Merry Crisis

Anyone who resides south of the equator on the African continent understands that public holidays are taken very seriously around here. It is our right, after all, to relax a little between the hustle. Sometimes, if you are lucky, you will find a couple of stores open on a public holiday. But when it comes to the festive season it is quite the challenge to get much of any type of service. We have a saying for that here in Namibia: “is f*kkol, is festive” meaning that anything and everything is excused in the name of this holiday.

We have a saying for that here in Namibia: “is f*kkol, is festive” meaning that anything and everything is excused in the name of this holiday.

It was the day before Christmas. My family, with my grandmother in tow, embarked on a little holiday in South Africa. My sister, grandmother and I were squeezed tight on the backseat of our Audi sedan like a bunch of sardines in aLucky Star can. Mother’s legroom was non-existent thanks to the all-important bag of padkos and her Mary Poppins sized handbag. The boot was filled to the hilt, which didn’t take much given the vehicle model, and my dad was growing weary between us kids moaning and his motherin-law’s backseat driving. Tensions were running high, to say the least.

This fateful day before Christmas turned out to have the biggest heat wave since the one that ended the ice age. My father parked the car in a shopping mall parking lot in Paarl, just a couple kilometres from Cape Town, to take a smoke break. While dad chainsmoked to calm down the irritability, my mum was lured into the shops, which has never taken much convincing. She ended up spending a good hour perusing Paarl’s selection of unnecessary nicknacks, right before the early closing due to the festive season.

There was absolutely nothing of interest for my sister and I, so we stayed in the car with my gran and made use of (or abused) the air conditioning. After a successful shopping spree and half a pack of cigarettes, my parents got back in the car, ready to embark on the last leg of our journey to where we would spend Christmas. My dad put the key in the ignition and… nothing. The Audi didn’t start. He tried again and again, eventually giving in to the air of tension that was beginning to fill the car, and let out the highly anticipated and inevitable “dis ‘n f*kkop” (bugger up). I think at this point my sister and I fessed up to the fact that we had spent the last hour switching the car on and off for the cooling breeze of the aircon. Either that, or my grandma snitched on us. At the tender ages of 9 and 12 we hadn’t learnt that car batteries are not inexhaustible – until this very day before Christmas.

The shops closed and their employees left to prepare for their very own festivities, leaving us stranded in the parking lot at the mall. This was our collective first time in Paarl, so ideas of what to do about our car battery situation quickly ran dry and as the heat wave became increasingly intense, the option of air conditioning was out the window.

Like all dads do, mine popped the bonnet and assessed the situation with his Oakley sunglasses on his head, a frown as deep as the Fish River Canyon and hands loosely on his hips. He disconnected the battery and started walking in a direction I can only assume he decided on based on instinct. His instinct, as it turned out, was wrong. After walking a good kilometre slugging the car battery along, with every service station or vehicle repair shop closed with a sign in the window saying Merry Christmas, he turned around. All that the rest of us saw through the Audi’s windows was my father passing the car and walking in the opposite direction. He didn’t make any eye-contact, though if he had I’m sure he would have burned holes into the car's body.

About an hour later my dad returned. On his pilgrimage with the battery he happened upon a small service shop. It wasn’t open, much like everything else the day before Christmas, but luckily the station owner was in, probably just locking up, or perhaps having escaped the merry madness at home, but he heard my father’s cries for help and just happened to have a replacement for our battery.

It was a Christmas miracle. The next day, while celebrating the holiday, the merry crisis from the day before was indeed f*kkol, because it was festive.

Do you have any funny travel stories to share? Send them to fly@venture.com.na

Charene Labuschagne