While Aspalathus linearis can technically be propagated from cuttings in controlled laboratory conditions, it is notoriously unreliable in the real world. Rooibos depends on a deep taproot system—often reaching three to five metres underground—to survive the harsh, arid conditions of the Cape.

Cuttings rarely develop this critical anchor. Without it, the plant cannot access deep moisture reserves and simply does not survive in the field. For farmers, this makes seedlings not just valuable, but essential—and explains why they are so carefully guarded.

The Globalisation of Rooibos

Today, rooibos is exported to more than 60 countries, typically in two forms:

• Bulk “needle” tea for blending

• Value-added products such as flavoured teas and ready-to-drink beverages

Germany plays a pivotal role, importing raw rooibos and transforming it into flavoured blends for the European market. In many cases, the raw material is South African, but the final premium product is branded abroad.

Major markets include:

• Japan

• Germany

• United States

• United Kingdom and broader Europe

Scale of the Industry

Despite its global footprint, rooibos remains geographically constrained:

• Around 450–500 commercial farmers

• Several small-scale cooperatives

• Annual production of roughly 15,000–20,000 tonnes

• Industry value of approximately R1.5–R2 billion

Why Rooibos Cannot Be Replicated

Rooibos grows in a narrow ecological band defined by:

• Acidic, sandy soils

• Winter rainfall

• Hot, dry summers

Attempts to cultivate it elsewhere have largely failed.

Beyond the biology, there is also the law. Since 2021, Rooibos has held Protected Designation of Origin (PDO) status with the European Union. Much like Champagne can only come from France, or Scotch from Scotland, only tea grown in the specific regions of the Western and Northern Cape can legally be called “Rooibos.” Even if the plant were successfully cultivated elsewhere, it could not be sold under its famous name.

The Reality of Farming Rooibos

For all its success, rooibos remains a demanding crop:

• Seeds must be scarified to germinate

• Seedlings are highly vulnerable to poor winter rainfall

• Soil preparation often requires pre-planting with wheat

• Establishment failure rates can be high

This is farming on a knife-edge—dependent on both climate and precision.

The “Tea Thieves”: Crime in the Fynbos

With global demand rising sharply—South Africa now exports roughly 15,000 tonnes annually to markets such as Germany, Japan and the United States—a darker side to the industry has emerged.

While much attention has been given to succulent poaching in the Northern Cape, rooibos has developed its own, quieter security concerns.

Criminal activity typically takes two forms:

1. Bulk Theft

Processed rooibos is lightweight, non-perishable, and increasingly valuable. Syndicates have targeted transport trucks and processing facilities, where large volumes of dried tea are stored before export. A single ton represents a significant payday.

2. Seed Poaching

Rooibos seeds remain difficult to source. Historically, harvesters followed ants to their nests to locate stored seeds—a practice that hints at their scarcity. Today, a small but persistent black market exists for illegally gathered seeds, often taken from protected wild areas.

Rooibos vs the West Coast Economy

The contrast is stark:

• Fishing, once dominant, has declined significantly

• Mining remains economically powerful but finite

• Rooibos offers a renewable, place-bound alternative

It may not rival mining in revenue, but it represents something more enduring.

Why Rooibos Succeeded

Its global success rests on three key strengths:

• Naturally caffeine-free and low in tannins

• Strong health positioning

• Exceptional versatility

In a world increasingly driven by wellness trends, rooibos found its moment.

It cannot be taken from the land

Rooibos is often called “green gold,” but the comparison is imperfect.

Gold is extracted and depleted. Rooibos is cultivated, renewed, and deeply rooted in its landscape.

From a wild plant used by the Khoisan, to a scientific breakthrough in the 1930s, to a household staple in the 1960s, and finally to a global export powerhouse—rooibos tells a uniquely South African story.

For the growing number of readers visiting this site from the United States, there is a story you are often told: that America is a benevolent partner to South Africa, a “big brother” fostering democracy through aid and investment. But from the perspective of the South African street, that narrative is a mirage.

