A kikoi is more than just a cloth. Worn, wrapped, or draped, or spread, it’s a versatile garment that makes the ultimate travel companion or trans seasonal wardrobe staple.

The beauty of the kikoi lies in its multi-functionality. Whether used as a sarong, scarf, lightweight throw, beach wrap or baby sling, it’s a staple for travel and everyday life. With a durable weave that makes it a cherished companion for years to come.

Breezy and beach-bag ready, the simple (but mighty) kikoi carries with it the spirit of a sun-soaked coastline, or unhurried days on holiday.

The Story Behind the Kikoi

The kikoi, a rectangular piece of woven cloth, holds a rich history rooted in East Africa, particularly along the Swahili coast. Originally introduced by Arab traders centuries ago, the kikoi quickly evolved into a cultural icon, loved for both its vibrant patterns and practical use. Traditionally used as sarongs, kikois also serve a variety of purposes, including shawls, scarves, head wraps or throws.

Kikois, a versatile travel companion

Lightweight and quick-drying, the kikoi is a versatile companion for days on the go, and summer holiday adventuring – easily stashed in your beach tote or hiking backpack, transitioning from a quick-drying beach towel to a scarf or wrap when the sun dips. Sprawl it out over grass as a picnic blanket, wrap up your souvenirs in your travel case, or convert it into a baby sling if you’ve got a little one in tow.

It’s the year-round, well-loved companion for any adventure – one that makes the ultimate gift for any friend or family member.

GOTS-Certified Organic Cotton

The Organic Ruti Kikoi is woven from GOTS-certified organic cotton. The Global Organic Textile Standard (GOTS) is a globally recognised certification that ensures that the cotton is grown without synthetic pesticides or fertilisers – safeguarding soil health, water quality, and biodiversity. It also upholds ethical labour standards, ensuring fair treatment of farmers and workers throughout the supply chain.

This naturally cultivated cotton results in a fabric that’s gentle on the skin, soft to the touch and breathable for year-round use.

Woven on Traditional Shuttle Looms

Our Organic Ruti Kikois are woven at our mill in Plettenberg Bay on our mid-century Ruti looms. 

One of the distinguishing features of the Ruti loom is its shuttle – a wooden bobbin inside which rests the yarn-carrying pirn. The shuttle, which flies back and forth across the warp (or vertical threads), has the unique ability to produce a true selvedge. This tightly woven, self-finished edge, which runs the length of the woven cloth, requires no extra hemming, and is a hallmark of traditional shuttle loom weaving. You’ll find the selvedge on our Lancashire loom products – our Summer Towels, and baby blankets – as well as our Linen Scarves. Look out for it as a sign of artisanal, small-batch textile weaving.

Traditional Weaving, Timeless Design

Our Ruti looms form a key piece in our story of textile making through the ages (at the Mungo Mill you’ll find a display of weaving techniques and technology right back from prehistoric times to present day). 

Our Rutis, thought to date around 1960, are semi-automatic pirn-change looms. These looms, at one time the height of weaving technology, stop when the shuttle runs out of thread. This intelligent feature revolutionise the industry, improving efficiency, and allowing a single weaver to operate multiple looms at once. 

At our mill, you’ll find two Rutis in operation. Pay a visit and see them in action – our mill doors are always open for visitors.

More from our blog:

Getting the GOTS | This one’s for you, Earth | The 2024 Kids of Kurland Kikoi

How many of us can say we bring our whole selves, our values, emotions, and life experiences, to work every day? It takes a special kind of job to make space for who you really are. For Master Weaver and founder, Stuart Holding, ​​Mungo isn’t just a business; it’s the reflection of a life lived fully. Stuart’s journey began in the mills of Yorkshire, where he trained as a weaver in his formative years. From there, his path took unexpected turns, from a stint in Australia to a new beginning in South Africa. Along the way, he embraced some wild adventures, found love, had children, and even explored unconventional projects like weaving with dog hair. Mungo stands as the culmination of Stuart’s experiences – a legacy of family, passion, and a lifelong commitment to the art of weaving. Join us as we sit down with Stu to talk about the story behind Mungo and the man who brought it to life.

Stu Holding was born in High Bentham in Northern Yorkshire. This region, along the River Wenning, was known to be one of the centres of weaving in the 18th Century.

When did your passion for woven textiles begin?

In many ways, weaving textiles was almost destiny for me. I grew up in High Bentham, a town with three textile mills. For many, working in the mills or the surrounding farms was a natural career path. I remember being about 11 years old when my mother would send me to the corner café. I’d often stop outside the mills, peering through frosted windows to watch workers inspect woven fabric, holding it up to the light to check for faults. It was captivating. Those moments sparked a lifelong interest in textiles.

At 16, I started my apprenticeship at the Wenning Silk Mills, spending five years “going through the mill” as the saying goes. It was there I developed a deep respect for the craft of weaving. To this day, the transformation of yarn into fabric amazes me. Standing in the Mungo Mill today, watching the first few metres of cloth come off the loom, still blows my hair back.

After completing my apprenticeship and qualifying as a Loom Overlooker at 21, I left High Bentham and spent a few years travelling before settling in South Africa, where Mungo would eventually take root.

1960s snapshots: Left – Stu Holding’s home in High Bentham, a hub for weaving and agriculture in Britain. Right – A young Stu with his guitar, embracing his creative side.

What happened next?

In the 1970s, I moved to South Africa, where I met my wife, Janet, a potter. We eventually moved to Plettenberg Bay, a coastal town on South Africa’s Garden Route, where I began training local yarn spinners. My early weaving experiments involved mohair, which I turned into blankets, jackets, and waistcoats. I sold these at the original Old Nick trading store, part of the Old Nick Village, a historic homestead that Janet and I have expanded into a hub for creative studios, workshops, and retail stores.

Stu met Jan in 1974 after he moved to South Africa (they met through his dog, Cassie).

How did Mungo become a family-run business?

About 15 years ago, our children, Dax and Tessa, joined the business, taking Mungo to new heights. Tessa brought a strong creative vision, shaping the brand’s visual identity and marketing, while Dax focused on upholding the company’s core principles: quality, innovation, sustainability, and transparency. One major milestone was achieving GOTS (Global Organic Textile Standard) certification in 2019, which was a proud moment for all of us.

It’s incredibly rewarding to have them onboard, contributing to Mungo’s future growth while maintaining its ethical production practices and commitment to sustainable textiles.

Top left: Stu Holding in action. Bottom Left: Jan and Stu holding and their two dogs. Centre: Stu tinkering with a loom with Dax’s assistance. Right: Stu firing pots.

How did cloth-making expand into what Mungo is today?

In 1998, I was gifted two Lancashire looms dating back to the 1880s. These were the very looms I had trained on during my apprenticeship. I refurbished them and started weaving small runs of cloth in a studio at the back of Old Nick Village. I kept the doors open, allowing visitors to watch the weaving process. This connection between the maker, the product, and the process became fundamental to Mungo’s philosophy.

As we expanded, we built the Mungo Mill in 2017, a double-volume building next to our original retail store. Today, the mill houses close to 100 employees and about 20 looms. Visitors can witness over 150 years of weaving technology, from warp-weighted weaving devices to antique Lancashire looms, and even the latest state-of-the-art Dornier machines, which were custom-built for us in Lindau, Germany.

Left image: Stuart with his son, Dax, both wrapped in the Ikat cloth woven by Stuart. Right image: Stuart carefully hand-knotting the resist sections on the warp, preparing it for resist dyeing to weave an Ikat hanging.

Stu Holding’s original waistcoats and coats at the Old Nick Fabrics store in the 1980s, now the Mungo flagship store in Plettenberg Bay, South Africa..

Did your early life in the Yorkshire mills influence how Mungo operates today?

Absolutely. The Yorkshire textile mills where I grew up were my first inspiration. I admired how they co-existed with the natural environment, and I wanted to bring that same philosophy to Mungo. It created a self-sustaining community, with gardens, allotments, and vibrant local markets.

We’ve incorporated that spirit into the Mungo Mill at Old Nick Village. The Mungo Mill is a beautiful space, designed by Italian architect Andrea Christoforetti, and surrounded by koi ponds and lush gardens. We host a weekly market that supports local artisans and small-scale manufacturers. It’s a place where work and nature come together, much like the mills of my youth.

