I was sitting in a café when a blonde approached and handed me a black invitation on a silver platter. As far as corporate promotions go, this was a good one. The deeply wrong, but very nice, woman had picked me as someone who should be driving a Mercedes. Three friends and I had won an evening of chauffeur service in a sleek new model.
Well, the mighty White Night needed a jump, so I called up the Mercedes people. They were ever so nice and drove me and some friends to a few Halloween parties starting with a punk concert in a sketchy part of town. As I’ve described before, when people go out in this town they make the effort. Bless them, they didn’t just pencil in a stitched scar when there was room for a bloody, pus-y (?) festering, suppurating wound. One zombie in attendance could have passed for a leper. Even the sexily costumed couldn’t resist pouring it on. A murdered socialite displayed not only a realistic bullet hole on her forehead but streaks of blood down her face. Overkill, as it were. We called the driver and rocketed off to a better party.
“Exuding confidence and effortless superiority the new C-class bears testimony to the success of the owner,” beamed the Mercedes flyer. According to the driver, too many grannies were driving Mercs and they wanted to put some younger people in them. You could have fooled me. For a while I’ve been meaning to post about the extreme brand loyalty of South Africans. Nowhere is that more true than with cars. Everyone I’ve met, black and white, young and old, who does well or wants you to think he does, drives a fancy German car. The rule is so absolute they should chisel it in block letters on the side of Table Mountain.
This extends to so many aspects of life. The three major supermarket chains are as ubiquitous and stratified as a caste system. South Africa has relatively few retail companies so all of the malls have virtually the same stores. As everywhere, people here get excited by small differences. Down the street the Hyde Park Mall is flashy and restaurants set up “al fresco” areas in the hallways. The Rosebank Mall, where I’m typing this, is the bohemian mall. The upscale shops are very similar but it boasts a few outdoor tables and an African crafts fair on Sundays. The difference between the customers is as tiny/profound as between readers of New York and the New York Observer.
