post
9 Feb 2012
Sit tight kids. It’s a long read.
I have parked in an open, dirt lot, in the middle of town for over 6 months. The lot is run by some lovely Nigerians ( totally amiable to a bribe or two) and costs your pocket R400 a month. Yes, I have in fact paid for the privilege of driving across jagged rocks, squelching through mud in winter, frying my hands on the steering wheel in stummer and the fact that you cannot reserve a spot. If you leave to go out to a meeting, there is no guarantee that your bay will be there to greet you upon your return. Additionally, if you arrive after 8.30 AM, they will turn you away because the lot is full. Always a great idea to sell 300 spots in a lot that only accomodates 150.
This is how you combat a recession people!
Every day brought with it the possibility that I would encounter vocal beggars, needy addicts, the most persistent flower seller known to mankind, sexist morons and a madman high on glue, whilst walking from lot to office.
[If I had this car, I wouldn't have these problems.]
Parking in town is criminal. The pickings are slim and the waiting lists lengthy. I stuck it out. I became Cape Town’s certified, parking guru of the foreshore and lower CBD. If there was parking to be found, I could tell you when, where and how much you had to bribe. Oh how far the mighty have fallen. I knew about faulty parking booms, lenient car guards and even where the city stashes the free bays (the rumours are true).
After months of waiting, tons of hopeful cold-calls, and dealing with a lot of German landlords (my favourite pastime), I was finally able to rent a bay. In a building. With 24 hour security. With lovely views and a charming reception. I signed the lease and was given my own access disk for both the lot and the lobby, as well as the exclusive parking rights to P-24. I could do whatever I wished with it.
[Heck! I could even park my pet llama there if I wanted to.]
The next day, I drove up to the garage radiating glee ( the emotion, not the tv show) … which died quickly when I found out that my access disk was faulty and that I now had to talk my way into the garage.
I did.
And I then arrived to find that someone had parked in my bay. Some little MINI. Okay, mistakes happen. I could park in a visitor bay and risk being clamped. No big deal. Except on the second, third and fourth days it happened again. So on Friday morning, after battling to suppress the extreme urge to park the stupid git in, deflate their tires and take a 9-iron to their windshield. Repeatedly. I called my agent for the 4th time. And for the 4th time she assured me that security was sorting it out and that they had clamped the car. Except I was looking at the car and it was pretty clamp-free. I went to work cursing the parking lot gods and carrying the naive belief that it would be sorted by the end of the day.
[People who steal bays, should be dragged outside, flogged and shot.]
After a long week and an even longer Friday, I left work only to discover that I couldn’t get into the building because of my broken access disk. Great. The receptionist magically appeared out of thin air and let me in. Clearly the gods had taken pity. She assured me that my disk would be activated on Monday and that I just needed to explain my situation to the two security guards in the garage. They would then let both me and my car out. Okay cool.
So I strolled up to what felt like the 8 thousandth floor, only to find that the criminal was still there in P-24. Unclamped. Every human has a breaking point (reaching mine was helped greatly by PMS). Right! I was taking matters into my own hands, as clearly the world didn’t work if I didn’t run it. I drove down to security. I was going to clamp the car myself at this stage.
[Despite hormone-fueled, mood swing of pure, unadulterated terror.]
[I was still in quite a happy place.]
Now the crucial thing to remember here is that I drive a MINI … as does the delinquent parking in P-24. So when security saw my MINI approaching down the ramp, they naturally thought I was the guilty party coming to confess my crimes. Except I wasn’t.
I cheerfully approached, began rattling off about my access disc woes and asked if they could please help me with this loon parading around in my bay. I was met with judgemental stares and raised, Congolese eyebrows. Unbeknown to me, they were fully convinced that I was the culprit they’d been asked to clamp. They had been lying in wait.
And then confusion reigned supreme, and what followed can only be described as 30 minutes of sheer, complete and utter frustration. The more I explained the situation and protested my innocence, the more they were convinced that I was guilty. I tried in vain to tell them that they had mixed up their MINI’s ( oh modern day problems!) but they cried liar! They had seen me parking there for MONTHS, I had been cheating the system and what exactly did I have to say about my illegal behaviour? It was going to cost me R250 to get out, so I had better go and find the cash. I said I wasn’t going to pay. I couldn’t pay. They said I was. They then radioed for back up.
Back Up?
They’re calling back up? What kind of parking lot has back up?
[Who's back up?]
I hate conflict, I had no cash, fragile emotions and kept chanting a combination of the serenity prayer and the firm reminder not to burst out into uncontrollable sobs.
But I was in luck, for my salvationarrived in the form of a tiny, coloured woman who turned out to be Head of Security. Apparently this was Back Up. Hands on hips: she meant business. She took one look at the situation, marched right up to the two guards and proceeded to say:
“Are you vokken stupid? I sent you a picture of the car to clamp. *(Gets out BlackBerry to find picture)* Is this a silver MINI?
NO! It’s cream!
Open your eyes!”
And with that she walked away and left us to get on with our lives.
The following week, I found out that the guy in P-24 has been parking there illegally for over a year…and has been using a story about a faulty access disc to gain entrance. The fact that he is a male and I a female seemed to escape security’s notice. I don’t blame him. Desperate times call for desperate measures and parking in town is a nightmare.
But his car has been clamped. His car is still there. And I still do not have a bay.