Vintage drawings and photographs of Old Nick Village. The original building is now home to Mungo’s flagship store in Plettenberg Bay..

How does Mungo stand apart in today’s fast fashion-driven textile industry?

What we’ve created at Mungo is quite different from the mass production of cloth we see today, especially with the rise of fast fashion. We focus on small-batch production of high-quality home textiles, made with intention and care for both the natural environment and the people who create them. Our process is slower and more thoughtful, but that’s how we ensure that every piece we make upholds our core values of sustainability, transparency, and respect for the craft.

Stu standing on the Keurboomstrand rocks overlooking the ocean.

How do you understand creativity?

As I get older, I find myself reflecting more on where I’ve come from and how it shapes who I am today. I always knew I wanted something different to the world my parents came from — something creative. To me, creativity isn’t just about artistic talent; it’s about living a life full of adventure. Whether it’s climbing the highest mountain or paddling down the longest river, it’s that spirit that defines a creative life to me.

The natural beauty of this place we live, with its dramatic landscapes, wild ocean and mountains, indigenous forests, and rich biodiversity, deeply connects me to the environment. There’s a rhythm to life here dictated by the seasons, tides, and changing light that influences my creative process in many ways. I’ve always known I didn’t fit into the corporate world where rigid structures and predefined paths often stifle creativity. Here, surrounded by nature, I found the freedom to express myself and explore alternative ways of doing business.

Watch the video below to learn about who we are.

More from our blog:

Antique looms and why we run them | An insider guide to the Chelsea Flower Show | In search of joy.

In conversation with David Plenderleith and Florian Baumann, the hands behind Très Nagual – an all-natural, holistic perfumery based in Cape Point. From their unassuming home base between the aloes, across from Scarborough’s iconic Scone Shack, you’ll find the pair producing small-batch, consciously crafted soaps and scents.

Find their custom-made liquid hand soaps now in our stores.

“Smell this”

The door is open to the sun. There are aloes and a purple-grey mountain. It is late afternoon, the in-between stage when the air settles into stillness. In a place where time seems to have slowed down.

David picks up a bottle of scent. He sprays the air. The fine mist catches the slow light. And instantly the room is redolent with a rich perfume. The kind that makes you close your eyes. Take a breath.

“Dry incense.”

Holy basil. Immortelle. Sandalwood.

“It’s like earth.”

There’s something about scent that shifts the energy in the room now. A softening. An opening. An ease. This is play. This is letting go. This is how friends are made.

“Scent is such a delicate perceptual door. It is much more subliminal, almost subconscious, in the way the messages come through. It can captivate. It can entice. It can shun. It holds this etheric feeling, because you can’t really see it. Present, and then fleeting. On a molecular level, natural scent is free to move. And the moment someone thinks they understand scent, it changes.”

“Shapeshifting?”

“Shapeshifting, in a way. But yet it’s formless. So there’s no form to shift.”

People amble into the shop. We fall quiet and watch. The easing, the opening, is happening for others too.

“Shifts happen within a realm of feeling. I’ve seen it so many times. Someone may enter the space, hunched, or not happy. Tense. After some time with Florian, they come out lighter and lifted. In some ways it’s the product speaking. But it’s also the transmission that happens. And for our work to uplift, that is essentially the way that aromatherapy works in healing the mind, body and emotions. But we’re doing it in a more contemporary way – rather than in treatment rooms behind closed doors, we want to make it accessible. Scent becomes an ambience that is created.”

It’s quite easy to see now. This is a place of feeling. Of learning. And perhaps unlearning too. This is experience, more than retail. In fact, the very idea that something is being sold here seems to slip away. What’s taking place is much more. The undoing, the connecting, the softening. One could easily be swept through the open doors on a yellow breeze, and casually stay forever.

“What surprises you the most about what happens here?”

“What surprises me is that people come,” says Florian. “And that is such a pleasure. It is a journey. Plants, and their essences, their memories, their function – they become your own. I like to see the bigger picture, and to take more into account than just the perfume. To look at the ‘why, how, when, and for what reason’? And I like to ask people, ‘How is your mother?’

Perhaps this says it all. The point of connection. The intimacy that can be created between strangers that soon become friends.

We are standing outside now, looking in. A girl comes to the door. She’s ridden her bicycle here. Her name is Fran. She greets Florian warmly and goes in. A new scent journey is about to begin.

“Another surprise is that whenever I am cutting soap I get a lot of people crowded around me, and they say, ‘Oh, that’s amazing! Is that a big bar of soap? I never thought that’s how it’s made.’”

But of course. So little process happens in plain sight. The same recognition that happens here, happens in the Mungo Mill. Faces turn in wonder. Shifts happen. Thoughts tick in time with the looms.

“Flo’s background is in biology,” David tells me. “He holds a scientific approach to formulation. He also trained as a chef at Silwood in Cape Town. So there’s that unique combination of gastronomy, textures, taste and smell, with the understanding of plants and their function. I would say the dance with us is that every product has both our hands. Florian brings a sense of compassionate craftsmanship; logic and thoroughness. I feel we really inspire each other and lead each other to new places of expression in the way that we co-create. We work to our strengths, and allow a space for the other to step into.”

We move inside. Now we are standing before a lineage of scents. Different batches of ‘Nefertūm.’ There are notes of lime, Amyris and blue lotus. Subtle variances in each.

“Try this one, Fran. The new batch.”

“What is interesting is that the new Nefertum lasts so long,” she says. “It’s so good. I sprayed it the other day, then I went for a bath and when I woke up I still had this scent – it was still there but it had changed. The batch that I get from your town shop is amazing. It has more of a floral base.”

We’re on to something here. The threads draw closer together. It’s about the nature of change. The changes in nature. It’s a reminder of the perfectly imperfect natural rhythms we should rest in.

“If I follow the cycles, some batches are very different from the others. The immortelle, for example, that grows out at Hemel-en-Aarde, is always different. The last batch is from a new field. The previous batch from a 3-year-old field. And so the oil is very different. But then I explain to the customers that this is the natural world, and it should be so. Once that is communicated, it actually becomes a quality unsurpassed.”

The understanding of seasonal shifts. The awareness of change. The sense of harmony. It’s a refreshing exhale in a world where uniformity has become the standard. A world obsessed with an illusion of perfection. David and Florian are small-batch, craft producers. Much like we are. They understand cycles and variances and the importance of flow. Of the mark of the maker. The mark of the material.

Another scent is introduced.

“What do you see?”

“It’s the forest.”

“Another layer to Florian is his understanding of the mind. The mechanisms of thinking. He formulates, creating an image, and then builds a scent from that place.”

“It’s wet, like the forest. Like moss, and deep, rich greens. And ferns.”

“Your words, they give me inspiration. Because now I see that I have permission to go deeper into the underground and maybe make it a little more soily too. Because you seem comfortable there, you see? So now I have direction for my next batch. That’s how seasons happen, how cycles come about. And that is my greatest freedom. So the next time you come, I’ll say, ‘Smell this – now it’s like wet terracotta.”

“This is one of my favourites,” says David, picking up Savon à Barbe. It’s a play of organic tea tree from Zimbabwe, Pure Bergamot, Virginian Cedarwood, lots of Patchouli and a touch of Sandalwood. It’s very clean – there’s a lightness. I get an image of a day at the beach – being sun kissed and salty. A little bit of suncream.”

“White shells.”

“Mmmm.”

“An aspect of the work is in living in receptivity to not only our needs, or nature’s, but someone else’s. That takes it up to their depth – from their perspective. It’s listening, in the way we formulate.”

More people come, and go, and play. Apprehensive, reserved at first. And then the lessening. The loosening. The easing into peace. The quiet healing.

“Matching scent to personality is another layer of experience. Flo has become very good at this – reading people and matching them to a scent. Perhaps something on the playful side; fruity and floral. Or we might talk about the intention of the scent, and see if that is an energy they want to step into.”

It is the closing of the light now. Three hours have passed quietly. The mountain grows its purple shadow.

“There are mornings here where the aloes are full of dew. They look like the cosmos is resting inside of them. Luminous. And that energy, that vitality, that bit of freshness that doesn’t get tiring. That’s uplifting, and happy, and very medicinal – that is Hildegard. For me Hildegard’s image is like the first light of a new day.”

