I love Cape Town. I love the weather (save for the devil winds), which compliment the city's numerous "Blue Flag" beaches. I love the oceans, the fact there's a beach around almost every corner. I love the pace of life. The laid back-ness of it all can be jarring, especially that liberally employed by the hordes of hippies who occupy the City of the Mother. But most forgive the lackadaisical attitude of most Capetonians. They know not what they do (because they are too lazy). I love the fact driving to and from work doesn't involve 2 hours in the car each way. I love that everything is within walking distance and impossible traffic jams, while still in existence in this backward outpost of ours, they are not half as kak as Joburg's.
I especially love Cape Town drivers. I love the way they swerve in front of you, straddle lanes, allow their children to roam the car freely while in transit and pretty much forget to think while on the road. I love how flickers have become foreign concepts to most of the Mother City's motorists. I love those who drive 40 kms/hour in the 'fast' lane of highways, blissfully unaware of the growing train of maddened drivers stuck. Hooting is always effective for some catharsis, but in Cape Town, a hoot could mean any number of things. When a mini-bus taxi hoots at pedestrians along Somerset road in Greenpoint, its to alert possible commuters. Hooting is still utilised as a form of greeting others in the fairest of the Kaap (I hear in Joburg, hooting can get you killed). However, hooting at someone who almost caused an accident in traffic due to his/her natural born ineptitude won't get you anywhere in Slaapstad. I love the arrogance most Capetonians seem to cherish when they drive. Everyone here suffers from entitlement complexes, where driving is owned by the driver (duh!), where the personal act of motoring should be defended at all costs, even if it means utilising stupidity and carelessness. "Chill out, pal, don't rush me," Dylan the Muizenberg surfer will tell you when he shoots in front of you on a busy road without indicating or even really checking for oncoming traffic. Carol the part-time receptionist at a Seapoint dentist simply won't even notice you as you hurl abuse, hoot, fire off flares and chuck tomatoes at her car when she backs into you in a parking lot. "Oh dear, I didn't see you. Gosh darn it" she'll whisper in a moment of what I like to call 'Cape Town shock', that's to say, she was about as shocked as a erpson in a coma. As for the geriatric motorists, where do I begin? I love how they trundle down highways in the right-hand lane, completely and totally ignorant of the rage they are sowing among others on the road. "You know, in my day, my boy, we didn't have drive 120 kms/hour... waffle waffle' says Grandpa Walter from Plumstead. That's there were no cars in the 1800, my snail-like friend. Moegamat the taxi driver is my best. Like taxi drivers throughout the country arrogance, the Cape Town species also come with a distinct lack of education, a healthy sized chip on the shoulder and a complete disdain for the law. Whizzing and weaving down some of the city's narrowest roads-cum-alleys is a glorious past time to them and a nightmare for us regular drivers. Apart from my deep love for Capetonian motorists, I adore their weapons of mass destruction, or vehilecs to you, even more. I love the rust savaged chic of their vehicles. These vehicles are haphazardly thrown together with chewing gum, sticky tape, wire and a health belief in a higher power. The put-put down the N1 (always in the right hand lane) amid a a perpetual cloud of exhaust fumes. Their owners are equally as chaotic in their appearance and supremely more moronic in their response to the few of us who can drive as we pass them (on the left hand side of the highway), biting down on our bottom lips, stifling the rage of the rage begging to be unleashed on this special breed of Capetonian. When you eventually pass them, please note and dusty hair, the lack of a t-shirt (men and women alike have been known to go bare chested behind the wheel. It's the hippie way).
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