You are Cordially Invited...

Okay, so I'm not exactly invited. My brother and sister-in-law are invited, but because they assume all of their friends will love us as much as they do, we are encouraged to tag along. Plus, Laurel has taken it as her personal mission to get me drunk as often as possible, and her son’s girlfriend’s mother’s fortieth birthday party seems as good of reason as any.

The dress is formal, so I bring every dress I own to Gary and Laurel’s house so that she can evaluate my options – of course, I gave away over half of my wardrobe before moving to this side of the planet, so those options are limited to say the least. I first try on a black sequin top and a long flowy black skirt of Laurel’s. The skirt is a bit long, and Roger can’t seem to get the top tied just right so I move on to option two – a brown and blue BCBG dress. I love the dress, but is it dressy enough? Laurel thinks it’s okay. Roger picked it out so his opinion is noted. I try on option three, a long white dress belonging to Laurel. This is by far my eight year old niece’s favorite. Is it too summery, though? It is, after all, before Memorial Day, but I don’t think the same rules apply in a country without Memorial Day and where the seasons are reversed. I go downstairs to show Roger.

“You’ve given me a funeral in option one, and now a wedding in option three. I stand by my original vote.” Noted.

I explain to Dale, my niece, that I should probably go with Roger’s vote, seeing as he is the one who has to look at me all night. Laurel agrees with me, though she preferred the black. I change back into the brown, only I start to think that I preferred the black too. After much debate on the issue, I change from the brown back into the black. I go downstairs only to be sent back upstairs to change by my husband who has now moved from simply favoring the brown one to hating the black one. Men.

So this is how the evening began, and I haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet! As we set off to the party, Gary and Laurel explain to us that the birthday girl is quite the fan of the Narnia books, so there is to be a Lion, Witch, and Wardrobe theme. No one is exactly sure what that will entail. They also tell us that the birthday girl’s husband is a body builder who has never heard of sun block. Prepare to stifle giggles when we see him. Oh, and they are both Afrikaans so we will most likely be surrounded by drunken Dutchmen all night.

So, what exactly is an Afrikaner, you ask? I will try to answer (though I must state a disclaimer that nothing here has been fact checked). The Afrikaners are descendants of the Dutch settlers of South Africa. They speak Afrikaans, a language derived from Dutch, German and French (I think) and is only spoken in South Africa. All children learn the language in school, so most everyone who grew up here has some understanding of the language.

“But they speak English too, right?” I ask.
“Of course,” Laurel answers.

Apparently, not at this party. I am greeted in English by the birthday girl and her red faced enormous husband, but that is the extent of the English portion of the evening. We are led into a huge space filled with polystyrene balls meant to be snow in the wintry woods of Narnia. It’s gorgeous really, but a bit surreal. We are seated at a table with other English speaking people, but once the program starts I can’t understand a word. The husband starts with a speech in Afrikaans. Laurel is trying to translate at first, but then gives up. Waiters start bringing the food. More speeches and then a short fat Italian looking man goes to the microphone. He puts five mints in his mouth and then walks back to the bar and takes two shots of some unknown liquor. He then goes back to the mike, takes another few mints and starts singing.

Ah, this I can understand. Oh wait, no I don’t, but I have heard it before. Pavaratti maybe? Some sort of opera. He sings another familiar song and then starts talking. More Afrikaans. His next song is unfamiliar, but pretty. Laurel leans over to me and jokes that he may as well be singing in Italian for all I know. He’s not? She laughs. More Afrikaans. He eventually sings an Elvis song in English, and suddenly I wish he was still singing in Afrikaans. It might not be so painful.

When the Italian looking Afrikaans man finishes, a DJ takes over the music. He starts things off with a little Justin Timberlake, because even the Afrikaners know how to get a party started. I pull Laurel up to the dance floor, but once the song is over it’s…more Afrikaans! “What is this?” I ask as everyone around me pairs up and starts moving around the dance floor.

Laurel laughs her trademark laugh. “Boer Music!”

