Travelling to the land beyond the 'boerewors curtain' into the northern suburbs for a night on the town proved to be more of a cultural experience than initially anticipated for this southern lass.
It's no secret that areas like Bellville, Brackenfell and Durbanville are predominantly Afrikaans-speaking, so the odd Kurt Darren song was to be expected, but we decided to risk it anyway.
Waiting in the queue outside Presleys, one of Brackenfell's most popular clubs, the first thing I noticed other than the fact that Elvis was nowhere in sight, was that almost all the people waiting in line were carrying cooler-bags.
Apparently some of these clubs allow you to bring your own booze.
A nice idea if you only have enough money for cover-charge and a half a box of late harvest left over from Oom Frik's braai last week.
But it can end up, as we witnessed, with a few older men dipping into the "Klippies en Cola" while in the queue and passing out on their bar stools before nine.
Inside, we made our way to the cover-charge collection lady, who looked at me as though I was ET when I greeted her in English, as did the bar-lady when I asked for a Peroni and Jagerbomb.
Just after nine the disco lights on the dance floor went on and the DJ spun out his first song, "Meisie, Meisie" or something, and everyone dropped their drinks, ran to the dancefloor and began to sakkie-sakkie.
I have seen people behave like this before but this was different. I can only compare it to an ice-rink on a Saturday night. As though they were on a revolving floor, each couple spun round in the same direction, the men whipping their partners across the floor.
It was around this time that I began to realise I was not in Kansas any more - though perhaps I was, because I believe they also dance like this in Kansas, only to Billy-Ray Cyrus rather than Koos Kombuis.
That being said, they did in fact play a Billy-Ray Cyrus song.
Yes, that one.
As "Don't tear my heart, my achy breaky heart" came on, the couples transformed themselves into line-dancers. It was quite robotic. They knew each step and performed them with mechanical precision.
It was odd to see the men getting so involved in the dancing.
I have observed that generally, most white men don't dance - at least not until they have imbibed a sufficient amount of beer.
But these men were taking their steps very seriously indeed, some even singing along: "And if you tear my heart, twee, drie, vier, my achy breaky heart, links, regs...".
About an hour or so later, and after a few drinks too many, we too decided to dance.
Thankfully the DJ graced us with a few tracks from Maroon 5, Bryan Adams and Timbaland.
Now, I don't know if it was just getting caught up in the moment, the really cute Afrikaans boys, or the copious amounts of alcohol, but before I knew what was happening we were dancing to - brace yourself - "Rooi-rok bokkie"!
That's right folks, the chairman of the Anti-Kurt Darren Club danced to the worst of all Kurt Darren songs.
We just danced as usual, though. We didn't sakkie, which turned out to be quite a dangerous undertaking.
If you don't sakkie with the revolving crowd, you dance in the centre of the circle, but if you step back too far it's as good as stepping onto the track at the F1 Grand Prix: you literally get mowed down. As my colleague jested, it was a bit like the military - you step out of line, you get trampled.
The whole night was a culture shock.
But even amid the sokkie-treffers, the sakkie-sakkie and the Billy-Ray Cyrus, it was actually fun.
Everyone there was in a great mood. They were all dancing, they were all laughing (even if it was at the people and not with them), and generally, they were just having a great time.
They may have questionable taste in music; they may dance like Texas cowboys, but however they do it, they love to party.
Afrikaaners is plesierig indeed.