There are certain things that Capetonians particularly enjoy complaining about: the weather (“four season in one day!”, “this wind! Ruins a bloody good day!”, “what comes after two days of rain in Cape Town? Monday!”), the fact that the DA isn’t running the country (nay, the world), and the traffic. Oh yes, the traffic is horrendous. In fact, I began writing this post while sitting in traffic. That’s right, the traffic was stationary for so long that I got to the point where I had the time to locate a pen and paper and write a good two paragraphs. Town traffic, school traffic, varsity traffic, traffic on the N2, traffic on the M3, 8am traffic, 1pm traffic, 4pm traffic, 5pm traffic! And don’t even think of going near town after 3:30pm! Pretty much, everyone is convinced that you will probably hit traffic walking from your bedroom to your bathroom at any time of the day so, for goodness sake, make allowance for it! But things have been such a breeze lately, what with no school, the roads have been so clear (“but let’s not even begin to talk about all the tourist!”). However, it is around this time of the year, the post-festive season time, that panic begins to rise as fast and furiously as the petrol price did in 2018 (another favourite complaint topic). People become noticeably anxious and distracted. If you see someone wiping sweat away from their wild and crazed looking eyes, glancing at their phone frequently, chewing their lips and picking at their nails, they are doing either one of two things. Either they are waiting for their heroin dealer or they are checking and rechecking their calendar. It can’t be. Not yet. Oh god, it is. Schools open on Wednesday and then universities open a few weeks later, oh god, and everyone is going back to work. The traffic is coming. Oh yes, the traffic. It is coming. And best you be ready because it is coming. And it is coming in summer.
It is clear that The Weather and The Traffic somehow found out that all the Capetonians talk about them behind their backs. Although it isn’t really behind their backs, Capetonians don’t shut up about it, we aren't a very subtle bunch. So, The Weather and The Traffic thought, “you know what, you hounds of Helen? We’re just getting started”. And so they merged. The two entities decided to assist each other, to lend their powers for good and evil to each other and use them only for evil. In the middle of the year, the Weather aids to the traffic by leaving all the taps on, which causes a lot of rain here. Residents and drivers in Cape Town become completely hysterical upon the first rain drop. Hours before, people leave their houses in crowds to stare at the clouds and look at each other to say, “those are rain clouds”. Everyone nods and agrees with each other, someone says, “looks like we’ll be getting some rain”. A silence. “Well, it is a good thing, we need the rain”. Begrudging agreement. Yes, we need the rain, but at what cost? The city prepares itself. The rain begins and everyone frantically informs each other that it is raining and, for some reason, everyone also instantly abandons all the knowledge that they have ever acquired about the handling of a motorised vehicle. A car’s speedometer will not venture above 20km/h in the rain, if yours does then you are, without a doubt, a complete lunatic and “look, see! See? I told you! That’s a GP number plate”. Within an instant of a spittle of rain making contact with a windshield the headlight’s beams will burst forth and wipers will awaken with force. The poor little window wipers don’t know if they are wipers trying to dry a window or if they are chef knives trying to cut onions while Gordon Ramsay is calling them idiot sandwiches and telling them to cut faster. Bless. To be on the roads at all during the rain means that you obviously don’t value your life and the rest of the city peers from their windows to see people making these crazy decisions (at a safe distance from the window though, so that they don’t get rained on). One is expected to remain indoors and begin designing and constructing the family ark, in order to prepare for the inevitable second great flood. After a restless night of little sleep, thanks to nerves and fear of death, the city folk awaken to find that they are still alive. Once everyone is reassured that our beloved sea will not rise to drown us all , it is customary to then gather to chat about how nice the rain was and how we all hope it rained over the catchment areas.
While the rain makes the roads scary and even slower than usual, the heat makes traffic unbearable. The horror begins from the moment you open your car door, a waft of sulphuric hellfire surges forth like a rodeo bull and you have no choice but to enter this hole of Calcutta. What was once your car is now the vessel that transports souls across the River Styx to the underworld and, my, is it an unpleasant journey. There’s not even an inflight movie but there is probably a baby behind you who will cry the entire time. The irony is not lost as you reach for your safety belt with great caution. One wrong move and this strap of security will brand you with its little metal clippy-thing, hence forth you shall be marked, property of the devil and destined for the slaughter house. Perhaps you make it through unscathed but your sigh of relief is premature because the next step is to touch the steering wheel. You stare at it. It stares at you. You are confused and wonder how long your steering wheel has had eyes (staring wheel haha). You remember you have forgotten to take your medication. You run back inside to get it. You are now back in the car. Where were we? Oh yes, you stare at it. It’s still staring at you. You accept that this is how it is going to be. Steam rises from its body. You give it a tentative poke, to test what you are up against. The pain is blinding (I mean, did you just touch your steering wheel or Idris Elba, am I right, folks?). There is nothing else to be done but to control the wheel using only your finger nails. Once this decision has been made, you become aware of the rapidly fading air within the car. If you have an aircon, the air just blows out hotter air (if possible) but do you dare touch the window opening button? Would you prefer death by searing or suffocation? You decide that pain is temporary and death is rather permanent and open the window. It’s still hot outside but it’s not raining so you can drive as fast as you need to for the wind to whip by and cool you down. The speed limit is a mere suggestion. Your speed may be attracting as many flashing cameras as 2009 Brittney (her comeback is inspirational, really. This is somewhat related and I know I’ve said it in a previous post but does anyone know how Amanda Bynes is doing?), no matter how fast you are being hit by the wind, the seal shall soon be broken. You shall hit a standstill and the whipping wind will be a thing of the past. It is at this moment that the aforementioned seal will be broken (I feel like I have to include an Oxford reference with the word ‘aforementioned’). The first bead of sweat will drip down your nose. If you now take a moment to look around at the other unfortunate victims of traffic and temperature, you will see a collection of damp, dripping travellers rocking from one buttock to the other. It is vitally important to frequently lift one’s thighs off the car seat, lest one wants to be stuck on a leathery throne forever.