And what a perfect end. As the light of this one closes. It’s in the art of looking, isn’t it?

“There is that growing sense of consciousness. People are awakening to it. Becoming conscious of your surroundings, of your actions, of your feelings. There’s the practical side – turning around the bottle, looking at the label. Thinking about what I put on my skin, the cloth I use. They say that where attention goes, energy flows. What you look at, what you seek, is seeking you.”

A last look at that wise mountain. The glowing aloes. The magic is complete.

Find Très Nagual at their stores in Cape Point and Gardens, South Africa.

Or pay a visit to one of our stores in Cape Town, Joburg or Plettenberg Bay, South Africa to discover one of their unique liquid hand soaps, custom made for Mungo using all-natural botanicals. 

The use of agrochemicals in the conventional cotton sector affects an estimated 44% of cotton farmers each year. The results of this are grim: soil degradation, water pollution, biodiversity loss and habitat destruction. Not to mention to the health risks associated with exposing cotton farmers to harsh chemical pesticides and fertilisers. A reaction to these conditions has witnessed many companies disengaging from cotton and opting for alternatives such as synthetics, in the form of cheap plastic-based fibres.

The result? It’s thought that 70% of the world’s clothes are now produced from plastic. And although many of us are more adept at saying no to single-use plastics (straws, single-use bottles and the like falling out of favour) we often forget about the toxic plastics in our clothing and textiles.

Cotton has been farmed and used for thousands of years. At any one time, everyone on the planet is wearing or using at least one article of cotton cloth a day. Not only in the everyday t-shirt, but in everything from bank notes to bubble-gum. Versatile, soft, breathable, absorbent, hypoallergenic, durable, biodegradable and renewable. It’s easy to sing its praises. But the production of cotton fibre into cloth has not been an unblemished one either. And although changing old systems is hard, at some point you have to strike out.

We continue to believe in using natural fibres. They feel better on the skin. Are better for the planet. They biodegrade, rather than not spending aeons in landfill.

We’re also committed to being transparent with our manufacturing. Which is why we open the door of our mill to you, each and every day. We don’t claim to possess all the answers, but we recognise that there are better ways to doing things. And that organic agriculture is part of this shift.

In 2020 we became South Africa’s first Global Organic Textile Standard (GOTS) certified mill. A world-leading standard for organic fibre processing, that has rigorous environmental and social ramifications – right from the soil and seed, to the finished product. Whilst not all our textiles are woven with organic cotton (we use OEKO-TEX certified linen and conventional Southern African grown cotton too), we’re committed to finding better ways to produce and to consume. To pursue sustainable stewardship. And to reflect that process with you too.

This Earth Day, we celebrate those textile standards that serve the betterment of our people and planet.

Find out more about our GOTS certification and organic journey here.

#happyearthday

Read next: Behind the Seams | The Hidden Cost of Fast Fashion

Organic Cotton Range

On Saturday, 9th of December, we gathered at Central Beach in Plettenberg Bay for an ‘Activation Swim’, to appeal and object to the CGG Seismic Blasting due to start January 2024,

Following the round-up of our 2023 Swim Club, an annual five day swim challenge held in Cape Town, Plettenberg Bay, and Knysna, we made the call to add on an additional swim, in response to the Seismic Blasting, which will have devastating impacts on our marine life, our tourism and local fishing livelihoods. We collected donations on the day for the vital work of the Plett Environmental Forum, a group dedicated to promoting and educating in environmental awareness, ensuring a clean and green environment, and actively participating in sustainable development projects.

Huge gratitude to everyone in our community who braved the rainy weather to swim with us, and make a donation. Thanks to our engaged swimmers, we raised R12,540 for the Plett Environmental Forum. And as promised, Mungo is doubling the impact by matching the donation.

If you’d like to support, please sign the petition below.

Navigating Paradox and Complexity

Paradox: I looked it up to get clarity before writing this.
This is an explanation.

“A statement that seems to contradict itself, or seems to go against itself, but may contain a basic or underlying truth when examined more closely.”

I suppose another way of looking at a paradox can be posed as a statement.
How not to be a hypocrite.
Or a question.
How do I stand for what I believe and not be a hypocrite?

In terms of sustainability the term paradox comes up a lot. So does the term complexity. To understand sustainability and the interconnection between humans and the planet one needs to spend some time thinking about paradox and complexity.

How do I stand against the seismic testing that has been approved off the coast of Plett when I drive my diesel bakkie to work and cook my food with gas?
Am I a hypocrite?
I guess I am if you wish to look at it in such binary terms as good and bad.
But it isn’t that simple, if only it were.
We don’t live in a fantasy world, it’s not simple and it’s not easy.

It’s complex.

We have a lot to thank fossil fuels for and we can’t just switch off the ‘tap’.
Every single one of us is inextricably linked and entirely complicit.
That’s what is being debated at COP28 right now.
The just transition.

And it’s a paradox.

I will drive my car to a protest against the very company that puts the fuel in the tank to get me there.
But my desire is pure. I mean well. We shouldn’t be blasting the oceans and extracting more pure carbon to stick into the atmosphere. The system needs to change.
So I believe that it’s our intent that counts.

I am searching for a different way.
Even when it makes me a hypocrite.
There isn’t much choice in that. I will embrace it. Try regardless.

It’s complex. It’s a paradox.

– Managing Director, Dax Holding

This is a story about a piece of cake. Let’s see where it goes.

There’s something that happens in my brain when I close my eyes and take a bite of the birthday cake Caroline has brought into the office. A burst of fireworks. Awakening a space of joy that sweeps out the mental cobwebs. Wipes off the darkened corners, where anxious thoughts have been collecting dust like antique furniture. Weighty, unlovely pieces that nobody likes, but that have been there for so long, there’s a kind of craven sentimentality. Oh, surely we can’t get rid of those? Who would I be without shame? My misplaced guilt?

I don’t think I’m alone in the sentiment that cake, and birthday cake specifically, holds a rare magic. One that speaks to whimsy and joy. Unshackled by age or the shrewd sensibleness that comes with it. Something on par with plunging feet-first into a crunchy pile of leaves. With the ridiculous and random delight of popping candy. To misattribute Dom Perignon, ‘Come quick, I am tasting the stars!’

Disillusioned.

In another life, I studied Journalism. Four years followed by quick disillusionment. A quest for storytelling and human-to-human connection turned sour by what soon became clear – that we are hooked on sensationalism. Drawn to the deathtrap of negativity. Sex sells – but tragedy sells better. A short-lived, toe-dip into the field (a smattering of internships, really) from since I have fought against the onslaught of righteous and unappeased comments from my mother, who cannot understand why I am not inclined to pick up a newspaper or watch the news. ‘How can you not know what’s going on in the world?’ To me, this is entirely subjective. A scope of ‘what’s going on’ varies depending on who’s asking, on whose story is being told. And the answer to that is wrapped up in politics and influence and advertising and…

Let’s just curtail this by saying that I am not an ostrich when it comes to the goings on of the world. But I am selective.

The Golden Snitch

A decade on, there are a few things I can take away from a Journalism degree. Besides the fact that I am lily-livered and have little grit for the gutsy world of hard news, there is one distilling point. It’s about the merry chase of the industry – the elusive Golden Snitch. Objectivity. There is no such thing. There is no universal truth. And should anyone tell you otherwise they need to be knocked down a peg or three. Whilst we might quest for a vision (a version, really) of veracity, the media world is no doubt negatively bent. Underpinned by a fear-mongering mentality that, if you allow it, would leave us all acutely agoraphobic. Pinned behind closed doors with the last stand of the doomsdayers.

Cold, hard fact.

This is not an exercise in denialism. Real crises – political, social, economic, environmental – are rupturing the planet on a daily basis. They have been, and will continue to do so. But this is not a story about that. This is a call for optimism. A stake on the revolutionary power of hope. Not reductive, or toxic, positivity. But hope and joy as forces for change. As energising agents.

The importance of optimism

Recently I was surprised by a conversation with champion freediver and ocean conservationist, Hanli Prinsloo. By her refreshing take on the importance of being optimistic. In her words, hopelessness would ‘spell the death of everything we care for.’ Because without hope, with only apathy as an ally, why would we change? Why would we act differently, forge on, or look for better ways of doing things? If there was nothing left to fight for, why even get out of bed in the morning?

