Helen Walne’s Human League
I know an accountant. He is pale with thin hair and he likes grey suits. He reads Bryce Courtney novels on his Kindle, his favourite meal is roast chicken and he’s never broken the law, broken into a run, or broken down on a freeway next to a lot of goats. He fulfils all the stereotypes of money men: dull, boring, unimaginative, safe, routine, sartorially challenged, fond of toothpicks.
So it wasn’t surprising when our country’s main money man, Pravin Gordhan, announced his usual slew of sin taxes last week. They were predictable, unimaginative and, frankly, spiteful. Yes, we know that too much wine makes us see squiff and shrivels our livers, and that cigarettes give us brown teeth and make us die, but in moderation these can be pleasurable activities.
Besides maintenance-dodging, robbing, killing and raping, there are other, more tangible, sins out there that deserve Pravin’s big stick. Take those sandals that are not sandals but are not boots either. I don’t know what they’re called – shandals or boodals or something – but what I do know is that they should come with a warning: will make you look like a seasonally-confused Amazonian hitchhiker. If Pravin had applied the right side of his brain to the budget, he could have added a 13c tax to all pairs of these chiropodial nightmares, amassing enough revenue for at least five big sushi parties featuring naked hadedas.
Then there’s quinoa. Not since the advent of semolina has a pile of tasteless mush been so froggy. “But it’s so good for you,” the vegans say. “It’s packed with protein.” Yes, but so is flea poo, and you don’t find that scattered on salads. Like a combination of amphibian dandruff and fly gonads, quinoa is the wool that got pulled over everyone’s eyes. And wool tastes better.
Yellow cars should be taxed. In fact, the colour yellow should have a category all of its own. Ditto sponge effects on walls, cannas, sushi kits, and large black cars with grilles like teeth.
But one of the most abundant taxable products in the Mother City is dog poo. When we first moved here from Durban – where dogs were mere security guards – I thought it charming how Capetonians took their hounds everywhere: slobbery bulldogs in bars; feather-duster poodles in baskets; boxers in the backs of bakkies; Labradors dredging in rivers. “It’s so civilised,” I murmured to B, watching a spaniel waiting obediently outside a shop. “So Notting Hill.”
Then we started hiking and it was as if the forests and trails had been invaded by a turd force. Landmines lay in steaming piles in the pine needles, hard yellow bombs buzzed with flies, cigar-shaped ammunition grew mycelium amid the moss. We regularly clumped home with the soles of our shoes caked in brown explosions.
When we got our own dogs, I loaded my pockets with plastic bags when we went for walks. I hated it at first: the waiting while Joe crouched like a nervous marsupial in the grass; the approach; the identification; the closing in; the feel of warmth through the plastic; the smell; the stray nuggets that refused to be gripped; the tying of the bag in a way that prevented contact; the tossing of the parcel into a fetid bin. But like wiping babies’ bottoms and relying on Metrorail, you get used to life’s unpleasantries.
Then I started watching other dog-walkers, and saw they could be divided into four categories: “I know Max is dropping a massive load but am pretending I haven’t seen it”; “I see Max doing a number two and am dramatically producing a biodegradable bag so you know I’m an excellent citizen”; “my Max doesn’t poo”; and “I quietly see it, silently grip it and toss it”. Nowadays I go to the park armed with extra bags, and when I spot category one and three, I cheerily point at Max’s bottom and the parcel he has left behind and ask cheerily: “Need a bag?” I think I might be passive aggressive.
Perhaps Pravin could decree that all those who don’t clean up after their dogs be given a choice: cough up R200 per nugget, which would go towards genetically engineering naked hadedas; or eat your dog’s weight in forest landmines. The reality is that even after coughing up the fine, the dog owners would continue to let their Maxes sabotage our public spaces. And even the prospect of humiliated birds wouldn’t prick their conscience because, in essence, these kinds of people don’t give a flying pluck.