If we move past the raw trade data—the $20 billion in two-way exchange—and look for a deeper, reciprocal contribution, the ledger is alarmingly empty.

1. The Strategic Asymmetry: Resources vs. “Cool Drinks”

When we talk about contribution, we must ask: What keeps whose lights on? South Africa’s contribution to the United States is foundational and physical. Our manganese, chromium, and platinum are the literal bedrock of the American aerospace, defense, and high-tech sectors. Without South African minerals, the American industrial machine grinds to a halt. We provide the “hard assets” of global power.

And what is the reciprocal contribution? Aside from the blunt instrument of trade, America’s “presence” in South Africa is largely predatory. We are a consumer market for 600-plus American firms selling us “cool drinks, potato chips, and toothbrushes.” They extract our strategic wealth and sell us back processed sugar and plastic. This isn’t a partnership of equals; it is a mercenary relationship disguised as a market.

2. The Vacuum of Cultural and Scientific Exchange

True reciprocity involves building something meaningful in the other’s house. Where is the South African foundation in Washington or New York that enriches American life? It doesn’t exist. Instead, our “contribution” to the U.S. is a steady brain drain of our best-trained doctors and engineers who go to build American wealth because our own economy is being stifled by global volatility.

Meanwhile, American ambassadors point to “CSI projects” and school-building as evidence of their friendship. It is, frankly, pathetic. These are “given” expenses for any corporate entity, a tiny tax paid to maintain social license while they extract profit. In contrast, our relationships with the Far East and parts of Europe feel far more noble—rooted in infrastructure and long-term industrial logic rather than the fickle, “blunt axe” diplomacy of Washington.

3. The 1980s: A Legacy of the “Blunt Axe”

The lack of friendship is nothing new. Those who remember the 1980s remember a country struggling on its knees, only to be met with the “blunt axe” of American sanctions. While liberal activists in the West cheered, ordinary South Africans suffered the consequences of a hollow moral crusade.

America didn’t prove to be a friend then—it used South Africa as a prop for its own domestic political theater. Our only true “friends” during that era of isolation were those like Taiwan and Israel, who dealt in the reality of survival, not the theater of “values.” We prevailed because we were forced to be self-sufficient, not because of American interference.

4. The Cost of American Recklessness

Today, that interference has taken a new, more dangerous form. Since April 1, 2026, every transporter, nursery grower in the Eastern Cape, and miner in the Northern Cape has felt the “American tax.” The reckless behavior of the U.S. on the global stage has sent fuel prices skyrocketing, and the “uncertainty” created by the current presidency is systematically diminishing the wealth of poor nations.

We are living through a time of untold poverty, yet we are expected to laud a relationship that offers us nothing but “re-packaging” of our own resources.

A mirage

South Africa has moved beyond the need for a single, fickle “friend.” We are seeing that there is more dignity in the transactional clarity of China or Japan than in the sanctimonious meddling of the United States.

The “reciprocal contribution” is a mirage. South Africa builds the American tech and defense sectors with its soil; America returns the favor with high-priced diesel, toothbrushes, and political interference. It is time we called the relationship what it is: a mercenary trade, and nothing more.

There are moments, travelling through the far reaches of Namakwaland, when the landscape feels almost too stark to sustain anything at all—let alone the careless excess of human waste. It was there, at a remote farm in that hot, dry country, that I first noticed the vehicle: dusty, unassuming, but boldly marked Save A Fishie. I thought little of it at the time. There were other distractions, the usual rhythms of a West Coast stay.

But on the return journey towards Langebaan, the same small SUV appeared again—this time at the turnoff to Lamberts Bay and Elands Bay. Curiosity, delayed but not extinguished, got the better of me. I slowed, rolled down the window, and asked the obvious question: what exactly were they up to?

They were on their way to a beach clean-up.