Mungo?

Two years ago, on a weekend away, I had a casual conversation with the owner of the guesthouse I was staying at. I told her where I worked. Mungo? As she waved me off her property, and I thanked her for an enjoyable stay, she said 9 words that have reverberated in my memory ever since. Mungo really is the shining light of South Africa. I profess in writing this into the story, there may be a sense of immodesty. But I knew what she meant. That amidst all the stories of gloom that characterise our daily landscape, that ripple through our conversations, peppered no doubt with a South African sense of humour, that it was good, refreshing, to see a story of success. Of growth and hope and expansion. Of a company striving for something better. We deserve that – to hear stories of hope. We’ve earned it. Hope is also perhaps the greatest driver for change, the richest source of inspiration, the sharpest tool at our disposal, that will allow us to envisage a world better than this one. A place liveable for all.

Let’s talk

In August, Mungo participated in the line-up for the 2023 African Textile Talks. An annual event, hosted by Twyg and Imiloa Collective, that offers a full day of inspiring talks and panel discussions that shine a light on – and celebrate – innovations around sustainability, environmentalism and circularity in the fashion, craft and textile industries.

Talks were presented by engaging speakers from around the continent. Stories of change and promise. But also stories that brought us down to earth. Like the representatives of the OR foundation, who showed us pictures of the Kantamanto market in Accra. Of an ocean awash with textiles. A shivering example of a city drowning in the faults of the fashion and textile industries. Where overconsumption and overconsumption have become the name of the game. And the Global South a dumping ground for the sins of the North.

The textile industry is a historical quagmire. Characterised by lack of transparency and lack of traceability. By exploitative working conditions. By gross overproduction that has led to bulging landfills and throwaway mindsets. But I’d like to think that these hidden costs are gradually coming to light. That more people are cotton-ing on.

2023 Africa Textile Talks

Fetching the future

One of the contributing speakers at the Africa Textile Talks was design journalist and creative director, Bielle Bellingham. She spoke about the role of design in shaping the future. And the need to design not just new products but new behaviours. Of using our resources as makers and innovators to ‘fetch the future’. One that is beneficial for all.

After the Textile Talk’s wrapped up in Cape Town, I drove back home. To the haven of Plettenberg Bay, where the Mungo Mill and its hub of production is based. And with the conversations around the textile industry, around fears for the future, still fresh in my mind, I looked around with a new sentiment. Something that felt a little a little more… effervescent. Buoyant. Optimistic.

It’s not hard to find. When you work in a place that is naturally and abundantly beautiful. Green. Nestled between oceans. If I look out of the office where I write this, I see leaves and skyline. If I stand at the window I can hear the sea. See the waving arms of a large and stately Coral Tree. And if I take the short flight of steps into the mill adjacent, there it is. I still get a catch in my throat when I hear the sound of the looms, five years on. It comes with the knowingness that there are visions of the world where equity and good feeling are interwoven into each thread. Spaces of optimism. Spaces of joy.

Final thoughts?

Joy, like birthday cake, is better when shared.

So I asked on our WhatsApp group – to 76 weavers, dreamers, designers, cutters and cake lovers: What brought you joy today?

Here are just a few of the replies.

For me it’s walking from the shop to the mill, saying hi to all the smiley faces as I go past to nag Ginny in production about an order. The different types of greetings, the fabric coming to life as it gets woven, Norton asking for nibbles (we all mother him), checking in on the ladies in despatch, stopping to watch the guys in the warping doing their work with such pride and care, out the back door through the nursery back to the shop, the fabrics, my lovely coworkers and the wide eyes visitors. It’s great! I love it. Oh, and the Wisteria full of bumble bees buzzing next to the shop.- Jonica

Mine was walking through the mill today. I am still mesmerised by the sound of the looms and the creation of a beautiful product. Plus another bonus is working with an awesome team of people. Grateful! – Caroline

Mine is just the lovely space we all get to work in. Not just the mill but also Old Nick Village and its lovely peaceful gardens. And also the generator. – Craig

I’m on the road in Durban and for me it’s meeting our clients and customers who say, ‘We loooove Mungo, you are so lucky to work for such an amazing South African brand, the new towels are incredible, the colours are amazing, I won’t use anything else, my clients insist I use Mungo in their home…’ Just praise and more praise. It’s humbling to say the least. – Merle

I love walking along the walkway overlooking the looms, hearing the intense clatter, feeling the difference in the air/humidity, watching everyone intently working, seeing the threads weave together – it is mesmerising! – Tijen

For me it’s looking at the warp and weft threads binding together and forming the most beautiful designs. Each one with a unique story behind it. – Nicky

I’m grateful for the opportunity to be able to help shape a company that has as its foundation principles and philosophies that go beyond the need to make money. It makes life infinitely more interesting to be involved in a pursuit that has some meaning. And I really enjoy offering a platform for the improvement of people’s lives in a space as beautiful as ours. – Dax

The product, the people, the place and the poetry it all makes. – Tessa

Also in search of joy?
We can’t promise cake, but we can promise more feel-good stories.

Read next: In Conversation | Mungo Mill, Architect, Andrea Cristoforetti

Talking Certifications.

The Global Organic Textile Standard (GOTS) is the world-leading standard for the production of organic textiles. It sets the bar high, with rigorous social and environmental criteria for each step of the supply chain – right from seed and soil, to the spun fibres and finished product. In 2020 we became South Africa’s first GOTS-certified company. An exacting and undoubtedly expensive process that involves annual auditing of each of our departments – but one which we stood behind in our pursuit of sustainable textile manufacturing.

On August 18th we were pleased to be part of the discussion around certification – as we hosted an open dialogue on our GOTS certification from our our Cape Town store on 78 Hout Street. The talk was held in connection with the 2023 Africa Textile Talks, and featured a conversation between Africa’s GOTS representative, Muktar Dodo and our designer, Lenore Schroeder – mediated by Twyg founder, Jackie May.

Timely and interesting conversations grew from the initial dialogue, as makers in the local textile and fashion industries discussed the role of organic fibres, as well as challenges to certification in their various sectors, and need for support and transparency.

Navigating the sea of ‘sustainable’ buzzwords can seem overwhelming in a world where real solutions are easily lost in a mix of clever marketing speak and greenwashing. That’s where certifications stand strong as beacons of credibility. In order to safeguard the health of our families and communities for the future, organic agriculture is essential, and although certification might involve very real and immediate cost to company, the longterm value is priceless.

Whilst we’re currently flying the GOTS flag on our own, we hope to positively impact the industry and the future of responsible design. Proving that there is a demand for organic textiles, and supporting a growing industry of innovators and change makers.

2023 Africa Textile Talks

The discussion was part of the full programme of the 2023 Africa Textile Talks, hosted by Twyg and Imiloa Collective. Organised between South Africa and Mauritius, the annual event offers a full day of inspiring talks and panel discussions focussed on, and celebrating, sustainability, environmentalism and circular solutions in the fashion, craft and textile industries. The talks offer a platform to spotlight textile innovation, whilst creating a space to address issues like the need for credible supply chains, industry support systems and intra-continental collaboration, the importance of circularity and transparency within the industry, and the role of certifications. The day provided a refreshing opportunity to network and to explore responsive solutions, as we look to reimagine Africa’s fashion and textile landscape amidst globally relevant issues.

2023’s line-up began with a presentation by Kenyan textile artist and creative director Sunny Dolat, who took the audience on a narrative journey of textiles from around the continent with this keynote talk entitled ‘African Textiles – Vessels of Memory, Identities and Heritage.’ Referencing iconic African cloths such as the east African Kanga, Malian Bogolan, the Kuba Cloth of the DRC, and the Ghanian Kente Cloth, he evoked the long and rich history of the textile making on the continent, recalling the power of cloth to communicate, commemorate and preserve intangible heritage. Amidst Sunny’s impressive body of work, his recent project for Documenta Fifteen, entitled Return to Sender, drew attention to the dumping of textile waste in Africa by the Global North. In a thought-provoking spotlight of the west’s the gross overconsumption and rampant appetite for textiles, Sunny redirected 144 bales of clothing waste from African countries back to Europe.

