Ich bin kein Berliner

Ich bin ein Berliner.

— John F Kennedy, 1963

Zwei Berliner, bitte.

— Tertius Kapp, 2009

21/10/09, 15:34

JFK famously called himself a doughnut (a specific German variety known as a “Berliner”) during a 1963 speech underlining the USA’s support for West Germany. Recently, party poopers have been pointing out that he was technically correct in using the abstract form of the sentence, that this kind of doughnut is not actually called a “Berliner” in Berlin itself, and lots of other boring facts which detract from the fun of the story. Firstly, there is no way JFK calling himself a doughnut is going to reduce my respect for the man who could handle Fidel on the phone and Marilyn in bed at the same time, while smoking a cigar. Secondly, a Berliner is what some call a doughnut in Berlin. (It also refers to a sausage and a beer, both quite tasty).

I am on the Warszawa-Berlin Express, speeding through Greater Poland towards the city where East and West had a firework party to blast Nazism forever into the past. But even as the last bombs were falling, as Adolf was kissing Eva goodbye, even as Berliners were sighing a deep sigh of post-war relief, the liberators were already fighting over the corpse of the city. They would turn each other a very cold shoulder for the next half century. France, the UK and the USA brought the wonders of the Big Mac and democracy to West Berlin, while the Soviets introduced new shades of grey to the East.

Finally, in 1989, punky-looking teens with thin moustaches started (as they so often do) what the politicians should have done decades earlier: breaking down the madness that was the Berlin Wall. This was the fart that sent all the communists running out of the room, a bell that rang around the world, and the sign for old men across the globe to start talking to each other again.

Berlin — a city where old friends meet, then. The next 48 hours will be no exception for me. Who would have thought that I’d get to see the best SA rock band in Berlin? As if this is not privilege enough, I’ve known some of the guys from Taxi Violence for longer than I’ve been potty trained, and we’re being joined by friends from the UK and USA for two nights of euro-guzzling madness.

But right now I am opening a book of poetry from the Khoisan oral tradition. Yes, I take a moment to reflect on the absurdness of the situation, the Liquorice Allsorts packet of cultures that my life has become. Before it all starts, I must prepare the lecture to be given on Friday, when I, fresh from two nights of Berliners, walk in front of a class of literature students in Poznan. I’ll try to put finger to keypad again then.

23/10/09, 20:21

“Wo ist das Mauer?” we ask an elderly gentleman at Berlin’s Ostbahnhof.

“Es ist weg! Gott sei dank!” he exclaims, and tells us that we were about 20 years too late to see the Wall (clever they think they are, these Germans). Mario gets caught by his crazy eye and listens to a long history of everything as the rest of us walk towards the River Spree, reckoning we’ll bump our noses on the spectacular Wall sooner or later. German efficiency, we found, is too efficient for human beings. Maps, directions, information centres — none of these are compatible with our approach, which is closer to Columbus’s method of finding India (and taking whatever you get along the way).

The Wall. First impressions? As an ex-Joburger, I thought it was quite … well … low. The absence of electric fencing or at least some barbed wire was marked. No primitive CCTV cameras, no pre-laser beam systems, basically none of the things we held so dear in the City of Gold. So this was what kept communism in and capitalism out? (Or the other way around, depending on where you’re standing?). The famous Iron Curtain with which the propaganda gods tried to shape our young minds? I’m sure the picture is more powerful when you add 24-hour guards with Mother Russia issues, but still, one would have liked to see at least some bullet holes on the East Berlin side?

As you can see, I survived the invasion, the retreat and even the academic presentation that followed (the last was the toughest, by far). It’s impossible to get a decent view of Berlin in one and a half short days, but the highlight of the trip was definitely seeing Taxi Violence grabbing the packed Duncker Klub by the shoulders and shaking it into a good ol’ rock ‘n’ roll frenzy. The lowlight followed soon after when I trudged around the streets of Berlin with my good (but by then, very tired) friend Rian after I’d left my backpack in their tour bus, and the departure time of my morning train was steaming closer. Holding up tiny maps to streetlights, deciphering umlauts, eszetts and what Mark Twain lovingly called The Awful German Language until, finally, I could hand my fate over to the Berlin S-bahn system. German efficiency where you need it most on a pub crawl.

I ended up making the station with 45 minutes to spare, and was helped, against my will, by an immensely inebriated German called Christina:

“I help you.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” I am standing on my platform, ticket in hand, ready and buzzing.

“Today I get my motorcycle licence!!!!” (she screams)

“That’s nice. Are you on your way home now?” It is after 6 in the morning. Her eyeliner has been forcibly re-located several times.

“No!!”

“OK … ”

“You know what’s wrong with this country?!”

I glance over my shoulder. Which side of the ex-wall am I on? And when have Germans ever admitted to anything being wrong with Germany?

“You can’t get big enough motorcycle!!!!” (another scream. This could get me into trouble soon … )

“Entschuldigung, bitte sei ruhig.” This is a railway official, telling her to shut up. Christina looks as if she might get violent for a moment, and I consider how to remove myself from the situation. Fortunately my train approaches and I take the ousted dictator approach — let them sort it out between them while I get out of here.

Inside, the train is packed. Who wants to go to Poland on a Friday morning? I pity the poor fools in the compartment where I, smelling like the Oktoberfest in November, plonk myself down and escape to a few hours of semi-sleep.

In Poznan, a quick shower and a double espresso puts me into showman mode. The powerful poetry of //Kabbo and !Kweiten-ta-//ken guide me easily through the lecture, even if at times I wonder if I might be in the first phases of a vision quest myself (as long as that praying mantis in the corner doesn’t put up his hand … )

And if you struggled to follow this distorted juggling of past continuous, pluperfect and dramatic present, you’ll appreciate some simple present tense: I am home now. I consider putting the word in inverted commas. But what good is a “home”? So, for now, I’m home.