The organisation, Save A Fishie, is one of those quietly determined outfits that seem to operate without fuss yet leave a visible mark. Led by Zoë Prinsloo, it has become something of a grassroots force—part campaign, part community effort, part moral nudge to a country that too often looks the other way.

Seen from a distance, the group—paused at the roadside, speaking to litter collectors hefting bulging plastic bags—might easily have been mistaken for something out of a dystopian film. The West Coast has that effect: wind-swept, sun-bleached, slightly unreal. But there was nothing theatrical about what they were doing. This was practical, unglamorous work. Picking up what others had discarded.

And therein lies the larger story.

It is comforting, perhaps, to frame environmental decline as something abstract—melting ice caps, distant oceans, unseen ecosystems. But here, along the roads and beaches of the Western Cape, the problem is stubbornly immediate. Litter gathers not in theory but in verges, stormwater drains, and tidal lines. It is dropped, blown, washed, and forgotten in a continuous cycle of neglect.

Spend any time along the coast near Cape Town and the pattern becomes impossible to ignore. Beaches such as Macassar Beach in False Bay bear the brunt of it: plastic fragments, discarded packaging, fishing debris, all arriving in waves both literal and figurative. Some of it is local, much of it is not—jettisoned from passing ships and carried ashore by currents that do not respect national boundaries.

Yet litter is only one strand of a more complicated malaise.

Along the coastline, recreational and subsistence fishing continues at a scale that raises uncomfortable questions. Undersized fish—white steenbras among them—are caught and, at times, sold openly in places like Kalk Bay Harbour. It is not hidden. It is not subtle. It simply persists. Add to this the pressures from commercial operations and long-standing practices such as trek netting, and one begins to see an ecosystem under sustained strain.

Even inland, the habits persist. Public spaces—parks like those around Sun Valley—tell their own story. Dog waste left unattended, bins overflowing, the casual flick of a cigarette butt from a car window. These are small acts, individually trivial, collectively corrosive.

To call South Africa a “dirty country” may sound harsh, but it captures a sentiment many quietly share. Not because of a lack of natural beauty—few places rival it—but because of the visible gap between what exists and how it is treated.

And this is where initiatives like Save A Fishie matter.

They do not solve the problem outright. No single organisation could. But they alter the tone of the conversation. They demonstrate, in the most direct way possible, that responsibility is not an abstract ideal but a practical act: a bag filled, a stretch of beach cleared, a conversation started at the side of a dusty road.

There was something telling in that brief roadside exchange near Lamberts Bay. No grand speeches, no dramatic gestures—just people doing the work, moving steadily towards the next clean-up.

It is easy to dismiss such efforts as incremental. But perhaps that is precisely the point. Change, if it comes at all, is unlikely to arrive in sweeping gestures. It will come, instead, in the accumulation of smaller acts—and in a gradual, collective shift in attitude.

Until then, the burden remains unevenly shared. A few pick up what many discard. And along the long, windswept edges of the country, the evidence of that imbalance continues to wash ashore.

I first worked in Hondeklipbaai in my early twenties. It’s one of the places that gave me a start in life. I returned there forty years later to celebrate my 60th birthday. Not because it’s glamorous, but because it’s honest. The wind, the sea, the light, and the way people live squeezed between the ocean and the desert have stayed with me.

So when I read Greenpeace Africa’s article on Hondeklipbaai—the “Fields of gold” blog on extractive economies and coastal communities—I felt a familiar pull. The piece is powerful. It gives space to voices that are usually pushed to the edges. Multi?generational fishing families. People with Nama?linked heritage. Families who have lived off the sea for generations and now see mining and oil creeping in.

All that is important. Vital even.

But I also walked away frustrated. Because the article is true, but it’s not full. It tells a story that fits a certain frame—and in doing so, it leaves a lot of the real Hondeklip out of the picture.

