It's All the Rage!

Whether you are one of Mikey Schultz's sparring partners or a nun, every person who has a drivers licence in this country and has commandeered some form of a vehicle is guilty of road rage. It could be a simple, subtle grimace and curling of the top lip at a cyclist taking up an entire lane or a truck driver hurtling down a quiet suburban road, just the smallest of transgressions induce paroxysms of expletives. We've all driven down that ugly road of rage. The assault of a pedestrian at the hands of a taxi driver in Bloemfontein recently was yet another confirmation of why South Africans are among the worst road ragers in the world. Could it be our long-held culture of violence, often repressed under repeated calls for simunye-ness and cliched delusions of us living under a rainbow, which leave us with few forms of cartharsis apart from moering the crap out of a fellow-driver who failed to indicate? Is our underlying hatred of each other, that subconscious racism, xenophobia and misogynism, which fuels our conscious rage? It's a bit of everything. And it's made worse by that good old South African complex of entitlement. We all feel entitled to something, whether it is a job, a house, land; we all feel we deserve these things. On paper we do, no matter who you are, a poephol, rapist or corrupt civil servant or a Salvation Army volunteer and tree-hugger - our basic demand is for any of the above-mentioned things or at the very least a promise. But amid this climate of 'I-deserve-everything-no-mater-what', entitlement now extends to roads. The minute we step into out cars and mini-buses, onto our scooters and bicycles, the road becomes ours, our own personal domain, to be used by no one but ourselves. If you are a Capetonian, there is the double-entitlement of thinking you needn't employ even the most basic road and driving rule because you live 'In the most beautiful city in the world'. Gone is the indicator, sense of direction and basic intelligence. A Capetonian motorist's sense of utilising something mechanised becomes marred by that fucking mountain, a strange accent and the ocean. In Joburg, the exact opposite occurs. The second a Joburger gets behind the wheel it's go, go go, and Jah help you if you get in my way! Aggression is as necessary for Joburg road users as a licence is (although a licence is optional, these days). So, how is it such a violent display of road rage as seen by that now infamous Bloemfontein taxi man occurred in that sleepy, nowhere town, where I should imagine the only signs of true anger come when the Cheetahs lose a match. We all 'own' the roads, technically. It's our taxes which pay for their construction and upkeep (except in the Eastern Cape and Limpopo, where it seems the money is best spent on keeping roads as kak as possible). I fear with the new swear word of 2102, e-tolling, and constant threats of it being implemented beyond Gauteng (that healthy hotbed of road madness) we can expect further road rage on a national scale. I see even pensioners alighting from their Honda Ballades, canes at the ready, poking motorists irritated by their insistence at driving in the 'fast lane' at 20 km/h. They'll be joined by taxi drivers, knobkierries in hand attacking a Sandton priss in her Mini Cooper in rush hour traffic applying make-up while in transit. Expect traffic cops to break the sound barrier at news of Debonairs two-for-one pizza special Wednesdays. Why? Because we all apparently own the roads and this entitles us to ignore most road rules, drive like morons, beat each other up, scream, shout, curse, flip the bird and spit. But fellow-motorists, when strangled by that familair sense of rage when on our roads, stop to think for a second where it stems from, what its origins could be. If you get bored at pontificating on the origins of anger, then alternatively aim your ire at yourself and stop for a second to possibly realise - maybe you are part of the problem. Just like that pedestrian, nudged by the Bloem taxi man and subsequently kicked into virtual uncosciousness because he shouldn't have been jay-walking at such a leisurely pace in the first place. Just like the taxi driver who, no doubt has been the perpetrator of far worse traffic transgressions, he's equally as guilty. Both are the problem, along with millions of other road-users. We're all a little kak behind the wheel, on our motorbikes, bicycles, in our trucks, buses, in our shoes and on horse carts. We are all guilty of bad driving and road rage.

