I slept over on campus with the guys again. I had already collected the ticket for the Argentina – S. Korea game from British cousin’s friend the day before, so I went to Soccer City with the guys. What good planning. As usual, the Africans over there were up to their antics again so British cousin’s friend did not show up to his seat until well into the first half. Even though we were up there in the expensive Category 1 seats again (actually, next to the media), there was more life at this game compared to the Netherlands – Denmark game the other day. I guess I can thank the Argentinians for that, but the Koreans were not a quiet bunch either.
We were supposed to be picked up by the Africans after the game but that didn’t happen. Surprisingly. I decided not to go with the guys but rather stick with British cousin’s friend so he wouldn’t be alone. Afterall, he just gave me two Category 1 tickets for free! I suggested that we hail a taxi and go someplace where we could do more than just stare at people at the Shell garage (that’s petrol station for you non-South Africans). Why was this dude (British cousin’s friend) so impotent? He just stood there while life passed us by.
Well I couldn’t wait. Time and tide waits for no man, and no woman neither. So I hailed the cab myself and asked to go to Mandela Square. At least we could watch the France – Mexico game while waiting for the Africans to come get us so we can all hang out. So we waited…and waited. British cousin’s friend was roaming on his British number so all calls were coming to me. Oh, the pick-up is a guzzler so you don’t want to bring that into town? Ok. Oh, you lent your car to the Africans again and are waiting for it? O-kaaaaay! Oh, you are trying to rent a car from the airport? Hmmm, Ok! Oh, you are still trying to rent a car, huh? You know what, it’s getting late, I think I’ll just go home. What? Oh British cousin’s friend? Oh, he’s here still. Ok, I’ll tell him to get a taxi and meet you at Emperor’s Palace. Ok. Bye then.
I tell all this to British cousin’s friend as it transpires and he keeps standing there. No emotion. No action. Finally, I walk off to call my own taxi with Cabs for Women, a company whose number I had found on the internet prior to arriving in Johannesburg. I really didn’t want to be taking taxis in South Africa. I’m here to enjoy the World Cup not to get abducted, raped, or murdered. I was only brave enough to hail the taxi earlier in the afternoon because it was broad daylight, I knew where I was going, and I had a tall 200+ lb black man with me…as impotent as he was. The Cabs for Women driver called me in about 20 minutes to tell me she had arrived and I proceeded to let British cousin’s friend know that I was leaving. Again. Blank! So because I’m a woman and I care I asked. Do you have any way of getting home? Do you want a taxi company number or two? Do you have money for the taxi? Do you have the phone number for any of the Africans? Dude! Is this guy for real? He’s no child. Why am I having to plan his life for him? Gave him some numbers, gave him some Rands, gave him contact information and said peace-out.
Truly, this experience made me realize I simply cannot be with a weak passive guy. I would tear my hair out. There’s one thing being chill and having everything under control. That’s a totally different scenario. This was just pathetic. Ugh!
I got home safely, and my lady driver was very pleasant to talk to. But in hindsight I thought if my goal with using Cabs for Women is to be safe, what guarantee do I have that this blazing hot-pink car with “CABS FOR WOMEN” boldly written on its side is not actually an invitation to evil-minded guys for easy prey?