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If you hang with middle-class natives for any significant amount of time you will, inevitably, be invited to a braai. At that point you want to be very, very careful. One misstep, one unfortunate remark, and you will be branded as a filthy, ignorant foreigner and driven out of polite society forever.

On the surface a braai may seem like a casual outdoor gathering of friends and family that just happens to be centered on the preparation of food. In reality it is one of the most sacred rituals of South African life, one that comes with its own language and attitudes and requirements. You will be expected to be familiar with all of these, because every South African is born with an instinctive understanding of what is required and cannot conceive of anybody who isn’t similarly equipped. In other words, your inadvertent mistake will be read as a deliberate insult.

To start with, you’d better have a very good excuse indeed if you wish to decline an invitation to a braai. You must also express extreme gratitude at being asked, and complain bitterly about how this job interview/quest to save the world/birth of your first child will perforce keep you away.

Do not, at any point, refer to the event as a “barbecue”, “picnic” or “lunch”. It is none of those things, and equating a braai with any of them is disparaging.

Do not arrive at the braai with your own utensils or meat unless specifically asked to do so – preferably in writing. A bottle of wine, your own beer or any traditional dinner-party type of gift is fine, but the implication that your host isn’t fully prepared or has inferior hardware will cause deep hurt.

In a similar vein, make no attempt to help with the lighting of the fire, the cleaning of the grill or the actual handling of the meat unless explicitly invited. If you are so invited, follow all commands and suggestions to the letter without question or variation. Unless your host is a pre-teen he has his own unique method of doing these things, which in his eyes is superior to any conceivable alternative. You are welcome to visit the kitchen and pitch in with the washing of lettuce (or whatever it is that happens in there), but when it comes to anything on or around the fire, defer absolutely to the designated alpha male.

Have an answer ready in case you are asked how you prefer your red meat. It need not be restricted to rare, medium or well done; the more detailed your requirements, the better. “Well done on the outside with just a hint of pink in the middle,” for example, will mark you out as refined. Saying you have no preference or leaving it up to the braaier will show you up as an imbecile and raise suspicions that you may be a crypto-vegetarian.

You must – and this is an absolute – effusively praise your host and/or the primary braaier on the end product and the unrivaled skill that produced it. Regardless of whether you had to gag it down with a glass of water per swallow. A willingness to learn, such as by asking questions about the process (either during or after) will earn you extra credit. Just be careful to frame those questions so that they can not be inferred as doubt or judgment. Self-deprecation is also a good idea, and pointing out that your home country has no similarly advanced method of meat preparation is perfect.

Other than that you’ll be fine. There is no dress code for a braai (you can wear a tie or a little black number if you like, but everybody else will laugh at you) and there is nothing resembling table manners (failing to eat with your hands will mark you out as fastidious, but even that is allowed). Enjoy.

We’re not a particularly formal bunch of people here in South Africa, and our multitude of languages and cultures don’t make for strict rules of address anyway. On occasion this causes some distress for a certain class of visitor. Take our advice: if you are old-fashioned enough to be affronted by being called anything other than “sir” or “madam”, then don’t come. And if you absolutely have to visit, say for business, then stick to chauffeur-driven cars, five star hotels and restaurants with French-sounding names. Just don’t set foot on the street.

If you are black and could pass for a local, then be prepared to be addressed in a dizzyingly large number of ways, all of which will be incomprehensible to you. Sadly there is no visual cue, no mode of dress or body language, that will set you apart as a foreigner. Just announce yourself as such at your earliest opportunity, crank up your accent a notch for good measure, and your interlocutor will switch over to passable English forthwith.

If you are caucasian, Asian or anything other than a milk-chocolate shade of brown, then you are really in for it. Depending on your sex, age and the ironic intentions of the person addressing you, you may be called any of the following: baas, bra, brother, boss, chief, dame (more often the Afrikaans version than the English), friend, hey you, lady, madam, mamma, man (in either English or Afrikaans in equal portions), meneer, mevrou, sis, sissy, sista and sister. Plus a couple of less common, regional variations.

None of these are necessarily an insult, compliment, a term of endearment or an offer of casual sex. What you are called usually has nothing at all to do with you, your appearance or your relationship with the caller. Don’t take it personally, in other words.