Okay, you’re here now. Yes, we are backed up so far that cars are now having to ramp up to park on other car’s roofs because we have run out of road in the entire city and possibly the broader Western Cape, but hey! It could be worse! And surely we won’t be here that long? We can turn up the tunes, maybe listen to a podcast? Just look out the window! Gee, Cape Town is stunning (the most frequently said phrase in this city after, “we should totally get coffee sometime!”. Only one is meant with sincerity). You can also whip out your phone (after checking for police) and take photos of the traffic to inform everyone that you are sitting in traffic and here is photographic evidence of just how bad the traffic is. They will no doubt respond with a similar traffic picture. Sometimes you will spot you own car in their photo! What luck! They are just 4 cars behind you. You can get out of your car and talk about getting coffee sometime.
We’ve now hit the 20 minute mark and have moved about 20mm. The fires of rage and fury are ignited within. Your mind wanders into dark places that you never thought yourself capable of having, fantasies of driving a truck over every car that lies within your wake. Let no man, woman, or child be spared. You give a piercing scream which only you can hear, from the outside it just looks like you are yawning. But the neighbouring traffic dwellers will know it was a scream when you begin to beat your head against the steering wheel (which is still searing). All those around you will soon follow suite and one will see driver after driver silently screaming and submitting to this self-punishment. Maybe you should just get out of your car and walk? Maybe you should just drive your car off this elevated freeway? Maybe you should just never ever drive again and join the Armish community?
Although it seems like the destination will never be reached, you will eventually arrive at where ever you were originally headed. Yes, you will now be 40kg lighter after sweating away nearly every part of you, you will also have missed out of 4 years of your life because that is how long it took you to cover that 1km stretch. BUT! You have made it. You are incredibly late for whatever you have made it for but you have made it none the less. It is now 2:45pm and if you don’t leave within the next 15 minutes you shouldn’t bother leaving the city centre until 7pm. And it’s First Thursdays. You’re screwed.
The day after this event I found myself in another form of traffic: the line at SARS. I also began writing this when I was there for my sins of becoming an adult and needing official documents. Fortunately, a friend and I discovered that we both needed to make this treacherous journey and decided to embark as a duo. I highly recommend doing this. I, very idealistically, suggested that we leave at the break of dawn. Everyone knows that, when going to an official document place, you must join the queue at least three hours before the place opens in order to avoid queueing inside for any more than three hours. This clearly makes a lot of sense; it is the done practice so no one thinks to question it. Despite this, I was running late as always so I spent the majority of the car ride wondering how I could be so stupid. At the time, starting the crossword with only 10 minutes to finish getting ready seemed perfectly manageable; in hindsight, it was less manageable. Upon arrival, we joined the line of other sleep deprived people who were begrudgingly adulting. The line was already wrapping around the building and I was hit with waves of PTSD from the previous day’s traffic. Everyone shuffled forward, yawning and passing on their yawn to their line neighbour to create the never ending circle of yawns. We allowed ourselves to be directed by the staff members (serious credit to them for being as efficient as they are and putting up with so many people, many of whom are rude and impatient). Each person is given a ticket and joins various different lines that will probably all lead to the same counter. Despite being very clearly directed, tickets-holders dodder around looking scared and confused. They will get to what they think to be the end of their assigned line and then frantically signal the employee. Once the employee makes eye contact, they will point furiously at the spot in front of them until the employee patiently ensure them that they are in the right place. And the wait begins. One spends most of the wait trying to figure out what kind of counting system is being used. You are ticket 204. “Ticket 197 to Counter 4, please”. Excellent, this shouldn’t be too long. “Ticket 87 to Counter 8, please”. um, excuse me? “Ticket 206 to Counter 1, please”. Your hope begins to fade as you hear every number but your own being called. You are forced to watch the other smug ticket-holders leap out of their seats when their number is called and stare around at all their inferiors. Then they dodder off again, resuming their scared and confused state while they try to locate Counter 4. This too shall pass, as the old saying goes, and you will eventually join the crowds leaving. Outside, people are either shedding tears of joy that they survived, tears of despair because they just waited three hours to be told that they need proof of residence, or tears of confusion because they survived but now they have to pay tax. All round, it’s an emotional rollercoaster.
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