Parking-lot Odyssey at Sandton City!

The Great Sandton Safari

It was March 2002. I was just 20 days into Johannesburg, still figuring out why there were so many stripes and lines on the road and why everyone said “robot” when they meant traffic light. Life was new, exciting, and full of possibilities… and parking tickets.

Enter the CEO of SBI, freshly parachuted into the city from my own hometown in India. She asked me to accompany her to Sandton City Mall. Now, this wasn’t just any mall – it was the Epitome of shopping centers. Multi-level parking, escalators that moved without being kicked, and shops that made my wallet sweat just by existing.

We cruised in on a weekend, retrieved the parking ticket like it was a golden Willi Wonka chocolate bar, and I gleefully drove up the spiraling ramps like I was auditioning for “Fast & Curious: The Mall Drift.” Found a spot, parked the car, and – like a true rookie – walked off without a second glance. No bay number, no landmark, no mental note. Just vibes.

Now, remember: this was 2002. Phones were basically bricks with buttons. No cameras, no GPS, and texting was like Morse code for the thumb. Writing down the parking bay number? That would’ve required foresight. I was too busy imagining myself as the CEO’s trusted local guide. Little did I know, I was about to become the tour guide of the underground parking catacombs.

After a few hours of shopping, we emerged like victorious warriors – bags in hand, spirits high. I paid the parking ticket, feeling smug. But as we approached the parking levels, a cold realization hit me like a rogue shopping cart: I had no idea where I had parked the car.

What followed was less “search” and more “urban expedition.” I was darting between pillars like a contestant on a game show called “Find That Sedan!” I must’ve walked more in that parking lot than I had in all of my 20 days in the city. The CEO, bless her, followed me with the patience of a saint – or maybe she was just too stunned to speak.

After what felt like a full-length Bollywood movie, I spotted it. My maroon chariot glistened under the fluorescent lights like an oasis in the desert. I nearly wept. I loaded the bags, slid into the driver’s seat, and as she sat down in the passenger’s seat, I drove triumphantly to the exit.

And then… the final twist.

I inserted the paid ticket into the machine. It blinked. It whirred. And then – ptooey! – it spat the ticket back out like a toddler rejecting broccoli. Turns out, the ticket had a 20-minute expiry after payment. I had spent 30 minutes playing hide-and-seek with my own car.

Behind me, a queue of cars began to form. The drivers were pretty civilized and made way to other exit bays, seeing my plight. I could feel the collective judgment of a dozen drivers.

I wondered why the earth didn’t give way and swallow me!

I pressed the help button with the desperation of a man on the verge of a parking-induced existential crisis. “Hello? Yes, I…I took a lot of time because I lost my car. Then I found it."

A kind attendant arrived, probably used to this sort of thing, and opened the boom gate with the grace of a magician. I drove out, humbled, humiliated, and hilariously wiser.

From that day on, I became a parking ninja. I noted the parking bay numbers, memorized pillar graffiti, and when smartphones finally arrived, I became the David Attenborough of the civilized jungle and of parking lots – clicking photos like I was documenting hidden trails and elusive fauna.

So, dear friends, if you’ve ever wandered a parking garage like a confused tourist in any foreign city, know this: you’re not alone. Some of us had to earn our stripes the hard way… with a maroon car, a missed deadline, and a CEO who probably still tells this story at all her group gatherings, and while in office, at every one of her board meetings! 

My first experience(s) of Public Office(s) in Johannesburg.

My First Experiences with Public Offices in Johannesburg

The Police Station Episode

April 2002. Johannesburg.

I was driving along Rivonia Road, minding my own business, when fate decided to test my reflexes. At the robot – yes, that’s what they call traffic signals there – I gently kissed the back of a bakkie. Not a passionate kiss, mind you, just a polite nudge. Enough to make insurance companies perk up and say, “Report it!”

