In die buitenste ruimte

Here is a poem by Danie Marais from his work In die buitenste ruimte.
This one is entitled In Duitsland waar die wolke in gelid marsjeer


Duitsland is waar die wolke in gelid marsjeer,
waar die son 'n permit het om te skyn,
waar die maan nie mag opbly so laat soos sy wil nie.

Duitsland lyk soos Duitsland op televisie.
Al verskil tussen Duitsland en televisie
is dat daar iets gebeur op televisie.

Die misdadigers in Duitsland droom
van groot gewere,
van Amerika.
Die boosewigte het almal
warm water, elektrisiteit en 'n mediese fonds.
Die kriminele lei lewens van stille vertwyfeling
nes die onderwysers, slagters en bankiers.

Duitsland is seker maar soos orals -
die soort van plek waar jy bang is
dat Die Mense gaan uitvind van jou,
gaan weet van jou;
dat Die Mense hulle televisies gaan afsit,
uit hulle talk shows ontsnap
om jou te kom haal,
te kom kreun en hamer aan jou ruit
op die vierde verdieping
soos zombies in Night of the Living Dead.


Duitsland is spekvet ongesond.
In Duitsland is dit moeiliker
om 'n omgewingsonvriendelike deodorant te koop
as dit is vir 'n vet meisie
om in die MTV-hemel te kom.

In Duitsland saai jy mielies
in die blombakke op die balkon.

In Duitsland
lê 'n see van hoekige huise nog so blou,
as jy ver stemme oor die telefoon hoor.

In Duitsland praat jy lekker Duits,
tot jy een oggend skielik weer
soos iemand wat by die tandarts was
sukkel om "selbstverständlich" te sê.

In Duitsland is Afrikaans die moordwalvis
wat jy grootmaak in die bad;
is dit Afrikaans wat opkrul soos die luislang
onder sy vyeboom in die woonkamer.
Afrikaans word jou huisgod, jou altaar;
die potplant langs jou hi-fi
wat soos Little Shop of Horrors se Audrey II
in die maanskyn groei om lang gevaarlike skadu's
oor die buurt se dakke te gooi.

In Duitsland loop jy
perfectly digitally animated, vat jy
sonder om te raak, beweeg jy
sonder om te roer
deur mure en mense, glip jy
moeiteloos
soos 'n stem deur 'n telefoonlyn
deur die onverskillige dag.
In Duitsland is Suid-Afrika niks meer
niks minder as herinneringe en foto's nie -
'n ou rugby-besering wat lol in jou gewrigte
as dit koud en nat word.

Tot jy eendag onverwags stik
aan jou trane langs die Cape Grapes
in die supermark,
in Duitsland,
laat selfs druiwe uit Italie
jou skielik dink aan die huis.

In Duitsland droom jy dikwels
van familie, ou vriende lank gelede,
dat iemand doodgegaan het
terwyl jy hier ver is.

In Duitsland moet jy doen
wat jy wil
of jy nou wil
of nie.


you can get the english translation here

I remember going into a store and seeing Cape Grapes. I remember searching for a good mango for a year and finally finding one, after 12 months, in an Asian food store. It was tiny, but so yellow and juicy in the middle of a snowy Berlin. We would go to Galeria Kaufhof on the Alex and go stand in the "exotic" section to search for Mrs Balls Chutney at 4 € for a bottle. So we bought curry-ketchup and saved the chutney. I would check out the fruit section and be sad when seeing the little flag-sticker. The fruit came from home.

Strange how desperately one often wants to escape one's everyday, how one gets bored with it. But then, overseas, far away, one remembers most fondly anything tied to home. I read a story about people queueing outside the ticketing booth for Wimbledon on the evening before the match, ready to sleep right there in order to score a seat. People started braaing a vleisie ( grilling some meat), and the writer of the article said every single person there who started barbecuing was South African. Strange how we will cling to any act of memory, but on the phone we will say how wonderful the other country is. How now, it is "at home". And when we come back, everything there was better.

I don't know. I miss the freedom of being able to go when and where I pleased. I miss not being afraid in the metro at 5 in the morning. I miss Milka. I miss being able to go to concerts by smaller bands or seeing exhibitions on Thursdays because under 26s get in for free.

But here, I have space. Here it is a different kind of freedom. Here the police does not stop you for cycling on the wrong side of the road. You don't need to fill in forms every time you move a street further. You don't hear your neighbours all the time. You can get into the car and just drive ( if you have one). In December, the cities are deserted and everyone is at the beach with their families. Here, Sundays are for church and braaing. And stores are open.

There are different facets to each place you stay. Perhaps we should not play them off against each other, but rather appreciate every environment for its individual attributes.

At the moment, here is good. Tomorrow, somewhere else will be.


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