Sprinkled with Paranoia

I have been struggling a little bit with my car that past few weeks.  And while sometimes you wish car repairs are one of those things you could post-pone doing, they sort of have a way of ensuring they become urgent. 

It’s annoying really.  The damn thing just stops. 

So mine was on the verge of doing just that when I took it in for repairs.  The way I saw it was that either I put holes in the bottom and we could propel it Flintstone style, or I needed to find some mechanical assistance.  And after weighing my options, the pro’s and cons, i.e. no gym membership needed, less petrol costs, etc., I decided that mechanical assistance is probably best.       

Having taken in my car previously for a disk replacement, I took it to the same place, not sure if they do clutch replacement or not.  I drive in and roll down my window to ask. 

One of the sales people comes to my car and asks if he can help and in response to my query replies,

“No, we normally do not do clutch replacement, but ‘don’t worry, we can make a plan”.  (I can see that the motivation to ‘make a plan’ is clearly a result of this man liking what he sees.  God bless those who make hair dye, make-up, spanx and booster bras.  Heaven knows what I am going to do when my blessed age of 29 gradually creeps up).    

The statement ‘don’t worry’ is really an indication that there are things you should be worrying about but are being asked to make the deliberate choice not too.  And that alone, is usually reason enough to worry! 

The ‘making of a plan’ is infamous for just that.  It is as it sounds.  People organise, and make a plan.  And the plan is, aside from the paper with pictures of dead presidents, a paperless transaction.  

Experience has taught me that with car repairs, it really does not matter how business gets done, because someone is about to be screwed. It was my hope and prayer that it wasn’t going to be me this time.          

Not faced with an infinite amount of options (my car will not go far), I submit to ‘the plan’.   

A few hours later, after some price negotiation, which is now about 60% of the original quotation, they need cash to “purchase the parts”. 

Internal alarm bells sound.  ‘Oh, hell no.  My car and cash?  Sounds like a rat.’     

A request, to which I asked if they could not purchase the parts and I reimburse them? 

Besides, how far am I going to go if they have my car, out of the two of us, they were sitting with the balance of power.  An agreement to which they originally agreed and then reneged and I needed to come up with at least half, an amount to which they undertook to finance the balance.

I walk back to the workshop, cash in hand revisiting the process in my head and examining myself for errors of judgement and checking my internal stupidity barometer...  It is now 4pm and the car, is now laying in about four hundred pieces; a sight at which my stomach turned and an obvious indication that it is much too late to change my mind.  

Not having transport, the ‘garage’ arranges for a car for me.                

My ‘courtesy car’ is the first guy’s personal car, a 2004, royal blue Corsa lite.  Not a luxury car by any stretch of the imagination, but hey, a car is a car and they are sitting with my car, in 400 pieces, no paperwork and cash.  I need to have my head examined.  At least my having a car (albeit a poor trade off), is a small consolation that they are somewhat serious about fixing my car, so I tell myself.       

So I climb in and prepare to depart.  The car’s gear shift where the gear indicators had been rubbed off with time and so the first exercise was to establish exactly where reverse was.  Incidentally the car also brought to my attention that power steering is a luxury. 

After some effort I manage and pull myself into traffic.  I am acutely aware that I am putting on the windshield wipers instead of the signal lights when suddenly I am jerked backwards.  I am now driving from the back seat instead of the front; a position from which I am no longer able to reach the pedals thanks to the sudden collapse of the seatback.  In a state of heighten alertness (code for full on panic), I pull desperately on the steering wheel shifting myself forward enough to access the foot petals and slam on the brakes before the rapidly approaching red light.  My heart pounding, I manage to stop the car and attempt to get the seat back to return to its upright position. 

A whole lot of drama for a simple half a block of progress.      

Yes, I am missing my car even more now.  And an FYI, seatbelts are entirely useless when there is no seat back.        

All in all, I manage to arrive home safely with only two additional terrifying visits to the back seat; holding on desperately to hope established on the promise that the car would be fixed yet this evening.  

When it’s ready “we will call you”, they had promised.

But by six pm, I still had no telephone call and now I am beginning to wonder if I had not inadvertently purchased the petrol to take my car to Mozambique for a permanent holiday on the coast – which wouldn’t be so bad if I were in it...  assuming of course that ‘in it’ would imply at minimum, sitting comfortably in the driver’s seat and not tucked in the boot (trunk). 

