On Wednesdays I work at Radio Park at the SABC... Getting into the building and to the studio where we record, is not for ‘sissies’. One needs physical, emotional and mental strength and stamina...and, a bit of luck: It starts with driving into the (supposedly designated) area where ad hoc artists usually park – there is a dangerously wonky boom which has to be opened by security – only the intercom button one is suppose to use to alert security to your presence, has been ripped out. All that is left of the intercom, is a colorful bunch of wires, pointing in all directions. And the remains of what used to be a button, dangling in mid-air. In light of the non-existing intercom, you need to get out of your car to call a security guard to help you. The guard on duty sits in a dilapidated, wooden, Wendy-house type structure with windows. As he sees you approaching, he adopts the facial expression of someone having stomach cramps because of bad chicken. You explain that you are to work at studio D2 for RSG and that parking is arranged for the ad hoc-artists having to record there every Wednesday from 16h00... The security guard then looks at you with dismay and point out that there is a line of cars behind you by now and that you are holding everyone up with your ridiculous request of wanting to enter the premises. (The cars behind you are permanent employees of the SABC and therefore have access cards to get in... or they are friends of the security guard, in which case they can come and go at leisure.) After reversing all the cars and getting you out of the way, you have to reposition yourself at the non-existing intercom in front of the boom and re-explain your presence. By now the security guard is ‘gatvol’ of you and the inconvenience you are causing and has called for the head of security, whom I’ll call Mr. S. The latter then proceeds to yell at you from the other side of the security guard’s walkie-talkie. It is usually something to the effect of: ‘Park here and I will clamp you!!!’ or ‘No, you are not authorized’ or ‘What do you want here!’ (after you explain what you ‘want here’, the answer again is short and sweet: ‘No!’) At this point, there has formed a row of cars behind your car again. After enduring the angry looks and rude gestures from the drivers behind you as they back-up, one by one, you reverse into the street to park. (I don’t have to tell you that in JHB and especially in the SABC-area, this is never a good idea. But, this looks like the only other option available) You park as close to the pavement as humanly possible – the road has only two lanes, but it is usually being used as if there were three lanes...so best you cram your ‘karretjie’ as far up against the sidewalk as possible. You quickly move items that might attract unnecessary attention: empty cool drink tins, pens, last month’s three soggy Simba chips and the (previously white) piece of Dirol chewing gum you dropped, all receipts and scrap paper and the face of the radio. As you do the ‘bleep-bleep’-thing, you ensure that the little red light is flashing, indicating the activation of the alarm and/or immobilizer. As you walk away, you glance over your shoulder to double check that your ‘tjorrie’ is close enough to the pavement to be out of the way of the taxi’s and other drivers who bought their drivers licenses. You are now walking towards the SABC building, crossing the aforementioned dreaded parking lot where there are roughly 200 – 250 open parking bays on a Wednesday late afternoon. You try to avoid the potholes, clumps of dirt, loose bricks and decomposing bird carcasses littering the ground. You walk around the islands as opposed to over them as the island surfaces are extremely uneven and slippery. Unless you’re an experienced rock climber, who just happened to have your rock climbing gear on you, I would not advise crossing one of those islands... A feeling of accomplishment washes over you, once you’ve made it across the obstacle course resembling a parking lot; virtually unscathed and without any obvious flesh wounds. Now comes the steep staircase with the narrow steps leading to the entrance. The sample size stairs take you to the large glass doors which you are grateful to have reached - with or without a sprained ankle or a torn ligament. The huge chips and cracks in the thick glass doors leading into the building, make the doors appear like they became airborne and smashed into each other, alongside Dorothy and her doggie, due to a Kansas-tornado. This probably explains why the doors no longer slide open and closed. You have to force them open, using both hands and all your might. By now, two or three security guards are peeking around the corners and over the monstrous desk on the far side of the entrance - the daggers shooting from their eyes serve as warning signs: You must close the damn doors again...Or else... The closing is more difficult than the opening: when you open them you push them away from each other, using the areas where the doors meet as your leverage... Closing them, requires a ‘dragging’ action having only the glass surface as ‘grip’... In order to do this, I’ve developed a technique which I call ‘the bum-palm shuffle’. I take one door at a time and push with my bum and palms against the glass, painstakingly sliding each door back into its starting position – or, thereabouts... There! You are in the building! ...to be continued... Join us on Friday for the continuation of this journey through the security check point, the dodging of the guards, the seemingly never-ending corridors and finally: hopefully reaching the studio! Have a good week, and remember: It’s not what you say. It’s how you say it.
Posted on: Mon, 05 Aug 2013 11:32:29 +0000
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