It’s a cool morning in small town South Africa. The sun will probably come out later but for now the mist has yet to burn off and it is pleasant. As I sit at my desk, working, a breeze comes through my window. The breeze carries the sound of singing.

I never knew there were places where people didn’t sing. I don’t mean didn’t sing ever, but didn’t sing often. Not like here. Not like home. Places were singing was considered the preserve of expert singers, except, perhaps, for the odd karaoke experience. Then I moved to another country. In Korea was the incessant blaring K-pop. Shops here play music, too, but there it is K-pop everywhere and all the time. I hardly used an mp3-player before I left. There I missed music so much, I used it all the time.

The first protest I saw in Korea left me bemused. A forlorn group of people standing around with some signs. No movement no energy. I had to ask a local to confirm that it was a protest. Such a far cry from the powerful, energetic, at-times-terrifying, singing, dancing protests of my homeland. Music – singing, dancing – was traditionally a prelude to war here, in much the same way as the Maori war-dance now used by the New Zealand rugby team. Singing and dancing express anger and frustration, as well as sorrow, fear and joy.

I am walking to the shops on a Tuesday morning. Across the road, also walking, is a group of 50 or so Working-on-Fire staff. They walk quickly, strongly, almost as if they walk in formation. And as they walk, they sing. Not the monotonous chants I associate (perhaps wrongly) with American-movie soldiers. They sing beautiful, 3-part harmonies. Deep, rich, chocolaty bass voices blended with elegant alto and strong tenor. They sing effortlessly, weaving their voices together. A gardener weeding a pavement flower-bed stops to listen. This isn’t a performance, they just happen to be singing.

Perhaps I too often buy into exaggerated stereotype that associates Africa and song, but I have lived where K-pop counts as music: It thrills my soul to catch the drift of song on the wind, to be reminded, gently, joyfully, that I live where people sing.