Sunny Dolat

Following was a panel discussion, moderated by Esethu Cenga of Rewoven Africa, between Krelyne Andrew from Sappi, Noreen Mwancha from Rethread Africa, Deon Saayman of Cape Wools SA and Carolina Li of DDI Mauritius. Noreen’s work as the co-founder of Rethread, a Kenyan biomaterial startup using agricultural waste for textile production, drew particular interest – with the company’s recent development of a fabric produced from pineapple fibre, a responsive textile innovation that sits alongside the need to improve and support local livelihoods, whilst improving land productivity and maintaining biodiversity. Krelyne’s talk highlighted Sappi’s release of an innovative new product – a renewable dissolving pulp product that can be used in a multiple sectors, including the textile industry.

Krelyne Andrew, Noreen Mwancha and Deon Saayman

Designer and founder of hand-woven mohair textile brand, Frances V.H Mohair, Frances van Hasselt, shared her design process and love for South Africa’s most prized natural fibre in an evocative talk entitled ‘Farm to Fibre: A Story from a Karoo Mohair Studio.’ Frances took us on a vivid and visceral journey through the rich and robust landscape of the semi-arid Karoo – where her studio is based and where she finds unending inspiration.

Lukhanyo Mdingi then presented a beautiful short film about the provenance of their cotton fabrics in Burkina Faso, followed by a panel discussion, moderated by Bielle Bellingham, on how design influences the future textile economy. On the panel were maker and textile artist, Tinyiko Makwakwa, Natalie Green of knitwear brand, INKE, and Merchants on Long fashion buyer, Sumendra Chetty. Conversations arose around the role of design – and the need to harness its power to rethink, reimagine and improve the world we live in. To design deliberately, to change the way we shop, and the importance of designing not only new products, but new behaviours.

Muktar Dodo

Yvette Tetteh of the Or Foundation was in person, joined by her colleagues Sammy Oteng and Kennie MacCarthy, who streamed in from Accra, Ghana. Their powerful presentation discussed the impact of waste colonialism, bringing into stark reality the effects of fast fashion, mass production and hyper consumption, and the toll it is taking on Ghana and the Global South. The talk spotlighted Accra’s Kantamanto market, one of the world’s largest secondhand clothing markets, where approximately 15 million garments arrive weekly – of which only a small percentage are suitable for resale, with about 40% ending up as waste.

In an inspiring feat, Yvette recently swam 450km of the Ghana’s Volta River, from Buipe to Ada, in a drive to raise awareness around the impact of textile pollution on the quality of water. Serving as part of her broader initiative known as the Agbetsi Living Water Swim, Yvette collected water and air samples, to research the presence of microfibres in the river, and call to light the effects of decades of exploitative global trade.

Tinyiko Makwakwa, Natalie Green, Bielle Bellingham and Sumendra Chetty

The day rounded off with a presentation from Tina Smith of the District Six Museum, whose talk brought to life the power of cloth as a tool to both document and heal. Head of Exhibitions at the museum, Tina’s discussion entitled ‘Memory and Cloth’ showcased the use of textiles as part of the museum’s methodology and aesthetic framework, becoming vessels to mediate the past and navigate identity. Tina was accompanied by Patience Watlington, Jean Pretorius and Sylvia Ganget, who presented their personal stories of being involved with the museum’s ‘Huis Kombuis Memory Project’ – a project that mobilises creativity to access memory and lend a reflexive lens to issues of loss, through the revival of home-based crafts like embroidery, sewing and appliqué work.

A big thank you to Twyg and the Africa Textile Talks for creating a platform to engage in forward-thinking dialogue, and to collaborate and connect. It felt both timely and refreshing to have had an open space to discuss, network and reimagine the future. We look forward to 2024’s talks!

All images kindly provided by Rizqah Dollie @thedolliehouse

Read next: Behind the Seams | The Hidden Cost of Fast Fashion

Integrity is doing the right thing. Even when no one is watching – C.S. Lewis

We like to think we’re good people. Doing good things. If not… that might be concerning. Regardless, most of us want to be. Try to be. We have good intentions, even if that gets muddied by personal weaknesses or subjectivities.

I came across this quote by C.S. Lewis and it gave me pause to think. This idea of doing things in view. Or the inverse, behind closed doors. I thought about the Mungo Mill. Perhaps the greatest enactment of Mungo’s ethos. An anomaly in a world where to see behind the scenes is a rarity. And by ‘BTS’, I mean that in a genuine sense of the word. Not some stylised, marketing-curated foray, where a tight-shirted TV host beckons you in with a bended arm for a ‘sneak peak’. I mean an all-day, drop-the-fourth-wall kind of insider view. To see real processes and real people. Machines, faces, fibres, hands. All the bits that brought your product to life. To look into a company’s cavity. Its hub. To question what you see there.

Out of sight, out of mind?

In most parts of the world, production is done behind closed doors. In sealed-off factories where we have a convenient out-of-sight, out-of-mind distance to how the goods we use are made. There’s a reason McDonalds doesn’t operate off an open-kitchen system. Why your iPhone is produced in a city you likely can’t pronounce. Or why most of our textile production is done in places where the western world can keep its armchair activism at arm’s length. They don’t want to show it. And frankly, we don’t want to see it. But there is a truth – a story – that’s happening here. And it harks back to the fact that despite the convenience at which we can pick up a product from a shelf, or click it into a cart and have it arrive within an extraordinarily fast amount of time, it does not just emerge into this world fully formed and wrapped in plastic. Money does not grow on trees, they say. And neither does your pair of Nikes.

Ask questions first. Shop later.

The truth is that we tend to forget about sustainable supply chains, the importance of longevity and the real people behind the product, because we’re hardwired to choose quick and cheap. To complain about the cost of a shirt or the price of a pair of shoes, without really questioning why. Without doing a little homework. Or perhaps it’s just that we never really thought about it in the first place. Because the illusion – the invisibility cloak draped over the factories and fast fashion houses of the world – has done its job too well. Such to the extent that we are blinded to our own moral failings.

So let’s ask ourselves this question: where does this come from? How was it made? And under what conditions? Does a ‘Made in Taiwan’ sticker on the back of my plastic alarm clock really provide enough traceability? And who really made those knock-off Adidas sneakers I bought in Vietnam in 2017? And for all my Google searches, and good intentions, why can’t I answer these questions effectively? Because it is by design. It’s the consumer cog at play. Capitalism functioning at its best. Or its worst, depending on who’s asking the question.

Fast fashion is a sign of the times

The shift from slow to fast fashion is all part and parcel of the times. Cognitively overloaded. Addicted to newness. Bingeing on conspicuous consumption because we’ve been told the next something-something will satisfy our needs. Consumerism making us slaves to the checkout – where it seems easier to buy new things at an evermore hysterical rate, rather than enjoying (or repairing) what’s already in our closest. Most keenly evidenced by the clothing industry, where annual, or even seasonal fashion cycles are now replaced by a 52-week cycle. All of this is compounded by urgency – the need to have it now.

So where did it all go wrong?

200 years ago the production of fibre into cloth was a significantly more time-consuming affair. One that would have required you to raise your own sheep, spin your own yarn and weave your own cloth. Quality was prioritised over quantity and garments were worn for years on end – resized, repaired and remade before binning was ever a consideration. But something changed around the mid 18th century. The Industrial Revolution took its roots. And in its wake came a wave of machines and technology that sped up production. That replaced work done by hand. The result? It was now cheaper to buy than to make.

In the last few decades things accelerated. Globalisation, improvements in communications, social media… Self-esteem straddling a wobbly seesaw with self-expression. Shopping as a hobby. (The term ‘retail therapy’ says it all.) Overproduction and overconsumption now the name of the game.

At whose cost?

The reality for most of us, myself guiltily included, is to succumb to consumer culture. To choose instant gratification. The quick-fix, click-to-cart dopamine rush that comes with online shopping, and with the fast fashion brands that dominate our feeds. We’re quick to choose our own comfort – but at whose cost? The reality sadly isn’t all tied up in ribbons. It’s often ugly. Don’t let Shein’s influencer campaign tell you otherwise. Suspicious supply chains, exploitative working conditions, textiles dumped on the Global South. Low quality offered at low prices, energy-heavy production cycles, toxic dyes, soil and water pollution. Bulging online hauls, clothes to be worn once (if ever), sale signs as hypnotic headlamps beckoning us into material frenzy… But conspicuous consumption cannot be dressed up in bows. Neither can suspiciously low-cost goods. If it’s that cheap, ring the alarm. You might be winning, but someone else is losing out.

