Carol’s Column

So who needs Disney World when we’ve got the Rand Show?

LIKE measles, mumps or chickenpox — the Rand Show has arrived.

And, if you're lucky enough to be stuck in hot, sticky, dusty Johannesburg during the Easter holidays, as we were, then the Rand Show has to be top of the pops on your list of things to do.

Each year, after a tense five-hour stint at the Show, I resolve never, ever to go again.

But, like peanuts, it's irresistible.

Which is why I found myself at the Rand Show last week accompanied by five small children and a lost father.

This particular father, Lennie Shulman, has a very clever wife.

Who obviously took one look at the calendar, saw when the Rand Show was happening and quickly decided to go and visit her sister in Canada instead.

“Carol”, said Lennie a week ago, “I've had a brilliant idea, let's go to the Rand Show together with all the kids.”

My heart dropped to my kneecaps and my toes started twitching. “Great, that's a great idea,” I murmured quietly, casting my eyes heavenwards and wishing myself in Canada too.

This year's Show has been a wow — everyone says so.

And it's true. The day we went it was choc-a-block full of people.

Our visit started auspiciously.

“Right,” I said as we entered through the turnstile at the fun fare end, “what do you want to try first?”

“The toilet,” said my daughter.

“The toilet? But you went just before you left home.”

“The toilet,” she said firmly, “I have to go again.”

Have you ever tried to find a toilet at the Rand Easter Show?

It's not easy.

I asked one of the many, official looking, labelled people mingling with the crowds.

“Toilet? No, I don't know where it is,” said the first, second and third person I asked. “Hey, why don't you try 'information'?” said the fourth.

Have you ever tried to find 'information' among several thousand people?

Luckily, through a gap in the crowd, I saw a booth with information written all over it.

“Sure, lady, just walk over to that fat building with the blue roof — in between that and the tin roof shack is the toilet.”

Oh, blessed relief.

The fun fare hustled and bustled and we hustled along with it.

“What do you want to try first?” I asked.

A mistake. The four little girls and 13-year-old Jamie wanted to try everything. Immediately. All at different times.

“The looping star.”

“The rotor.”

“The octopus.

“The fish,”

“The big dipper.”

The list was endless.

I could see that Lennie was getting that pale, haunted look. There's no doubt, mothers are more resilient than fathers.

“Okay, the ghost train first,” I said.

Lennie grabbed his youngest, unmarried four-year-old daughter. “While you ghost, I'll take Candy on the fish,” he muttered and swept his little minimiss away.

The kids tell me the ghost train was scary. I didn't see much due to the fact that Nicci and Jackie Shulman clung to me so tightly that when we emerged, I was in a heap at the bottom of the train.

Seven candy flosses and 70 sticky fingers later, we found ourselves next to the big dipper.

My two were already standing in the queue.

“C'mon Carol,” said Jackie, “you'll love it.”

“No, no, I'll watch,” a wise mother knows her limits.

“Please come with me,” begged Jackie. “I'm too scared to go alone.”

Against my better judgement, I agreed.

Which is why I found myself on the big dipper. I clung to Jackie throughout the entire, bone-shaking, rattling, back-dislocating, juddering, shuddering ride.

“Isn't this fun!” screamed Jackie.

Fun? I thought to myself. I'd rather be swimming in a piranha-infested lake.

When we emerged, my hair stood on end in a state of shock.

“Carol, that was lovely, let's do it again?” said Jackie — kids are fearless.

Several rides, slides, bumps, grinds, icecream splattered, coke and popcorn hours later, they were still finding things they hadn't done. And we hadn't managed to escape from the fun fare.

Eventually, we prised the offspring away by bribing them with a ride on the cable car.

High up in the air, suspended and swinging in the wind, Candy decided she needed a toilet urgently.

“Candy, wait, wait,” we shouted. “It's not far.”

“I've got a sore tummy, I want to go now.”

It's little things like this that make the Rand Show such fun.

We staggered through the exhibits, crowds and stands, bumping, laughing, talking, losing children, finding them again until my feet sent a message upstairs.

'Listen,' they said, 'we're exhausted. We want to go home. Now an intelligent person will listen to intelligent feet.

“Lennie, my feet are tired, I think we should go home now.”

Thank heavens, he agreed.

“What's the matter with you?” asked my spouse when he returned from work. “You look shell-shocked.”

“I've just been to the Rand Show,” I said. “I'm finished — financially, physically, morally — in every way. I'm exhausted. Never, ever again.”

“Ma, I'll bet you R10 that you'll go again next year,” said Jamie.

I didn't accept his bet. My great grandfather always taught me never to bet if the odds are stacked against you.

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