It's a good thing I didn't sleep through Heritage Day or I'd have missed the eTV documentary about the life of Stephen Biko, sandwiched between trailers for "Madam and Eve" and adverts for Trellidoor security systems. I'd like to think that somebody who puts the programming together spotted the irony in that or are they taking their own advice and watching... only on "e"?
This is the time of year when ordinary Joburg denizens who have no more acquaintance with nature than occasional trips through the salad section in Woolworth's, start to gaze into the afternoon sky with that faraway look in their eyes that you only see in a true African veld ranger or a Labrador puppy taking a shit.
"It must rain soon," they say to one another in queues at the bank. "Joburg is so much better after some wet weather." It takes their minds off the wait as the tellers try to communicate with hard of hearing old age pensioners through three inches of bullet-proof glass and it's more fun than watching the Rand/Dollar exchange rate tick over like a cricket scoreboard.
Sometimes you just can't beat a trip to the bank. First there are those fun few seconds spent with the guard outside the front door who thrusts some sort of electronic crotch sniffing wand between my legs. To his credit though, about the only thing that hasn't yet been used to successfully rob a South African bank, is a metal prosthetic penis. After the pervy wand has given a couple of satisfied beeps, he steps aside and I wait my turn to go through the door, a structure that has evolved into some kind of cross between a telephone booth and a microwave oven. I can only imagine it's yet another defence against the iron dildo gang. "Only one at a time!" the guard keeps muttering. "One at a time." So we all wait and enter the bank in single file while glaciers whiz by and the staff giggle and make "what a bunch of wankers" hand signals to one another as they watch us from behind their Saddam Hussein export quality glass.
Once I'm inside, my cell phone will ring, just because it's not allowed to. Bank employees don't like mobile phones ringing inside their shops. It wakes them up.
Then there's that line where the optimistic wet weather conversation usually takes place. I don't hold out that much hope, because the only rain that would improve this city would involve a boatload of fanatical animals and cute, furry Jews. Instead, I watch a conveniently placed TV monitor that doesn't have any real channels, presumably because it causes embarrassment when the manager's face appears on "Police File", but it does show the mating habits of Andalusian snot worms in horrifyingly graphic detail. Of course, the TV screen is just one of a variety of entertainment options while in a queue. I also enjoy a round of "Guess That Stain" on the clothes of the loony in front of me with thousands of five-cent coins and a dead budgie in a plastic bag. I don't recommend passing time counting the metres of unused counter space equipped with dozens of idle computers and speculating on how much money this has all cost you, the ABSA-lutely fucked up client.
Eventually I'm finished and outta there. I've done battle with Smaug, the bean counting dragon and Smaug has duly kicked my ass and mounted my charred remains on his credit blacklist. Now all that remains is to leave through the exit telephone/oven thingy. No problem! There's no backlog, because we can squeeze as many of us inside it as we like. We pack the thing like a minibus taxi and within seconds we're back out in the mall. It may be churlish of me to quibble with the first bit of accidental convenience I've encountered the whole day, but here's a tip for all you banker types. It's usually only when the robbers are leaving that they're in a hurry.
I was talking about the rain, wasn't I? Well, as I look out of the window I know it must come soon. I can feel it in my sphincter. Egoli is almost pleasant after it's had a wash. (I was only kidding about drowning the place with a flood. All the scum floats to the top anyway.) I've lived here for twelve years now and I still can't say that landing at Joburg International feels like coming home... but at least it's starting to feel like going to work.
Be safe!
Al
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