The Pralka Party

“Well, I’m from Mars,” the professor says, “It’s not too far from Venus, you know”. His Gandalf-like appearance certainly endeared him to me before, but as he speaks he starts to look more Lord of Ward C than Lord of the Ring. And Mars is light years from Venus! Is he insane AND astronomically misguided? Worry seeds germinate in my stomach. This could be a long night …

“It’s a little town in Pennsylvania,” he continues, and points out two towns on the map of the USA he’s brought with him, along with a 1-litre bottle of berry juice.

The occasion is our first ever Pralka Party, an event that we’ve organised in an attempt to get to know the fellow inhabitants of the Dom Akademicki ulica Nieszawska where we live. In this communist-style block of flats, the so-called “klucz do pralnia” takes the place of capital in other societies. That is, while being one of the chief objects of desire, it also stimulates social interaction and co-operation among the members of our community. It is generally controlled by forces that are hierarchically inaccessible to the common man, and the more it circulates, the healthier our society tends to be. (It’s the key to the washing room).

Thanks to the yellow bibles of Langenscheidt, however, most residents simply ask for the “klucz pralka”, which, when said to a Pole, generates the sort of reaction you would get when asking an English speaker for the key to the washing machine. (“Sure, just park her round back when you’re done, OK?”).

The system we have inherited requires you to go to the administrator, who follows the tradition of all administrators in the countries formerly known as communist, by responding to any request with “impossible”. (We’ve taken to calling the administrators goblins. Usually not to their face — we’re more civilised than that. Usually). You then ask, via a lingua franca that relies on the representation of wildly complex ideas by waving your arms and hands until communication is achieved, who has the key at present. The goblin shows you a room number and you proceed to knock on that door.

“Klucz pralka?” you ask, warming up your arms for the next conversation. And so it goes. You follow the paper trail until, on some lucky day, you locate the klucz pralka. You get a little taste of the Soviet dream as you joyfully load your clothes into a machine that could easily have served as prop on The Battleship Potemkin. For today you are happy to be a worker, you labour with a smile, in anticipation of the joys that tomorrow will hold and the knowledge that no longer shall the people of Poznan hold their breath as you pass them in the street.

I usually operate washing machines in the way American action heroes land planes. No idea what I’m doing, no clue as to what the buttons mean, and no experience of the actions required to make this thing work. Yet, somehow, I always manage to bring her down safely. So whether I’m choosing bawe?niany or we?niany, gora?y or ch?odny, really makes very little difference to me. I have a mystical relationship with pralkas. I operate them from a place somewhere inside me that just knows. (I suspect if I develop this instinct, perhaps by meditative isolation, I will also learn the location of the Island of the Missing Sock).

Enough pralka though — back to the Pralka Party. We welcome the professor to our flat, which is unnaturally clean after an unnatural session of cleaning by Cormac earlier in the day. And to our delight he turns out to be not only fully sane, but also very sharp-witted and one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met. He strikes up a conversation in Esperanto with Cormac, leaving me scratching my armpit, picking at my head and stopping just short of munching on a banana as they (probably) tell fart jokes in the world’s only artificially constructed language. I busy myself with rounds of berry juice for everyone and presenting the array of snacks which, even if I have to say so myself, look pretty damn impressive considering it’s the handiwork of two heterosexual males.

As the other comrades of Nieszawska arrive, the Pralka Party takes off. That the Adam Mickiewicz University offers more languages than the entire South African university system becomes apparent as our previously anonymous colleagues introduce themselves. All lecturing in their native languages are: Nikos (Greece), Parapin (Thailand), Charles (Wales), Melody and Sammi (China), Sophie (Belgium) and, of course Cormac (Ireland) and Tertius (South Africa). Let’s not forget Supawit, also from Thailand, a geologist studying the tsunami.

“But it’s over,” someone asks, “why would you study it?”

