Apostles and Notorious Public prophets of doom

I recently managed to sell my share of a property that I owned in South Africa. I actually made a loss, because I got back the same amount that I paid for the piece of land 4 years ago, but I was just glad to get rid of this dead investment and move on to greener pastures.

My brother-in-law was kind enough to buy out my share, and he transferred the money to my SA bank account. After numerous struggles and hefty fees I finally managed to deposit the funds into my local Commonwealth Bank account – just in time to pay a deposit on a property deal in Melbourne. Don’t ask - but yes, Melbourne - even though I live in Perth... (it’s complicated.)

Anyway, a few days later his lawyers contacted me. We just need to finalise some of the documents, as my brother-in-law paid the funds even though the documentation hadn’t been finalized yet – which was a very kind deed from his side.

So, I owe him a lot – I need to sign these documents and make sure he gets value for his money.

Easy enough. At first, they just wanted my ID documents, my marriage certificate and my bank account details. Everything was going smoothly.

Then came the shocker:

If you sell property in South Africa, and you are not in the country to sign the documents, the documentation needs to be “apostilled”. I’ve never really heard this term before, but believe me - it’s nothing enjoyable. It sounds like some kind of sickness and is in fact worse than one.

I received a list of instructions with documents that needed to be signed. I had to sign these documents in the presence of someone who is qualified to apostille the documents. This person must be

1. Head of a South-African diplomatic or consular mission; or

2. a person in the Administrative or professional division of the public service, serving at the South-African diplomatic, consulor or Trade Office

This sounds easy, doesn’t it?

I jumped onto Google and checked it out. Yep, Perth does have a “South African Honorary Consulate” – good news.

Luckily I rang them up before travelling all the way into the city. “Nope, we don’t do that”, said the lady. “You need to go the Department of Foreign Affairs (DAFT)”.

“Which one?”, I asked - “the Australian Department of Foreign Affairs?” This doesn’t make sense, but the answer was yes.

This morning I jumped onto the train in Leederville and got off at Perth station, on the way to the Exchange Plaza. The DFAT is on level 17. I saw a door with the words “Apostille” written somewhere on it, and was feeling quite happy at finding the right place.

The lady behind the window informed me that they can’t apostille something that I sign in front of them. I need to go to a “Notary Public”, and this person would be able to do it. Then I have to return to the DAFT and hand in the documentation, and it takes 24 hours for them to finalise. It costs $60 for every page, plus $20 for binding it. For my 5 pages this means that this is going to cost me a minimum of $320, plus the Notary public’s fees.

Great.

She gave me an outdated list with names of Public Notaries on it. I saw that some of the addresses were also in St. George’s Terrace, so off I went looking for these Notorious Publicans.

They’re notoriously unavailable.

Either Mr. X is in court, or Mr. Y simply does not do this anymore. Or, “you can call his secretary and make an appointment, but he’s very busy, you know…”

I was referred from the 25^th floor of one building to the 28^th floor of the building across the street – then to the 4^th floor of building Y, and on again to the 23^rd floor of building D. In the meanwhile, the lady at the DAFT informed me that they close at 1pm. So at 1:30pm it was a lost cause anyway.

I finally had to admit defeat, and I crawled into Gloria Jeans for a coffee and a sausage roll. When I finally got onto the train I felt I a bit of a failure after wasting three hours in the city without achieving anything.

Next time I’ll plan this better. Make appointments. Pay huge sums of money. Make more appointments. Pay some more. And then hopefully mail these completed documents back to South Africa at enormous cost.

Or I could ignore it all, do nothing and hope it all goes away while I let my brother-in-law stress it out on that side.

Die dag toe ek gesteel het

Ek kyk nou weer diep hier in my sondige siel in, en bely weer hier voor die massas al my sondes. Ek het lankal al my Police Clearance sertifikaatjie by die Nambabwiese polisie gekry. Hulle sê my record is so wit soos sneeu. Maar ek het so bietjie van 'n kriminele agtergrond wat hulle nie van weet nie...