Now, the law was clear: within 48 hours, I had to march into the nearest police station, report and register my accident and collect this mystical thing called an AR (Accident Report) number, and file my claim. So off I went, Bowling Avenue, Gallo Manor Police Station. My first visit to a public office in South Africa.

I braced myself for chaos. You know, the kind of bureaucratic jungle where forms multiply like rabbits and officers glare at you as if you’ve stolen their lunch. Instead, I was ushered – ushered! – to the enquiry counter. The officer handed me the AR form. I stared at it like it was Greek. Confusion written all over my face.

And then, the miracle happened. One officer sat me down, patiently explained every detail, and even sketched the accident scene based on my description. Imagine that – an officer drawing my little fender-bender like Picasso at work! I was humbled. I thought, " This is how a civic system should work. Helpful, humane, efficient. Utopian, really.

The comparison to a similar system back home was inevitable. In our country, the system doesn’t work – the vested interests do. Here, the presumption was honesty. There, the presumption is dishonesty. And yet, thanks to those officers, my claim was filed on time, no drama, no bribes, no running around! 

What a pleasure instead of pressure!!

An Eventful Polo Match - One of the best times of our life, in Johannesburg!

 A Royal Afternoon at the Polo Grounds

August 25, 2013. Waterfall Polo Park, Johannesburg.

The sun was bright, the air crisp with the last whispers of winter, and fate – ever the mischievous playwright – had conspired to place my wife and me among the Royals and the Rich. One of our prestigious business associates had generously slipped us tickets to the BMW International Polo Test Series’ second and final test: South Africa vs. Chile. 

Cricket and Rugby matches were a common fare for me to get treated to, and reciprocally, I too invited a lot of guests during the time IPL (Indian Premier League) was compulsorily hosted in South Africa. But Polo, Eish! This was my first!

We arrived with enthusiasm, ushered into the hospitality marquee where the shade was cool, the chatter warm, and the glasses never empty. The match began with thunderous hooves and the crack of mallets, a ballet of muscle and precision. South Africa, our team, carried our cheers; Chile, the visitors, carried history – five tours, no victories on South African soil.

The first half was a deadlock, 4-4, déjà vu from Durban’s earlier test. It looked less like a sporting contest and more like a polite diplomatic exchange: “You score, we score, let’s not upset anyone.” But in the final chukkas, the Chileans delivered a masterful display of strategy. Their horses seemed to glide, their strokes sharper, their intent undeniable. By the end, the scoreboard read 9-7. History had been rewritten: Chile, champions at last on South African turf.

Yet, while the field was drenched in sweat and triumph, the marquee was drenched in something far more intoxicating. Amber, transparent, ruby-red liquids flowed like rivers, quenching parched throats. Beer sulked in the corner while wines and spirits ruled the roost. The food? A vegetarian’s Mediterranean dream – Italian pastas, European salads, platters of a variety of cheese paired with wine, and desserts that could make one forget the scoreline entirely. I can’t describe the non-vegetarian fare much, as I am a vegetarian! But looking at those who kept digging into these dishes, I am sure they enjoyed the spread.

The crowd was a spectacle of its own. South Africa’s glitterati paraded their haute couture with the kind of confidence that made you wonder if the polo match was merely a backdrop for their fashion show. We, the “lesser mortals,” found joy in simpler victories: a couple of pictures with the team and the venerable John Robbie of 94.7 FM. Proof that we had mingled with greatness, even if greatness didn’t notice.

        

     

      

      

As the trophy gleamed in Chilean hands, we bid farewell to friends old and new, trudging back to our car with the quiet satisfaction of having witnessed history – and having feasted like kings while doing so. I was surprised by my business associate, who handed over a bottle of my favourite cognac, which I cherished till the last drop, and a memento to my wife, too! Thanks, buddy!