A few heads turn in indignant confusion as to the direction of the question. Supawit laughs nervously. Another round of berry juice for everyone. We’ve also started mixing apple juice and Wódka Z.o?a;dkowa Gorzka, which ranks high up with The White Russian and rum and Sparletta on my list of deliciously unlikely beverages.

Minutes after the Thai contingent arrives, the conversation turns to transsexuality. This must be to Parapin and Supawit as apartheid is to a South African. Foreigners looking at you with screwed-up eyes, “But why? And … how?” lingering behind every question, and the standard meek mantras to explain the inexplicable. Fortunately, in the microcosmos of Nieszawska, we are all satellite constellations, the centre of the universe a 20th century myth, and there is no position from which one could mock the other.

Another inevitable topic is learning the Polish language. Raising this is a bit like talking about Bafana’s chances at the World Cup. Heads nod gravely, laughter dies down, and I, the eternal optimist, find myself using the word “but” excessively. The mood of the party dampens to the point where I can hear the professor quietly talking to Cormac. I pick up that, besides Esperanto, he also speaks and understands Chinese, Japanese, and Latin. Yes, Latin. Not livin’ la vida loca. Ut carmen planto mihi volo vomito.

“So how long did it take you learn Polish?” I ask.

“What, Polish?” he answers, as we prepare for humiliation: “I’ve given up five times!”

A sigh blows through the comrades. I decide to get on with the other agenda of the evening. See, so be honest, the motivations behind the Pralka Party were not entirely innocent. Typically Irish and South African, we had vague political ambitions too. We reckoned, if we could just organise ourselves, this problem of the circulation of the klucz pralka need not be. We’re all adults, civilised people, surely we can just, you know, get along?

This was not to be. Soon after I raised the issue (my suggestion tended towards the anarchist stand — we simply don’t lock the door and let the system run itself) negotiations broke down. Charles, felt we could set up a list allowing every person two hours to use the pralka. My immediate African reaction to this very European solution was “Who would administrate it? Who would police it?” The professor simply shook his head as we battled out different solutions to the age-old problems of limited resources. There would be no simple solution to our troubles.

The Pralka Party would remain the good kind of party — the kind that features laughter and fun in addition to the silliness we’ve come to expect from the other kind. Now, if we’d all spoken Esperanto, things might have been different. Probably not, though.

All white rugby

“I don’t know why it is, but it is a fact that the Afrikaner cultural group just seems to produce some freakishly built people with a freakish genetic make-up,” Nick Mallet famously said in 2007. Pierre Spies, Bakkies Botha, Schalk Burger and Os du Randt have absolutely nothing to do with the rest of this article. But now that I’ve got your attention, I’m talking about playing rugby in the snow. (Sucker).

Accidentally catching a snowflake on your tongue while waiting under the up and under, you start to think, not about the oversized Poles thundering in towards you, not about your heart beating a bass drum, your knees knocking against each other despite longjohns under the PT shorts, shaking your frozen fringers alive before contact, you think, not about this, but about how many times you’ve been here. This open space, waiting for a ball to drop from the sky, knowing the moment is turning over on its head and judgement day is coming, but for now, this rugby ball hangs in the sky, stretched across countless untraceable memories and therefore eternal. You know that you have to catch it, though, and you are trying not to think, thinking, not thinking, thinking, not, then all of a sudden impact, and impacts follow, like waking up in a thunderstorm, thoughts jarred as cerebrum and cerebellum wrestle for control of the body, step in, step out, accelerate, make contact, your face in the snow, sludge and mud and boots, and this is what a train wreck must feel like, and, within moments, it’s gone. The second phase plays wide and someone pats you on the back: “Dobrze.”

As human activity, “snow rugby” must find itself in the same category as “night swimming”, “cliff diving”, and “mampoer for everyone”. These are usually preceded by a diffident glance, the “Are we doing this?” look, accusations of cowardice and prompt denial before the madding crowd can take over and lead to the freedom of temporary insanity. Afterwards, you might feel a little sick. But it’s worth it.

