Hi, I’m from South Africa

Introducing myself as a South African was most interesting during my 20-day solo vacation in Europe.  The first time I opened myself up to the possibility of being stereotyped was with an old Scottish man, who spoke to himself constantly.  He was permanently hunched over in a Sherlock Holmes stance.  He wore more gold and silver rings than he had fingers. 

Between the grunting and mumbling, it was something like speaking to a fruit blender. “Where ya from lass?” he enquired.  “South Africa, sir,” I said.  “Yes, yes.  The safari.” he replied.  And that is where my quest to redeem my country from stupid stereotypes began.

The second time I said I was South African, was to a charming, handsome Portuguese bar tender, who at least knew where South Africa was, but couldn’t quite say ‘Johannesburg’ in anything remotely English.  Still, I appreciated not having to explain why I wasn’t wearing leopard skin, and lie about having to leave my spear at customs, since Heathrow is so unaccommodating to African culture.  I don’t really have a spear. 

I wish I had a spear. 

The third time that I had to explain my country of origin, I decided to slightly elaborate on the truth…

 

“South Africa?? OMG Nelson Mandela!” exclaimed three young American girls that were taking a semester in Europe, whom I had met while sharing a taxi.

“Yes! He was my neighbour before he passed away.  He was awful.  He would steal our mail, and once left his porcupine in our field.  That porcupine ate three of our cattle.  Don’t ask me how a porcupine ate three cattle, it just did, and it did so with gusto.  Of course my father was furious.  We were saving those cattle for the sacrificial ceremony that we hold every 10th full moon in the name of Simba. 

Eventually, my father had enough of Mandela’s carelessness.  One day he stormed next door, and demanded that the porcupine be placed in a pen.  Mandela reluctantly agreed. 

The next day, Mandela set a cheetah loose in our field.  The cheetah ate the porcupine and the remaining two cattle. 

My father was pleased about the dead porcupine.

Ross (the cheetah), and my father became very close, and would go on fishing trips together every Sunday.  Ross was not at all like the tiger from Life of Pie.  No sir. Ross loved water.  Ironically he also enjoyed watching Friends, but we named him Ross after Ross Mathews because of his impeccable taste in shoes. 

He would scoop water up with his spotted little paw and splash it onto my father, and my father would return the banter with his unspeckled human hand.

They made wonderful memories together, and even had their own secret handshake.  My mother never liked Ross. 

And then one day, Mandela got word of the joy Ross gave my father, and during the night stole our Ross, and sold him to the Russian circus.”

 

The taxi stopped, and the three American girls looked at me blankly, and jumped out.  I never saw them again.  But they did give me awesome memories of my imaginary pet cheetah, Ross. 

The next day, I offered to help a lost French man.  After about 5 minutes of using sign language to communicate, we decided that I was useless at directions. 

“Wherrrrr you frrrom?” he asked.  “South Africa,” I said. 

“Ahhhh, oui!”  And then in more, almost offensive sign language, I could make out that he was asking me what I do for a living, or what size pants I wear.  I couldn’t be certain, as I don’t speak French.  I told him I was in the circus.  I made unintentional hand and face gestures that suggested I was a juggler, or a grumpy underpaid clown.  I couldn’t remember sign language for ticket booth operator.

I could tell he was impressed because he smiled and nodded his head vacantly. 

 

Later, two strapping young German men asked me to take a photograph of them.  I did of course, with pleasure.  “What is your name?” they asked me.  “Ross,” I said.  They turned and said something to each other in German. 

“Where are you from, Rose?” the shorter one asked.  “South Africa,” I said again.  “Wow! That is cool!” the taller one said. 

Anticipating the next question in the conversation, it took me approximately 5 seconds to think of the coolest career in the world.  “What do you do in South Africa?” enquired the short, curious German. “I am a cheetah whisperer.  Basically.” I shrugged, trying to be modest. 

I could tell they were really impressed because their eyes were big and they nodded vacantly.

 

On my last day, I decided to target someone really stupid looking.  “Excuse me, is this train going to Heathrow?”   “Yes it is,” said a tall Englishman. 

“Thank you sir!  You see, in South Africa, we ride anaconda’s around.  It’s fast and efficient, but there is always the risk of anaconda burn.  That’s like carpet burn, but worse because it covers your whole body, not just your kneecaps. 

When you ride anaconda’s, you have to whisper where you want to go, into tiny little ear holes on the sides of their heads, which can be hard to find.  And I mean whisper.  One time, my mother screamed into the anaconda’s tiny little left ear hole. 

Consequently, the anaconda shot straight up into the air, screamed like a sleep deprived child, and swung around like Demi Moore on a pole.  This lasted almost an hour, while my mother held on for dear life.  Eventually the snake crashed down like Tony Montana in the final scene of Scarface.  But not all anaconda’s have cocaine problems in South Africa, that would be a sweeping generalisation.

Anyhow, sometimes they take you where you need to be, but mostly they just circle around like a puppy chasing its own tail.  Also, sometimes they are in a really bad mood, and I would suggest other modes of transportation, such as kayaking.  Unless of course, you are ok with loosing finger nails while trying to grip onto a giant angry snake.  And trust me, there is no amount of stroking that can calm an angry snake at that point, if you know what I mean.” I chuckled. 

I could tell he liked me because he couldn’t stop looking at me, even after I got onto the train. 

And then as the train doors were about to close… “Anaconda’s are from South America!” he yelled out at me from the platform.  He laughed hysterically.

I laughed during my entire train trip to the airport, remembering all the great memories and the vast amount of knowledge I had shared with my European friends.