I sigh and head back to the table. The dance that everyone seems to know is called suki suki. Or saki saki. I can’t be sure. The waiter offers more wine and Laurel brings over four shots of tequila. My sister-in-law is insane, but afterwards, I feel ready to take on the saki suki dance. I spin Laurel around the floor a few times before realizing that the Afrikaners do not seem to appreciate my attempt at absorbing the culture. We sit back down at the table.

I watch in wonder at these people that look like me, live in the same country as me, but speak a different language and have an entirely different identity. I later ask Roger, why the big difference? He was born in South Africa, granted to English parents, but he’s still South African. The Afrikaners are South African too. So why so different? He compares it to being Irish American or Italian American, but having grown up is the South, I don’t really get the reference. He thinks for a minute, then decides it’s somewhat like being a redneck. This explains the derogatory comments I usually hear about the Afrikaans people, but that’s not a heritage, is it? I counter that one’s parents might be a redneck, but the children don’t necessarily become rednecks. He says it’s the same with Afrikaners. Many times, the parents have a strong Afrikaans identity, but their children don’t. For that very reason, he believes, it’s a dying culture, a dying language. I think it’s kind of sad.

We get ready to leave and I feel quite impressed with myself for having experienced a new culture. Yes, this is why I moved across the planet. New people. New places. Learn something new every day. I am still patting myself on the back when Laurel falls into a hole. We end the evening at the Sandton Clinic Emergency Room. Waiting on Laurel, I wonder if my mother or father were ever in this room, for this is the hospital where my sister was born thirty-one years ago. The world suddenly seems so small. Everything feels a bit dreamlike, but that may just be the tequila.

My sister-in-law’s foot is not broken, though she has torn several ligaments. We wheel her out of the ER in a wheelchair and pile back in the car. A perfect ending to a perfectly odd night.



PS An addendum to my earlier post...

Laurel went back to the doctor the following Monday to learn she had broken the long bone of her third toe. Below is a lovely photo of her newly decorated cast.

Future Laughs

One day I’ll look back on this and laugh. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway. Roger and I love to reminisce about the two years we spent living with my mom and my grandmother. I smile whenever we recount my grandmother’s outbursts and my mom’s medicated tranquility. The four dogs, the one bathroom, the soundproofing duct tape around the doorframe – these things are humorous now. So I’m sure that one day all of this will seem funny too.

It will be funny, the M-I-L's (mother-in-law) need to wash each article of clothing the moment you take it off of your body. She might even help you strip should you think of changing clothes within a ten meter radius of her Speed Queen. With that kind of pressure, is it any wonder that my father-in-law walks around naked half the time?

Perhaps one day, I will look back at my father-in-law’s constant shouting at the television and think of it as a charming trait. Cricket, rugby, football – the athletes would surely win if they would only heed his advice. Not that he limits his commentary to sports – American Idol contestants, the heroine of Hallmark’s movie of the week, the lead CSI agent – they could all benefit if they would only listen.

I’m sure driving with my in-laws will seem humorous as well. My father-in-law, cussing at pedestrians and driving over curbs while my mother-in-law swears at him for swearing so much. You may be laughing already, but it's only because you are not in the car!

Okay, so I may not be laughing yet, but they’re lovely, really. I don’t mind my father-in-law’s grimace every time I do the cooking, or his subtle opinions on the ridiculousness of a married couple practicing birth control. It doesn’t bother me, the way my mother-in-law continuously reminds me she’s never liked sweets and that she rarely eats breakfast, or lunch either for that matter. Are these statements meant to be suggestions, or just annoying revelations? I can’t be sure, but I don’t mind. I could learn a lot from my mother-in-law – she’s a former model after all. And lucky for me, she has a remarkable way of telling you exactly what to do without being overbearing. She always quailfies her explicit instructions with, “Well, that’s how I would do it anyway.” See? She’s no dictator (though it’s a far cry from a democracy).

But as you can see, all is well in Africa. These things may not be funny just yet, but none of it bothers me. Nothing stresses me out. This is Africa Robyn. I am laid back and easy-going. I go with the flow. I also go see the pharmacist next week about renewing my prescription. I’ll be laughing in no time.