Note that it is considered a sign of ill breeding to respond with the same honorific with which you are addressed. Our suggestion is that you pick out one of the above (or two, if you wish to go gender-specific), try it out on a couple of people and, if it goes down well, stick with it. Do not, under any circumstances, accept from a stranger an offer to be taught a couple of friendly local words. You’ll go around innocently sprouting the most hideous insults imaginable for the rest of your trip. Our sense of humour is weird that way.

It’s not racist or sexist if it is true, and it is true that black women are the worst drivers on South African roads. Based on close observation over a number of years we can tell you, conclusively, that the black woman driver who is not a threat to herself and every other road user, that black woman is a treasure so rare as to mythical.

The black woman driver (or BWD, for short) can be divided into two major sub-species: the Oblivious Drug Users and the Premature Little Old Ladies. The former act as if they are high on anti-depressants or marijuana, drifting between lanes without indicating, turning across traffic, parking horizontally across three vertical parking spaces and (surprisingly often) forgetting to engage either the hand brake or a low gear when stationary on an incline.

The Premature Little Old Ladies, on the other hand, drive like pensioners well past their sell-by date, even though some are still teenagers. They are perpetually terrified and bewildered in equal measure, which causes them to sit at a stop sign for hours even when there is no other traffic in sight, turning on their indicator lights a full fifteen minutes before they intend to turn and crawling along the highways at speeds so slow as to be barely measurable with standard speedometers.

Between them these two groups are the most dangerous part of driving on South African roads. Just like the rest of the world we have the 105-year old men who can’t see over the steering wheel. We have the personal assistants who apply mascara and lipstick at the same time while changing highway lines. We have drunken louts who race from traffic light to traffic light. But by sheer weight of numbers the BWDs are way out in front when it comes to causing heart attacks, incidents of road rage and bumper bashings.

They are especially noticeable because they weren’t on the roads until just a couple of years ago. In what we shall laughingly refer to as the good old days, black women didn’t drive because they oppressed by the state, their families and society in general. Their liberation over the last decade or so has been swift, as has been their acquisitions of cars.

Why are the BWDs so bad at driving? We have a couple of theories, all of which are disgustingly racist and classist. Some of them come from cultures where they are still, effectively, second-class citizens. That doesn’t make for the kind of self-confidence required to hold your own on the mean streets of Johannesburg. Some grew up with virtually no exposure to private passenger vehicles, commuting instead on minibus taxis or trains. Some are ill-equipped to drive the 10-ton 4×4 war wagons they have been assigned, and are maybe also overly aware of the R750 000 price tag if it gets so much as a scratch on the glossy metallic paint job. Given the size of the market in fraudulent drivers licences in South Africa it is a certainty that many of them quite literally bought their licences.

Frankly, though, the reasons don’t matter. Just be aware that they are out there, ready to ignore the rules of the road and cost you a fortune in excess payments on your rental car.

On the whole us South Africans are a broad-minded bunch, easy to talk to and slow to anger. But if you have any intention of engaging in politically-themed small talk – especially in a pub, bar, or other environment rich in alcohol – there are a couple of subjects you should be leery of. They’re not taboo, not as such. They could just earn you an unexpected punch in the face.

For starters, don’t try to argue that Apartheid was a good idea, had positive consequences or was in any other way laudable. Not even to make a point, not even as a joke, and certainly not to try and stimulate conversation. White people will become sullenly unhappy with you in embarrassment, and no court in the land wouldn’t accept the excuse of undue provocation should a black man lift a hand to you.

Speaking of men, you insult women at your peril. Do not belittle their intelligence, their physical abilities or their bravery. We have our fair share of misogynists, like any other place on earth, but they gather in small, secret groups and keep their voices low. The average South African woman can, and will, beat you up. Depending on culture and weight class the attack may range from the business end of a stiletto wedged in your ear to an open-handed slap that could break your neck, but it will be unpleasant regardless.

Another topic to avoid is government corruption, especially when the company is overwhelmingly white and/or middle class. The danger here is that, once you get them started, these people will never, ever shut up. Resentment of the incompetence and malfeasance of public servants is limitless. Tap into this reservoir or bile and anger at your peril.

On the sporting front you are relatively safe. We are tolerant of those who do not support our own provincial or club teams, and gently amused rather than angry when foreigners fail to see the clear superiority of our imaginatively-named national soccer, cricket and rugby teams. Just do not, under any circumstances, cheer an Australian sporting squad. Down that road only severe physical mutilation awaits you.