Tuesday, September 01, 2009

rontburg affairs de maison


Quick, what are some of the more disgusting places you’ve ever visited?

1) the next door neighbour’s long drop
2) Sasolburg
3) The armpit of a 100 mile-a-day hobo, shoved into your face
4) Home Affairs Randburg

Sweet Mary, Joseph and the rest of the Inn staff.

I’m telling you, you just feel dirty walking in there. You don’t even have to touch anything; the place is grubby and feral enough.

I was last there in 2001, in a fit of pandemonium. Just me being me in a crisis.

My passport had unwittingly found itself spackled in perfume, and now half my head was blotted out from the photo area. The United States had already issued me a visa in this passport, but Virgin Atlantic had, instead, thrown my boyfriend and I off the plane saying something like:

‘Half yer head is missin’ mate. You are going to have to get another visa and another passport if you fink you’re going to step foot in Hingland and ‘Merica for even a second.’

The twin towers had just fallen; it was a bit of a tetchy time.

And yet we had to be in New York – come hell or high water – for a mandotory American orientation session the following day, to get social security numbers.

Nonetheless, in 2001 – I scrambled through the queue like a woman with rabies – mad, salivating from the piehole, and irate – to get a passport done in one day. And that is without handing someone a bribe, because I simply didn’t have two coins to rub together at that stage.

I got that passport, and the US embassy kindly issued me with another visa. Back then Home Affairs was a dirty, dismal, fraught-with-corruption and grubby walls kind of hole, and I was satisfied to note yesterday, with a certain familiarity, that it still looks and smells very much the same. The place is lost in time, and has been whitewashed with human crap. Basically.

Except now, I feel an added hatred towards the ‘officials’ here – and I use that term loosely – as it’s because of them and their fucking syndicated fake passports, that we now need UK visas.

So wasn’t especially looking forward to the trip, to paint the picture.

I paid someone - a passport agent - a whopping R400 not to stand in the queue. What a fucking rip off, crisis, but what is a girl meant to do – my Blackberry’s ringing off the hook, [that shrill noise shoots my blood pressure up something chronic] I have meetings to tear to, shit is crappening, and this woman had the sheer balls to charge me R400 to get me to the front of the queue.

Fine. So be it. So without touching anything – seriously the place is a toilet – and the people there don’t give a FUCK about time or service – the usual – I ordered an extra thick passport.

Then I marched down the embankment in my patent leather fuck-me heels (what in the devils’ name was I thinking?), to get me an unabridged birth certificate.

Why? Actually I don’t know. Perhaps there’s a part of me that’s hoping that I might even slightly comply for a British passport.
I had a British grandmother and a British grandfather, so I’m hoping that if I even try hard enough and go through all the processes that may be, the universe could smile down at me, and I might even get one. [We’ll laugh off the French side of the family for now; they’re completely disorganised.]

I’m drayming. I know.

What the fuck.

Then. THEN. I head back to my car, where some muppet has whacked a bucket on the floor directly behind it.

‘Hey, please can you move your bucket so that I can reverse out.’

‘Give me R2.And your phone number.

He’s got me on a bad day, and he doesn’t even know it yet. The sense of entitlement makes something in my brain go ‘pop’ and steam starts streaming out of my ears like a DeLonghi kettle.

‘No thanks, just move your bucket.’

‘I like white women, you and I must go and talk over there.’ [Pointing to a bush and rubbing his pectorals, I’d think, in a bid to metaphoricalise my tits.]

‘No thank you. Move your bucket. Now.’

Still following me right to my door: ‘I want to fuck you, come baby, I like white women.’

[ping]

‘LISTEN HERE YOU FUCKING FUCK. GET AWAY FROM MY DOOR, I’M NOT IN THE FUCKING MOOD FOR THIS, DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND ME????’

He laughs. In my face.

So I reversed over his bucket, and only realised along Malibongwe that maybe I shouldn’t have done that, notwithstanding the simple pleasure of fucking up his bucket, but because I don’t currently have an undercarriage attached to my car.

Proceeded to drag aforementioned bucket across the car park while he laughed in my dust and I felt violated.

And that clearly shouldn’t be encouraged, in case the bucket swallows my exposed engine up whole. Just paid for a trip to Italy, the undercarriage is going to have to wait.

That little shit. Is what I’m saying.

