Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Dreadlocks, Taxis, Jacob Zuma and the Flossy Courtesan: My walk down the road.

This could be interesting. The “residence what has a right screwy name” (RWHARSN) as I have named it, as it’s titular right screwy name has made it absolutely necessary that I do so, requires that I get some photos of myself to accommodate their intricate legislation cipher. Old fashioned glossy studio photos, mind you. Not like the wonderful digitally captured and meticulously printed out set of images I handed them. Seeing as I prefer not to keep stone-age devices in my presence, on account of that thing Og D. Caveman said about my mother and the walrus that one time, I lack any kind of camera that could get the needed snaps. I therefore have to scope out the local chemists for photography booths all the while hoping they don’t share my sentiments (and only keep the damned things around with a sense of detached irony, if at all).

Since my fine self lacks any personal transportation, it seems I’ll be exploring Rondebosch’s labyrinthine roadworks on (soon to be quite sore) foot. Woo. At least I have an actual existential map this time, lacking any specific indication of chemists of course, but if I check around the area filled with the pretentiously roofed condos, I’m sure to find something vaguely pharmaceutical. Upper-middle class socialites gotta get their happy pills somewhere, right?

Judging by my ravishingly high quality and not at all needlessly overpriced digitally printed map, the condos in question seem to be lingering around the quite inspirationally named “Main Road”. Since my shrewd detective skills have suggested that this Street could possibly be quite Major, I’m guessing that there’ll be at least one chemist in which I may obtain my gorily glossy goals. The road even shares a border with my Residence. This should be easy too.

*One fairly uninteresting yet long and pointless walk later*

Okay, how in the Sam Hill did I manage to walk in the exact opposite direction to the one I read off the map? There I was: Standing at a T-junction, looking at my map and thinking, “Alright, I have to turn left here”, and then I go right for some reason. Gah! Sometimes I think there’s a neuron stuck between my sense-of- my direction head meats and my doing-shit head meats that’s gone completely off its tits. Anyway, I’m back to my beginning with lead legs to bear me forward and a crystal sigh to bear the failures left behind. Or something. Damned if I get it wrong this time.

The road isn’t quite as bustling as it seems when you’re speeding down it and fifty kilometres per hour. I’d put it down to the early time of day but somehow I get the impression that this city isn’t as vibrant as the 2010 organisers would have you believe. The air shifts between various chemical flavours, from choking to sickly sweet to metallic. The people, the walkers anyway, seem to slouch onwards into the smoky beyond, shielding their eyes from a world in which they’ve seen it all before, and it had betrayed their expectations.
Upper-middle class socialites I tells ya. No sense of perspective.

Hey! Street-lamp billboards. I’m not quite as clued up on current events as I’d like to be, and we all know how reliable the abstract headlines on these cardboard curtailers of wisdom are!
“ANC big-shot behind killing.”
Whoa, that’s news. On the one hand I wouldn’t put it past some of our illustrious politicians to bestow a nasty case of death on election opponents or puppies, but since ANC-needling seems to have become a national sport popular among the media and disgruntled whities, I’m a bit sceptical on whether to believe this little factoid. I’m guessing some ANC bloke’s secretary ordered a hit on her ex-boyfriend or something and he’s getting the blame; as people whose public humiliation and suicide would cause a strong sense of arousal in Helen Zille (and her horde of flying monkeys) tend to do.

There seem to be an impossible amount of hair and beauty salons along the street. God knows how they all stay in business, though my guess is that they won’t for long. I’m getting the image of regular battle-royales between the various owners for the rights to an indecisive customer. “Five Stylists Enter the Thunder Dome; ONE Stylist Leaves!” The funny thing is, most of the salons seem to specialise only in braiding and dreadlocks (apparently, dreadlocks require something other than just dipping your locks in mud and waving ‘em around as Tarzan had me believing up till now). I guess you should work with what you know, but seeing as I’ve seen less than five people on this whole (Main) road with braids or dreads, and I doubt there’s much future in reggae stylings amongst the Upper-middle class socialite market, the continued existence of these glorified groomers seems even more unlikely.

“Zuma says sorry (again)” blurbs the next lamp-post poster. Gosh, I wonder what our glorious leader has stepped in this time, or at least gotten caught fo-WAIIIIT a minute! I wonder if this has anything to do with that other poster. “ANC big-shot behind killing”, well there aren’t any bigger shots than Big Jake up in the impenetrable sky-fortress from which the ANC rains down commands and defamed ex-members down upon our tiny heads. My aforementioned shrewd detective skills (and sense of humour) have me utterly convinced of these stories’ connection! We shall have to gather some more info! (Unofficially from these billboard headlines of course, I wouldn’t want to get the wrong idea.)

