Man Braai: Fires, Rain, and a Pathway Forward

Kimon and I were deciding where to meet for a coffee.

Although not as an option, my mind drifted to Seattle Coffee Company in Port Elizabeth, a place where the coffee is reliably consistent.

It’s always busy, with “caffeine-fix-me” queues in the mornings. Yet somehow you can still sit, have a proper conversation, or get through some work without interruption. There’s a good chance you’ll recognise someone from St Francis, but each table tends to function as its own little silo.

St Francis Bay works differently.

Here, we have enough options for coffee stops, but sitting down comes with a different rhythm. Every few minutes a familiar face appears. A quick hello becomes a short chat and before long another conversation begins. These are welcome interruptions and part of what makes the place special, but not if you are wanting a focused discussion.

Kimon and I wanted to talk “Man Braai”, so we chose to have coffee at his home and, being Greek, I knew the coffee wouldn’t disappoint. 

Kimon told me that the Man Braai didn’t start as anything particularly intentional. Years ago, back in Port Elizabeth, Jacquie asked him what he wanted for his birthday.

“Just a big braai,” was his simple answer.

Not a small gathering or something selective. He wanted everyone, friends, acquaintances, even his lawyer. But as the list grew, it became clear it wasn’t practical. The numbers were simply too big, so they made a call. This year it would just be the guys.

As one would expect, the feast consisted of meat and a vast array of minimal frills.

That was the beginning, and the repetition continued with the family’s move to St Francis Bay.

Today the format is roughly the same, only bigger, with about ten guys each committing to feeding the masses with some variant of a typical South African braai. Kimon explained, “At this size, the Man Braai would not be possible without people like Gavin Ingram.”

He went on to acknowledge the many chefs who generously give of both their time and their own pockets, along with the sponsors who quietly help make the event possible for the enjoyment of the community

This year the boys returned to Kimon’s garden after the previous successful rain-filled event at Lombardini farm. I arrived on Mad Max, the trusted E-BakTuk, and left him quietly lingering amongst the SUVs and bakkies.

Under one of Kimon’s massive tents, camping chairs were arranged in loose circles, cooler boxes sat within easy reach, brandy and Cokes appeared then disappeared, and anything but pop music provided the soundtrack.

Everywhere you looked, fires were burning, chickens were slowly turning, and someone was busy basting a lamb on the spit.

Simple. Perfect.

And then, right on cue, almost as if it’s part of the tradition, the rain came.

Just as the food had been laid out, fresh rolls sliced and plates stacked, the sky opened.

There was a scramble. Guys grabbing trays, shifting tables, protecting what they could. A bit of chaos, a lot of laughter, but no panic. Everyone simply pitched in.

At one point during the afternoon, a few of the organisers welcomed the group. What struck me was that their message was not what I had expected.

“The Man Braai is not a fundraising event.” 

It is a tradition rooted in simply bringing the town’s men together. They explained that, unlike the previous event, there would be no Yoko machines circulating and no requests for contributions.

The purpose was to connect, not to collect.

Knowing the Man Braai had funded various village improvement projects, I was curious to understand how this event converted fun into funds, so over coffee we spoke about the recently completed walkway project.

It had been tabled at one of the Kouga meetings, where improvement projects tended to be huge and long term. Kimon explained, “paving a walkway felt like something achievable, so as the Man Braai, we put our hands up and committed to it.”

At the previous Man Braai, the Yoko machines were out and by the end of the day they had raised around R300 000 for the project. The rest soon followed, and the paved walkway from the canals to the village now sits there quietly, used by the community every day.

While successful, Kimon cautioned, “We had lost something at the Man Braai and realised we needed to go back to our roots.”

The projects are outcomes and should not be confused with the true purpose of the Man Braai. The real value lies in the journey itself, an ongoing process of building friendships, trust, and connection within the community.

The pathway project offers some interesting parallels.

If you’ve spent time in Hermanus, you’ll know the coastal pathway that winds along the sea, gradually connecting almost the entire town. It did not appear overnight. Over time, piece by piece, it slowly evolved into something that today feels inseparable from Hermanus itself.

There is no reason something similar could not happen in St Francis Bay. The path could extend through the village, link to Bruce’s, join the Two Harbours walk, and eventually reach the port.

In many ways, the same could be said of the Man Braai.

Each gathering, conversation, and project simply becomes another small step in strengthening the connections within the community. Friendships, trust, shared stories, and a village becoming more tightly woven together over time.

“When the Man Braai puts the word out,” Kimon explained, “the generosity is immediate and overwhelming.”

And perhaps that matters now more than ever.

With the prospect of a nuclear power station once again surfacing on our doorstep, our village may soon face one of its greatest collective challenges. Moments like these require more than strong opinions. They require trust, connection, and a community capable of standing together.

Maybe that is the real value of the Man Braai.

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