A Canuck Kaapie

By Adam Currie

I sent my original letter to you a few months ago as a beaming with pride South African, voicing my democratic rights in Trafalgar Square … what a day, boerie, ballots and acronyms galore …

My how things have changed … For one I fell for a fine Canadian lass — lets call her “Canuck” for this exercise — that was willing to look past the mounting flaws of this author. One soggy Friday I logged off the PC on mud island and asked myself … “What the hell am I doing here? … surely there are adventures to be had.

I racked my brain, and the inner uber-testosterone-driven 1980s South African male roared within. I had a vision … me, a plaid shirt, a beard and a mountain. Where could such manliness be unleashed upon the world? Where could a beast that would give Bakkies the shivers be allowed to mix with the common decent folk of society? One word … “Canada”.

So off I went … a 26-year-old South African gent with good intent, packed to the rim including jocks and socks, and mom’s “Good Luck We Will Miss You” card. I boarded the big bird in the sky for the land of beaver (animals people, get your head out of the gutter), maple syrup and those mountie looking fellows … you know the ones — like in Due South on SABC3.

I landed in Vancouver to a pearler of day and basked in its wake. Mountains in the distance, sun on my back and a sea breeze tickling the nostrils — a fine distraction from the armpits I had since been savouring daily on London’s “innovative underground”. What a place … a place to start fresh … and bring adventures anew …

Surely I would be a treat to the locals … “Wow, South Africa? Really?” they would shout … “Yes the land of Madiba, fine wines and sandy beaches”, I would reply. Aaahhh this was it … I was about to become a “fresh off the boat” blank slate in a land where democracy ruled, and a son of the revolution of our fine nation would be embraced.

And then it hit … no sooner had I sat down and begun to plan my lumberjack beard, and logged online to find myself a shiny new axe, when the Canuck leans over and says to me some white Saffa has been granted refugee status. I felt a strain in my moose hunting shoulder as I leaned over to savour this glorious, but surely satirical tale. And so I read of the treacherous tales of this poor “Huntley” (feel free to replace “H” with any letter of your choice) chap, and his treacherous life back in deep dark Africa.

I read at how he, a white chap, would stick out like a sore thumb in this colony they call “The Cape”, and at how he had been called names like “settler” and “white dog”. How cruel society can be, I thought … Thanks god he has got himself out of this treacherous place and its savage ways. And then the lumberjack inside bolted … and sanity came slowly strolling in. Wait a second … I am white … I am from Cape Town … OK fine I am not an unemployed irrigation salesman but, thank f*$k, the similarities had to end somewhere.

I have read in disbelief at how this absolute chop — come on … that was the perfect word to use — admit it — has tarnished the reputation of a great nation. I perused how he had been robbed 7 times and never reported it because “he did not trust the police ” … What an absolute joke. This chump, who is a carnival worker this side by the way, managed to somehow slip into Canada a few years ago, work illegally, and then still manage to convince the authorities that he is in fact the sole South African left on the planet, is being hunted down by JZ and his cronies, and that if he is to step foot on the beloved soil down south that the world will cease to spin, the sun will not rise and that Julius Malema will finally become mayor of Oranje.

The Canuck, who recently enjoyed a trip back home to the fairest Cape with me in March, looked on in confusion as I pointed to the Cheshire cat grin of Huntley, and declared him the last surviving white South African. This guy MUST be kept in a test tube for the world to admire … a true tool in every sense of the word. Since this cowboy went global I have had people in bars offer to buy me a beer for all of the hardships I must have endured as a “white African”, and had employers eyeball me thinking that they surely cannot hire another oke who is a “refugee”.

However, all is not chaos. This place is fantastic and if they are willing to let Huntley stay here forever with such claims, they certainly do have a sense of humour. I just feel bad that a legitimate refugee spot has been yanked from some individual sitting in a cold dark bullet-ridden corner somewhere, actually fearing for his/her life.

He did, however, make me beam with pride … beam in knowing that once this visa is up that I am indeed headed home. I am one of the “lucky generation” … a guy that will in a few months time sit with my black and white brethren down south, Black Label in hand — weird I know … Black Label is not just a black person’s beer — where we can reminisce about how the last white irrigation salesman left for the carnival abroad, and that no matter what tough times are to come … that another country is having to deal with this absolute clown. I, for one, cannot wait to be the only returning white chap in South Africa. See you soon.