Ons het Duitse bure gehad waar ek groot geword het – ons het al die jare in een huis gebly, my ma-hulle sit nou nog daar. Die eenkant was heel beskaafde mense. Aan die anderkant het die Richter's gebly. Hulle was 'n goddelose klomp. Letterlik en figuurlik.

Daai oom het sy vrou gevloek sommer daar van onder af, dan is sy daar bo iewers by die huis. Later het die kinders net so lekker gevloek. Hulle vloek hulle eie ma soos ek nie eers 'n vyand van my se ma sal vloek nie. Ons het gereeld gehoor hoe skel hulle mekaar, en as hulle ma praat met hulle, dan skreeu hulle: "Fock dich, mutti!!"

Dan sê Oupa vir ons, ons moenie eers dink daaraan om sulke woorde te gebruik in hierdie huis nie – dis selfmoord. So is daar nie by ons huis gepraat nie.

Die klomp was partykeer nogal entertaining. (So op 'n SouthPark siek-humoristiese manier.) My broer het my vertel toe ek al eerstejaar op die Bos was, toe is daar een dag groot marrakkas. Die twee oudste broers het 'n fight opgetel, en die een het die geweer in die hande gekry. Ouboet het vir ma bietjie geklap – nes sy pa hom geleer het. Kleinboet raak toe heel bossies en kry daai geweer daar uit die kluis uit.

Hy gee daai man so bietjie voorsprong in die straat af, en trek daar los. Skote klap die wêreld vol, ouboet koes net en hol straat-af. My oupa wou tussenbeide tree, toe vloek daai mannetjie hom. Oupa het partykeer so kwaad geraak dat hy vries – gelukkig was hierdie een van daai kere. Hy het nie grootgeraak in 'n wêreld waar kinders oumense vloek nie – dit was taboe. My broer het hom gaan kalmeer en die klomp is later weer stil langsaan.

So was hulle gewees. Rof en onbeskof, en windgat. Het baie geld gehad, al die jare Mercedes'e gery, en die eerste TV in die buurt was hulle sin.

Ek het Duits gepraat in die huis toe ek klein was. Na my ma-hulle se egskeiding het ons al hoe meer net Afrikaans gepraat, en Afrikaanse skool toe gegaan. Ek kon egter nog goed Deutch praat met die bure se kinders. Oom Buurman sê toe eendag maar ek moet Afrikaans met die kinders praat, hulle moet die Taal aanleer. Nou vandag praat hulle Afrikaans en Duits, en my Duits het heel verlore gegaan.

Eendag in die laerskool, toe gaan ons winkel toe, en Thomas gaan saam met my. Daai Minimark naby Hidas, hy's vandag nog daar. Porra se winkel, tien-teen-een 'n Porra wat uit Angola gekom het. Ons loop daar in die winkel rond, ewe onskuldig. Thomas wys my later - toe ons by die winkel uit is saam met my ma – hyt klomp sweets daar in sy sak gedruk en by die winkel uitgekom sonder om te betaal.

Dis 'n nuwe wereld wat vir my oopgaan. 
Ek weet dis verkeerd, maar daai adrenalien en testosteroon begin praat, en hierdie klein mannetjie wil nou ook bietjie steel. Die volgende keer toe my ma minimark toe gaan, is ek weer saam, met slim planne in my kop. Ek kyk daai plek uit, niemand sien my nie, ek pocket daai sweets. By die till betaal ek net vir so 30 sent se goed – dit moet net lyk asof jy eerlik is en betaal vir jou goed. Die res is mos bonus.

Toe ek daai plastieksakkie so wil vat om te loop, toe kom daai Porra en staan so by my langs die till. My ma is al uit by die winkel uit, gelukkig. Hy vra: "wat van daai goed in jou sak?" Ek is heel omgeboul, ek stotter en vertel hom ek het skoon vergeet, ja, ek moet die ook betaal. Ek plak toe maar die geld daar neer op die till met 'n bewerige hand. Daai Porra het my net so skewe grynslag gegee.

Tot vandag toe weet my ma nie wat gebeur het nie. Hoe ek my vrees en bewing weggesteek het vir haar, weet ek nie. Maande lank het ek nooit saamgegaan Minimark toe nie.

En tot vandag toe is ek te bang om iets te steel.