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!