Helping mom fetch the new washing machine and move the twin towers took far longer than expected.
Security was tight at the used appliance dealer’s house in Central. Three Doberman’s wielding machetes for teeth snapped passops at Zach and I; their snouts sticking through the font gate. We didn’t need to press the buzzer, as everyone on the block came outside to see who was there. “The girls are really tame, I promise! Lilly, Petal, Sal, be nice ladies!” said the little grey haired salesman, as Zok and I scrambled back into the car and locked all the doors for extra safety.
I could hardly breathe when we loaded the ’95 Defy into my dad’s cabbie. My knees wobbled and my arms felt like they’d unhinge at the shoulders, but at least there was a block of steel to use as ballast, should those foul beasts have chosen to strike. Our dog Maxi wouldn’t look at Zok and I when we got home. He sniveled about us smelling like the apocalypse.
The twin towers are a pair of cupboards that stand around 12 feet. They’re not heavy, but grinding them through the house made for a Laurel and Hardy skit.
Mase and I finally hit the road late in the afternoon, car piled up with boards and braaing accessories. Road works on the N2 have become part of the weather. It seems like they’ve always been there. Taking the Thornhill turn off is almost just The Way nowadays, and not a detour anymore. So it came as a surprise to the two of us when we encountered a burly road worker, standing near the gravel road where we needed to turn off. He flagged us down, pointing to a sign that said: ‘Detour closed.’ There were tattoos all over his bald head and he had an unlit, cigar sized roll up cig with no filter dangling in his mouth. I would have said he was a stranded Hell’s Angel if it wasn’t for the luminous yellow municipal waste jacket.
We stopped and I stuck my head out and said, “The road closed?” like an annoying person who doesn’t read signs.
The man lit a match effortlessly on his beard, looked at us and said, “Off the bloody road you shtupid d$$s, Go that way!” pointing South West. So we took off again and followed his order. Who doesn’t listen to someone that could break your arms with the crease in his forehead? “Should we turn back up the road?” asked Mase.
“No bru, I think he’s just given us the short cut,” I answered, “why else would he tell us to go this way?”
A hadida flew over the car, as we headed down a narrow road through an area I didn’t recognize. Nothing looked familiar. Not the green hills that ran like a sea of khaki shorts. Not the lonesome houses that popped up every once in a while. Nothing. The hadida squawked at us and then dropped a fresh white turd on the windscreen, which the wipers spread around like smoke in a bathroom. We planned to stop in J-bay to get petrol on the way, so it was of the essence that we didn’t take chances.
“You’re a kak navigator” said Mase. He wasn’t lying. I have a 97 year old deaf, blind a senile man’s sense of direction. We saw a large troupe of baboons leaping on an empty car lying in a roadside ditch. The alpha male ripped out the front seat out and steering wheel, and had it set them up in a thick baobab tree. He was pretending to drive, while his less sophisticated subjects used the abandoned vessel like a jungle gym.
“That’s our car in a week,” said Mase.
There were a few worried phone calls to family members for directions and the odd dirty word spoken. Our journey seemed to be taking us nowhere. But as we waddled cautiously over a long hill there stood a glimmer of hope within eyeshot: Hankey. We were not lost any more. As we turned onto Hankey’s main road, Radio Algoa reception shot back to life and we drove carelessly to the nearest petrol point, letting out a heavy sigh of relief.
***
The waiting period for the Pipeline Masters has just begun, so check out www.aspworldtour.com to see when its showing live. It’s the last of the WCT for 2008!
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