Finding South Africa in Baltimore

A weekend in Baltimore with 60,000 South Africans was a dream I’d never thought to dream.

As a granola girlie who chases epic landscapes and natural beauty, this maritime city had never made it onto my bucket list. When it comes to sports spectating, I usually venture as far as the fields under the MARTA tracks, where a cluster of 4–6-year-olds chase soccer balls like a school of disoriented fish. But for my husband, this was one of those once-in-a-lifetime events — his beloved rugby team, the South African Springboks, facing their greatest rival, the New Zealand All Blacks, on his adopted American soil.

Our group was three families — three South African dads, three Southern American moms, and our entourage of young multinational kids. A community forged in Atlanta and knit tight by some undeniably specific demographic parallels. I thought this weekend away would be about cheering on our husbands’ favorite sports team, wrangling our children per usual, and munching some Old Bay-drenched crabs. But what we landed in the midst of was so much more.

It was a massive gathering of kindred souls. South Africans who left long ago and others newly arrived. Baby Bokkes born abroad, held by grandparents reliving days they’d thought past long ago. Fans who flew in from across the world. And countless others of South African heritage emerging from seemingly every corner of the USA. Having arrived at this moment through vastly different experiences. Brought together by the power of culture and identity, which despite the circumstances will always remain. They travelled to watch rugby and cheer on their team. But also to remember, to celebrate, to reconnect — with tradition, with each other, and with a fundamental piece of themselves that is probably too often hidden away.

South African songs, chants, and cheers rang out in every ordinary Baltimore place. Greetings of ‘Bokke!!’ were exchanged on planes and trains, in restaurants, and on sidewalks, our identifiying South African memorabilla on full display. Chance encounters rolled through like little treasures from the travel gods — in one extraordinary day, my husband found himself next to a long-lost elementary school friend on a packed city bus, bumped into a man with whom he’d recently cheered on the Springboks in an Atlantan Irish pub, and exchanged droëwors and mutually-known Karoo family names over coffee with a random man in our hotel lobby. We collectively roamed, danced, celebrated, and sang. It was an epic celebration — a party reminiscent of both a coming out and a coming home.

My husband and I have both been immigrants in lands far away, he for much longer now than I. And what I remember most of my years abroad is the feeling of not quite being known. Of assimilating to fit in, often at the expense of one's own sense of self. Our South African community in Atlanta became surrogate family because they remind us of who we are and where we come from, and they give us space to bring that version of ourselves to our daily lives. Distance and time may dilute our awareness of our cultural identity, but they cannot take it away. Watching thousands become loudly and proudly South African again, even if for a brief weekend, was a powerful reminder of how important the remembering is.

For our crew of multinational kids, it wasn’t about remembering but about developing a deeper understanding of where they come from too. After years of Saturdays spent gathering for rugby and watching their dads shout passionately at TVs, they finally experienced what all the fuss was about. Images of them decked out in green and gold, waving their scarves and flags amongst the thousands of fellow countrymen, will replay in my mind for years to come. They experienced the beauty of their inherited culture and further developed their own sense of identity within it — a powerful opportunity I’d never expected on American soil.

On a random weekend in September, while the Ravens played away, Baltimore was overrun by an enthusiastic sea of green, a lesser-known sport, and a host of inexplicable cultural traditions. Yet every Baltimorean we encountered was kind, generous, and overtly welcoming to this wave of immigrants descending in their midst. The kindest gift to a people gathering far from home.

I don’t generally consider myself a sports traveler, but maybe now I do. Because finding a sense of home in a place far away from it is a dream worth chasing.