DIE KANTOOR

Out-of body experiences are much more common than we suppose. Some people have mastered them to the point of “astral tourism “. Well, at least this appears to be the case on Friday nights at Die Kantoor, our local pub. Die Kantoor (Afrikaans for The Office) is so named to preempt the situation where a patron receives a telephonic enquiry from his spouse as to his whereabouts. He can then quite honestly respond that he is still at “The Office”, without having to tell a lie.

During early evening the patrons start arriving. Seeking out their friends they greet each other warmly with squeals of delight from the girls and back slaps from the men. Everyone is relaxed; drinks are ordered and sober conversation ensues. This normality is temporary.

By ten o’clock the dance floor is packed with a crowd that seems to have been “beamed in” from other planets. I sit there; submerged in a cacophony of sound that drowns out the raucous laughter and load voices as everyone strains to be heard. The music is largely old pop music. On the dance floor anything goes, provided you can gyrate, contort or ululate to the beat of the music. Periodically couples do something that resembles a foxtrot or some other ballroom dance. The guests are of every size, shape, sex age and dress. The people range in age from seventeen to seventy eight years old. Leonard Cohen’s words, “She is a hundred but she’s wearing something tight”, come to mind.

The pedestrian quality band loudly throws out, thumping, shaking sound waves that bounce back at into the restricted space in a mass of palpable noise and I ask myself, “What are you doing in this uncouth place?”

I am here because I love it. Everything is happening at once. After four double whiskies the effect of being able to choose your focus from a multitude of intense events is very satisfying. The sexy bar ladies that come out from behind the bar to welcome me. The variation of sub-cultures that attend this little pub never ceases to amaze me. The subcultures that range from the deadly Max gang to the highly refined Archeologist. They range from the fanatic, lovable Boer to the sensitive neurotic Scotsman brooding over his draft. The lesbian sub-culture dominates as their exuberant unrepentance is totally acceptance by the group of musclemen discussing their rugby prowess and exactly why their team lost the Currie Cup Final.

These people love rugby. On Saturday afternoons the supporters arrive wearing their respective team jerseys to watch the games on one large, and six normal, television screens. These events are electric. Passion runs high whether they are all united to watch the Springboks or during periods of fragmented loyalties to watch provincial sides. Expletives flow loudly and frequently. They are among friends and if you don’t like it you had better become a friend…. fast. If an African player drops the ball he is a f…… dumb k...... . If two minutes later he scores a try they are writing his name in ecstatic hero-worship on their shirts. If the whistle blows against your team the referee is always a “domfok”.

The place is saturated with love, intrigue, hate, hope, perfume and simple humanity. This is just life and life only. I doubt if any curious tourist could get a better impression of Afrikaaner culture than to spend some time at DIE KANTOOR.