The art of small talk

In the city, a glib smile suffices when it comes to interaction with any stranger that crosses her path. Yet a visit to Struisbaai taught Elizabeth Wasserman that small talk is no small matter.

Ispent my childhood in a small and seemingly insignificant town in the middle of nowhere. But years of city living shrouded easy interaction with my fellow human beings in a stubborn layer of dust. Days, often weeks, may pass without a challenge to my primal skills of communication. I convince myself that no-one is interested in anything I may have to say anyway. Anybody who crosses my path can be sidestepped with a quick smile. Then we each carry on in our own direction.

This pattern of behaviour is familiar and safe. A sudden eruption of chatter – about the weather, personal health or relationship woes – is sure to send me straight to my therapist. Politics or the dismal state of the economy may necessitate even more drastic, possibly chemical, intervention.

In the city I compartmentalise my life in safe and comfortable units. Home/travel/work. I harbour the sweet expectation to be left in peace. I select the media I like to peruse, have my coffee in the cosy company of my own thoughts, and drive to work. My car is my personal dominion. I slip on some shades, switch to Audible and navigate the morning traffic like a video game. I survive.

I am comfortable with navigating the wilderness at work without having to stumble into the realm of real conversation. The guy from the office next to mine may poke his head around my door and say something like: “How about those WSCIs for the past quarter?”

“Almost as reassuring as our SMDs,” I am likely to reply. “At least in comparison with last year’s relevant LMPs.” He will grin smugly and, fortified by the complicity of encoded information, proceed on his way knowing that the universe is safe.

BUT THEN I GO to Struisbaai to visit my BFF and put my foot straight into it with the first step I take onto that spotless beach.

“Helloo-oo! Why have I not seen you around before?!”

I try to duck, but Sherlock, my dog, strains towards my verbal assailant’s canine companion and soon they are comfortably chatting away in Dogglish, that speciespecific dialect known to our furry friends all over the world. Round and around they go, nose-to-butt in the fashion of yin and yang, tails synchronised in joyful wagging.

I am overcome with a sense of dread and mumble a response incomprehensible even to myself.

“I saw you earlier at that house around the corner!” A patch at the nape of my neck start to itch. “How long are you staying?!”

Every question is an exclamation. Am I confronted with someone who is hard of hearing? He cannot be that old. I try to be oblivious to the effects of aging, but this guy is timeless. He was probably born with grey hair and that very generous belly, for all I know.

‘I soon realise that particulars are of little importance; much more is said between the lines. I am witness to an ancient ritual.’

“Fine weather today!” I shout back, throwing caution to the wind.

I congratulate myself and calibrate my best smile. Quickly I arrange my thoughts, grasping for additional filaments of conversation. I may have managed to buy some time and side-stepped the need to share additional information. All of this is futile, as I should know, because no secrets can be kept in this small community.

“How are things in Cape Town?!” He obviously knows where I am from and whom I am visiting.

“Not too bad. A bit of wind…” A brave effort on my part.

“The wind, of course!” Jackpot! Bringing up the concept of wind is pure genius, and it dislodges a monologue that leaves no room for any opinion I may have on this topic. Technical jargon quickly overwhelms me, but I have more than contributed my part simply by dishing this savoury topic on the table of conversation. Meanwhile Sherlock has had enough of the dog-versation and his new friend would also like to move on, but apparently there is still a lot left for the humans to say. I should have known that the Struisbaai wind has no relation to the gales we have down at the Cape. Wind is just air in motion, I have always thought, but that is clearly naive. It turns out it is the holy force that not only dictates the surf and the migration of mullet but also guides the weight of the line that the fishermen need to cast and the type of wood best used for tonight’s braai.

Meanwhile Sherlock’s new friend has picked up a fresh scent and is now tutoring him in digging for dune moles. Sherlock admires an expert whenever one crosses his path. My flip-flops are quickly buried in flying sand. Still struggling with social anxiety, I gratefully note that the human component of the interaction slowly winds down.

Deflated, my interrogator goes hunting for a better chat.

I have barely advanced a few paces when another stroller blocks my path. I straighten up, my confidence boosted by the new tricks I have learnt.

“Wind from the east!” I brazenly declare. “Surely you know what that means!”

The poor guy is stunned. Another city-dweller, I suppose.

I MUST DO BETTER and decide to seek expert advice.

“Of course,” says my friend, “your mistake is that you have no true interest in the people you meet.”

It is a painful diagnosis. “That’s not true!” Denial. “It is just that conversation between people who know nothing about each other is completely pointless. Empty words that add no value to anything. Banalities and aphorisms!”

“If you say so,” Bestie replies as she peels another potato.

I don’t like the way she looks at me. Smug and superior?

No. She pities me.

THE NEXT DAY I convince her to join me for a walk on the beach with the resolve to listen and learn.

“Oom Gallie!” she shouts as soon as she spies my tormentor of the day before. “Did Anna sleep well last night?”

She zooms in, she focuses, she pays attention. She enquires what Anna (the wife, I presume) had for dinner, what time she turned in and whether she has tried the camomile tea a cousin had brought from somewhere up north. The hunter becomes the hunted, and our expert meteorologist gulps for air. Sherlock has a joyful reunion with his fellow pursuer of dune fauna and soon the two of them are digging away.

Oom Galjoen is deeply worried about his wife’s restlessness, and it soon transpires that this is no small matter. Whatever happens in the bedroom of these two characters, I gather, poses a threat to the quality of life of the whole community. If Tannie Anna is not fully operational, it affects the density of the rusks she bakes for the church bazaar. The town’s reputation is at stake and, subsequently, the general wellbeing of the whole country.

My friend counsels and consoles. She helps to carry the load by listening, and I know she truly cares.

At the edge of this drama I stand, shuffling my feet in the sand.

The next person we meet gets the same comprehensive attention, as does the one after that. I analyse the content of these conversations. It is weighted heavily towards the analysis of ailments, with the weather thrown in as a close second. A background knowledge of family carries a huge advantage.

But I soon realise that particulars are of little importance; much more is said between the lines. I am witness to an ancient ritual, the human equivalent of dogs sniffing one another’s butts. It is the mixing of simple ingredients by the hands of an accomplished pâtissier, and conversation is the yeast. A whole community flourishes as the result of simple interactions like this. Pure alchemy.

“How do you remember everything about everybody?” I ask as we stroll among groups of fishermen.

This question surprises the queen of conversation. “You have many things you need to know and remember to do your job, I guess. How do you master all of that?”

I take stock of my field of knowledge. It suddenly feels meagre and insignificant – too abstract to be of any importance in the real world.

I don’t even know how to bake a decent rusk.

I do hope that Tannie Anna sleeps better tonight.