Fast. Quick. Cheap.

The Iron Triangle tolls keenly in the world of textiles. Fast, cheap, quick – you can only have two. But there’s another to add to the mix: conscience. Production shouldn’t negate fairness. Equity. Livelihood. Perhaps in the future all our production needs will be outsourced to AI. Which in itself may have dire consequences for the state of our workforce, and the need to learn a livable wage. But for now, whilst there are still humans who till our soils, grow our food, and weave our cloth, let’s not forget about ethics. The cost to people. The cost to our planet.

In writing this I run the risk of sounding perilously self-righteous. But I too have fast fashion demons in my closet. A never-to-be-worn oversized denim jacket at the end of the rack that I’ve kept year-on-year as some sort of penance for my textile sins. Three pairs of unworn sunglasses bought in Spain, where I found myself love drunk on the streets of Barcelona (or perhaps just on the Cava), and mesmerised by the big bad lights of Zara, Mango and H&M. I’m not immune to material misbehaviour. But I do find myself a little more considered, a little more quizzical, these days. Looking for some sort of traceability beyond just clever marketing speak.

It’s an exhausting paradox. Production fuels the economy. And so does the spend of our hard-won cash. And yet to participate in that cycle in excess leaves us in a state of fracture. Tenuously holding on to our values. To our last good soil. To our hope for the future.

Something’s rotten

As I try to make sense of it all – where I stand on the moral metre – I’m reminded of a childhood memory. Going back over two decades to a powder blue uniform with shiny round buttons and brown leather shoes. Sitting on a wooden seat, my feet too short to touch the ground, poring over the beginnings of an experiment. A single bean. Some damp cotton. A plastic plate. The task was to get the bean to sprout. So we’d nestled our beans into the cotton wool, written our names with a dry black marker on a piece of masking tape, and left them in a sunlit spot of our grade four classroom to germinate. After a day, there was a tiny crack in the bean. Then came the curly yellow-green shoot. After several more days there were green leaves – unfurling one by one. I was awed by this. How a single seed carried inside itself all the ingredients for new life. How with only a little light, water and sun, life could be coaxed into being. It is perhaps the closest feeling a child could have to touching magic.

So strong was the sense of wonder that I conducted an experiment of my own in our garage. I can see the image of my own shadow, framed in the bay window, setting the ivory white seed into its cotton blanket atop an old unplugged Deep Freezer. Adding a few drops of water. And then a couple more. Watching it as if it might sprout forth then and there. And then walking away. The truth was this time I’d misjudged the recipe. Over eager, I had grossly over-watered. And when I’d returned to peel back the cotton a day or two later, therein lay a rotten bean.

So what now?

Is that how I feel now? Knowing how putrid the cycle of creation can be when approached with a rash and reckless hand? Perhaps. But to take a less cynical approach, there is the understanding that creation takes care. Requires a fine balance. An even temperament in your toolbox and not a jackhammer. But without the poetic nuance, or the pragmatist’s search for analogy, there is a singular revelation. One that ripens the memory of that day, such that I can recall it like a taste in my mouth, or a familiar scent. That this was about process. About the alchemy of creation. Connecting the art of making – the gentle coaxing of resources, the sharpened skill – to a finished product. And to realise, looking at the store bought bag of beans cut open on the kitchen counter, what effort it must take to grow them all.

A matter of choice

Bean or cotton boll or basketball cap. Fast food or fast fashion. A pair of earrings or a piece of woven cloth. It all takes time, process and resources.

I can attest that it does feel difficult, at every turn, to do the right thing. Whether people are watching, or not. But there are choices. There are open conversations to be had. Ethical producers and certifications that provide credibility. They are more minimalist modes of being: to buy less and buy better. To choose longevity over quick-cheap-inferior. To slow down a little. To remind yourself that one more item of clothing might not change your life. But it might change someone else’s.

Righteous, or right – who knows? But perhaps it takes a little querying of what goes on behind the seams.

The Mungo Mill is South Africa’s first, and only, GOTS-certified weaving mill. The Global Organic Textile Standard is the world-leading standard for the processing of organic fibres, assuring environmentally and socially responsible practices across the entire supply chain. GOTS has rigorous implications for manufacturing – right from soil, to seed, to finished product – and every hand that touched it along the way.

There’s a distinctive change in the air this time of year; the quality of the light, that first nip of winter. It’s also one of Plett’s most beautiful times – when the sky is clear and crisp and calm – until the rains roll in. And as you drive down the N2, towards Old Nick Village, you’ll see the early morning light catch the sea. Glittering. And then the bow of the Mungo Mill. The telltale slatted structure that curves up, threadlike, towards the sky. It’s picturesque, yes. Naively pastoral, perhaps. But it’s also our home – and we are lucky to have it.

It’s a place that provides unending inspiration – a vital source of colour and texture, that fuels our creative compulsions. It’s also a reminder – looking out at that quiet sea, at the weaver bird’s moving between their nests around Old Nick, at the Coral tree that frames the entrance of the mill – of everything that’s at stake for the future. All that we need to protect.

As producers, we are of course contributing to the cycle of making. A cycle that pulls from a pool of resources, but which also fuels innovation and change and livelihoods. It’s a conundrum of which none of us can really escape. So we look for ways of doing things a little differently. And a little better. It’s why we pursued our GOTS certification. And why we hold true to our initial vision – on which Mungo was founded over 20 years ago: to create a product woven to last, not destined for landfill. Something of quality, of craftsmanship, of beauty. To be used. And to be treasured.

Step beyond the threshold of the mill, past that curving Coral tree and through the open glass doors, and you’ll hear a distinctive sound. A chorus of looms. First, the beat of the Lancashires, then the lower hum of the Dorniers. The metallic timbre of thousands of droppers, each holding a single thread in place – some of which have been tied on by hand. The shuttle of the Rutis has its own resonant beat, as it flies back and forth, carrying the pirn. But if you lean in, listen closely, you’ll hear it. As does the Saurer – on which the Caribbean Check is weaving. A soft cotton tablecloth, designed by Stu, our Master Weaver. The Saurer is the newest in our collection – a loom, like many others at the Mungo Mill, that has been refurbished and restored. Itself a testament to repurposing and refining. A concept from which we take our name.

It’s an orchestra. And there are several conductors. Nicolette, our weaving manager, who moves from machine to machine with a keen eye and deft hand. Caroline, running her hand over the droppers, an instinctive feel for the cloth. And here, passing beneath the large east-facing windows, our newest weaver, Donovan. Last week we watched him being trained by Ryno, at the helm of our Lancashire looms, weaving organic baby blankets. Today moving through the mill with greater confidence between the Rutis, weaving our pure linen Selvedge Serviettes. Then through the double volume building into the warping department, where thousands of threads are being lined up under the eye of Rodney or Gordon or Eugene. Up into the CMT, where Ginny, who’s been with us since we first opened our doors, is directing the flow of cutting and sewing and pressing. The whir of the needles, the hiss of the press – these too contributing to the swell of sound. Parts moving together at different paces but also in unity.

If you have a chance to walk among our looms, perhaps you’ll feel this too. That there are human hands at play, many steps involved, considered design and carefully selected threads. There are real people at the centre of it – dreams and livelihoods and visions of a better future.

This is the fabric of our life. Indeed it is a daily source of inspiration.
And perhaps, as you open, as you feel your Mungo product, you might intuit some of that too. The fibres, the hands, the craft, the care. Feel yourself a little more connected. To the threads that bind us all.

Join us as we visit the farming cooperative, Terre De Lin, in Normandy to learn about their farming practices and the meticulous care that goes into cultivating the flax we use in our linen products. We witness the transformation of the flax fibre as it is prepared to be sent to Linificio e Canapificio Nazionale for spinning.

The unique climate conditions found in the Flanders region of Europe, as well as the mineral-rich soil, contribute to the growth of flax plants that produce fibres that are particularly long and strong. Generations of farming expertise in the region have contributed to the exceptional quality, resulting in linen yarn that is widely regarded as the best in the world.

