Understanding nothing but still laughing

I was one of those fortunate kids who were pulled out of the township under the good old “underprivileged” banner and thrown into a private school.

Not that there was anything underprivileged about my life in any way or form. They – whoever they are – say your environment shapes the person you are.

Well, I grew up in Coronationville, a township in every sense of the word. I did, however, go to an interesting school; a school where I was surrounded by staff and students of the Germanic disposition.

It was my first taste of being a foreigner – and I’ve been one ever since. Hidden in a neat little dip next to the Milpark hospital is the German School, or as most Joburgers refer to it “that school that has the Beerfest”.

To me it’s the Deutsche Schule Johannesburg – and entering it was the gateway to a whole new world. We were all herded into the minibus taxis or those “half loaf” buses and taken from the haze of our townships to the glamorous German School.

That first day assembly was something to behold. There we were in our hideous off-grey safari suits – or “suffering suits” as we’d later called them – in this huge auditorium; an auditorium that puts most theatres to shame.

The Germans do love their high-quality technology after all. I was accustomed to horrible assemblies where you stand in the yard in single file. But this, this was different: comfortable chairs, audio-visual equipment, a stage, microphones. Felt more like I was in a convention centre.

The principal entered and surprise, surprise, looked just like the Terminator. And when he opened his mouth … nothing but German. You know when you set foot in a country and have those awkward foreign moments when someone speaks to you in their native tongue and you just smile and nod? Well, it was just like that – and it continued for the first year.

I understood nothing. I laughed when everybody else laughed. I applauded when everybody else did. I marvelled at the German sense of punctuality, a trait that’s become part of who I am.

When my fellow classmates and I from our respective townships were grouped into a class called the F-class for foreign students I didn’t find it strange at all. Germans have always had a penchant for foreigners.

My teachers exposed me to an array of new styles of dress and diets. Socks and sandals? Nothing wrong with that. Hotdogs where the sausages were longer than the bun? Normal.

Needing a letter to be able to buy a can of Coke like it’s some weird contraband? Really? Coke was an everyday staple where I came from.

I revelled in this idea of being a foreigner and being part of this little Germanic world in Parktown. And when I was taken home each afternoon I relished in being an outsider there too.

In the township pecking order, it was assumed that private school kids thought they were better. I’ve never thought that.

Eating weird food, trying to decipher what your teacher was trying to say and being exposed to strange customs was all there, a short taxi ride away.

A whole new world was opened to me. It made me want to be a traveller all the time.

The constant foreigner.