That day etched itself into memory not just as a sporting milestone, but as a reminder of serendipity: how a casual business associate’s gesture could place us in the midst of grandeur, laughter, and legacy. Even now, when I think of polo, I don’t just recall the score – I recall the taste of tiramisu, baklava, and a host of other desserts, the clink of glasses, the rustle of silk dresses, and the thunder of hooves fading into the Johannesburg sun.

Van Gaalen's Cheese Farm - our favourite weekend getaway!

Weekend Getaway from Johannesburg

Holed up in Cedar Lakes, a gated enclave near Fourways, our weekends followed a gentle ritual. The Lions and Rhino Park sat a short drive away, Monte Casino closer still, and Hartbeespoort Dam and the Magaliesburg foothills were easy day-trip options. Despite being spoilt for choice by a buffet of places, the place we would often choose was Van Gaalen’s Cheese Farm, a green pocket of calm about an hour from the city.

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The Place

The farm lies beneath the Magaliesburg mountain range, with a clear stream that begins in those heights and flows into the Skeerpoort River. The property feels deliberately generous: a helipad that hints at unexpected arrivals, a stable where horses chew the afternoon, and dirt tracks and hiking routes that weave through some eighty properties and more than 80 km of trails. Families picnic on the lawns, children run free, and the air tastes of grass and distant wood smoke.

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The Cheese Tour

Our first visit began with the Cheese Tour, a slow, curious procession through vats and aging rooms. Our tour guide revealed the alchemy behind the making of cheese and the different types of cheese like Mozzarella, Gouda, Haloumi, Ricotta, Cheddar, Gorgonzola, Parmesan, and the small, exacting science behind each: the cultures, the curd, the patient maturing. The guide’s explanations made the process feel like a craft passed down with pride.

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The Rituals of a Visit

After the tour, we would drift rather than hurry. Strolling along the stream, we’d pick up fallen pecan nuts, watch dragonflies skim the water, and let the children invent games among the trees. The restaurant became the center of the day: rustic plates, generous wine, and the slow pleasure of tasting cheeses infused with fenugreek, cumin, pepper, chillies, and rosemary. Before leaving, we always bought a few wedges to take home, the spice-laced cheeses tucked into the car like souvenirs.

On the drive back, we invariably stopped at roadside farm stores to fill our baskets with seasonal fruit and vegetables. The whole outing – with a drive of less than an hour each way – felt like a small, restorative exile from the week.

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Why It Matters

Van Gaalen’s is more than a destination; it’s a reset. The quiet and clean air seems to stretch time, turning a single afternoon into a memory that lingers. For Indian expats in the Johannesburg–Pretoria area, it’s a place that comforts and surprises in equal measure, a reminder that simple pleasures – good food, open sky, and company – are often the most nourishing.

My write-up wouldn't be complete without the pics below

     

     

    

More info can be had at https://www.vangaalen.co.za/

 

When my Mercedes tried to become a Tuk-Tuk, a la Transformers style!!

My proud possession

Mercedes-Benz – the very name conjures images of sleek engineering, German precision, and a certain smug satisfaction when you glide past lesser mortals in traffic. But in 2010, my proud sedan decided to audition for a role in slapstick comedy.

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The Prelude

It was a routine service day at Grand Central Motors in Midrand. I handed over my keys, signed the papers, and strutted back to the office, already imagining my car purring like a pampered cat when I picked it up. 

Picking up the vehicle, post-service, I returned to the office to finish off the rest of the day’s work, noticing nothing unusual but the safety cocoon of the interiors and the quiet hum of the engine and the air conditioner, and the exterior all polished and ready. As I drove home and was about to hit the evening rush hour on the freeway, just a kilometer from the on-ramp, I noticed something weird about the vehicle.

Then came the sound. A faint, suspicious clack from the rear. Not Beethoven, not jazz – more like a drummer who’d lost his rhythm. My instincts whispered, “Turn back.” And thank heavens I listened.