At Mungo we buy all of our raw materials direct from the source. We manufacture everything ourselves under one roof at our Mill in Plettenberg Bay, South Africa. We control the whole journey. Knowing where our yarn comes from, who grows it, and processes, has always been a part of our transparency objective. Visiting, documenting and sharing it with you is part of that too.

This video was edited by Julian Culverhouse.

Delicate sky-blue flowers stretch across the landscape, reaching the horizon. Their long green stems sway in the sea breeze. It’s early June in the north of France, and we’ve made our way here especially to witness linens’ annual spectacle…

Interested in learning more about the story of our linen? Read the full story on our blog: The Lineage of Our Linen

There is no consumption without impact.
Let’s just put that out there.

There is no article of clothing, piece of food that you eat, good-hearted gift that you buy, that doesn’t cost something, somewhere.
That doesn’t cost the planet.

Consumption fuels the economy.
The way the world works, we are locked in a cycle of creating and consuming.
This is the capitalist machine at play. The 21st century monster. And we’re all on the hamster wheel.
Creating, consuming. Yes, it feeds the beast. And yes, it puts money into the pocket of the powerful few.
But it also creates jobs, and this means putting food on the table for the many.

Unless you join an exodus of people throwing their cellphones into the ocean, cutting up their credit cards and heading out into the wilderness to live off the land, Into the Wild style.
This could be a viable option.
But for many it is not.

It’s not viable even for those of us who are well-intentioned, read the labels on our clothing or bag of tomatoes – cruelty-free, GMO-free, organic, BIPOC-owned, Fairtrade – and wince when you’ve forgotten your shopping bags – yet again.

The point is, I’ve come to believe that there’s no such thing as sustainability.
There it is, I said it.

The very definition of the word belies any sense of possibility.
“The ability to be maintained at a certain rate or level.”
This is impossible. Because everything changes. Everything revolves.
Even a mountain, as stoic and stable as it may seem, wears away over time – only the change is so gradual to the human eye that it cannot be noticed.

But there are better ways of doing things.
Not ‘no impact’. But ‘less impact’.
And I think it’s important that people understand this.

Important that people hold companies – but also themselves – accountable.

But it’s also worth shining a light into the grey area – the zone of complexity.
You plant a tree out in the woods. Great. But perhaps it took you a lot of fuel, and some plastic sheeting, and a coffee cup in a throwaway receptacle, along the way to get it to that place of planting.

You buy a linen shirt – it has a OEKO-TEX label on. And maybe you already know that flax is fairly good for the planet – in comparison to resource-thirsty cotton.
But it still takes raw materials, finite ones, to produce that finished product.
There’s still creation, and consumption, at play. The hamster wheel still spins.

This isn’t a name and shame game.
And it isn’t about pessimism.

In fact, it’s about being so deeply optimistic about the planet, and it’s future, that you’re inspired to do better.

It’s about crucial conversations, acknowledging the grey area, and open-ended dialogue.

And it begins here.

We’re a GOTS-certified homeware textile company, based in Plettenberg Bay.
We are particular about sourcing the highest quality fibres, and creating a product designed to last, not designed for landfill. 

We believe in open and transparent production – which is why our weaving mill is open daily to the public.

Read more about what we, and why we do it, here.

In 2022, over the course of 6 Swim Clubs, with 471 swimmers taking part, we raised R49,200 for I Am Water. We spoke to I Am Water’s founder, free diver and ocean conservationist, Hanli Prinsloo about moments of majesty beneath the waves, and staying hopeful in hard times.

“To wake up in the morning and feel optimistic – to get up and smile and stretch and look out at the sea and go, ‘I can do this. I can do this for you’ – that is way more powerful than looking out and going, ‘Oh my God, it’s so heavy. It’s all too late.’ I really believe that.”

There’s something profoundly refreshing about optimism.

Especially in this country. Especially in these times. So this is what perhaps, amidst all the stories of daring and adventure, that stands out the most: that Hanli Prinsloo, world-champion free diver and founder of I Am Water, considers herself a ‘deeply optimistic’ person.

Hanli’s outlook isn’t driven by naive idealism – but by the possibility of change. And perhaps, at its baseline, by love. A love for the ocean, as deep and unending as its depths, that you see cause to fight for it.

And it feels like a sounding call to despondency. To a dead-in-the-water apathetic approach to apocalypse.

“I really feel that hopelessness spells the death of everything we care for. Because if we don’t believe that there’s hope anymore, then why would we act differently? Why would we change our behaviour if it’s already too late anyway?”

Yvon Chouinard, founder of Patagonia, who recently made waves for revolutionising his company – making ‘Earth the only shareholder’ – expressed the sentiment that “the cure for depression is action”. And there’s a parallel here. Or a paradox. That these two polar forces – optimism, and depression – compel us to change. And yet both are true. The darkest depths drive us to radically change our lives. And the greatest joys, that sense of optimistic awe, equally compel us to move, to shake. And to protect.

“If you really take time to be in nature, you’re compelled to remain optimistic. Whether it’s standing in the rain or hearing the waves crashing or diving down underwater and seeing that biodiversity and life. Nature just keeps transforming and giving and thriving.”

Hanli’s own affinity with water started early – growing up on a horse farm, where she quickly learnt of the incredible importance of water from the two rivers that ran through the land, and a dam that on occasion dried up if there wasn’t enough rain. A dam where she and her sister spent afternoons playing, diving deep and pretending to be mermaids.

“That connection really came from an early age… loving that silence and that feeling of weightlessness and stillness and that holding [of] the breath even when it burns. I’ve enjoyed that from very early on.”

And from these simple adventures – ones of childlike wonder – there have grown moments of incredible majesty; vast adventuring and tales of which most can only imagine.

“I’ll never forget the first time I was surrounded by a pod of dolphins – being observed and scanned and clicked and welcomed in. And just feeling, ‘wow’ – there’s so much beauty out there and there’s so much trust… We have so much good that we should do, and could do, and there are so many pure life forms out there that we affect… [and from that] I really just had this sense of, ‘I would do anything – anything – for this to be protected.”

To experience life between the waves – to experience the ocean at all – is both a pleasure and a privilege. Because for many, the ocean isn’t an accessible space. It was this that compelled Hanli to found I Am Water in 2010.

“All through my competitive freediving career I felt so privileged to be learning so much about my body and so much about the ocean through what being underwater offers us. And it always made me sad coming home to South Africa and seeing how much South Africans have access to the ocean and how it’s very much divided by communities and demographics. And so much of it is a throwback to beaches not being accessible to all and swimming pools not being accessible to all. So starting I Am Water was really about creating opportunities for young South Africans to have access to the ocean. It’s so important for us to realise that what we think is normal – to be able to swim, to be able to safely run into the water on the beach – is not normal for so many South Africans, and I Am Water is a vessel for changing that.”

Experience. Optimism. Depression. Love.

Drivers for change. Movers to action. Such that influenced Hanli to make another profound change in her life. A first – and last – spearfishing expedition, that became the last time she ever ate a fish.

In South Africa, to be a good spearfisherman, you need to be a good freediver. But, as I realised floating above the kelp, my speargun dangling limply from my wrist – being a good freediver, is not enough to be a good spearfisherman… I am not a natural hunter. I am an observer. To switch from observing to stalking didn’t seem to happen naturally for me. It took me several long dives, self-sabotaged misses, self-talk and a bruised sternum from reloading the speargun before I actually shot my first fish. My only fish…

Excerpt taken from ‘Killing Fish.’ First published in DIVESITE Issue 3, 2011

“I do think that the old saying, ‘when we know better we do better’, is true. But I also think that we act when we experience things on a deep level. And for me that happened with that fish.”

Experiences like these can be transformative – in the way they help us to connect. To rewild. To remind us of what we need to fight for. Of what’s at stake. But they’re also a way to bridge the gap between concepts that might seem abstract, larger-than-life. Overfishing. Imminent sea life extinction. Ocean pollution. Climate crisis. Issues that are large and looming. But where is the inroad? How do you start? Perhaps putting your head beneath the waves. Seeing creatures great. Or small. Seeing a piece of plastic float by. Querying this.