My size (read: lack of) has seen the number on the back of my jersey climbing steadily upwards — 6, 12, 13, 14, and yes, sadly, 16. I revived my rugby “career” at Stellenbosch University just as the first wave of protein supplements hit the market, and as you can imagine, the creatine peddlers found a very lucrative emerging market in the Eikestad. At the time, I happened to be sporting a pair of green boots, which to my desperate and terrified mind should have added just a little bit of camouflage and make my next step slightly less predictable*. Obviously, it didn’t work. I have the X-rays to prove it.

As luck would have it, here, in Poland, the cheapest boots I could find were — you guessed it — snow white. Now I am beyond believing that this would do me any good. And at my age, when other men are battling with the distinction between mauve and lilac, grinding out Sundays with in-laws and building foundations for the beer bellies of the future, it is unlikely that I am experiencing a sudden spell of good form. But, and we will explore some alternative explanations in a minute, it does seem as if I am finally approaching the kind of game that my primary school teacher had in mind when he said I would one day play Springbok flyhalf (he also claimed to be on first-name basis with Klaas Vakie).

The reasons for this clearly have more to do with the opponents’ game than mine. The Polish play rugby the way rhinos make love: hard, and slow. Add to this the adrenaline rush generated by 15 mad Slavs trying to get at the white-booted African, and you manage to turn out a bit of pace that every now and again propels you over the line. (Which you can’t see. Because it is snowing. But blindly diving Habana-style into a bank of snow is quite a rush). The net result of all this is that this Sunday, I am representing Posnania against a town whose name I can’t pronounce. And with my useful Polish at this moment limited to “lewo” and “brawo” it should be an interesting affair. I’ll make sure to learn the words for “hospital” and “morphine” too before then.

In the meantime, the snow has let up, and I am left as vulnerable as a chameleon on a mirror in my shiny white boots.

Now where are those green ones…?

*Conventional rugby wisdom says that as a defender, you shouldn’t look (as many instinctively do) at your opponent’s shoulders. The experienced side-stepper uses his shoulders to create the impression that he is going one way, the rest of his body waiting for you to take the bait before he accelerates towards the other. No, the real indicators of intent on a rugby field, Doc Craven said, the only ones that don’t lie, are the hips. (Pop star Shakira made a ton with a song based on Doc’s theories — without so much as a nod to the source of this wisdom). Also, this has contributed to that most unfortunately ambivalent piece of advice to centres: “Watch the hips and don’t let him come inside you.”

Ich bin kein Berliner

JFK famously called himself a doughnut (a specific German variety known as a “Berliner”) during a 1963 speech underlining the USA’s support for West Germany. Recently, party poopers have been pointing out that he was technically correct in using the abstract form of the sentence, that this kind of doughnut is not actually called a “Berliner” in Berlin itself, and lots of other boring facts which detract from the fun of the story. Firstly, there is no way JFK calling himself a doughnut is going to reduce my respect for the man who could handle Fidel on the phone and Marilyn in bed at the same time, while smoking a cigar. Secondly, a Berliner is what some call a doughnut in Berlin. (It also refers to a sausage and a beer, both quite tasty).

I am on the Warszawa-Berlin Express, speeding through Greater Poland towards the city where East and West had a firework party to blast Nazism forever into the past. But even as the last bombs were falling, as Adolf was kissing Eva goodbye, even as Berliners were sighing a deep sigh of post-war relief, the liberators were already fighting over the corpse of the city. They would turn each other a very cold shoulder for the next half century. France, the UK and the USA brought the wonders of the Big Mac and democracy to West Berlin, while the Soviets introduced new shades of grey to the East.

Finally, in 1989, punky-looking teens with thin moustaches started (as they so often do) what the politicians should have done decades earlier: breaking down the madness that was the Berlin Wall. This was the fart that sent all the communists running out of the room, a bell that rang around the world, and the sign for old men across the globe to start talking to each other again.

