Living in Translation

Five months into life in South Africa, I've realised one challenge in adapting to a new country is learning an entirely different set of social rules. On paper, South Africans and Brits should understand each other perfectly. We speak the same language (albeit not everyone's first language), we watch many of the same shows, listen to much of the same music, and both cultures appear to regard alcohol as an essential social lubricant.

And yet, in practice, I increasingly feel like I'm constantly missing the point. One clear example is how differently we interact and form friendships.

In Britain, friendship is built on a carefully maintained balance of warmth and distance. You must be available in theory, but never too available in practice. A good friend is someone you would happily help move house, provided they never actually ask you to. In South Africa, the system seems to be the polar opposite.

For example, this past week our hot water stopped working one morning (This is Joburg so we were shocked but not surprised). Faced with a Johannesburg winter and the prospect of a freezing shower, Ali and I did what any British people would do: nothing. Suffer quietly. Endure. Maintain dignity.

When we later mentioned it in passing to a friend, we were met with genuine confusion. “Why didn’t you just come over?” Not “why didn’t you ask?” Just the assumption that we would simply appear.

If we lost hot water in the UK, we would sooner take a cold shower than ask a friend to accommodate us. Ideally, we would also apologise to the shower for the inconvenience. In South Africa, however, I've been told that being needed an expected part of the friendship. Reliance is not a burden; it is a compliment. If someone calls you, it means you matter enough to be mildly inconvenienced.

This is not an isolated philosophy. Also this past week I bumped into a friend while walking Pluto, and she quickly informed me she would be coming over for dinner the following evening in the same tone one might use to report the weather. No request. No negotiation. Just a scheduled social event, as though we are already participating.

To British ears, this felt alarming. Social boundaries are not meant to be crossed; they are meant to be carefully respected from a safe emotional distance. We would never “just come over”. Even writing that sentence feels invasive. Brits simply do not have the capacity for this level of social confidence.

But the more time I spend here, the more I find myself admiring it. There is something refreshing about knowing exactly where you stand with people. South Africans seem far less burdened by the endless negotiations and caveats that accompany British friendships. If they want to see you, they say so. If they need help, they ask. As much as my British instincts still recoil slightly at the thought of inviting myself over for dinner, I can't deny there's an honesty to it that I appreciate.

Our differences appear beyond social habits. They even show up in the language itself. At first, I assumed South African use of words like "shame", "braai" and "now now" were simply examples of local vocabulary. But I have a theory that they they reflect a different way of relating to people and the world. The words may be English, but they're carrying slightly different meanings.

Take “shame". In Britain, shame is an emotion associated with regret or embarrassment. In South Africa, it appears to mean almost anything.

A cute puppy? Shame.

Someone stubs their toe? Shame.

Someone gets promoted? Somehow, also shame.

It is not a word so much as a reflex - a small verbal sigh that can carry sympathy, affection, amusement, or all three at once.

Then there is time. In the UK, “now” means now. This is one of the few reliable systems we have. In South Africa, “now” seems to be more of a suggestion.

“Now now” means relatively soon, but not immediately.

“Just now” means later, but not necessarily today.

And “now” itself can refer to any point between the present moment and the foreseeable future, depending entirely on tone and context.

I've also learned that certain words carry surprising emotional weight. Once, I made the mistake of joking that a braai was basically just a barbecue by another name. As far as I could tell, this was a perfectly reasonable observation. Both involve cooking meat over fire while standing around holding a drink. Apparently, however, I had wandered into dangerous territory.

I was quickly informed that a braai is not the same as a barbecue. Not even close. A barbecue is simply a method of preparing food. A braai, I have since learned, is something much deeper. It is a social gathering, a cultural institution, a national pastime and, for some, bordering on a spiritual practice. The fire matters. The ritual matters. The company matters. The food is almost secondary.

As an outsider, I remain unconvinced that the gap between the two concepts is quite as vast as described. But having witnessed the reaction my suggestion provoked, I've decided this is not an argument worth pursuing.

The braai debate also highlighted another difference I've noticed since moving here. South Africans seem much more comfortable being openly earnest about the things they care about. Brits, by contrast, are deeply suspicious of sincerity. If an English person genuinely loves something, their first instinct is often to make a joke about it. Or similarly, if they achieve something impressive, they will immediately explain why it wasn't actually that impressive.

Taking the piss is so deeply embedded in British culture that it functions as a sign of affection. We tease our friends, our families, and, most enthusiastically, ourselves.

A British person can receive a promotion, run a marathon, publish a book and rescue a family of four from a burning building, and still feel obliged to explain why it wasn't that big a deal. Any sign of genuine pride must be swiftly neutralised. We are uncomfortable with people who appear entirely comfortable with themselves. They make us nervous. The moment someone displays even a hint of self-esteem, it becomes everybody else's responsibility to bring the situation back under control.

The South African response to my braai joke was revealing. Nobody seemed offended. They simply looked at me with the patient expression usually reserved for someone who has misunderstood a basic fact. But the implication was clear: some things are worthy of being taken seriously. This remains slightly unsettling to me.

Our default response to almost everything is irony. We use self-deprecation the way South Africans use "shame" - constantly, instinctively, and in situations where it doesn't always make complete sense.

Slowly, the South African way is rubbing off on me. They are often more direct than we're comfortable with, more willing to rely on each other than we're used to, and more sincere than many Brits know how to be. And the longer I spend here, the more I find myself wondering whether Brits have mistaken irony for wisdom and distance for politeness.

Five months ago, I would never have imagined someone inviting themselves round for dinner, offering up their shower without being asked, or passionately explaining why a braai is not a barbecue. Now, I'm not only used to it, I'm starting to prefer it.

Shame.

Notes from 26° South.