“Being in Indonesia, and diving in what should be a pristine ocean with manta rays, and seeing this manta ray open its mouth and plastic going in and I was literally swimming next to it trying to push this plastic out of its way as it was filter feeding. That to me was just so shocking… The rest of that dive I didn’t even swim with the manta rays anymore – I was just swimming around with this huge bag, just pulling all this plastic out of the water. It was just so horrific to see and that suddenly for me brought it home – that ‘aha’, plastic in the ocean is a real issue affecting the animals I love. So needless to say I avoid plastic where I can… and then just in general – thinking [about] our lifestyle choices… what car you drive, what products you buy, the durability of the products you buy, what you eat – all those things matter.”

And it does matter. The little choices that we make. The small actions that amount to bigger ones. The times where we look for agency – and use it.

And above all, perhaps, remaining optimistic. Remaining in awe.

Recognising your power. Recognising your privilege. The teetering right, the radical responsibility, that comes with being on a planet with finite resources. One that offers us such bountiful gifts. And which asks so very little of us in return.

Photographs taken by I Am Water co-founder, Peter Marshall

I Am Water is an NPO that uses environmental education as a tool to inspire the next generation of conservationists. They work with under-resourced coastal communities who, despite their proximity to the shoreline, have often never explored the world beneath the waves. Their mission rests on the belief that “those who have opened their eyes underwater, those who have seen the beauty, the majesty, and the great marine creatures of this world, will learn to love and to protect it.”

Click here to find out how you can support the good work that they do.

Hot tar. Fingers in ears. Tongue stuck out in defiance.

Naa-na-na-naaa-na

The sound of skipping ropes hitting the pavement. And the smell of chalk lines drawn for hopscotch.

Sticks and stones might break my bones but words will never hurt me.

And then the adult version.

Ignorance is bliss.

Well, maybe not quite the same thing. But my mind draws a parallel between the two – between this image of blocking something out and pretending it doesn’t exist.
All so that it doesn’t hurt you.

It’s true that there are a lot of things out there that could hurt you.
One of my favourites is to fantasise about tripping down the stairs and knocking my front teeth out. Not entirely unfounded because technically I’ve done this before.
And hikes are semi-ruined because the threat of a snake around any corner now looms large.
Nevermind Gates’ call to prepare for the next big you-know-what.  Give us a break, would you?

The point is, we seem to be constantly reminded of all that could go imminently wrong. And for anyone brave enough to pick up a newspaper, or flip on the news, you’ll be all to familiar with the myriad opportunities to panic.
On the brink of war.
At the risk of disease.
Economies collapsing.
Temperatures soaring.
Oceans rising.
Bees dying.
Doom.
Gloom.

And don’t – I mean it now – don’t Google your symptoms.

All the uncountable causes that need our attention.
And it seems like there’s never enough – never enough money or support or goodwill or energy to fix it all.

Compassion fatigue, they called it in Journ school. An uncomfortable term – guilt-ridden, First World problems, awkwardly analysed from a pedestal of privilege. We all have it as South Africans, they said.
Don’t-see-it-don’t-hear-it-it’s-all-too-much. Everything-is-just-tooooooo-hard. Cue exasperated sigh.

Or is it?

I read a book recently that begged to differ.

It said we’re living in the Golden Age of it all.

A scientist, somewhere in a lab coat doing science-y things, said that if we lived in the times of the Romans, and wanted the lifestyle we enjoyed today, we’d need about 6000 slaves.

6000 toiling, sun-beaten humans to cultivate and cook our food, make our music, raise our animals (a dozen horses for our travel alone). All to bring us the chicken breast wrapped in polystyrene and plastic that we pluck from a perfectly tempered fridge for our dinner. Or deliver us music at the touch of a button. Or to do our bidding via voice command. Please me! Feed me! Delight me! And all of it, now.

Just think about your bed linen. I’m talking linen linen. Nevermind cotton linens.

And then watch this pleasantly pastoral video of one man going through all the stages of sowing and pulling and retting and stooking and crimping (and a dozen other steps but I’ll be honest I skimmed it and so did you) just to produce this fine fibre.

Then go to bed on your linen linens. Or cotton linens. And have a better appreciation of it. A better night’s sleep. Or a worse one, if you’re a chronic overthinker like me.

So back to the main point.

Which was somewhere between 21st century panic and compassion fatigue.

Which brings me to another word.

Sustainability.

What does it really even mean? What does it mean to me? What does it mean to you?

Is it just a buzzword?
Marketing speak.
A little green pill to help us sleep better at night.

I don’t know about you, but sometimes I forget to do my recycling.

We get up in arms about the plastic around our fruit.
(I think about stepping into a Starbucks in Seoul. A sad drama played out by a single banana sold at the counter. Wrapped in plastic as if it didn’t have it’s own very perfect, very concealing, very life-lengthening skin).

But then I heard someone on TV saying how plastic actually makes our food last longer.
And I think about the baby marrows in my fridge that have been there for 3 weeks and honestly I’m happy that they still look good, in their little plastic nest, and that I didn’t have to throw them out. Because that !that! really would be a waste of Mother Nature’s blessings.

But the point is – how long is a piece of [sustainable] string?
How much of our well-intentioned, planet-saving endeavours are really just that – endeavours.
But we’re all trying our best, aren’t we?

So yes, one more thing to consider may just be too much.
(And the category is… buggered!)
Maybe we want to be blinkered a bit.
Maybe we want to eat a cheeseburger without worrying about carcinogens or calories or the 660 gallons of water that made it happen.
I do.

But let me not beat around the burning bush.
I’m talking about the c-word.
No, not that one.
Cotton.

It uses a lot of water.
Takes up a lot of arable land.
Pollutes rivers.
Destroys soil nutrients.
And it’s pretty bad for for the health of farmers.

And to be fair, us humans use a lot of it.
Like, a lot. 

So what do we do?

There’s no one-size, neat-fit, easy answer. There never is.

But –

Organic cotton.

It uses up to 90% less water.
Requires far less energy.
Doesn’t need pesticides.
Protects water supplies.
Protects the farmers.
Protects the soil.
All that good stuff.

So there’s the bit.
There’s the plug.
That’s it.

This has been an irreverent blog.
For an irreverent generation.
But I’m not too superior to admit I’m part of the problem.

Use it. Don’t use it.
Shop. Don’t shop.

It’s your choice.

But don’t stick your fingers in your ears.

Mungo Organic Cotton Range

Oh, and by the way…

Mungo’s the first Global Organic Textile Standard certified weaving mill in the country.

Sometimes when we aim for the stars we end up on the moon. Which is kind of what happened when we started this Mungo Mill project. It has been a lifelong dream of Stuart’s to have a mill that is open to the public, that houses the full production process and team under one roof.

When Andrea and I designed the building 6 years ago we planned to be able to build it in one go. Best laid plans and all, we couldn’t secure finance for the whole project. This was because according to the bean counters and money lenders, the textile industry is not a good sector to be lending money to.

I tried pitching to some private equity investors.
Was told to move the company to Cape Town or they weren’t interested.
I was affronted.
We’re people. You don’t just move a factory and families who have lived and worked in Plettenberg Bay for years. We’re a community here.

I suspect they had heard that textile production is a bad bet.
They had also heard my pitch. It wasn’t good.

So we waited, and business was brisk and we got to a point where I sat with my family and said ‘Look, we need more production capacity, we either find a way to do so or we’re going to be turning customers away.’

So we borrowed what we could, dug into some savings, signed away our lives and put up what has become known as ‘Phase 1’. Very fancy wording for what was essentially a compromise.
But we knew it was a ‘good bet’.

That was 2017 and we managed quite well with a disjointed operation, a Frankenstein of sorts, but we didn’t let go of the idea to one day finish Phase 2.

We had children, some of us emigrated, expanded into territories unknown and far away. Came back. Life happened. And Covid.

We came home.

I sat with that family and said ‘What are we going to do? We can sink, we can swim, I know what I want to do, I want to push through, build Phase 2. How about you?’

So in March we started to build.
Last week we moved in.
It’s been a process that has been made challenging because of shortages of basic building material, logistics, delays on imports, lockdowns, Covid outbreaks, riots, strikes, and then just the normal mix-ups and bad communication that happens in life.

And so here we are.
Phase 2 complete.

It takes time to fulfil dreams, and in this case it’s taken a whole team, collaborating, working, and dreaming their own dreams to fulfil that one man’s dream.

This one’s for you dad.

Dax Holding, Managing Director