Berlin — a city where old friends meet, then. The next 48 hours will be no exception for me. Who would have thought that I’d get to see the best SA rock band in Berlin? As if this is not privilege enough, I’ve known some of the guys from Taxi Violence for longer than I’ve been potty trained, and we’re being joined by friends from the UK and USA for two nights of euro-guzzling madness.

But right now I am opening a book of poetry from the Khoisan oral tradition. Yes, I take a moment to reflect on the absurdness of the situation, the Liquorice Allsorts packet of cultures that my life has become. Before it all starts, I must prepare the lecture to be given on Friday, when I, fresh from two nights of Berliners, walk in front of a class of literature students in Poznan. I’ll try to put finger to keypad again then.

23/10/09, 20:21

“Wo ist das Mauer?” we ask an elderly gentleman at Berlin’s Ostbahnhof.

“Es ist weg! Gott sei dank!” he exclaims, and tells us that we were about 20 years too late to see the Wall (clever they think they are, these Germans). Mario gets caught by his crazy eye and listens to a long history of everything as the rest of us walk towards the River Spree, reckoning we’ll bump our noses on the spectacular Wall sooner or later. German efficiency, we found, is too efficient for human beings. Maps, directions, information centres — none of these are compatible with our approach, which is closer to Columbus’s method of finding India (and taking whatever you get along the way).

The Wall. First impressions? As an ex-Joburger, I thought it was quite … well … low. The absence of electric fencing or at least some barbed wire was marked. No primitive CCTV cameras, no pre-laser beam systems, basically none of the things we held so dear in the City of Gold. So this was what kept communism in and capitalism out? (Or the other way around, depending on where you’re standing?). The famous Iron Curtain with which the propaganda gods tried to shape our young minds? I’m sure the picture is more powerful when you add 24-hour guards with Mother Russia issues, but still, one would have liked to see at least some bullet holes on the East Berlin side?

As you can see, I survived the invasion, the retreat and even the academic presentation that followed (the last was the toughest, by far). It’s impossible to get a decent view of Berlin in one and a half short days, but the highlight of the trip was definitely seeing Taxi Violence grabbing the packed Duncker Klub by the shoulders and shaking it into a good ol’ rock ‘n’ roll frenzy. The lowlight followed soon after when I trudged around the streets of Berlin with my good (but by then, very tired) friend Rian after I’d left my backpack in their tour bus, and the departure time of my morning train was steaming closer. Holding up tiny maps to streetlights, deciphering umlauts, eszetts and what Mark Twain lovingly called The Awful German Language until, finally, I could hand my fate over to the Berlin S-bahn system. German efficiency where you need it most on a pub crawl.

I ended up making the station with 45 minutes to spare, and was helped, against my will, by an immensely inebriated German called Christina:

“I help you.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” I am standing on my platform, ticket in hand, ready and buzzing.

“Today I get my motorcycle licence!!!!” (she screams)

“That’s nice. Are you on your way home now?” It is after 6 in the morning. Her eyeliner has been forcibly re-located several times.

“No!!”

“OK … ”

“You know what’s wrong with this country?!”

I glance over my shoulder. Which side of the ex-wall am I on? And when have Germans ever admitted to anything being wrong with Germany?

“You can’t get big enough motorcycle!!!!” (another scream. This could get me into trouble soon … )

“Entschuldigung, bitte sei ruhig.” This is a railway official, telling her to shut up. Christina looks as if she might get violent for a moment, and I consider how to remove myself from the situation. Fortunately my train approaches and I take the ousted dictator approach — let them sort it out between them while I get out of here.

Inside, the train is packed. Who wants to go to Poland on a Friday morning? I pity the poor fools in the compartment where I, smelling like the Oktoberfest in November, plonk myself down and escape to a few hours of semi-sleep.

