Mise en scene
I do realise I've been sloppy in describing some of the people mentioned in this little tale, and will aim to put this right pronto.
At work, I've got Paul and Diana. Diana is my boss, and I've written about her daughter Caite (not Kate, slapping wrist) who is the same age as me. Diana is actually based in the London office. She moved there when the Research Africa project started. It's up to her to wrangle with William (old boss) about all sorts of things from whether we should use light or heavy paper to the price bands for different African countries to access our services (a headache as far as I can gather).
Diana is here for a month or so, which is nice for me as she makes my job easier and is a bit of a surrogate mother of sorts. She also talks to the printers and helps me out with a lot of the setting up stuff.
Paul, who I've mentioned before, is our sales person. And that's really what he is. If you'd look up 'sales person' in a dictionary, you'd find a picture of him. He's the kind of guy who's done everything. He lived and worked in London for a while, then moved back here with his English wife and 4-year old son a few months ago. Like most South Africans he's a bit of a lad, he loves his extreme sports (although at 34 he's giving up surfing because of the sharks). If you talk to him about anything, he'll try to one-up you. 'So you went to see the Libertines at one of those infamous gigs when Junkie Pete was just about to go off the rails? Well, I knew the bouncers to all the clubs in London, and got VIP guestlist...' Bla bla bla. He can talk, can Paul.
However, for all his bravado, he's a bit of a paranoid android also. He doesn't like flying, I found out when we took off bumpily from Jo-burg International last week. And he worries about things. Bless. He makes a big deal out of worrying about me - but so do all South African men. 'You sure you'll be alright? Call me anytime if you're in trouble... I was so worried when you didn't call... You went to Long Street? Oh no, that's dodgy at night...' Just because he was offered to buy a gun in one of the clubs there one time. Nah, you'd get more hassle if you entered a hip hop club in Brixton than you do in these clubs.
There's Cousin, of course. She's the real Cape Town deal by now, she's lived here for five years and knows what's hot and what's not. She tends to be much more chilled out about the safety aspects of the city. She's never got into trouble, and she's like five foot three and blonde. She's freshly out of a long-term relationship with a South African, who she met in Belgium just when she was deciding where to go for University and moved down here with (a very common story down here - almost every foreginer seems to be marrried to a South African). As a result, she's developing a bit of a tail of suitors. But I wouldn't hold my breath if I were them. I get the feeling that she has a couple of things to work out for herself...
We get along splendidly, however. We tend to speak Swedish to each other, but when we're agitated, or after a drink or two, we'll launch into this patois involving english and swedish and anything else we can get our hands on. I know she does the same with her brother, but with English and french. Aren't we the cosmopolitan ones...! I'm secretly hoping she won't move back to Europe this time next year (maybe to the UK for a master's degree) as I'd be sad to see her go.
And then there's Andre. I think that's his name, I've never seen it in writing. He's my part-time chauffeur, car fixer-upper, temporary flat finder - you name it. His Afrikaaner accent is so strong that sometimes I don't understand what he's saying. At first I thought he had a speech impediment. But then I found out that a few people speak like that down here. I met him on my first Monday, when I needed a taxi into town. He's not a taxi, more of a chauffeur. And then he offered his services to me at discounted rates (100 bucks to get into town - what you'd pay for a bog standard taxi), drove me to the airport at 5 am last week without a grubmle, he put me in touch with his friend who I can rent a car from for 120 bucks a day, and he's currently chasing this flat on Buitengracht St where I work that he thinks might be available soon. He's a real trooper. Another of those 'call any time you like' type guys. So what if he's making money at the same time?
This week he's in Pretoria, though, so I've got a normal taxi in to work. I planned to get one of the minibus taxis that cost 3 rand from the shopping centre by Marie's as I was dropping off some laundry. Or, well, I was dropping off four plastic bags full of the stuff! Walking across the taxi ranks (the entrance to the shopping centre only used by those without cars ie those not white of skin) I felt like a bit of a bag lady, which suits me fine. I don't mind the walking, the carrying, the lugging, or the taking of communal taxis or mini buses crammed with people. Especially if it's only 3 rand one way into town. What I do mind of course is getting into trouble while doing it. But it's so frustrating that you can't have decent public transport in this place. Safe, reliable and so on. If everyone just left their cars behind one day and started taking minibuses and trains, there'd be safety in numbers. But now you're at risk of being singled out. But, said Cousin, taking the minibus to work every now and then at rush hour should be perfectly safe.
Anyway, the bus didn't leave for another half hour so I called a normal taxi. The guy who came turned out to be the same guy who had given me a ride in town the other day. I seem to be providing the core business for half of Cape Town's taxi services!
Cousin's car is still conked out, poor lass, and she towed it yesterday to the garage. They'll see what's up with it today and hopefully she can pick it up this evening. I do hope she gets it sorted. But it's like they say, you buy an old car, you buy - problems.
