There's been great sorrow here in Johannesburg this past week with the death of Duif du Toit, the sports photographer. You couldn't miss him. Irrespective of the weather, there he was, tanned legs in trademark shorts, ponytail waving, his beard getting slowly whiter with age.

He had this trademark phrase. In response to something he agreed with, he'd say "same" in his thick Afrikaans accent. He wouldn't say "Same as me", or "That's right", or "I agree." He'd simply say "same" and nod; then he'd take another sip of whatever he was drinking and give you the gravelly du Toit chuckle.

Duif was what English-speaking South Africans call a Dutchman - an Afrikaner. With its jostling registers of fondness and mild superiority, the word can't be translated. There's respect in there and perhaps awe, combined with the idea that Dutchmen can be, well, just a little different. They wear shorts in the Stade de France in late November; they smoke Gauloises and wear flak jackets and drive Land Rovers without even the vaguest nod to irony, because, well, that's for others, perhaps even the Fancy Dans in the press box. By contrast they are content to file photos three times a day and stand at the back of press conferences and smile when little boys in India come up for an autograph but first ask: "What is your good name, uncle?"