The poor white Afrikaans who are still poor

The voices Greenpeace picks are very specific. They are coastal. Indigenous?linked. Often framed as “frontline communities” versus big mining and oil. That’s not wrong. It’s just incomplete.

Because who else lives there?

There are poor white Afrikaans families who have lived off that land and sea for at least two centuries. They’re not “privileged” in the way people like to imagine. They’re not directors or generals. They’re fishermen, labourers, small?scale traders, and pensioners eating on the edge.

You can’t read this place without remembering Pakenham. His writing about the old South African Republic brings up the ghost of the “poor white”—a political symbol that once terrified the white elite. It was a moral panic about white rural poverty threatening the racial order.

That category never really died. It just changed clothes. Today, that same anxiety about “white rural poverty” is buried under new racialised development language.

In public discourse, poor white Afrikaans are not supposed to count as “truly marginalised.” They’re expected to be the beneficiaries of the past, not the victims of the present. But in Hondeklipbaai, that’s not what it feels like. People who have fished these waters for generations now watch their rights shrink, their markets shift, and their place in the town erode.

You don’t have to romanticise them to see that they too are part of the tapestry of marginalisation. Left out of the story, they become invisible. That’s not justice. It’s just another kind of simplification.

Black workers and the foreign miners

The story is wider than that.

There are black workers in the fishing and service sectors. They gut fish. They clean boats. They run the small shops and cafés. They don’t always appear as the heroic “small?scale fisher” in these NGO pieces, but they keep the economy moving. Their lives are just as shaped by the same structural forces: shrinking jobs, rising prices, and the constant pressure of an unforgiving economy.

And then there are the foreign miners.

You only have to drive up the coast to Port Nolloth or Kleinsee to see it. Alluvial-diamond digging has turned parts of the coastline into a kind of madhouse. Zimbabweans and other African migrants rush in, digging in the sand under the glare of security lights and the constant threat of police raids. The competition is fierce. The conditions are brutal.

They’re not part of the “heroic coastal community” in Greenpeace’s narrative. They’re usually treated as a side effect, a footnote, a problem.

But they’re part of the same reality. The same desperation. The same scramble for survival.

When an NGO comes with a very clear frame—“indigenous-linked coastal communities versus extractive capital”—it can unintentionally flatten that reality. The complex, overlapping, sometimes messy tapestry of marginalised people gets reduced to a single storyline. That’s not a lie, but it is a distortion.

“Alien entities” telling our stories

You can’t talk about this without talking about the NGO itself.

Greenpeace Africa is not a local church. It’s not a community trust. It’s an international organisation with global networks, donors, and a brand to protect. It walks into a place like Hondeklipbaai, listens to some people, and then packages their voices into a story that has to travel. It’s a powerful story. It can shift debate. It can put pressure on government and companies.

But that also means someone else is deciding whose marginality is legible.

When an “external alien entity” becomes the main narrator, it can also become the gatekeeper of whose pain counts. The voices of poor white Afrikaans fishers, black workers, or migrant miners may not fit the global environmental-justice template. They’re messy. They don’t fit the clean binary of “indigenous?linked vs extractive capital.” So they get left out. Or left in as background noise.

In an ideal world, the primary architect of social justice would be local government, local communities, and local institutions—not distant NGOs. But local government is often weak. National politics is distracted. The state is captured, fragmented, or just not there.

So NGOs rush in. They fill the vacuum. They become the main storytellers.

That’s not evil. It’s just that it comes with a cost. The more we let external NGOs define who is “truly marginalised,” the less space we leave for the complex, overlapping, uncomfortable truths of places like Hondeklipbaai.

A richer picture of marginality

If you walk around Hondeklip today, you’re not walking into a single category. You’re walking into a stack of layers:

• Race and heritage: Indigenous?linked families. Black workers. Poor white Afrikaans. Foreign migrants.
• Class and livelihood: Small-scale fishers. Petty traders. Seasonal labourers. Informal miners.
• Citizenship and mobility: South Africans of different histories. Foreign nationals carrying the same economic pressure.

