So I spent some time at the SA Consulate this morning. It really has been a day of caricatures, and perhaps more than a little of a microcosm of SA. I arrive to find chaos. No place to queue, so the crowd represents more of a scrum. Behind the counter is Mrs Naidoo from Durban. If you’ve ever been to Durbs, you know this woman. Strong, opinionated, and takes NO shit from anyone. Unafraid of telling you just how stupid you are for cocking up your paperwork. Half an hour later and Mrs N has validated my paperwork. Then off to the main office to wait. Nine counters, eight of which are standing empty. I glance at my number and note that I’m 31st in the queue. Luckily there’s seating for a lot of people, so I find a quiet spot in the corner away from the others and settle down to wait. In walks a very old, very large gogo. And of every seat in the room, she chooses to waddle over to my quiet corner and sit half on top of me. She and I clearly have very different ideas of personal space. Her elbows in my chest notwithstanding, it turns out she’s sweet and friendly. While I wait, in walk Sharry and Rachel, fresh out of Norwood, doll. Rachel (pronounced “Raeh-chil”) is informing all and sundry that she’s disabled, and therefore deserves the front of the queue. Her only disability appears to be being 3 lunches ahead and 4 shits behind, but this nevertheless opens her a way to the counter. “Ah cohn’t buh-leeve uht. Wah do you need four photos Luvvy?” she demands, adamant that “things were just sooo much better in the old days”. I have a chuckle at this, and turn to see if any of the other people waiting are seeing the humour. My eyes fall on a madala who’s just sitting there. This is a man who has had resistance-free queuing panelled into him by the old Apartheid government, and it appears that their mark has been permanent. He just sits, unfazed by anything around him. This man could wait forever. My thoughts are ripped back to reality by a bit of a commotion at the counter. The (rather attractive) woman behind the counter has taken a dislike to a man’s insistence that she bend The Rules for him. In a flawless Mitchell’s Plain accent she erupts: “Yoo mahst dzust lissen man! Wat’s rong with yoo hay? Jissis!”
My number comes up and I submit my paperwork. I get the nod of approval, and join queue number three for the day – The Cashier. Despite there being nobody at said cashier, I am ordered into a queue of one. Morning has now passed into afternoon, but the entertainment has meant my sense of humour is remarkably intact. Tant Sannie calls me up to the cashier, and I part with £10 in exchange for a receipt. This woman is sweet and tolerant, but could have come STRAIGHT out of any Home Affairs department in the 1970’s. She looks too young, but could well be the only remnant from the Old Days. She stamps my receipt with the vigour of a John Vorster Square sergeant and says “You are now free to go”.
I stroll outside into the bright winter sunshine engulfing Whitehall, thinking that we are a very strange people, and I wonder just how strange we must look to the outside world.
