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“We call it Perthfontein,” said the son of a friend. “And don’t think that you can use Afrikaans to talk behind anyone’s back in the mall,” he added, “they might well understand you!” So I was warned. All the “South Africanisms” still came as a surprise though. The huge South African flag above the SA Essentials shop which greeted me every time we went to the yoga studio, the Nando’s chicken outlet, the wine farm down south which had been replicated from Groote Constantia (including the slave bell) and of course all the South Africans who I met, eager to switch into at least a few phrases of Afrikaans and to tell me that they have to do without house help. And like many a South African dorpie which ends in –fontein, the malls have only recently been allowed to trade on Sundays.
There’s something oddly familiar about Australia. Of course there’s the obvious British influence – driving on the left hand side of the road, the almost-recognisable school uniforms, images of the Queen. Added to that is more than a smattering of America in the chain stores and restaurants, from K-Mart to McDonald’s and KFC.
The landscape was recognisable; I knew the vegetation. I could be travelling to Beaufort West in the Great Karoo, if not for the black and yellow signs warning of kangaroos bounding across the highway. “Proudly-South-African-in-Perth” websites and Facebook pages bear testimony to the 155 000 South Africans who live mostly here and in Sydney. Little wonder then that the Australian identity eluded me.
No matter, I enjoyed the long stretches of beaches, the towns with musical names like Bunberry, Yallingup and Dunsborough, the architectural marvel that is the Sydney Opera House, the bakery in the middle of nowhere which operated on an honesty system, the kangaroos who looked like they’d skipped upper limb exercises at the gym and the lethargic koala bears. I ate good food, went on long walks and enjoyed being able to cross the road without thinking; I reconnected with old friends. I returned home to find myself.
