Being South African has become a statement of pride and, as many rugby enthusiasts chant, something that rumbles down into our core and DNA.

A true Saffar, in my opinion, is on square footing with the likes of Chuck Norris in all his kung fu heroic glory.

For a South AfriCAN, nothing is impossible. We build fires that not only grills the perfect steak, but remains hot enough to brew your morning coffee the next day.

Our cheers have the power to push the boys over the line, clinching a one-point win, even if we were trailing for 70 minutes.

United as we stand to sing our national anthem, shoulder-to-shoulder grown men weep as they belt out Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika.

Yip, being born of the most southern tip of Africa has given us unique abilities because you know: “Hulle weet nie wat ons weet nie.”

During a recent trip into the heart of the bush on the outskirts of the platinum belt, I discovered yet another skill that, in my heart of hearts, I believe belongs uniquely to us as proudly South Africans.

Walking through the nature reserve, my ‘vellies’ crunching on the gravel, my senses tingled.
Perhaps it was my footwear connecting me to my ancestors, or maybe it was the fresh bush air, which my eldest son insisted promoted clarity of mind. Whatever it was, I became a spoorsnyer who would have made the National House of Traditional and Khoisan Leaders proud.

Despite never attending the Voortrekker Kommando, hosted at my primary school, and only ever wishing that I could join the ranks of the Scouts and Girl Guides, walking beside the Kameeldoring trees, its canopies stretching out like a homage to the mountains, my eyes zeroed in on the animal tracks in the sand.

Without a second thought or uncertainty, I announced with the confidence of a seasoned game ranger that zebra had tracked from east to west.

Splatterings of fresh dung indicated that no longer than an hour ago a herd of Eland followed their striped neighbour.

My nose upturned like a pedigreed sniffer dog, pointed downwind showing the way.

I hastened my pace, resolute in the knowledge that majestic giraffe is stretching its neck to reach the most succulent green leaves, the sound of its creaking vertebrae no further than half a click away.

After spending a couple of minutes admiring my find and, of course, feverish pats on the back, from me to me, because teenagers aren’t impressed by anything their mother does, I wondered where I may have acquired this skill.

My dad is not a hunter, so our time in the bush was mostly spent in the comfort of our car.

I grew up watching 50/50, but I cannot recall them deep diving into the intricacies of identifying ‘spoor.’

Fisting my hands into my hips, my face turned to the setting sun and the breeze flicking through my hair,

I breathed another breath of bushveld air.
I was never trained in the art of trekking; no, I am simply South African, and that’s what we do.

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