Hanging on to one’s heritage

Prior to 1994, it was known in some parts as Right of Admission Reserved Day. I grew up in Durban knowing it as Shaka Day because we reckoned the king must have been quite a good oke for allowing Europeans to settle in his kingdom.

To celebrate the public holiday, we’d leave our whites-only suburbs on a whites-only bus and go to the whites-only beach. Afterwards we’d go for a cold beer at a whites-only pub. Thanks for the good times, Shaka. I don’t recall paying much attention to our national symbols during the apartheid years.

I remember Die Stem was the anthem, but never got around to learning the words. Hell, I didn’t even play rugby. Or go to church. If PW Botha had started shooting people for their lack of patriotism, I would have been first against the wall. I am eternally fascinated by the cultural differences that exist in this great country of ours.

When I’m not busy being fascinated, it’s all I can do not to pack a bag, grab my passport and head for the nearest airport. Black people have a rich culture that encompasses ancestor worship, traditional healing, lobola, ritual slaughter (cows, sheep, farmers) and settling tribal disputes with machetes at dawn.

White people have a culture rooted in sport, beer, fear, litigation and emigration. Although I am always careful not to stereotype anyone, I think it’s important to point out that industrial action is also an integral part of black culture.

When white people sing and dance, you can be fairly sure they are in high spirits and celebrating something or other – more often than not, their good fortune at having been born into the Caucasian race. When black people sing and dance, there is no such certainty. What looks like a rollicking street party frequently turns out to be angry mobs of striking workers.

When whiteys feel oppressed they write letters to the editor, whine on Facebook or join AfriForum. Black people, on the other hand, are always up for a bit of street cabaret at the first sign of exploitation. This is where the confusion sets in. To the untrained eye, it appears the brethren are indulging in some of the old merriment, what with the ululating and leaping about.

I have seen tourists join in under the impression they’ve stumbled across some sort of primitive ethnic festival. Whipping out their cameras, they flail their little white arms and legs, roll their eyes and shout happy gibberish in the hope that it passes for Swahili. Here are some other things that make South Africa special.

The motto on our coat of arms is !ke e: /xarra //ke. Everyone outside the /Xam tribe thinks it’s some sort of computer code. Maybe it is. Anyway. More coats, fewer arms. That’s what I say. We also have an exotic assortment of indigenous fauna, all of which go well with one or other of our many endemic condiments.

For instance, grilled gemsbok with a Tassenberg-infused sauce will blow your head off. Our flora, too, is not to be sneezed at. Unless, of course, you suffer from seasonal allergic rhinitis, in which case you have no business living here. Our national flower, the giant protea, wouldn’t have been my first choice. It’s an oversized piece of fynbos with an ego to match.

When nobody’s around, it calls itself the king protea and tries to impress the other plants, all of whom seem to be related to some tart called Erica. If it were up to me, I would make Cannabis sativa our national plant. With imminent changes to the law, it’s certainly got everyone talking, even if it is very slowly with a dry mouth and an occasional losing of the thread.

Our national bird is the blue crane, a graceful creature that specialises in pinning children to the ground and pecking their eyes out. They are quite common in the Karoo, but then so are the people. Australia’s national bird can’t even fly. To be honest, it’s a bit cheeky to call the emu a bird. It’s more like one of Jim Henson’s early prototypes that went horribly wrong.

The emu is usually found hanging around outside pubs trying to kick foreigners to death. I suppose we shouldn’t laugh. After all, France’s national bird is a chicken. And Israel’s national bird is the hoopoe, although the Palestinians probably think it’s the Popeye which, admittedly, is more of an air-to-surface missile than a bird.

Russia’s national bird is the double-headed eagle, which goes well with their two-faced president. All part of their hit and myth strategy. The springbok is our national animal because who doesn’t love a bokkie that can teach Cheslin Kolbe a thing or two about jinking and jiving? Much like us, they breed throughout the year. Also like us, they crowd together in large herds in summer.

Unlike us, they don’t all do it on Umhlanga’s main beach. Scotland’s national animal is the unicorn, which you’d expect from a country that invented whisky. In Spain, it’s the bull. On weekends Spaniards show their love for their national animal by putting it in a ring and having a man in shiny pants taunt him repeatedly, then stab him in the back. Olé! Our national fish is the galjoen.

During apartheid it was probably the great white. Like most hard-drinking South Africans, the galjoen will fight to the death. Cooked over an open fire, however, galjoen tastes better than the national drunk. Decolonised galjoen prefer to call themselves black bream. I don’t think Australia has a national fish. Chuck a few chips in and it’s all good, mate. But if they do have one, my money’s on it being a groper. Sheilas will know what I mean.

South Australia’s animal is a hairy nosed wombat, but you never really know with the Aussies. They could just as easily be describing their premier. Our national tree is the real yellowwood. It grows slowly, hasn’t travelled much and isn’t terribly bright. Not to be confused with the fake yellowwood, which will pretend to be your friend and then drop a branch on your head for no reason at all. Yemen wins with the dragon blood tree. Now that’s something to be proud of.

I think if we are to fully appreciate our heritage, we need to have more national symbols. Some countries go wild for this kind of thing. Finland, for instance, has a national insect, a seven-spot ladybird. They also have a national butterfly, which seems unfair on the ladybird. Their national bird is the whooper swan. Denmark’s national bird is the mute swan. This says everything you need to know about these two countries. Our national insect would be the mosquito.

Mexico has a national dog called xoloitzcuintli. Nobody can ever remember its name. That’s why Guadalajara has so many strays. If we had a national dog, it would be a Covid-19 sniffer dog called Butch with a sideline in drugs and explosives. Mexico even has a national arthropod – a grasshopper.

No wonder Cortez got medieval on their asses. We should also have a national fruit. Bangladesh has the jackfruit. If we had one, it would be the hijackfruit. New Zealand has the kiwifruit. Their national bird is the kiwi.

Their national dog is the kiwidog, their fish is the kiwifish and their national insect is the kiwibug, all of which are known colloquially as bastards.

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