Calling all Saffers!
The only way is K-Way.
I’ve written in previous journals about always having my eyes peeled for South Africans in Berlin. Coming back from work on Wednesday evening, I saw a South African couple on the train. How did I know this, you ask? I didn’t strain my ears to identify the wonderful lilt of Afrikaans; I spotted a K-Way logo. The oom wore black Salomon shoes, charcoal technical pants and a black K-Way fleece. His partner wore very fancy loafers with pointed toes, well-tailored trousers, a white blouse and a red headscarf that completely covered her hair, the tail of which extended just past her belly button (at a guess, her belly button was not on display). They seemed to be in their fifties, and they were speaking English. This was, admittedly, a little disappointing to me, since I find a quick Afrikaans comment to be the most effective way of breaking the ice with other Saffers. I was standing about four metres away from the couple, who stood adjacent to the train car door. I removed my earphones and put my cellphone in my pocket in preparation for our chat. I contemplated going over to the couple and introducing myself, but then I feared that we might hit awkward silence before I had to get off the train. I had half a dozen stops left. I resolved not to introduce myself, but to cry something in South African slang as they got off the train. I have done this with much success in the past. Only last week, I saw a kid about seventeen years old wearing a t-shirt sporting the South African flag. I yelled, “Aweh bru!” And his spirits were naturally lifted, as were mine. Easy. We came to the next station, and it appeared as though the couple in their fifties were getting ready to leave the train. It was at this moment that I realised that I was, perhaps, too far to shout something in a fun or encouraging way. I’d really have to yell for them to hear me above the bustle of a peak traffic, post-work train station in the middle of the city. So, instead of being the crazy man inappropriately shouting at strangers, I held my peace. I watched as the K-Way man and his partner walked away and down a flight of stairs. A stone fell into the pool of my stomach and sent cold ripples to lap at my ribcage.
I doubt I would have said anything of substance to that gentleman. Most of my interactions with South Africans I meet in the wild are simple and memorable. This week, or perhaps last, I helped a couple of co-workers of mine deliver a sideboard. We pulled up to a part of the city I’d been to before. My co-workers got out of the van and rang the bell. We carried the sideboard up five flights of stairs (though both men, one in his forties, the other in his sixties, did not allow me to touch the thing much). We were welcomed into the customer’s apartment. We even assisted him in moving his old sideboard into the hallway. Just as we were leaving, we spoke to him about a brass lamp he had bought from us. His partner was under the impression the lamp was dirty, but my co-worker explained that what they suspected was grime was really the patina (a discolouration that occurs when brass is exposed to oxygen over time). The customer seemed a touch confused at this and relied on one or two English words. In English, I then explained the patina to him, and how it was a very similar process to the discolouration of Lady Liberty (though iron turns green while brass turns brown). We spoke a sentence or two more in English before I asked him if he was South African. Turns out he’s from Kuils River!
About a month ago, I went to Hamburg for the weekend with some friends. Just before departing Berlin, as I took the escalator down onto my platform, I saw a couple in their forties with two huge suitcases. Both suitcases had a massive K-Way logo plastered across the side. Naturally, as I walked past, I called, “lekker naweek julle!” They both beamed. As my train arrived, the section of the train that I had to board was on the opposite side of the platform. As I crossed the platform, I passed the couple again, this time accompanied by two more South Africans. When I walked by, the man leaned over to his friend, pointed at me and said, “hierdie oukie is Afrikaans!” “Ek’s eintlik ‘n soutie!” I called back over one shoulder. All four roared with laughter.
I’m not sure there’s a deeper meaning to the sadness I felt after missing the opportunity to say hello to a fellow Saffer. I think I was a little ashamed at the shyness I felt. I reasoned with myself that I shouldn’t say hi, that it might be awkward or that it might interrupt their day. Which is so not South African. My experience of South Africans is that pretty much everyone everywhere is keen for a chat. Especially with strangers. My uncle often jokes that he leaves my aunt in the queue in Checkers for two minutes to get a loaf of bread, and by the time he returns, she’s talking to the guy in front of her about his mother’s health. I felt like if there’s anyone I should feel comfortable walking up to and wishing them a lovely evening, it should be South Africans. Especially K-Wayers. Next time I’m going to choke back the doubt, stroll over, and say, “En waar kom julle vandaan?”
I must say, the headscarf threw me. But then again, the last time I was at Dischem, the woman working at the counter took one look at my ID and told me, “Maar jy lyk nie soos ‘n Snyman nie…” If you enjoyed this journal, please subscribe.
Pa Se kind… being able to analyse the lady’s clothing like that…