Negative-Soundbyters - Good Afternoon from sunny Cape Town. It is our last day of wearing shorts; back to the cold we go. Rafe said he wanted to stay; we are happy with that, although unsure how he is going to pay his way. He said with "smiles". Can't argue with that!
To this week's ancedote we go....
Big Love
Hoddy X
There are generally two words that encapsulate South Africa’s many travails: Number One, Julius Malema, White Monopoly Capital (okay that’s three), state capture, land expropriation (2) – without compensation (2), Day Zero, Saxonwold Shebeen, Marikana Massacre, Ajay Gupta…but utter the words “Home Affairs” and a South African’s blood begins to run cold. Taken as individual words they seem innocuous, almost warm; “Home” is where the heart is; I need to put my “affairs” in order. But put them together and prefix them with the “Department of” and even the most hardnosed Afrikaner Boer or battle hardened Zulu Impi will run screaming for those koppies far-far-away.
I haven’t experienced Home Affairs for many years now, but the expiry date on my Green Mamba was drawing to a close and a few people had advised me to obtain a new one while I was on holiday, given that dealing with South Africa House in the UK would put you over the edge if you had had a bad day at the swamp (or in fact even if you had just come off the beach, sun drenched, and giddy after a few ice cold frosties).
We have rented a little house in Franschhoek, in the Cape Winelands for a week. I thought that if I located a Home Affairs office that was off the beaten track, this might make my experience more in keeping with the spirit of Bacchus. I typed the dreaded words into Google and up popped an office in another winelands town called Paarl, about half-an-hour drive from our current abode. Not exactly off the beaten track I thought, but how bad could it be? I mean this is wine country after all. People are chilled and friendly. Things work out here. I mean they produce world class wines. Um...Ja...Nee.
I also confirmed what I needed to take with me from the Home Affairs website – cash, ID book and current passport. I checked off all of those things figuratively with my green pen (an auditor’s best friend) and set out from our villa full of berry-infused hope with a hint of eucalyptus (see how I have brought some of my wine tasting parlance into my narrative).
I had a somewhat romantic notion of what I would encounter in Paarl. I had visions of a whitewashed building, sympathetic to typical Cape Dutch architecture, with a discreet “Department of Home Affairs” sign over the entrance, flanked by some old wine barrels, and possibly an oak tree-or-two out front providing a shaded canopy. Er….No…
The Home Affairs office sits as a wart on the arse-end of the town. There is not an oak tree to be seen let alone a Cape Dutch farmhouse. It reeks of “government”; a functional and uninviting design, low slung single-storey, mustard brick, no windows and one set of doors from which two queues of the office’s latest victims snaked into the dusty carpark. It basically says: “Approach with Extreme Caution”. My haze of berry infused aromas was fast beginning to dissipate.
I joined the back of the queue. We have all stood in queues. If it’s for something fun, like a music concert, then the atmosphere will cut through the tedium and before you know it you are weaving and bopping, the queue long forgotten. Or standing outside an Apple store for the latest iPhone – not something I will ever do – but it’s bearable because of the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
Death by a thousand cuts just about describes a Home Affairs queue – with each cut administered with a rusty, listeriosis-infected blade. I stood in the sun (there’s some upside since I never see the sun) for two-and-half hours and moved approximately 12 metres. We all shuffled along like zombies; farm workers, young mothers with babies, snappily dressed businessmen, grannies, grandpas, the infirm, white, black, coloured, Indian – a South African kaleidoscope – all hoping to make it to the edge of the abyss. Naturally there was the odd grumble-and-gripe but we were a patient bunch, even when it was announced that only those with tickets would be seen today. I had been given one by a listless security guard but there were a number of people behind me without. A collective, but muted, “huurrummphh” went up; “but that system wasn’t in place yesterday”, “No man, I can’t take another day off”, “I can’t go through this again….”
It’s sad to say but that’s the name of the game now; the average joe is at the mercy of a system that is not just creaking at the seams, it is busted open; and unless you are on a first name basis with Malusi you have little chance of getting your “affairs” squared up at a time and in a manner that is convenient to you. The South African state does not exist to serve its citizenry; pay your taxes and suck it up.
I didn’t get to darken the doors in the end.
I noticed that there was another queue for “Collections”. A little light slowly started to flicker; no doubt you can elect to receive the documents in the post, right – so why do people volunteer to put themselves through this again? I then remembered a) where I was standing and b) that the South African postal service didn’t work either…and the light started blazing.
I managed to corner a Home Affairs employee who was walking past the queue to ask her about my circumstances. My worst fears were confirmed. She informed that in order to pick up my new Green Mamba I had to reappear in person. I wanted to get into the logic of this with her but then I remembered a) where I was standing and b) that there is no logic so I thanked her for wasting two-and-a-half hours of my precious holiday (I said the last bit in my head) turned on my flip-flop and made for the car.
I did hand on my treasured ticket to a lady with a family before taking my leave; anyone would have thought I had given her the winning lotto ticket. She didn’t quite do a cartwheel and I am glad she didn’t try and hug me, but her smile said it all.
I returned to the villa, opened an ice cold frosty, put my feet up in the sun….and….Dream on Hoddy, New Dads don’t get the time for that anymore!
OUT :)
Pic of the Week
Farewell Cape Town - until next time X
