My Fellow Expat Survivors

Howzit,

Gather round, bru. Let me tell you about the time I almost caused a minor diplomatic incident in Amstelveen involving a Weber kettle, 3kg of boerewors, and my unshakable South African confidence.

The Setup

It’s King’s Day. (Ja, I still accidentally call it Queen’s Day — fight me.)

My Dutch neighbour Henk invites me to a “garden gathering.”

Now, in my South African brain, “garden gathering” = braai time, boet.

So I arrive locked and loaded:

3kg of boerewors

A cooler box full of Castle Lite (imported at the cost of my soul)

My braai grid — because you don’t trust other people’s grids.

Henk opens his back door to find me setting up like I’m catering the entire Rand Show.

“Ag, don’t stress, Henk!” I yell over the fence. “I brought enough for the whole street!”

His face goes whiter than a tourist in Joburg CBD holding a cellphone.

The Cultural Collision

Here’s the thing nobody warns you about: a Dutch “garden gathering” isn’t a braai. It’s eight people sitting in a perfect circle eating microscopic cheese cubes, sipping wine that tastes like regret, and discussing bicycle maintenance schedules.

Meanwhile, I’m in full South African host mode:

Fire roaring

Wors sizzling

Me bellowing, “EVERYONE MUST EAT!” like a possessed ouma.

The Dutch guests approach my braai like it’s a crime scene.

They form an actual queue. No grabbing, no shouting, no uncles hovering for “just one extra piece.” It’s… unsettling.

The Boerewors Incident

Marieke takes a bite of her boerie roll — proper job, chutney, onions, the works — and pauses. Her face goes through more emotions than a Generations actor in a single episode.

“It’s… very… substantial,” she says.

Substantial? Boet, it’s a wors roll, not a home loan application!

And then I spot Pieter. Eating his boerewors. With a knife and fork.

A knife. And. Fork.

I nearly had a cultural aneurysm. I considered reporting him to the South African embassy.

The Weather Emergency

Then it happens. Someone spots a cloud.

“Oh dear, is that rain coming?” Henk whispers, like the sky just threatened him personally.

Now listen — back home, we braai through thunderstorms, locust plagues, and load shedding.

Once, in the Free State, we braaied during a minor earthquake because the meat was already defrosted.

Here? One cloud, and suddenly they’re discussing “backup indoor plans” with military precision. People are checking weather apps like they’re coordinating a Mars landing.

I’m standing there, wors tongs in hand, thinking: Boet, if we cancelled braais because of clouds in Holland, we’d starve.

The 8 PM Evacuation

And then — culture shock Level 10.

At exactly 8 PM, everyone leaves. Sharp. Not “just after this beer.” Not “let’s light another fire.” No. 8. O. Clock.

In SA, 8 PM is when you start the second braai because you “accidentally” didn’t make enough meat. That’s when someone fetches a guitar and your cousin’s mate arrives with biltong from his uncle’s farm.

But here? Ingrid stands up mid-conversation:

“Well, I have pilates at 7 AM tomorrow. I must cycle home before it gets dark.”

Pilates. At 7 AM. On purpose. I’m still traumatised.

The Cleanup Revelation

As I’m packing up my braai gear, Henk appears with a tiny biodegradable plastic bag.

“For your ash,” he says. “We sort it with the garden waste on Wednesdays.”

This man has an ash schedule.

A calendar reminder for Wednesday 07:30: “Place sorted ash in designated biodegradable container.”

Meanwhile, I was planning to scatter it around the garden like my pa taught me and water the plants with leftover beer. Clearly, I’m the feral one here.

The Expat Epiphany

Walking home with my leftover 2.5kg of wors (because eight Dutch people eat less meat than one Benoni uncle on a diet), I realised something profound:

Expat life isn’t about changing who you are. It’s about becoming socially bilingual.

Now, I can appreciate both:

The chaotic, smoky, wors-fueled magic of a proper South African braai

The serene, cheese-cube precision of Dutch entertaining

But one thing remains universal:

Anyone who eats boerewors with cutlery needs therapy.

Next week, I’m teaching Henk how to make potjiekos. His ash-sorting system isn’t ready for this level of chaos.

Lekker tog.

Sharp sharp,

Your Favourite Cultural Disaster