Another missive from the wild and wooly Cape Town …
Yesterday evening (Saturday 7 january) at about midnite, I witnessed one of the strangest events I’ve ever seen.
I live just off of a main road in Cape Town – a 2 1/2 mile long dual-carriageway, dead straight, which runs up from the local beachfront.
On most Friday and Saturday evenings, this road turns into a racetrack as various riff-raff, having left local bars in a state of mild inebriation, try to see how fast their cars can go.
Unfortunately for them, there are 3 or 4 sets of traffic lights on the road, so occasionally they find they have to come down from warp-speed to a dead stop in a bit of a hurry.
BUT the traffic lights allow them to ‘dice’ against fellow dickheads, trying to prove their prowess behind the wheel.
I’m very used to hearing the roar of engines and the squeal of tyres late at night, and last night the roar and squeal was supplemented by a screech of brakes, and that horrible sound similar to scrunching beercans.
I strolled to the corner, to find two chavmobiles in a poor state of repair – a ‘blinged’ corsa with most of the front end demolished, now up on the pavement, having left most of its sump and oil on the kerbstone, and a scruffy 80s Escort, with most of the offside rear in pieces, facing the wrong way down the road.
I surmised that one or ‘tother had skipped the lights – they hadn’t, but I will explain that later.
Out of the Escort wreckage have emerged two baseball-capped *******, who seem more concerend examining the damage to their pride-and-joy than checking to see if anybody in the other car is injured.
Or in their own car. There are two bimbos in the backseat, obviously trying to get out (It was a 2-door) but being unable to move the front seats out of the way.
One was screaming “Darrrrrryl! Darrrrrryl! Let us out!”
But Darryl and his mate, having decided that the car was a bit of a mess, then approached the wrecked Corsa, from which nobody had emerged yet.
Aha, methinks, they are going to render assistance! No chance. A lot of gesticulating goes on, and out of the Corsa step 3 lads, one the worse for wear, as he was in the backseat, and had slammed forward into the seatback, breaking his nose in the process.
Now we have FIVE neanderthals shouting and screaming and finger pointing.
On to the scene drives a 30-something chap, who tells me the guys had passed him a mile down the road, ‘at a hell of a speed’, obviously racing each other.
He and I approach the warring parties (It hasn’t come to blows yet, just a lot of shouting) and ask if everybody is alright, if we can phone an ambulance/police etc etc.
I went to both cars, and switched of the ignition – AND the radios, which were blaring away.
I also pointed out that i am a trained medic, and can render first aid if neccessary.
No joy. In fact, the chavboys by now had calmed down, realising they did NOT want to be there as they had all had a skinful, and decided to get away.
Escort **** then gets back behind the wheel, his mate piles in the passenger seat, and they try to make their daring escape. But the car is in no fit state to go anywhere – the rear wheel is about 25 degrees out of true (vertically) and 30 (horizontally). Cue horrid metallic scraping noises as they try to lurch off.
And what is THIS on the horizon – a set of blue lights, attached to a large wite car with stripes!
Out step two boys in blue, and take in the scene at a glance.
Meanwhile the Corsa boys are in a huddle, muttering to each other.
Plod #1 wanders over to speak to them, while plod#2 gets o the radio, then speaks to Escort boys.
Myself and the other chap stand about chatting and having a ***, when plod #1 arrives:
“Did you see anything?” he asks.
The other chap explains what he’d seen – the two clowns racing.
“Oh?” says plod. “Would you be prepared to make a statement?”
No problem.
Then he asks me who I am, and what I saw.
I explain.
“Ok,” he says. “One question. Who was driving the car (Corsa)?”
“That one,” we both said. (He’s easy to tell from the other two. – he’s coloured, while his companions-in-foolery are white).
“Oh?” says Plod. ‘that’s not what THEY said!”
Obviously the least inebriated of the trio (Or the one who actually has a driving license) had decided to take the rap.
This is now getting interesting – as Corsa Boys and Escort Boys are seperated and being questioned by the plods.
(Somehow, i don’t think their stories are going to coincide too well…)
Meanwhile, the Escort boys have decided there is NO honour among *****, and the fingerpointing commences – “who was driving?” asks plod. they both respond by pointing at each other and saying ” ‘e was!”. Damn right – grass your mate up and drop him in the ****!
Plod was in hysterics by this stage – he’d never seen anything like it!
From what I and the other chap could surmise, the escort had braked for the lights, and the corsa, behind, and in the Left lane, and slammed on the brakes, and slid (No ABS on these noddy cars!) into him at sped, spinning him round, and ending up on the pavement, as mentioned.
Plod then proceeded to load ALL the participating ***** into a variety of blue-and-whites (Including the two helpless bimbos, who when released from captivity, looked to be about 14 yrs old) and take them down the station.
Wrecked cars were cleared away, a fireman swept all the glass and plastic and glassfibre wreckage off the road, and covered the oild patch with sand.
And I went back to bed.
And that’s that. Until next week’s repeat performance!
