American Life In The Summertime #15 - "Aussie kunte"

26 May, 2008


It's funny, but since I had been in Africa for so long before even starting my volunteer stuff, and since so much had happened in the meantime, I had kind of got to the point where if the volunteer projects didn't quite stack up to expectations, I would be OK with it anyway. I'm happy to say that they were even better than expected. My first one was working at a Lion Park just outside Johannesburg, which is a pretty popular local attraction/zoo/conservation/reserve. Playing with 3 month old lion cubs never, never, never gets old, although I had until now kind of ignored the fact that I am allergic to cats, and that lions are cats, in the hope that somehow I would not be allergic to lions. Unfortunately I have discovered that I am, which is easily the most I have ever paid for something that gave me a rash afterward, despite what anyone else might tell you.

However if this was not the case and I had needed a little extra shielding, then I may have been in the market for what is undoubtably the champion TIA object I have encountered in Africa so far - the Fragranced Condom. Not flavoured, you understand - "fragranced". Chiefly available in small town petrol stations, back street liquor stores and other purveyors of fine goods, this little gem promises a whiff where it counts, when it counts. Now, I may be doing something wrong, but I simply cannot come up with a set of circumstances in which such an item would be useful, unless people in Africa are simply far more imaginative (or disturbed) than we are. Not to be too indelicate about this, but flavoured, I get. Fragranced, I'm still scratching my head about (which I guess could be the answer right there). Unfortunately I can't report on exactly what fragrances are available: my suggestion was asparagus - I've heard that's popular - but I can suggest that if these were to be made widely available, then the African AIDS crisis would be solved in one pleasantly scented pot pourri moment. It will forever be my sad regret that I did not think to pick up one of these for my next bucks party attendance, or even to begin the first Australian franchise in aromatic personal protection, but at the time I was a little uncertain about making any purchases from the quality establishment in which I found them. If they do ever crop up in the developed world, I expect a cut.

The South Africans, God bless them, do like their 80's music. It is said that despite being the most "western" African country, South Africa is still 20 years behind the rest of the developed world, and this suits me perfectly. I have lost count of the number of times I have walked into a bar here to hear something like Human League or Pat Benatar playing some song that was released at least 5 years before most of the other pople with me were born. Warms my heart. What chills my heart however is the thought that, this year, people born in 1990 will actually be eligible to vote. How on earth can these people be expected to exercise mature, sensible judgement without having lived at least part of their life in The Time? What will they do if they suddenly find themselves 106 miles from Chicago, with a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark, and they're wearing sunglasses? How will they react if suddenly transported in a time machine built from a luxury car back to when their parents were dating, and need to keep a cool head to avoid winking themselves out of existence by having their own mother hit on them? It is a disturbing, disturbing issue and to help me cope I have been retiring with even greater frequecy to these bars in which I can listen to such music and just hope that some of it rubs off. I'll keep you posted.

After the 2 week stint at the Lion Park we transferred to Pretoria where the others on the Lion Park programme were flying out, and I was waiting to start my next volunteer project a few days later. Although Johannesburg and Pretoria are only about 40 minutes' drive from each other and will probably one day merge into a 20-million-strong megopolis, they are poles apart in feel. Johannesburg is home of Soweto, the largest township (read ghetto or shanty town) in Africa, and contains such monuments as the Apartheid Museum, documenting the eventual rise of the black and coloured people from third-class citizens to obtaining the vote and forming a majority government in 1994. Pretoria is the Afrikaaner Jerusalem to Joburg's Mecca, and has the Voortrekker Monument, celebrating the defeat of 12,000 Zulus by 470 Boers in 1838. Obviously the vast majority of white South Africans have moved on these days, but it would not be unfair to say that the final bastion of old-school Afrikaaners, who still yearn for the good old days when white man ruled and black man knew their place, live in Pretoria.