A more honest account would ask not just who is threatened by mining and oil, but who else is competing with them for survival. How does race shape that competition? How does class? How does migration? How does history?

A pastor in the area recently said, “We live in an era of poverty.” It’s a simple line, but it cuts deep. When material scarcity is this intense, every kind of marginality gets sharpened. Every group feels under siege from someone else.

Reframing what we see in NGOs

None of this undoes the value of what Greenpeace does. The article is a good example of how an NGO can insert local voices into a national and global conversation. It can give airtime to people who are usually ignored.

But it also exposes the limits of one-sided storytelling, even when the story is true.

For me, walking into a shopping centre and seeing those NGO collectors asking for money, I want to be able to say: “I see your cause. I see your logic. But I also see all the people you’re accidentally leaving out.”

Places like Hondeklipbaai are too complex to be reduced to a single storyline. If an NGO wants to be a real ally, it has to learn to tell stories that are not just about coastal communities, but with all the different kinds of marginalised people who live there—poor white Afrikaans, indigenous?linked families, black workers, and foreign miners alike.

Only then will the “fields of gold” be framed not as a moral fable, but as a messy, contested, and deeply human coastline. One that looks very different when you’ve lived it than when you’ve just read about it.

I’ve always had a soft spot for Rosebank Mall.

There was a time when it felt like a treasure trove of small, specialised shops — a proper music store, a tobacconist, a stationery shop that took itself seriously, and, for me, the real draw: men’s clothing stores with character. It had personality. You could wander, browse, and discover things you didn’t know you needed.

After the major renovations some years back, I lost interest. That’s just my view — others will disagree — but it became something much bigger, more polished, more… standardised. Less intimate. More precinct than mall.

And yet, despite that shift, Rosebank Mall still manages to outshine the rest.

At its core, the mall remains strong. The anchor tenants — Woolworths and Checkers — keep things grounded, while a mix of more upmarket stores gives it a slightly polished edge.

But the real magic lies just beyond the traditional mall itself.

The Zone — that open, beautifully designed dining and social area — is, for me, the standout feature. It’s here that a range of top eateries create something you won’t easily find elsewhere. Some of these establishments are unique enough that if you want the experience, you have to come here.

On a recent visit in January, I stopped for coffee at Fugazzi Italian Diner — and I must say, for sheer luxury, it’s in a class of its own. The coffee was excellent, but more than that, the setting stood out: relaxed, stylish, and quietly indulgent.

There’s an atmosphere in that space that’s hard to replicate. On a warm evening, sitting outside, with people moving between restaurants, conversations spilling into walkways, and that steady hum of activity — it feels alive. On a Friday night especially, it comes into its own.

Of course, not everything has lasted.

I was sorry to see that Motherland Coffee Company had closed. It was a solid establishment and, in a way, its absence reminded me of another era — much like the old Herbert Evans art shop that once traded here before moving on and evolving into something else.

And then there were the people and places that gave the mall its soul.

I still remember the second-hand bookshop where John Geleta worked part time— a true gem of a book store. You could find remarkable books there at prices that now feel almost impossible. It was the kind of place you didn’t just visit; you lingered.

John Geleta, of course, also worked at Exclusive Books, including the old Hillbrow store — itself part of a very different Johannesburg retail era.

Then there was John Berry, who ran the Pen Friend — another specialist store that disappeared after the renovations. It’s from that time that I still have one of my favourite possessions: a Lamy Imporium Titanium Fountain Pen with an 18-carat gold nib, which he specially selected for me. It’s a small thing, perhaps, but it speaks to what the mall once offered — quality, expertise, and individuality.

Today, Rosebank Mall is thriving. With close to a million visitors a month, it’s clearly doing something right.

Much of that energy comes from a younger crowd drawn to the restaurants and social spaces — and that’s no bad thing. A place like this needs that vibrancy, that movement, that sense of occasion.