Once again, I find myself revisiting my decision making processes for errors of judgement and decide that perhaps I need to drive back to the garage and check whether my car is still there (I mean – because after all I will be able to something about it if it isn’t-haha). 

So I climb back into my courtesy chariot and aside from the automated front to back seat transfer mechanism, I also do not have headlights that actually work and it is already dark outside.  I drive back to the garage... periodically flashed by oncoming traffic – the polite way of saying, “turn on your lights you moron” -  with only one trip to the back seat this time. 

I arrive at the garage to find that the building has been locked up.  The side gate is still open and one ‘back business’ is still busy, but not the one where my car is located.  The good news: my car is still there, albeit with no front tires.  It does however look as though it is in a few less pieces than my last visit, but it does not look like it has any intention of being returned to me yet this evening; a sight which causes some irritation.        

On my way again, I call and enquire whether my car will still be fixed yet today.  I will check and phone you back, he tells me. 

The phone remains silent. 

I still have no evidence that my car is there or had been there in the event that someone drives it away.  

‘I should have taken a picture’! I think to myself more irritated.        

I go back, this time with a friend, angry with myself for not thinking of taking a picture the first time around. 

It’s been about 30 minutes since I left.  It’s now closed.  Locked up tight.  I estimate the time gap and assume that my car must still be there. We travel around to the back and peak over the boundary fence. 

Yes it has reached the full height of madness , a security guard is walking over to check ‘what in hell we are doing’.  We ignore him.     

The car is there.  Its bonnet open and front tires still off; a sight which this time causes relief.       

I take a picture between the barbed wire attached to the top of the boundary fence as ‘evidence’ if needed, that my car really ‘was there’.  Just in case. 

That night, I put myself to bed and sink into an uneasy sleep. 

The next morning I wake up and arrive at the garage as soon as I am able, the complimentary Corsa keeping me in the front seat the whole way this time.        

And there she was.  My car.  All fixed up, in one piece and ready to go; running like new.    

I breathed a sigh of relief, said a prayer of thanks and paid the balance. 

For a change, it’s a happy ending, but I am well aware that it could have been otherwise. 

I cannot help but wonder if more happy endings such as this one would soon start to change our expectations and perceptions.  It may even significantly contribute towards a reduction in paranoia. 

But that, I suppose, is entirely up to us.

 

The Novelty of Newness

New things can be exciting and stressful, but one thing for sure, newness does not last and novelty disappears soon after it's started. Take this blog for example, I was going to be ambitious and committed and write in advance.  It’s now the night before publishing time.  Late. And here I am Racking my brain for something to say.  Now it also doesn’t seem to help that I am talking into random cyberspace, but that is another blog all together.   

This is a new year, but already the novelty has worn away and we are getting about our daily business and trying to desperately remember to write 2014 instead of 2013, which in our repeated attempts to adapt, is already getting old.     

And so 2014 is starting with quite a few ‘new’s’ for us; a new office environment, a new school for my daughter, and so new people and new goals... new expectations and new decisions that need to be made, new schedules... etc.      

And while it can be exciting, there is a desire for a little more of the mundane as we scramble to adapt.  And by mundane I simply mean things in life that are expected.  All cannot be new forever.  Thankfully.  

Constant newness would be exhausting. 

As with most things even a new car loses its lustre.  Slowly the ‘new’ experience of driving it, after a few months, becomes standard.  And a new baby loses his or her novelty even faster.  Two nights of no sleep and a few poopy diapers will do it. 

And so he or she remains novel to those who have not yet met or seldom care for him / her.  Trust me, there is nothing like losing your status in your mother’s eyes than by giving birth to a grandchild.  “Ohhh, look at her.  She is soooo cute.  Come to Oma”.  “It’s nice to see you too Mom, I’m well, thanks for asking”.  You call at her retreating back after she’s taken her grandchild out of your arms.  Its a serious change (downgrade) in status.  From 'daughter' to 'mother of my grandchild.'  A serious indication that your novelty has worn off.

I am by no means measuring their value against one another.  If the new car smelt bad after a few hours and kept you from much needed sleep, it would lose its novelty much quicker too.

I suppose the joy of newness is that it serves as a reminder that you are still alive and growing; still on the path to somewhere, even if the somewhere itself is somewhat obscure. 

I am grateful for the ‘new’s’ thus far.  Thankful that anything ‘new’ keeps me away from the ‘same old’, ‘same old.’ 