One night in Pretoria we ended up going to a Super 14 rugby game between the local team, the Bulls, and the Australian ACT Brumbies. The Bulls were last year's defending champions, despite having an ordinary year this year, and the Brumbies needed to win to stay alive in the playoffs, so it was a pretty big game. I went with another Aussie guy, and an American guy who was with me at the Lion Park and, upon arriving at the stadium, we naturally went in search of the bar. Having the not unreasonable plan to buy a few beers at once to save multiple trips back to the bar, we obtained 3 each and attempted to carry them back to our seats. At this point the security guards stepped in to inform us that alcohol was not allowed in the stadium proper, and we would have to finish the drinks before going back to our seats. This is despite the fact that there is an excellent sports bar built right into the stadium itself affording perfect views over the halfway line, and allowing the punters to drink in comfort while watching the game from the best seats in the house - and without having to pay the 80 rand ticket price. Still, these protests fall on deaf ears and we return to the bar area to settle in. It is exactly one hour until game time.

Approximately 59 minutes later the table is littered with empty beer cans and the roar from inside the stadium informs us that the players are out and the match is about to start. We find our seats and are surrounded - surrounded - by 45,000 passionate, committed, intense, arrogant Afrikaaners. It could be said there is no other type. We, of course, set out to make more noise than the rest of them combined, no mean feat. The Queensland jerseys (not mine of course) and Aussie flag boxer shorts (perhaps mine) are getting plenty of airtime on the stadium screen, and there is none of the friendly banter between rival fans in Australia - Afrikaaners are not used to being challenged, particularly on their own turf. We are not popular.

At halftime we decide at this point that we may as well be hung for sheep as lambs, and retire back to the bar to top up. As the second half starts, the American, a big Minnesota farm boy who has shown impressive form out of the gate but is perhaps used to these sessions on slightly less potent beer, collapses back into his seat and hangs his head in his hands, completely spent, muttering about crazy Australians trying to kill him, and proceeds to squint blearily at the ground at his feet for the rest of the entire match. We are down to the 2 Aussies, and we are getting louder. Toward the end of the match, the Brumbies score, putting them less than a converted try behind, and I decide a bathroom stop is in order. As I walk into the stadium toilet, all conversation stops and it's like walking into one of those bars in the southern United States where everyone is related to each other, the beards have been growing down to the knees since 1958, and the men are even worse. I had not realised that we had become known to all 45,000 people in the stadium, but apparently this was the case. I briefly hope that the toilet doors work better than in Namibian hostels and walk in to the belligerent sounds of "Aussie kunte"....."Aussie kunte". At this point, the biggest guy in the place, wearing a Springboks jersey which may have fit him when he was 7, massive gut hanging over the top, looks at me and sneers "That last pass on the Brumbies' try was f***ing close to forward, Aussie kunte".

I am always amused at guys who equate size with being able to handle themselves and when I am of a particular mood (typically after about a dozen beers, as I was now), I occasionally decide to have some fun with them. I looked at him and said, with complete nonchalance and in my broadest Australian accent, "That's allowed".

Even the other guys in the room know I'm wrong, so if it is possible for a room full of silent people to become even more quiet, this is what happend now as they slowly closed in. They watch with keen interest as Springbok looks at me and says, with equal amounts of hatred and scorn, "No it's not, Aussie kunte". I respond again "Yes it is". These high-level and intellectual negotiations continue for close to a minute, with Springbok becoming more and more agitated each time, and me becoming more and more calm. "No, it's not." "Yes it is". "No it's NOT, Aussie kunte". "Yes, it is". Finally, enraged at someone waltzing into a bathroom in his own stadium in his own country and arguing with him about rugby, the big goose takes on the Australian. "NO IT'S NOT, STUPID AUSSIE kunte", he almost yells. I pause, just slightly. "You are allowed", I reply, "to pass the ball f***ing close to forward. Just not forward."

Springbok stops dead and stands there with a face like a smacked bum, and even some of his mates, trying to maintain grim faces in solidarity but knowing their mate has been completely handled, hold back snickers. I finish up and saunter out of the bathroom, whistling the Aussie national anthem, job done.

The Brumbies lost.

And so, as I prepared for another 7 hour bus ride up to my second volunteer programme in search of diesel and whiskey fragranced condoms (this was not the actual purpose of the volunteer programme, but would have been an interesting alternative), it is once again time to quote our favourite talk show host and remind you 'til next time: take care of yourselves.....and each other.