I am quite amused at the latest trend in Canada. They have woken up to “Buy Canadian: Keep it local,” amid the Trade War threats from You-Know-Who and his First Buddy, they are now demanding from their retailers to promote local products. In South Africa, buying local was the way things worked. Lately however, there are China based El-Cheapo online shopping companies barging through the front door. Some years ago, I cannot remember exactly why or what, I decided to not support American Brands (Nope. No McAnythings for me) and made in China also did not make an appearance on my shopping list. I buy local. I read clothing labels. I support small business. I can teach the Canadians a thing or two, should they need help.

Sometimes international populations shift. During the World War 2, many Italians arrived in South Africa as prisoners of war. After the war, some returned to their country, others, by then, had started making a life here for themselves and chose to remain. The same can be said for Indentured Labour. South Africa has a proud Indian population who’s ancestors arrived here as part of a questionable practice of Indentured Labour. A large number of Chinese arrived in South Africa in the early 20^th century. Their labour was needed for the Gold Mines. The conditions of these cultures coming to South Africa is another day’s topic. What we cannot ignore though, is the influence their culture would ultimately contribute to our Rainbow Nation.

In my last Cape Crawl, I spoke about the late queen, and when her tree fell. I spoke about Annie, and her little rose bush taking a tumble. This week, sadly, I must tell you that Pat’s (or as we started referring to him: Oupa Pat) Bamboo toppled.

I did not know him for very long. In the bigger scheme of things, knowing a person for only 5 years, out of a life of 85 years, is really not long at all. Pat was also very reserved, so getting to know him was challenging. In his case, it was not about reading between the lines but rather trying to interpret his long pauses. He had a few passions in life. Once upon a time he was young and very handsome, posing in his Speedo on the beach. (I know, I saw the photo.) He owned a rather bohemian red leather coat, and two pairs of long leather boots. I believe he also liked fast cars and at some stage of his life, he owned a Porsche. Pat, behind the wheel of his chunky Chevrolet with his sunglasses on, looked every inch like a Porche man. Oh, my. He would drive that Chevrolet over mountain passes as if it was indeed a Porsche. I became incredibly good at silent emergency prayers. In fact, I occasionally noticed a few Taxi drivers also praying not quite as silently when Pat settled behind the wheel. (South African taxi drivers are notoriously bad and inconsiderate drivers. A real menace on our roads.) He had a passion for his Family’s history, and I did spend a good few days sitting with him, drawing up his family tree going back a few generations. He did this all from memory. I learnt about having a Chinese name, and an English name. I learnt about First Brother and Second Brother. (Chinese families are big, so there could be a ninth brother and seventh sister.) You would have a Big Uncle, and a Small Uncle. Pat could recall all this information from memory, going back four generations on both Maternal and Paternal side.

Prior to getting to know Pat, I knew truly little about Chinese people and customs, other than their products were cheap and inferior quality and “they” (yes, I generalized) were the root cause of our dwindling Rhino population. Pat did have a wonderful sense of humour (even if he laughed loudest at his own jokes) and found it amusing when I concluded that he was Made in South Africa, using Imported Materials.

Pat was a quiet person. His aura was quiet. His pride was quiet. His wisdom was quiet. His opinions were quiet. He seldom spoke. He did not need to. You know that saying: Live your life in such a way, that when people speak ill of you, nobody would believe them? That was Pat. In the early days of meeting Pat, I one evening cooked Melanzane – that immensely popular Italian dish using Brinjal and Tomato. Pat finished his meal, not saying a word. He declined a second helping and instead retired early to bed, not feeling too well. It was a few months later that I discovered that Pat did not like brinjal or tomato in any shape or form.

I got to know Pat as an old man. But somehow, when I think of him, I think of the dashing young chap, posing on the beach, with his Porsche in the background. Oh, and his camera. He always had a camera in his hand. Did I mention that he was a professional photographer? No. Neither did he. It was only in paging through some of his old magazines that I came across his published photos and some of the professional awards he won with his photography. Like I said. His pride was silent.