There’s the taxi overtaking on the inside (the minibus taxis here proudly stop anywhere, anytime without indicating), a truck changing lanes from the right, check rear-view mirror, a pedestrian dodging between lanes, look ahead, a BMW driver doing what BMW drivers do, a gaggle of guys selling stuff at every intersection (mainly flags and football paraphernalia but also phone chargers and a host of other mainly useless stuff made in China), glue-sniffing beggars, glue-free beggars (there’s an old guy with scraggly hair operating an intersection down the road from us who has a sign saying “poodle needs a wash”), potholes, uncovered drains and the broken traffic lights. Plus the cops.
I mentioned a few weeks back that I was fined for driving an unregistered vehicle. R500 paid without complaint. By the beginning of this week I had still not got the problem sorted. Lo and behold we were on the way into town on Tuesday morning when we bump the mother of all roadblocks. It was like there was a manhunt on. All the traffic was being funnelled from five lanes into two. My initial thought was accident. Then as we got closer the reality dawned. Metro Police. The
Invisible car
So here we are heading slowly towards the inevitable. I felt like a drug smuggler or a defector. There was no way out. There were about a hundred cops (Okay forty. A lot) checking every license disc on every car that passed, and pulling over those that did not comply. There was even a mobile office where the unlucky could pay their fines on the spot. The Asian guy in his Volvo, the delivery guy in his bakkie, a housewife in her Merc and of course the usual collection of taxis. Nobody seemed immune. I had given up hope.
And yet as we approached the point of impact the sea of police parted. It was like Moses in the bible. We became invisible for the two minutes (thirty seconds) we inched through the control zone. Suddenly we had a green light and open road ahead. You’ll never take me alive coppers. I was ecstatic, euphoric, explaining what happened in terms of divine intervention. It reminded of the time many years ago my mates and I were pulled over by the cops while in possession of contraband that was never found. (It’s a long story)
Not very
I am in favour of the cops doing their work and would have paid up no problem but it’s quite fun to dodge a bullet that way. Later in the day I was driving to a meeting on the northern side of Jozi (Rivonia). I do not know this part of town and although I looked at a map before departure it’s difficult to navigate as most of the street names are written on the kerb, and street signs are either missing, or too small to read until it’s to late. It’s like Daaaarn that was the turning and you have a guy who looks like a bouncer driving a BMW aggressively a metre behind you. Try your luck at the next turn buddie.
So there I was heading down Rivonia Road, lost and disoriented (Not as badly as my mate at the bar last Saturday) when I saw my salvation. Cops. This time, the SAPS Flying Squad. The elite. The guys who know their shit, know their way around, know Jozi streets much better than me. I pulled up next to the car and rolled down the passenger window. Ja howzit I’m looking for Mutual Road. Can you help? I saw by the look in the drivers face four words into the sentence he couldn’t. He in turn spoke to his three colleagues.
The passenger cop leaned towards me and said “It’s best if you just drive up and down checking the street names”.
No shit broo. Thanks.
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