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The Great Escape Wheel

Barely two kilometers short of the garage, the drama unfolded. Out of nowhere, a wheel – my wheel – decided it had had enough of being chained to a Mercedes. With the enthusiasm of a marathon runner, it overtook me on the left, rolled past pedestrians (who suddenly discovered their sprinting skills), and crashed into the electrified fence of a pharmaceutical lab – a good 100-150 meters away.

Meanwhile, my Mercedes, now a reluctant three-wheeler, screeched to a halt. Passers-by stared, some laughed, others looked as if they’d just witnessed a circus act. A luxury sedan transformed into a roadside tuk–tuk, the kind of scene you’d expect in a Bollywood comedy, not on a Johannesburg street.

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Rage Meets Ridicule

I retrieved the runaway wheel, trying to look dignified while my car stood there like a wounded tricycle. My face was red, my voice sharp, and the service centre got the full blast of my fury. They arrived sheepish, refitted the wheel, and towed the car back. Diagnosis: wheel nuts not tightened. Remedy: apologies, repairs, and a few “goodies” to pacify me.

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The Punchline

The car was restored, but the nickname stuck. Friends teased me endlessly: “So, how’s your tuk-tuk these days?” I laughed along, though inside I still shuddered at what could have happened on the freeway.

A couple of months later, I sold that car and bought another Mercedes – from a different dealer, of course. Because once your sedan has moonlighted as a tuk-tuk, you don’t risk a sequel.

Close Encounters Of The Reptile Kind!!

 A short real-life drama!

We moved to Ponda, Goa, in the early 1990s, when our little family was still finding its shape. From our bedroom window, a squat hill rose like a sleeping giant, and every morning the ridges and valleys beyond it felt like a private country. We settled into that landscape the way people settle into a second home, learning its light and its small social rhythms as if they were our own.

My Kawasaki Bajaj was a different kind of loud. It sat in the yard like an animal waiting to be fed. My daughter, Aditi, loved it – she would clamber onto the fuel tank with the careless certainty of a child who thinks the world is safe. My wife rode behind me; the three of us fit on that bike the way a secret fits a pocket.

Two‑stroke bikes need regular care. The muffler in the silencer collects carbon and must be taken apart and cleaned. Mechanics would strip the muffler, scrub the deposits, then start the engine before reassembling so any loose carbon would be blown clear. The practice made sense, but it also made a sound like a small explosion – raw, metallic, and startling.

One afternoon, after the mechanic had finished cleaning, he kicked the bike to life. The engine answered with a cacophony that seemed to shake the air itself. The sound was so violent it felt as if the world had been nudged. Sound slammed into the yard and into my chest. I flinched. The mechanic laughed, pleased with the job. Then something moved. Then something slid out from under the fuel tank with wet deliberate grace and lay across the workshop floor: a snake, sleek and indifferent, as if it had been sleeping there for years. It did not strike. nor flee in panic. It slid, as if it had been waiting for the exact moment the bike would roar.

The mechanic swore softly. The snake vanished into the scrub before any of us could move. We were unhurt. We were lucky. But luck is a thin thing. For years afterward, every time I heard the familiar sound of a Kawasaki two‑stroke cough to life, my throat tightened, and the memory slid back into me: the sudden roar, the slow uncoiling, the thought of what might have been.

I saw Aditi’s small hand in my mind – her fingers curled around that same tank on rides we’d taken a hundred times. I saw my wife’s hair against my back. The image hit like cold water. The bike had been a nest. The cable harness, the hollow under the tank – a perfect shelter. We had been riding with a hidden passenger for God knows how long!? 

Even now, years later, the memory tightens my chest when I picture my daughter’s small hands on that tank and the casual way we trusted the machine. A few years after that, I sold the Kawasaki and bought a scooter – safer, quieter, more of a family vehicle than a prideful mount.

I never told my wife or Aditi about the snake. I carried the secret with me, thinking it would fade. Now I am sharing it, finally, because some memories are too strange to keep to oneself.