I may miss the quieter, more eclectic version of Rosebank Mall, but I can’t deny what it has become: a lively, relevant, and still standout destination in Johannesburg.

And perhaps that’s the point — malls, like cities, evolve. Not always in ways we like, but sometimes in ways that ensure they endure.

For some time I’ve been contemplating the front garden of my cottage in the Southern Peninsula. It is a classic coastal battleground: salt spray, the relentless Cape Southeaster, and sandy soil that seems to trigger a fresh explosion of weeds the moment a drop of rain hits the ground.

I’ve spent hours pulling them out, only to have them return with a vengeance. It’s an exhausting cycle that has led me to a realization: the traditional “thirsty” garden is a misfit here. But I’m also not entirely sold on the massive succulent trend that has become the default for water-wise landscaping. While I appreciate a well-placed Spekboom, a garden crowded with nothing but fleshy green rosettes can feel cluttered and, frankly, overdone.

I found my inspiration recently during a trip to the dry, hot stretches of Namaqualand near Vanrhynsdorp.

The “Barebones” Aesthetic
In the deep interior, gardens are lessons in restraint. Away from the “pleasure zones”—the patches of grass for children or the cool blue of a swimming pool—the landscaping becomes skeletal and atmospheric.

It’s a “barebones” look: simple pathways marked out with local mountain stones leading the eye toward a wire gate or a distant horizon. There is no attempt to “fill” every square inch with green. Instead, there is an appreciation for the earth itself, the texture of the rock, and the clean “negative space” between them.

Bridging the Gap: Namaqua Style at the Coast

Coming back to the False Bay coast, I looked at my patch of weeds with new eyes. Why are we fighting the sand when we could be framing it? To bridge the gap between the arid interior and my coastal cottage, I’m exploring three key design shifts:

1. The “Stone-First” Philosophy

Instead of using plants to create the structure, I’m using the stone I already have. By collecting rugged mountain stones—similar in character to the sandstone walls of the cottage—I can define pathways that create a permanent “sketch” of a garden. This looks intentional and beautiful even if nothing is in bloom.

1. The Hidden Infrastructure

The biggest hurdle to a rock garden is “weed-between-the-stones” syndrome. As my partner (a professional horticulturist) rightly pointed out, stones alone won’t stop the growth. The secret to that clean Vanrhynsdorp look is a heavy-duty permeable weed barrier beneath the stone. It’s the hidden mechanical necessity that allows for minimalism without the constant maintenance.

1. Selective Softening

You don’t need a hundred plants to make a garden. To avoid the “over-succulent” look, I’m opting for a few architectural anchors—perhaps a single, well-pruned Aloe or a drift of silver-leafed groundcover—set against a sea of grey pebbles or crushed grit. This treats the plant as a piece of living sculpture rather than just another green blob in a crowded bed.

The Search for a New Landscaping Language

One of my frustrations is finding professionals who understand that “less is more.” Many in the industry are trained to fill spaces to show immediate value. However, there is a growing movement toward xeriscaping that feels more like an art installation than a traditional garden.

As I continue to refurbish this cottage, the garden is the final frontier. My goal over the next year isn’t to create a lush oasis, but to build something that feels like it belongs to the Cape—something rugged, skeletal, and calm.

A garden shouldn’t be a chore that leaves you “energy-zapped.” It should be a place where the lines are clean, the water usage is low, and the only thing growing is your appreciation for the barebones beauty of the coast.

Does your livelihood depend on coffee? Read this if your café, roastery, or coffee-linked business does.

Coffee is no longer just a beverage — it is a globally traded financial asset, shaped as much by hedge funds and currency movements as by rainfall in Brazil or harvest conditions in Ethiopia.

If your business touches coffee in any way — cafés, roasteries, hospitality, or retail — you are exposed, whether you realise it or not, to one of the more volatile agricultural commodities in the world.

