“Wind, Vla & Wys Jou Visa: Notes from a South African in Nederland”

The day started like any other Dutch Tuesday: grey sky, sideways rain, and a calendar invite for a ‘borrel’ that 100% should’ve been an email.

Meanwhile, the little South African in your head is checking the cloud cover like a tannie with arthritis, whispering, "Eish, where’s the sun? Did it also emigrate without paperwork?"

Weather & Wardrobe Woes

You step outside in what used to be your ‘proper winter jacket’ back in Joburg—the one you wore that one day it hit 5°C and everyone thought the rapture was upon us.

Now you’re in Limburg. The wind hits like unpaid karma. Cycling feels like punishment for sins you didn’t commit.

You mutter "Jirre" every time the wind slaps your face with a fresh life lesson.

A Dutch oma overtakes you. Two crates. Three kids. No helmet. No fear. Meanwhile, you’re white-knuckling the handlebars like you’re dodging potholes on the R24.

Supermarket Breakdown

You thought you were brave. Then you met Albert Heijn.

You’re in the yoghurt aisle, fighting tears because there are 47 types of yoghurt and not a single decent chakalaka in sight.

You see "vla" and go, "Oh yay, custard!"

Then you taste it.

Ag shame. It’s like custard that’s just been dumped and hasn’t bounced back yet.

You hunt for Mrs Balls like she’s a missing auntie, finally find her for €5 and whisper, "This better heal my inner child."

Braai vs Dutch BBQ

You get invited to a "barbecue." You show up with boerewors, a tub of secret marinade, and tongs that have survived four provinces and two divorces.

You find: a disposable grill, three skinny sausages, and people eating salad first.

You look around and hear your ancestors weeping.

They start grilling ON TIME. They eat ON TIME. They LEAVE ON TIME.

You’re still on your first story about a lightning storm in Boksburg.

You try explaining that a braai is a spiritual ceremony. Fire. Meat. Dop. Gossip. Repeat.

They offer you cold pasta salad. You accept. You cry a little.

Language Disasters

You tell your colleague you’re "gatvol" of the meetings. She gasps like you slapped her with a wet wors.

You keep saying "Ag shame, man" about babies, dogs, cancelled trains. They think you’re emotionally abusive.

You call your daily struggle "’n boeretroos situation" and someone asks if you’re okay.

You describe something messy as a "groot gemors"—and now HR’s involved.

Admin & DigiD Despair

Dutch bureaucracy is efficient. Too efficient. Suspiciously efficient.

You miss Home Affairs. At least there you knew who the enemy was.

Now? You upload your ID and the system says: "Invalid. File name contains a space."

You fight DigiD like it owes you money.

You whisper, "If I survived SARS, I can survive this." Then the app logs you out for inactivity.

Homesick in Unexpected Places

It’s not Christmas that breaks you—it’s the small moments.

You make pap with supermarket mieliemeel and cry into it because there’s no proper wors.

You hear Afrikaans in the wild and turn into a meerkat—ears perked, head swivels.

You watch the rugby at a Dutch bar, screaming in three languages. You call the ref a "bliksem" under your breath. No one flinches.

You feel alone but proud.

Becoming a Hybrid

You still say "just now" and "now now" and confuse every Dutch person in a 5km radius.

You lock your bike like a Saffa—with trauma, a chain, and a prayer.

You say "lekker" when it’s good, "fokkit" when it’s not, and somewhere in the middle you’ve started saying "gezellig" unironically.

You argue about stroopwafel brands. You wear a raincoat like a badge of honour. You’ve eaten bitterballen and lived to tell the tale.

Final Thought:

You’re no longer just a South African expat. You’re a hybrid. A wind-resistant, multilingual, bike-balancing, stroopwafel-surviving, braai-craving, Mrs Balls-smuggling legend.

And you’re doing fine, my kind.

#AgShameToDoei #GatvolButThriving #SendSunshineAndMrsBalls