Where Bureaucracy Goes to Die (And So Do Your Hopes and Dreams)
I’ll start today with a shameless plug because, unlike politicians, I’m upfront about my self-interest. I’ve just released a little documentary on YouTube — three years in the safari industry condensed into one film. It’s got leopards, lions, guest meltdowns, and me pretending to know what I’m doing while pointing dramatically at bushes. Watch it here before it becomes a cult classic that only five people have seen:
Now, back to today’s regularly scheduled nonsense.
This particular pointless write-up comes to you from Pretoria, where I’ve been enduring the kind of week that makes you seriously question why humans ever bothered leaving caves in the first place. It all kicked off last Friday with a morning game drive — one last fling with the bush before I was dragged, kicking and screaming, back into suburbia for a week of Admin.
Said Admin included the usual highlights: semi-productive family meetings (never productive, always loud), a 21st birthday party (which only made me feel old and broke), and the single worst invention of mankind: the motor vehicle licensing department.
By 9am I had my documents ready, foolishly optimistic that I could get this license thing done. In any other country, “change of ownership” would mean a five-minute form and maybe a coffee while you wait. In South Africa, it’s a full-scale endurance sport. You can’t just do it anywhere — oh no. It has to be in the exact metro the car will be registered in. Not just the province, the municipality. Bureaucracy here is like a bad ex: you think you’re done, but it’ll always find another way to ruin your day.
Let’s pause there for dramatic effect. Because nothing says “I hate myself” quite like walking into a licensing office at 9.30 a.m., knowing full well the queue started at 4 a.m. with people in camping chairs. The passport office might break your patience. Home Affairs might break your soul. But the licensing department? That place breaks your will to live.
By some miracle, I was “approved” and in a queue by 11:10. (Approved for what, exactly, I’m not sure. Survival? Sadism? The Guinness World Record for “hours wasted indoors.”) When I finally staggered out at 15:30 with papers in hand, I wasn’t relieved. I was spiritually bankrupt. That building doesn’t just take your time — it takes your optimism, your sense of self-worth, and in one notable case, a woman’s ability to keep her “Karen” instincts in check.
Which brings me to the entertainment. A Bentley. Yes, some poor sod decided to bring their Bentley to the licensing department. Because nothing screams “humble citizen” like showing up in a car worth more than the entire block. Enter “Karen”, who I can only assume was the proud pilot. For two hours, she provided front-row comedy: shouting at staff, waving documents like ancient scrolls, and genuinely believing she could “pull rank” on a government worker who had already mastered the art of Not Giving A Shit. The Bentley meant nothing here. That office is the great equaliser. Drive a Ferrari, drive a donkey cart — you will all queue, and you will all suffer equally, unlike in Animal Farm, all animals are indeed equal here, except here they’re all equally miserable, shuffling forward one grudging step at a time.
On that note, special thanks to “Karen” (I can only assume that’s her name) and her gleaming Bentley for keeping us entertained with two full hours of entitlement theatre. Watching her melt down was the best comedy special I’ve seen this year.
By the time I escaped, Johannesburg traffic was waiting to finish me off. An extra 90 minutes on the N1. Honestly, I’d rather face an elephant blocking the road than a trucker who hasn’t slept since 2014. At least elephants move eventually, and they don’t belch diesel in your face while doing it.
Naturally, after a day like that, my brother and I sought therapy in the only way men know how: beer. And not just any beer. Stella Artois. Yes, I caved. Usually, I live a fairly simple life — bush, laptop, camera, repeat. I don’t care for designer clothes or shiny cars. But after the licensing gauntlet, I inhaled that beer like it was holy water. For a brief, golden hour, life was good again. Until…
The phone rang. My brother’s wife. The house was flooding. Of course it was. Because why not round off a perfectly dreadful day with Poseidon himself making a guest appearance? We raced back, only to find indoor waterfalls cascading from the toilet. My contribution was minimal, unless you count sarcastic commentary and handing over towels as “emergency assistance.” Still, I stumbled home at 11 p.m., soaked in other people’s problems.
So here I am. A few emails and Admin tasks later, preparing to escape back to the Pilanesberg tomorrow where the traffic jams have tusks and trumpets instead of exhaust fumes. Because as frustrating as it can be when a lion decides to nap in the middle of the road, at least no one asks you for a proof of residence in triplicate before you’re allowed to pass.
Stay tuned. More safari. More chaos. Fewer toilets auditioning for Titanic 2. The only queues involve zebras at a waterhole. And the only “Karens” are guinea fowl screeching at lions.
Wildlife Beyond the Lens 