A Miscarriage of Marriage

So here I sit (uncomfortably) staring at my testes bobbing around in a bowl, recently separated from my being as required under that sinister, ever-anachronistic institution of marriage, I wonder - What's it all about? My wife orders...ummm, requests me to to espouse the beauty and amazingness of being married. My nuts, now descending in formaldehyde, seem to have developed a mind! They seem to communicate to me a sense of urgency, even desperation. If I were to translate my severed manhood's 'body' language I'd say they are they are imploring me to free them from their watery enslavement, flush them into the sewers and allow my wife free-rein over the erst of my anatomy. Cynicism aside, the question still stands - Does marriage make sense in the 21st Century? Fuck knows, quite honestly. To pontificate amid a stifling climate of derision on the merits of such unions is futile. It is what it is. But let me illustrate to you my 'journey' from anti-marriage to a semi-tolerance of the institution. As a teenager it made no sense, understandably so. I witnessed my parents fumble and fight their way through those years of their marriage in much the same way I was trying to explore my hormones - awkwardly and painfully. yet most nights my folks could muster up smiles for each other and set aside their differences (for the sake of the kids, of course). Not to say I came from a broken home. far from it. But my nascent understanding of marriage was first rooted in the example my parents set. Times were hard, money was never in abundance, my adolescence and 'funniness' (my mother's description of my teens) often butted heads with my folks' old fashion-ness. Again, there's nothing strange about this. Yet I developed an aversion of militant proportions to marriage, based simply on the usual teenage approach of 'Yuck, who wants to become our parents!' My teens gave way to the 20s, where my anti-nuptial stance persisted and was further galvanised by my growing aggression and deepening sense of futility and rage in the world. I thankfully managed to loose my virginity in my 20s, but this did nothing to force me to re-evaluate my theory on marriage. Once a young man tastes copulation (dirty minds, away with you!) I was hell bent on expanding my sexual horizons. And this had bugger all to do with finding The One. I wanted The Many, of course as my seeds apparently needed to be sowed.

Sexual 'exploits' never became my modus operandi. I blame my father's healthy respect fro women and an aunt's quasi-feminist teachings for this. In the end my young adulthood was only consummated by 10 sexual conquests, more than half of which were characterised by either flacidness, complements of an attack of nerves, or pure fear of female genitalia (seriously, they are scary up close, much like penises). None of these conquests ever changed my views on matrimony. Sure, once or twice the topic would come up for discussion, followed by rashes, coughing fits and temporary blindness. But never once was I ever convinced the woman who at that time in my history who was brave enough to allow me into their bed was The One. One partners insisted I convert to Catholicism, to which I responded by packing my bags and showing her the bird. Another became virtually infatuated with me (!!!!!!!!!!!!???????????????) after just two days together (and that was before sex was put on offer). I quietly extricated myself from that fatal attraction with only perfunctory, indirect talk of marriage. From these 10 partners I learned only one thing about marriage - Waiting for The One makes about as much sense as ANC government policies. It's pointless.

4 years ago I met a woman who, like me, had expelled all thoughts, theories and beliefs on marriage from her being. We collided amid existentialism, cynicism, apathy and aggression, inadvertently merging our twisted views on the matter of nuptials into one word - Negotiable. Although, I must emphasise, we never spoke of marriage in reference to us. We never felt the need to. We were blissful in our exploration of each other. We never allowed the bull shit that comes with the misguided search for The One. Everything was left to chance and, to be honest, an almost child-like sense of wonder and adventure. We managed to mouth the words 'I love you' to each after much time together. That was followed by the dreaded meeting of the parents, again only after we'd spent a sufficient period of time together. Never did we rush. The natural course of things proceeded free of that niggling sense of urgency and desperation of settling down, making kids and finding a health appreciation of gardening.

Several months ago the idea then struck me. What if I did marry her? What would happen? What would change? We bought property together, based firmly on the need to invest and grow our financial standing. was that the death-knell of my and her freedom? Fuck know, comrades! I was the beginning of the beginning. My contorted view on a permanent, legal union started blossoming into an acceptable form of commitment. As the seed grew, I insisted the move to marriage would be our own invention. Forget religion and it's bastardisation of marrying, complete with subservience and misogyny (don't even try to argue!). My wife and I cut out the bull shit. Away with delusions of grandiosity where vacuous venues, dozens of pointless strangers and relatives, over-priced cakes, snooty wedding planners and out-of-work photographers. It was all on our own terms, free of pretence, over-inflated egos and prices and the trappings of societal demands.

My wife and I are 6 days into our 'knot'. Early days, sure, but having dictated the terms of relationship from day one 4 years ago and at having not been confronted for a second my cold feet and doubt, I can safely say 6 days will became 6 weeks, which will grow into 6 months and form there... hell, I have no problem thinking 6 years and even 60 into the future with my wife.