Too much ‘same old,’ ‘same old’, cannot be healthy either.  

So hopefully the ‘newnesses’ still awaiting us in 2014 will indeed be those of blessing and serve as a reminder that life is a journey, not a destination.   

And I suppose that that is really what is meant by 'Happy New Year.'  

And so Happy New Year to you all.   

 

 

Country Bumpkin?

Hey look, there's a tractor, my friend indicated pointing.  'That's not a tractor, its a swather,' I answer taken aback at her ignorance.  That was quite some time ago in those good old high school days.   

Now I understand that knowledge to a large extent is a reflection of exposure and having grown up on a farm there were things that I simply knew.

Milk came from cows (not the grocery store in a carton).  Vegetables grew in the ground.  The difference between hay and straw.  Ham comes from a pig's hindquarters and basic farm machinery such as a plow, cultivator, etc. were things a part of every day language.  Organic eggs meant that the chickens scratched around in their own excrement in a larger combined pen, as opposed to a cage, and the eggs were often seasoned with a little bit of roaster 'seed'.  'Organically grown' meant that natural fertilisers were used and it came out of the back end of some living creature. 

We had a word too for that at our house, and it wasn't 'organic fertilizer.'   

"Good clean shit," my father would call it.   

Bless those who are involved in the marketing process: 'organic fertilizer' eh?     

And growing up in the country made us the bumpkins (dull-witted / not so bright)?  I think not. 

Currently living in a city, there are days when I get reminders that, yes indeed, sadly, I am raising a city slicker for a child.   

'Those mice are so cute,' my daughter tries to tell me a statement to which my mind simply refuses to accept.  'Mice are not cute,' I retort, trying to teach her the basic fundamentals. 

Damn rodents.  Don't these kids learn anything these days? 

Funny thing is that when I grew up, we took a lot of flack for coming from a farm, going to school in the city.  And there was a time that a part of me thought that maybe I was missing out not having grown up in town. 

But watching my daughter's childhood and all the adventures that she is missing out on like the canal swimming, forts in the haymow, watching the growth of baby animals, playing in the hayfield, tag in the corn field..., etc.  I am truly sorry that she is growing up in the middle of the city.   

So with the luxury of hindsight, I would like to say to all you city slickers, Country Bumpkin?  Seriously...? 

I am inclined now to conclude that all that flak was simply a cover... 

City Simpletons.

Rooted in Cynicism

Last week my brother indicated that his truck was missing and assumed that his brother’s friend must have it.  Nonchalantly and unconcerned he proceeded to the wedding reception with the assumption that the truck had already arrived before him and would be there. No panic.  No suspicion.  Not even concern.       

My daughter and I looked at each other and laughed at his reaction noting that back home, this is not the standard default reaction to a missing vehicle; our foreignness strongly evident.    

The other day, my mother received a phone call from a man who wanted to return a music folder that he had found.  During the process of collecting that folder, he requested her number because she was unsure whether the folder belonged to the choir to which she was a part.  The folder itself was worth about $2 and more was probably spent on petrol in the process of its return. 

There was a great divide between our thoughts regarding his intentions and the assumptions adopted by my mother.  I mean, it sounded like an excuse (a lousy one at that) to get contact details, doesn’t it?  ‘The foreigners’ looked at each other and laughed again.  My mother, without thinking twice, happily provided her phone number.

My daughter concluded that her Oma was 'grossly lacking in street smarts' as she deals with her world at face value, very casually, and given her environment, has the luxury of doing so.   We on the other hand, have developed a highly sensitive internal suspicion radar equipped with the capacity to attune to any perceived levels of dodgy behaviour emanating from any point.   
   
I suppose this is true for all of humanity.  We interpret the world based on what we know to be true largely based on past experiences.  Norms and standards differ around the world, not so much in the behaviour of humanity but in expectation.  Our world is interpreted based on our perceptions and judgement of others often made on what we ourselves would do in similar circumstances.   

Somehow disappointment and excitement / contentment are related to the difference between expectation and actual experience.  Depending upon which one exceeds the other, an incident is described as one or the other.

Having grown up in one world, and returning from another, I wonder how easy it is to adapt back to the simpler assumptions that I grew up with. 

How easy is it to relearn that the world is usually safe?  Or just how embedded is that seed of paranoia that comes from living in an environment that has a higher prevalence of crime?

And so, what I am really wondering is, am I destined to be cynical for life?   

I suppose time will tell...