At work, I've got Paul and Diana. Diana is my boss, and I've written about her daughter Caite (not Kate, slapping wrist) who is the same age as me. Diana is actually based in the London office. She moved there when the Research Africa project started. It's up to her to wrangle with William (old boss) about all sorts of things from whether we should use light or heavy paper to the price bands for different African countries to access our services (a headache as far as I can gather).
Diana is here for a month or so, which is nice for me as she makes my job easier and is a bit of a surrogate mother of sorts. She also talks to the printers and helps me out with a lot of the setting up stuff.
Paul, who I've mentioned before, is our sales person. And that's really what he is. If you'd look up 'sales person' in a dictionary, you'd find a picture of him. He's the kind of guy who's done everything. He lived and worked in London for a while, then moved back here with his English wife and 4-year old son a few months ago. Like most South Africans he's a bit of a lad, he loves his extreme sports (although at 34 he's giving up surfing because of the sharks). If you talk to him about anything, he'll try to one-up you. 'So you went to see the Libertines at one of those infamous gigs when Junkie Pete was just about to go off the rails? Well, I knew the bouncers to all the clubs in London, and got VIP guestlist...' Bla bla bla. He can talk, can Paul.
However, for all his bravado, he's a bit of a paranoid android also. He doesn't like flying, I found out when we took off bumpily from Jo-burg International last week. And he worries about things. Bless. He makes a big deal out of worrying about me - but so do all South African men. 'You sure you'll be alright? Call me anytime if you're in trouble... I was so worried when you didn't call... You went to Long Street? Oh no, that's dodgy at night...' Just because he was offered to buy a gun in one of the clubs there one time. Nah, you'd get more hassle if you entered a hip hop club in Brixton than you do in these clubs.
There's Cousin, of course. She's the real Cape Town deal by now, she's lived here for five years and knows what's hot and what's not. She tends to be much more chilled out about the safety aspects of the city. She's never got into trouble, and she's like five foot three and blonde. She's freshly out of a long-term relationship with a South African, who she met in Belgium just when she was deciding where to go for University and moved down here with (a very common story down here - almost every foreginer seems to be marrried to a South African). As a result, she's developing a bit of a tail of suitors. But I wouldn't hold my breath if I were them. I get the feeling that she has a couple of things to work out for herself...
We get along splendidly, however. We tend to speak Swedish to each other, but when we're agitated, or after a drink or two, we'll launch into this patois involving english and swedish and anything else we can get our hands on. I know she does the same with her brother, but with English and french. Aren't we the cosmopolitan ones...! I'm secretly hoping she won't move back to Europe this time next year (maybe to the UK for a master's degree) as I'd be sad to see her go.
And then there's Andre. I think that's his name, I've never seen it in writing. He's my part-time chauffeur, car fixer-upper, temporary flat finder - you name it. His Afrikaaner accent is so strong that sometimes I don't understand what he's saying. At first I thought he had a speech impediment. But then I found out that a few people speak like that down here. I met him on my first Monday, when I needed a taxi into town. He's not a taxi, more of a chauffeur. And then he offered his services to me at discounted rates (100 bucks to get into town - what you'd pay for a bog standard taxi), drove me to the airport at 5 am last week without a grubmle, he put me in touch with his friend who I can rent a car from for 120 bucks a day, and he's currently chasing this flat on Buitengracht St where I work that he thinks might be available soon. He's a real trooper. Another of those 'call any time you like' type guys. So what if he's making money at the same time?
This week he's in Pretoria, though, so I've got a normal taxi in to work. I planned to get one of the minibus taxis that cost 3 rand from the shopping centre by Marie's as I was dropping off some laundry. Or, well, I was dropping off four plastic bags full of the stuff! Walking across the taxi ranks (the entrance to the shopping centre only used by those without cars ie those not white of skin) I felt like a bit of a bag lady, which suits me fine. I don't mind the walking, the carrying, the lugging, or the taking of communal taxis or mini buses crammed with people. Especially if it's only 3 rand one way into town. What I do mind of course is getting into trouble while doing it. But it's so frustrating that you can't have decent public transport in this place. Safe, reliable and so on. If everyone just left their cars behind one day and started taking minibuses and trains, there'd be safety in numbers. But now you're at risk of being singled out. But, said Cousin, taking the minibus to work every now and then at rush hour should be perfectly safe.
Anyway, the bus didn't leave for another half hour so I called a normal taxi. The guy who came turned out to be the same guy who had given me a ride in town the other day. I seem to be providing the core business for half of Cape Town's taxi services!
Cousin's car is still conked out, poor lass, and she towed it yesterday to the garage. They'll see what's up with it today and hopefully she can pick it up this evening. I do hope she gets it sorted. But it's like they say, you buy an old car, you buy - problems.
posted by Linda at 10:25
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