Current Coffee Prices (April 2026)

On the ICE Futures in New York, Arabica “C” futures (May 2026) are currently trading at:

• 403–408 US cents per pound ($4.03–$4.08/lb)

Broader indicators show:

• Composite benchmark (Feb 2026): ~281 cents/lb

• Spot-equivalent pricing: ~$2.9–$3.0/lb

Meanwhile, Robusta futures (London market) remain historically elevated, supported by:

• Tight exchange inventories

• Elevated shipping and logistics costs

Key takeaway:

Coffee prices have come off their extreme highs, but remain structurally elevated relative to pre-2020 levels.

A Market Driven by Futures, Not Just Farms

Global coffee pricing is anchored in derivatives markets.

Large buyers hedge exposure using ICE-listed contracts such as:

• Arabica “C” futures (ICFc1)

• Robusta contracts (RMH26, RMK26)

These contracts effectively determine what importers — including those supplying South Africa — ultimately pay.

Notably, coffee is not traded on JSE SAFEX.

This means local buyers are fully exposed to:

• US dollar pricing

• Exchange rate volatility

• Freight and logistics costs

Even a small café in Cape Town is therefore indirectly linked to pricing decisions made in New York and London.

Where Coffee Comes From (and Why It Matters)

Global supply is concentrated among a few key producers:

• Brazil – dominant in Arabica

• Vietnam – dominant in Robusta

• Colombia, Ethiopia, Honduras – key specialty and premium origins

For South Africa, imports are heavily reliant on:

• Brazil and Vietnam (bulk supply)

• East African origins like Ethiopia and Uganda (specialty and blending)

This concentration creates systemic risk:

A strong Brazilian crop can soften global prices, while disruption in any major producing region can quickly tighten supply.

Why Prices Didn’t Spike as Expected

In 2025, there was a strong narrative that wet conditions in African growing regions would push prices significantly higher.

That did not fully materialise.

The reason is simple:

Brazil outweighed Africa.

• Forecasts now point to a 75+ million bag Brazilian crop

• Improved rainfall and growing conditions offset regional disruptions

At the same time, markets had already priced in weather risk, meaning the expected supply shock never translated into a sustained rally.

What the Futures Curve Is Telling Us

The market is currently in backwardation:

• Near-term prices are higher than future contracts

This signals:

• Tight supply in the short term

• Expectations of improved availability later in 2026

It’s a classic commodity signal:

stress now, relief later — but not certainty.

Who Is Driving the Market?

Coffee is increasingly a financialised commodity.

Participants now include:

• Commodity funds

• Hedge funds

• Large trading houses

• Roasters and exporters hedging input costs

Open interest in Arabica futures has been rising, indicating:

• Active participation

• Strong liquidity

• Continued speculative interest

This matters because it means price movements are no longer purely supply-driven — they are also influenced by capital flows and positioning.

Outlook for April 2026

Short Term (Q2 2026)

• Brazilian harvest pressure is building

• Prices likely to remain range-bound

• Arabica expected in a $3.50–$4.20/lb band

Medium Term (2026–2027)

• Gradual softening possible

• But prices remain structurally elevated

• Climate risk and logistics costs provide a price floor

Key Risks

• Brazilian frost season (mid-year)

• Currency volatility

• Shipping disruptions

• Speculative positioning shifts

What This Means for a Randburg or Cape Town Café Owner

For a local café owner, your cost of coffee is being driven by global forces entirely outside your control. Even if international prices ease slightly, a weaker rand or higher shipping costs can keep your input prices elevated. This makes pricing strategy critical — many cafés will need to adjust margins carefully, consider smaller or staggered purchasing cycles, and work closely with roasters who actively hedge their supply. In practical terms, volatility is now part of the business model, not an exception.

Global coffee futures are hovering near $3 per pound in April 2026 — down from record highs, but still elevated — meaning anyone whose livelihood depends on coffee should treat volatility as permanent, not temporary.