poenda

This weekend, I went to the place that named a thousand vajayjays.

The Poenda. Or Secunda for out of towners. Which you can smell, mind you, as you peak over the hill to be met by the welcoming arms of the Sasol plant, replete with about five cooling towers, lots of firey flares, smoke and a sky that smells like a toilet. Also, a plant whose reactors one sees on the back of a R50 bill: Ant's boyfriend gave us a tour of the place, which, in the thick of it, smelt so bad, my head started spinning and I could taste sulphur. It's a mixture of coal, sulphur and so forth which, when the wind blows in the wrong direction – you really wish you had a gas mask. I just wonder how these people could get used to working in a place like this – as in on a plant or reactor that eschews the smell of a thousand rotten eggs. They all seem to be alright though, somehow.

Anyway it's a masterpiece. A wet dream for engineers by anyone's standards. The safety regulations are something else – we needed IDs, special clearance, phones and cameras were confiscated, and I had to wear my seatbelt in the back seat.

The Ant has a dog and ev'thing. Called Roma, naturally. We went to this nightclub which I needn't really describe, for it fits any cliché that may spring to your immediate mind. The lasers. The Afrikaans techno music. The langarmming. And all after a meal of potjiekos at the Bosveld Lapa beforehand. I know two other people that live in this town amazingly, and they joined us for one large bosbefok in this unbelievable place.

Firstly the guys aren't scared. They charf like they own a set of bulldozer keys. And their spading tactics go along the lines of bumping you, giving you the wink and the galloping guns, then unshaken staring, which is a little offputting.

We were squeaking takkie like it was nobody's business, cutting a rug with moves that wouldn't be acceptable in Johannesburg – and yet these dudes made a beeline. Mostly to stare, mostly to can like to come right with these Engelse mense, and this one specimen whispers in my ear: “You...dance...awesome.” One mulleted-dude gave me a smile and I swear to God his bokkie then screams “Hey!” to him, and the other women tried to nudge us off the dancefloor. Ant was daring me to score one of these people, but sorry, there are limits. It probably would've ended in a catfight with some poppie or me administering a tactile before I closed the deal. No ways china.

It's the kind of place you go to ogle. I mean these dudes come up to you, ask if you're married in Afrikaans, and then like my one friend who is, abruptly leave because they're scared they're going to get Vernon Koekemoered by the large rotund man watching with a beady eye in the corner.

Eventually some oke sweeps me up and tries to langarm with me. Yeah, it didn't work out too well. For one he smelt like he'd bathed in a bucket of Old Spice, and for two I didn't fancy being that close to him, because it meant his crotch was in my loin area. But nevertheless he “Een, twee, drie'd” me and tried to patiently teach me the basic moves, eventually just giving me a thumbs up and ducking because I was trying to ballroom and he was doing his up-close-and-arms-like-a-boat-sail thing.
And my potjie was giving me a stitch.

Wow. There's this sprawling casino golf course called Graceland (fashioned most likely on Elvis' very own play palace in Tennessee), which kind of dichotomises the landscape with the Sasol plant, in a very Twilight Zonesque manner.

It was wonderful seeing my friend again. And now with white picket-pallisade-fenced home and Italian dog in tow.

Also, very importantly, this weekend was filled with celebration. But that's worth an entire post all on its own. My head is in the clouds.
My life as I knew it, has just changed.

safety officers, two wheels & a town

I hung with 3RM last night after we buried Chad.
3RM dug the hole, and I delivered him unto the Earth.

(“What you do today Dale?” I dug a hole.)

There were a few things we both agreed on:

1)Vernon Koekemoer is moving to Parkhurst. The Jolly Roger is his new playground and he's made the trip out from Brakpan using a furniture removal company's truck. He's gone Northern Suburbs. And he's capitalising. Or maybe not, but that would be funny. And possibly a situation where truth is stranger than fiction. (“Where you from?” Parkhurst boet. “Oh.”)

2)I have no junk in my trunk. Or so he reckons. It'll be cool to have an appetite again.

3)We're off to Secunda on Saturday! I jest it not. Roadtrip, except not to the balmy paradise of the Natal coast, but to the eastern dwelling-cum- the Sasol-oasis of The Poenda to stay with The Ant in her new home and get shown around. Finally. It's going to be one helluva cultural experience, with my little Italian friend whoreganising a tour around the plant and some huge peri-urban nightclub experience probably involving Vern lookalikes and lots of platinum blonde hair. Can't wait.

4)Tom Cruise is a nutcase.

5)The Ant was assigned as Safety Officer at her job in The Poenda. And her company takes safety very very seriously. Only the Ant would be relegated to such a position and a) take it seriously, and b) find time for it.

For instance, her latest case involved a woman falling off her chair on answering her desk phone. Ant had to file a whole case with regards to position of phone on desk, possible wear-and-tear of the chair, possible obstructions accounting for how this could happen, costs involved, latitude of the chair itself, her blood type, everything involving a phone, a chair and a woman who leaned over too much to the left. She files cases on top of her job. God I can't wait to see her.

6)We're going to a birthday karaoke party tonight. I said to 3RM: “Dude if you sing, you're going to need to be drunk.” Instead he said, “Dude I'm gonna have to be drunk to watch you sing.” Oh I see then.

The things we don't agree on from yesterday:

1)That he didn't go around the corner on two wheels, with me in his car.

2)That I questioned the fact that sexual prowess is indicative of how someone takes corners.

3)And that he thinks a person who allegedly takes corners on two wheels, shouldn't be questioned on their sexual prowess.

4)He says the St Elmo's Fire theme tune sounds like the rolling credits of a soap opera. Which is a gross and whoring misdescription.

5)He's only one quarter Portuguese. Whatever. How many trinchadas can one person eat?

6) He thought the Murder She Wrote jingle is from Mylo, that techno guy.

He's such a peach. I can't wait for the weekend. Which is, oh look at that, right here.