Carol’s Column

Good times, bad times in a heartbeat

Let me introduce you to Carol Lazar the split personality.

There's the Carol Lazar who lives in a South Africa which is the most interesting and beautiful country in the world.

Dynamic and exciting, with a mix of people, this country zings.

For instance, at a local supermarket, the manager is a Xhosa, who, when speaking in his own language, clicks like a grand one-man percussion band. The cashiers are black, white, Indian, Chinese and between them, speak at least 10 languages.

This Carol Lazar delights in the differences, the pace, the buzz. She enjoys the dazzling African-print headdresses, the soft-draped Muslim women's scarves, the flowing locks or beaded braids of the young, the tight curls of the elderly.

"This is my South Africa," she feels as she listens to kwaito-style jazz, Chopin, kwela, funky blues, hip-hop and soul.

She nibbles biltong and reads about extraordinary political alliances and watches the worlds' largest wildlife bird rescue undertaken by local conservationists.

She doesn't win the lottery this week, is appalled that pilots with illegal qualifications have been flying, is worried about rising HIV statistics in Africa and is outraged at the imminent petrol price increase.

She thinks most politicians are rear orifices, is happy she has the freedom to say so and wishes the value of the rand would go up instead of down.

She likes the fact that usually South Africans greet each other, they communicate, about the weather, soccer, Hansie Cronje or their lousy working conditions.

She appreciates that the streets are wide, there's room to walk without being jostled like in London or New York and there are wild places nearby.

An hour away, there are mountains, grasslands and lakes. And further, there are deserts, oceans, game reserves and a wildlife heritage second to none.

This Carol Lazar reckons that despite incompetence in various areas, the government's done more good than bad, especially for those who had nothing before.

This Carol Lazar couldn't imagine living anywhere else in the world.

Then there's the other Carol Lazar.

The one who climbs into her car and locks all the doors, who is scared of strangers, who thinks a car backfiring is a bullet, who regards a dog is a watchdog not a pet.

Who won't go walking in woods or on commons because she might get mugged, raped or murdered.

Who won't go out by herself at night.

Who gets uptight when she stops at crossroads and is accosted by people asking for money.

Who fearfully drives through a red robot at night, whose car gets gouged because she won't pay an 'informal sector' parking attendant as well as a meter.

Who doesn't bother to go to the police when her bag is snatched because she knows they're overworked, understaffed or just bloody useless.

This is the Carol Lazar who gets angry that racism is again rearing its ugly head - again from those in power.

This is the Carol Lazar who has a friend who last week was held up at gun point while having a bath.

This is the Carol Lazar whose char didn't arrive because the driver of her bus was shot dead by thugs.

This is the Carol Lazar who knew a good man called Alfred Muller who lived in Pniel, a small dorp.

Seventy-two-year-old Alfred Muller, a respectable, much loved member of the small coloured community, owned a modest general dealer's store.

A few days ago, Alfred Muller, a decent and kind man, was shot dead by robbers.

This Carol Lazar feels sick and doesn't want to live in this kind of South Africa.

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