Hit and Run

I hate running. This is due to the feeling I get after a do it for a while – kind of a cross between feeling the need to vomit and pass out at the same time. I will also, without fail, get a least one side-splitting abdominal cramp. And did I mention I have bad knees?

In high school I always avoided the sports that required long periods of running at practice; field hockey, softball, track – not to mention cross-country which seemed like a fate worse than death. I did, however, play soccer for a season and funny enough we didn’t run much…maybe that’s why we didn’t win much either.

But here in Durbs I can sometimes be seen on streets of my ‘hood participating in my most favourite activity. The reasoning behind this seemingly absurd choice of self-torture can be explained using simple “mathematics”:

Sitting at desk all day + No Gym Access = Fat Ass.

Sitting at desk all day + Periodic Running = At least not feeling like Fat Ass.

Running on the streets of Durban can actually be dangerous, although not for the reasons that Durban is usually dangerous (like muggings, car-jackings and other forms of violent crime) but because people here CANNOT DRIVE. I mean I’ve seen some pretty bad driving in my day in several different countries, not to mention at home in the US. Where my own brother for instance has had his driver’s license suspended since 2003. So let’s just say I’ve got some experience.

But at least under the circumstances in my recent memory the bad driving can be attributed to one or more causal factors:

1.) Being in a hurry. Examples: Most bad drivers in the US.

2.) Being an asshole/ Having Road Rage. Example: Me on the PA Turnpike after I get cut off by someone from Jersey.

3.) Lack of proper driver training. Examples: Most bad drivers in the developing world.

4.) Lack of traffic laws and traffic law enforcement. Examples: Developing world again and Europe.

5.) Pure stupidity. Example: My Brother.

It seems to me that there is evidence here in SA of all the above mentioned causal factors. The disturbing thing is the psychotic and sometimes homocidal nature of bad driving in South Africa. It’s like they want to hit you – even when you’re standing on the sidewalk!

I have the bad habit of stepping off the curb onto the edge of the street when I’m waiting to cross. But I’ve become a bit more patient recently since I realized that careening drivers seem to see this as a perfect opportunity to take me out and add a notch to their Dead Pedestrian Belts.

I also never proceed into an intersection – red light or no – unless I have complete visual confirmation that all oncoming traffic has definitively stopped. Because around here red lights are at best, optional. People say that’s because they’re afraid of car-jackings – but I don’t buy it. They just don’t feel like stopping. It makes much more sense to risk death in a head-on collision.

One good thing though: I like running alot more when it becomes an adventure sport.

Ode to the Laundromat Man

 

O Laundromat Man, O Laundromat Man,

I always avoid you for as long as I can.

Your eyes black and beady, your teeth mustard brown,

Are certain to greet me along with your frown.

Your balding, bespectacled countenance I dread,

When all I really want is clean sheets on my bed.

You sneer at my parcels and weigh with disdain,

All the dirty laundry I’ve brought you again.

If only a bathtub, I had in my flat…

I could wash my own clothes, I wouldn’t mind that!

Some clothes return bleach-spotted with many a crease,

But this I must overlook to maintain the peace.

I could stay and wash them myself – it’s true!

But that would only increase my exposure – to you!

My options are few as by now you must know.

For month after month down to your shop I go.

You smoke like a chimney and smell like a boot,

Plus I suspect you overcharge me, you rascally old coot!

O Laundromat Man, O Laundromat Man,

This is why I avoid you for as long as I can.

Ironing Intervention

I need help. It’s become a daily thing – i can’t walk out my door without ironing at least one article of clothing. I even ironed a pair of jeans the other day and it wasn’t even the first time!

I now have begun to feel extremely self-conscious when I walk around in public only partially pressed. South Africans are a little obsessed with ironing. Some have told me that they are embarrassed to be seen in public with someone who’s clothes are wrinkly. And there’s just something so satisfying about watching all those wrinkles – no matter how small – quietly disappear after one pass of the iron.

Ahhh! What is happening to me?? Gone are the days when my iron came out only on special occasions and I thought nothing of selecting the day’s clothing out of a rumpled heap on the floor.Moorma, where are you when I need you! I keep thinking about you for support, picturing you in your characteristic oxford button-down that hasn’t felt wrinkle-eliminating heat since the day you bought it. You’re my inspiration.

I need an old priest and a young priest…

Air conditioners in South Africa are commonly known as “Aircons”. I have an Aircon in my apartment and it hasn’t worked properly for about 4-5 months now. While I acknowledge that I’m lucky to have any Aircon in the first place, I’m slowly being driven mad by the growling, spitting beast I’ve been living with since September.

My Aircon isn’t shaped like the ones in the US but like most of the ones here in SA which are long, skinny and mounted in the wall instead of in a window. When it started dripping a little (on the inside) I called my nice but slightly batty landlady to alert her to the problem. It wasn’t that big of a deal then since the water was only landing on the kitchen countertop and not doing any damage. My landlady intends to be helpful and she did try to do something about it.

I imagine getting something like an Aircon fixed shouldn’t be that difficult and would involve the following steps;

1.) Call Repairman

2.) Repairman visits and finds the problem

3.) Repairman fixes the problem

4.) Repairman is paid.

But as I learned sometime ago, nothing here is quite as easy as it seems, especially for my landlady – who incidentally walks around her own property in the disguise of a wig and sunglasses. I don’t think she’s trying to hide from people; she just seems to like wearing them. She’s very afraid of being thought of as an absentee landlord – although I don’t see how that could be possible since she lives a stone’s throw away from my front door – so she’s really put forth her best effort over the past 4-5 months to fix my Aircon problem.

Last week the Aircon stopped consistently blowing cold air, when it was blowing cold air it began leaking – ALOT – and making a very scary loud clacking noise, kind of like it was going to explode. I alerted my landlady to this problem. She stopped by yesterday evening, fiddled with the controls and promised that the elusive Repairman would be coming again the next day.

Then at about 4:30am this morning I was awakened by the sounds of splashing liquid coming from the vicinity of the Aircon. I soon realized that the sounds were caused by water squirting onto the countertop in diarrhea-like bursts. I was considering getting out of bed to inspect the situation, when the Aircon started making an extremely loud and unnatural growling noise. I tried to turn it off using the remote (there are no manual controls for some reason) but discovered the remote had been soaked by all the water and wouldn’t work.

Heather was lucky enough to be sleeping over last night and we proceeded to do what I normally do with malfunctioning machinery – beat the crap out of it. At this point the Aircon began to spit out chunks of ice like an ice cube machine but at a velocity fast enough to take out someone’s eye. After a few minutes of encouragement the last chunk clattered across the countertop there was peaceful silence.

Decapitation by monster ice shard spewed into kitchen from bowels of demonically possessed Aircon – one more way to die in South Africa.