In Poznan, a quick shower and a double espresso puts me into showman mode. The powerful poetry of //Kabbo and !Kweiten-ta-//ken guide me easily through the lecture, even if at times I wonder if I might be in the first phases of a vision quest myself (as long as that praying mantis in the corner doesn’t put up his hand … )

And if you struggled to follow this distorted juggling of past continuous, pluperfect and dramatic present, you’ll appreciate some simple present tense: I am home now. I consider putting the word in inverted commas. But what good is a “home”? So, for now, I’m home.

Strangers — just enemies you haven’t met

They say God created alcohol to prevent the Irish from taking over the world, which is true in the sense that they never bothered to colonise anything. Yet, if you look at this country of over 6 million souls, it is one of the most successful exporters of culture in the world. Most cities in the world have some form of Irish pub, and you can hardly avoid (try as you might) hearing an Irish band at some point. Blame Guinness, blame U2, blame generations of large scale emigration — the Irish are everywhere.

Which got me thinking — what are our South African cultural export products? A bit of market research reveals that apartheid, Nelson Mandela and Charlize Theron are always the first mentions. Seether, JM Coetzee, Miriam Makeba, The Gods must be Crazy and District 9 also make the list, depending on who you’re talking to. If you happen upon a White Russian (not the drink, the country — otherwise known as Belarus), they know all about Dirk Prinsloo, who managed to impregnate two of their female citizens and rob a bank with a toy pistol during his 18-month pre-incarceration stay. And, when yesterday I asked my (Polish) Afrikaans literature class what they know about Afrikaans, a chorus sounded: “De La Rey!”

For a second I felt like Poland, freed from the Nazis by the communists. Like the restaurant lobster who thought he’d escaped, like Andre Stander on that Miami morning. The Boere will get you, no matter where you go. But let’s not rehash the rehashing that was that jingoist anthem. I took their answer with a smile, and proceeded with a discussion of some poetry. It happened to be post-Anglo Boer War poetry by FW Reitz. The similarities were as striking as the 100-year jet lag between the two texts.

Shortly after, I was relieved to find that many of the students actually know more about South Africa than a board-shorted bru on a campus back home. Two courses of cultural studies and a year of Afrikaans language acquisition has given them a broad, and refreshingly neutral, perspective on the R of SA. From trance dances to trance parties via violence and sirens, they know a little bit about everything. An interdisciplinary approach means their syllabus consists of bits of sociology, anthropology, history, literature, philosophy and languages combined to enable them to understand and practically engage with cultural phenomena. Last year they did “braai”.

Of course, to fully understand the concept “braai”, one needs a thorough background in colonialism, post-colonialism, spatial identity, symbolic interaction theory, parodic reappropriation of inherited ritual, et cetera et cetera. At the same time the final aim must always be practical (can you pass the Blitz please, Katarczyna? Dziekuje. What? No, your pronunciation is wrong. It’s “po-li-sie-kof-fie”*). This sort of wide, academic perspective also means that they are possibly the only simultaneous fans of Bok van Blerk and Zola. See, integration is possible. In Poznan, at least.

After class, I went for a beer with Cormac, my Irish flatmate. A rather drunken Pole slouched on the bar counter and enquired in slack-jawed English where we were from. When we told him, he pointed at Cormac:

“You, I like.”

And turning to me:

“You, fuck off out of my country.”

Finally, I was a victim of xenophobia! I reacted as many must have to the Group Areas Act — I was sure he couldn’t be serious. Patting him on the back, I laughed and clinked my glass against his. He pulled away violently and I could see by the spit flowing out of the corners of his mouth that he was very much serious.

“You come here and take the jobs that should go to Polish people!” he shouted.

All attempts to explain my job description were fruitless, and when he once again ordered me to leave, I shrugged and sat down next to him, stubborn as a bittereinder. Seething, he soon left, leaving me pondering South African vs Irish cultural exports. Sure, we’re running a bit low on James Joyces. But then, we don’t send drunken bigots with strange tastes in music all over the world. Or wait …

*Brandy and Coke. (And shame on you if you didn’t know).