Making the most of it...
The fiddler, he now steps to the road | He writes ev'rything's been returned which was owed
On Monday evening, my car was whipped and I found myself head of a no-car family. We'd been treated to lunch by Sean and Margie at The Brass Bell in Kalk Bay, offering opportunity to whip off long-distance shots like the one above. On Tuesday, I bought a car, but had to wait to take possession of it. The economics behind such a transaction by yours truly is explained below. For now, though, circumstance — having done others favours on various occasions, put me in a position to buy a new car.
All this incident has done is lead me to formulate a new theory of social economics — one which, I believe, highlights the intractability of resolving inequity.
On Wednesday, owing to miracles, flaming crosses in the East, spells cast by Father Christopher, publicity by Kat, and friends in high places, I owned two cars — but did not possess either. Actually it was due to either damned good or fortuitous police work. The perps are behind bars, having been picked up by the cops in School Road, Strandfontein. The school of hard knocks, I guess. So, by late-afternoon Thursday, after taking possession of a new Volkswagen, I found myself a First World archetype, the head of a two-car family. I'll be getting rid of the Honda as soon as possible — give it a decent burial, as it were. And so to speak. Etc.
Needless to say, sorting out this stuff took the stuffing out of me; hence no feedback. Nevertheless, the response by those who commented below was heartening — to say the least. Yeah, it means a lot. Today, the upshot's that the Honda's in a police pound, but retrieving it is going to be bloody difficult. The admin side of bureaucracy is alive and well and living in the details.
Last thing: I've no idea whether the valuables in the car were retrieved and the police can't tell me either.
The SAPS swoop...
On the back of the fish truck that loads | While my conscience explodes
Damn, I don't give a shit about 'stuff', but wheels are wheels. For a couple of days after the theft, I pondered my lack of discombobulation. Wendy was angry and the girls were upset. I felt nothing. The thing had been nicked and I had to sort it out. The taxis hiss by my window.
It has to do with economics, a subject in which I have some experience. I've often written of the vast income disparity fuelling crime in South Africa and, frequently, I find myself sympathising with the 'have nots' as, generally, I have not. But there is an enormous difference between having little and being poor and in this country, where wealth is so clearly and unfairly divided, I'm in the company of the filthy rich.
Look at it this way. The circles or cycles of wealth and poverty are very much like the circles forming a Venn diagram or those indicating adjacent weather systems. By dint of birth, education and association, I fall into the circle of wealth. I will not, unless something really bad happens to me, ever know dire need and cannot, therefore, speak for those living in the circle of poverty. Like weather systems and Venn diagrams, these two circles meet or intersect and it is at this intersection that crime and a host of social ills occurs.
It's also where we, from differing backgrounds, get to know each other. In short, because it engenders constant awareness, the place where wealth meets poverty is a cool place to be. It also explains to me why I've never lived in a suburb — I've always chosen to live on the edge of one.
It's at this intersect that a modicum of wealth redistribution takes place and the possibility of 'crossover' occurs. A fringe suburbanite, I'm well aware of the drug and sex trades — they're conducted outside my front gate. The drug and sex industry workers? I'm sure they're more than familiar with the sordid tastes of people wearing pre-packaged facades of respectability.
The nut of it is that my aged Honda, for a time, travelled towards poverty and almost made a meaningful contribution to alleviating it. Happily, it did not and the criminal classes remain with us.
The harmonicas play the skeleton keys and the rain | And these visions of Johanna are now all that remain
Bob Dylan | Visons of Johanna