Actually, this is what I’m saying: get an extra thick passport. So you only have to go this godforsaken place once every ten years.

14 comments:

getaway said...

That's government facilities for you!! You should see Home Affairs Cape Town, not even the dutiful Helen Zille can save this hell hole.

With 5 million pen vendors thrusting ballpoints in your face, taking advantage of the market for pens seeing as they've given up on the complementary ones once provided; and the tunneling echo of babies crying in the new births registration area - its a dream.

At least now its over and you don't have to think of it until you've crossed at least half the earth's surface.

Peas on Toast said...

getaway - I used to think this was an impossible feat: not even the dutiful Helen Zille can save this hell hole.


And then I took stock of Hone Affairs. You're right, even if she coupled up with Chuck Norris, its a dead dream.

I suppose Bic may be happy though ;)

the branch manager said...

Fuck. I like white women too. Not quite so pushy though. You should have maced the fucker!

Peas on Toast said...

branch - yeah I should've, but I reckoned taking on the bucket would've been enough...I just wanted to get the hell outta there ;)

The Levi Store said...

wheres my bucket lady? i need it back!

THE SITUATION IS BEYOND A JOKE! A FELLOW IN DURBAN HANGED HIMSELF LAST WEEK CAUSE THE ASSHOLES AT HOME AFFAIRS GAVE HIM SO MUCH GRIEF!

Peas on Toast said...

Levi - NEXT TIME HE RUBS HIS PECS AND INSINUATES THAT I SHOULD GO PLAY WITH HIM IN A BUSH, TELL HIM TO THINK TWICE!

Seriously that's not funny, he couldn't have taken it that bad right? ;)

The Levi Store said...

Sometimes its sad to be a guy, like when iv to sit through that rape advert on tv.. iv honestly never ever touched a lady in anger ever! Not once!
(iv spanked one or two, but they loved it and wanted!)
And its a similar thing when you get verbally violated in this manner!
Thats why they gave a witou asylum in canada yesterday! cause he was white.. and too much pressure similar to what you experienced!
On a lighter note...
1. friend of mine applied for ID, it came back with a darkie face!
2. iv seen an ID of a darkie guy, they captured his name as Matric Exemption!

Peas on Toast said...

Levi - yeah I've seen Matric Exemption - classic, except it was even spelt wrong if I remember correctly - Matric Examption.' HAHAHAHA

The Levi Store said...

Correct! exAmtion! I have the image saved somewhere.. :)

Paul said...

My solution to "Bucket Guy" would have been a SiG Sauer P226...double tap to the head and/or chest and repeat as indicated until target is neutralised (ie) as dead as last Christmas' fucking turkey dinner LOL. Seriously though, dudes like that ARE looking for a confrontation and the best thing to do *is* just drive off. I can also second the comments re: Home Affairs in Cape Town...Third (Turd?) World Cesspool comes to mind! It was already an assault on the senses a few years ago and I'm dreading having to go there to renew my passport next month :-(

Peas on Toast said...

Paul - oh shit you too? Good luck for going there dude, is all I can say. God speed - yikes!

Had he touched me, I would've executed a slamdunk to his testicles....at least I would've tried!

Duckshlong said...

The problem is that 98% of blacks give the rest a bad name

FiOnion said...

Whoa, I miss reading your blog for a coupla weeks and what do I find? I coulda saved you some grief! Bestest Home Affairs place is in Krugersdorp.

Yep. Krugersdorp. You park right outside the door, the photo touts are quite mannerly, the info people can string more than two words together, there is almost no queue at the "What Must I Do" counter (three people don't count, do they?), and the "Hand Over All My Papers" queue only has five people in it.

The place feels like an old primary school (probably was, circa 1920) and as we left my son (who is getting his first-ever ID book) said to me, "I thought you said these places sucked?"

What's more, we'd hardly got to the car (outside, close to the door) when my cellphone beeped with the automated SMS to say that the process was underway.

Next time: Krugersdorp. 'K?
:D

Tammy said...

"... Perhaps there’s a part of me that’s hoping that I might even slightly comply for a British passport.
I had a British grandmother and a British grandfather, so I’m hoping that if I even try hard enough and go through all the processes that may be, the universe could smile down at me, and I might even get one."

You would be entitled to one. I have british grandparants too, and my brother moved over to London eariler this year - with a British ancestrial visa. Only thing is - you have to live in UK for bout 5 yrs til you get British passport.