Last night
There’s a patch of sun the size of a large turtle on Cousin’s balcony, and as it shuffles slowly across the tiles I follow, writing this, listening to The Strokes and feeling slightly bored. Today is not a fun-filled day, and without a car there’s not much to do.
Maybe that’s lucky, as last night was a little raucous and this morning heads were sore all round. I met up with two chaps from England that I met at the conference in Pretoria, who had extended their trip to the Cape for a few days hoping to find sea, sun and fun.
Well, they found the latter. Cousin joined us and we headed off to Long Street where the Brits were introduced to the joys of one-quid bottles of lager and (well one of them) flexing his tongue around some complex Swedish expressions (and perhaps the odd flame-haired native).
The weather’s gone bad again. Yesterday the Mountain covered her modesty with thick fog soup. Only her head stuck above the clouds – a striking image from Cousin’s balcony in Century City. Today, she’s exposed in all her glory, but the air is still cool. Now, when I say cool, it means 20 degrees at midday and 14 at night – a decent summer’s day in Europe in other words.
Yesterday morning I took a huge step forward in the process of settling in. I opened a bank account. Cousin wanted to apply for a credit card, and we got up early to beat the queue that always forms on a Saturday. A notice in the waiting area said that after a trial period of being open on Sundays, they had decided to ditch the new service due to a lack of demand. Of course they didn’t get any business, said Cousin. They never told anyone about the Sunday openings, and now the banks have wasted money piloting the scheme, and we have lost all hope of ever having Sunday opening. As Cousin says, however, one trip to the bank is always two trips to the bank. They’re a bit like IKEA in that respect. There’s always a bolt missing.
Sure enough, we ended up not having the right documents with us, so it was back to the flat to pick up Cousin’s lease. I needed proof of address so Cousin got to sign a letter saying that I was staying with her. Still, I now have a bank account! It’s a crap one, with sky-high charges and not a buck of overdraft (which would come in handy right now) but it will do for a while. Then, in three months’ time I’ll be able to upgrade it to a graduate account with a credit card, a personal advisor at the bank and probably a slave or two, I would have thought.
With that, and a little over a week of South Africa under my belt, I think I can sum up what I’ve learned so far. Firstly, any fears of not finding people from other African countries to write for my mag were exaggerated. From the trip to Pretoria, I’ve got plenty of contacts from Daar es Salaam in Tanzania (pronounced Tansay’nia by some people here) to Uganda and beyond. Not journalists, mind, but people who can do unpaid opinion pieces. Which is good, because my freelance budget is not large.
Secondly, in contrast to their arsehole image back home, South Africans are warm and generous, if somewhat whingey. They moan about the weather, any waiting they have to do for more than 15 seconds and having to walk too far from where they’ve parked (anything in excess of 10 metres will be the cause of much sighing and circling of street blocks).
Then, of course there is the race thing. No surprises there, really. There are exceptions, but as a rule the following applies: The whites stand in front of the tills credit card in hand, the coloureds (mixed race Cape dwellers whose community dates back hundreds of years) are behind the tills working, and the black people either work as security guards in the parking lot for 10 rands an hour (minimum wage, around 1 pound) or are having to walk for water in one of the settlements in Khayelitsha or Gughuletu outside town. It certainly makes your morning croissant stick in your throat. I hope I never get used to it.
Now the sun is setting, and it’s so beautiful. I’m meant to be going in to town later on today again, and then I’ll be able to publish this from work. (And that is where I am now, while I'm pushing the publish button. Good night!)
Maybe that’s lucky, as last night was a little raucous and this morning heads were sore all round. I met up with two chaps from England that I met at the conference in Pretoria, who had extended their trip to the Cape for a few days hoping to find sea, sun and fun.
Well, they found the latter. Cousin joined us and we headed off to Long Street where the Brits were introduced to the joys of one-quid bottles of lager and (well one of them) flexing his tongue around some complex Swedish expressions (and perhaps the odd flame-haired native).
The weather’s gone bad again. Yesterday the Mountain covered her modesty with thick fog soup. Only her head stuck above the clouds – a striking image from Cousin’s balcony in Century City. Today, she’s exposed in all her glory, but the air is still cool. Now, when I say cool, it means 20 degrees at midday and 14 at night – a decent summer’s day in Europe in other words.
Yesterday morning I took a huge step forward in the process of settling in. I opened a bank account. Cousin wanted to apply for a credit card, and we got up early to beat the queue that always forms on a Saturday. A notice in the waiting area said that after a trial period of being open on Sundays, they had decided to ditch the new service due to a lack of demand. Of course they didn’t get any business, said Cousin. They never told anyone about the Sunday openings, and now the banks have wasted money piloting the scheme, and we have lost all hope of ever having Sunday opening. As Cousin says, however, one trip to the bank is always two trips to the bank. They’re a bit like IKEA in that respect. There’s always a bolt missing.
Sure enough, we ended up not having the right documents with us, so it was back to the flat to pick up Cousin’s lease. I needed proof of address so Cousin got to sign a letter saying that I was staying with her. Still, I now have a bank account! It’s a crap one, with sky-high charges and not a buck of overdraft (which would come in handy right now) but it will do for a while. Then, in three months’ time I’ll be able to upgrade it to a graduate account with a credit card, a personal advisor at the bank and probably a slave or two, I would have thought.
With that, and a little over a week of South Africa under my belt, I think I can sum up what I’ve learned so far. Firstly, any fears of not finding people from other African countries to write for my mag were exaggerated. From the trip to Pretoria, I’ve got plenty of contacts from Daar es Salaam in Tanzania (pronounced Tansay’nia by some people here) to Uganda and beyond. Not journalists, mind, but people who can do unpaid opinion pieces. Which is good, because my freelance budget is not large.
Secondly, in contrast to their arsehole image back home, South Africans are warm and generous, if somewhat whingey. They moan about the weather, any waiting they have to do for more than 15 seconds and having to walk too far from where they’ve parked (anything in excess of 10 metres will be the cause of much sighing and circling of street blocks).
Then, of course there is the race thing. No surprises there, really. There are exceptions, but as a rule the following applies: The whites stand in front of the tills credit card in hand, the coloureds (mixed race Cape dwellers whose community dates back hundreds of years) are behind the tills working, and the black people either work as security guards in the parking lot for 10 rands an hour (minimum wage, around 1 pound) or are having to walk for water in one of the settlements in Khayelitsha or Gughuletu outside town. It certainly makes your morning croissant stick in your throat. I hope I never get used to it.
Now the sun is setting, and it’s so beautiful. I’m meant to be going in to town later on today again, and then I’ll be able to publish this from work. (And that is where I am now, while I'm pushing the publish button. Good night!)
posted by Linda at 19:08
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