I'm at the petrol pump, filling up with liquidised, fossilised dinosaur poo and a guy arrives in a 4x4 Pajero. That's the Spanish word for someone whose only regular date is Pamela Handerson and never was a vehicle more aptly named. So, if you like SUV's as much as I do, be sure to call out, "WANKER!" every time one drives by.
Pajero-man is flailing around behind the wheel and, at first I just marvel at how perfectly he's suited to his car, but then it becomes clear that he's only doing his best Joe Cocker, imaginary rock god impersonation, air guitar and all. Either that or he's a special needs commuter and he shouldn't be driving in the first place. Elsewhere this behaviour might earn you a disapproving glare, but in Joburg it'll make the taxi driver who has just cut into your lane think you're pulling a "zap" sign on him and he's going to return the gesture by shooting you full of holes with his .38. At least then you'll have an excuse for all those "I just hit a hypothetical high note" painful faces you pull.
For the record, I have no problem with disabled drivers or even with their specially marked parking spots. So what if a wheelchair is actually quite small and you don't really need a whole bay designed for a car? Make those fully functioning bastards walk, I say!
I work at a comedy club where the bouncer always parks in the handicapped zone just outside. I've always preferred clubs that have good bouncers... (Afrikaans translation: moer-broer) ...to dissuade those in the audience who might be drinking on an empty head from ruining everybody's evening. Bouncers exist because not even well armed taxi drivers can be relied on to rid the world of assholes. But this guy is beyond huge. It's disconcerting to find yourself in the presence of someone who outweighs you with only his left ass-cheek, but who seems to insist on wearing his little brother's T-shirt. A glance at his battle-scarred head gives you an idea of what the world would look like if granadillas had beaten us to opposable thumbs. The whole image is designed to intimidate large sections of the cast of Jurassic Park and it works. Don't let nobody bullshit you different, bru.
The closest he has ever been to being physically challenged was when some poor sod accidentally looked at his girlfriend. When I asked him about the big, yellow wheelchair sign painted on the tar under his car he replied, "China, that sign means if I ever catch you parking in my bay, I'm gonna break your legs." That's when I figured he qualifies to park wherever he likes.
So here's a tip.
Having abolished the fascist driver's licence test in Joburg, most of us now need help to park. Assistants/car guards are stationed everywhere and can be spotted by their waving arms and hysterical gibberish. (If you pass what looks like five thousand of them gathered for a convention, don't worry, you're just driving past the Rhema Bible Church.) Car guards will definitely ask you for money and the going rate is about two rand. (If they ask for much, much more, you've definitely fallen into the clutches of Rhema.) If anyone ever threatens that unless you cough up the two rand in advance, he'll scratch your car, give him a tenner and tell him to go and fuck up the nearest Pajero.
Cheers!
Al
Leave a comment