*Beeep Bip Beebib* *Phweeeeeee*
Kerrr-ist! That taxi-driver isn’t half obnoxious. Beeping and whistling and whatnot and with no potential passengers in sight. There’s gotta be a reason behind it. I guess it’s about attention more’n anything else. This guy’s a taxi driver; he soars the highways making precious little and not making any meaningful contribution to anyone, save for their convenience of getting in his taxi rather than the one further along. He probably knows he hasn’t got much time left, soon to end in a mangled heap of metal and flesh after one risky hard turn too many, or shot to pieces by another minibus jockey pushed too far into poverty to afford competition. He knows he has no future, he knows he’s insignificant, and he’s hooting his horn as if to say “I’m here now. Take a look”. He wants to get his whistle: his unique exhalation of pure sound, into as many heads as possible and as hard as possible, if only to have left something behind.
He still annoys the hell outta me though.

‘Allo: “Travoka defends Zuma”. Well he’d have to; murder is for serious and you need an alibi up ins when you’re accused of it. Unless we’re talking a more practical and involved kind of defense here. No one said this Tavorka, or Tagover, or Titpoker (I forget) was a politician! I’ll bet he’s a famed mercenary that Zuma has stationed outside the impenetrable sky-fortress (Though I wonder why he’d bother, it being impenetrable and all) and equipped with a spear tipped with a replica of J.Z’s remarkable skull (A viciously pointy weapon that my diseased brain tells me is standard issue in the secret “Zumarmy”)

I seem to be wandering dangerously close to the boundaries of my map. One turn-off outside the shown area’s comforting embrace and my well documented directional quirks will probably get me lost for eternity. No chemists so far either. I’d better head in the other direction…Hold on.
“Church of Latter Day Saints”, eh? Seems quiet now but I bet if I were to wait around I’d soon see an immeasurable wave of pamphlet chucking, doorbell ringing, me annoying Mormons emerge from the building’s black heart. I’m totally okay with you, your beliefs and your five wives, guys. Just keep the hell off my porch.

Another headline! “Pastor’s wife stabbed to death”. Yowie, that’s not a great way to go. Though it kind of annoys me that if this chick wasn’t a pastor’s wife (the epitome of socially perceived purity) and got brutally stabbed, no-one would lift an eyelash. Anyway, since the fact that this particular tidbit showed up right after the ones ousting Jacob Zuma as a cold-blooded killer CAN BE NO COINCIDENCE, it looks like we have a victim and a murder weapon. If this had all gone down in a spooky mansion and had Zuma been a military Colonel, I might almost have a joke there.

Finally! A pharmacy! Now to get immortalised on crappy wax paper that will inevitably fade and crumble in a thoroughly un-digital way (NOT THAT I’M BITTER OR ANYTHING!).
“Excuse me, miss? Do you guys do photographs?”
“No, photographs. Pictures. Like pictures of me.”
“No, sorry.”
“*sigh* Alright. Thanks anyway.”

Coises! Foiled again! Well there’s always the bit of Main Road on the other side of RWHARSN (pronounced “Rawr-son”). I foresee another long and pointless walk ahead of my tired but still unmistakeably fine self.

*Another long and pointless walk later*

Whew. I should really organise a petition to have some benches set up along here; my dawgs are killin’ me!* At least there’s another chemist over there.

*Disclaimer: Dawgs here being the old western term for feet, not hip-hop enthusiasts of my acquaintance. Those guys would totally let me off with a light beating.

“Yo. You wouldn’t be in the photos of ruggedly handsome wanderers of the roads business wouldja?”
“Of me. Can. Photos. You take?
“That service isn’t available on Sundays, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, don’t worry yourself, miss. You get used the regular minor heart-attack when you’re in my line of cruel existence. I guess I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.”
“Very good sir.”

I’m definitely noticing a recurring theme in my adventures. Were this fiction, I’d guess my adoring multitudes would be chanting “HACK!” in a glorious chorus. But hark: a final headline! Perhaps this one shall shed light on our little political murder mystery. “Ellie’s love for a sheep”.

Yes! It’s all clear to me now! J.Z, in all his lecherous splendour, was involved in the sordid business of Ellie, the publicly loved wife of the local pastor. A business, peddling SHEEP WHORES no less! Yes, for all the charms of his 15 wives and their possibly even more numerous genitalia, the ol’ king of the sky fortress just couldn’t resist the occasional woolly embrace of his sheepish mistresses. Once Ellie threatened to come clean to the authorities (apparently because God isn’t that warm to the idea of flossy concubines after all, as one mistranslation in the holy bible led her to believe) Jacob unsheathed his presidential kukri and added a few less desirable orifices to the Molly merchandising madame. Our fearless leader then made a run for the sky fortress, leaving the infamous Titpoker McGee to hold off the authorities while the presidential death ray warmed up.

I should really get more involved in politics. It could be interesting.

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