After the tax queue, pasta and wine

Published Sep 10, 2014

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Cape Town - Stuck at the SA Revenue Service. Outside, in 30degC heat. Four queues, several hundred people. One grumpy writer.

Because why (love that South Africanism)? No “just because”. Nope. Because Uncle Sars has forgotten that a year ago he made you queue for an entire morning to prove that your bank account was your bank account and that you did indeed live at the address you claimed to live at. Which it was. And is.

But it was not the right kind of bank account. Mine was a business account, not because I have a business but because I am classified as self-employed.

So, having queued all morning, they sent me away. To the bank. To open a new bank account. Which I did. After queuing at the bank for 45 minutes. Becoming grumpier by the minute. And they expected me to go back to Sars and queue again. Which I did. Throughout all of this I at no stage raised my voice to any of the long-suffering Sars employees, whose patience and pleasantness far exceeded the call of humdrum duty.

Despite all of this I had an overriding perception: this this was South Africa working. I hold no candle for the governing party – far from it, these days – but if one department is working it is the revenue service. But. Big but. But the but can wait for another year…

They paid me out, into the new account. It took a few weeks but I got back some of the vast amounts of dosh Uncle Sars had taken from me over the previous year.

Then a year goes by and what happens? Huh? Uncle Sars writes to tell me he wants me back. Turns out he’s been missing me and wants to see me again, chew the cud, catch up. Enjoyed my company so much last year – especially that bit when he made me go and open a new bank account, that was his favourite bit, he said – that he thought he’d invite me round again. You can hardly say no. Really… when the man is holding money he owes you, he holds all the cards. You want the money back? Get in the queue.

So Uncle Sars wants me to prove that the account he made me go and open last year really is my bank account. Which it still is.

And in the queue I get to thinking. These queues are a potential gold mine. Some bright young entrepreneur could wheel a refrigerated trolley around selling Cokes and mineral water and iced lollies and ice cream and make so much money that a year hence he’d have to stand in a queue for four hours to sort out his tax. Maybe even sell some beers. If you can get a licence to sell beers on the pavement outside the Sars offices. Okay, nix that. Come on, uncle – you do tax beers, don’t you? Think about that.

But I’d have one up on the guy selling the cold, refreshing stuff. I’d be four metres ahead of him selling biltong. He’d thank me too, because I’d be making the people even thirstier for his merchandise.

Having said that, isn’t there a better way for Sars to get you to verify details than to make you waste half of a productive day being, well, unproductive? Is this a fillip for the economy? Hardly.

And if you have in one tax season verified your bank account details with Sars and have not changed your account or moved house, is there any point whatsoever in making you do it again? Can’t imagine what sane reason that could be?

So next year I shall come prepared. I will have a wheelbarrow of biltong and dröewors and maybe some really well salted potato crisps. And some salted caramel for afters.

And Di will be a few steps behind me with bottles of mineral water and Coke. There may or may not be some beers underneath all the cool drinks.

We will hire a troupe of singing dancers, or dancing singers, to entertain the queueing crowd, and pass a hat around. This may or may not be disclosed to the taxman the following year.

I am still in the queue as I write this in a note on my iPhone. It’s passing the time. I’m also planning supper. Something with biltong. And something blue, for the way I’m feeling today. Biltong and blue cheese pasta. That should do it. And wine, lots of wine.

I’ll start by sauteeing onions and garlic in butter, and then add finely chopped biltong. You could use biltong powder if you like, which you can buy in little plastic jars. When this is all nicely combined, add 250ml fresh cream and bring to a gentle bubble.

Keep an eye on it so that it doesn’t rise up and overflow. Season with black pepper. If it really isn’t salty enough, add a little, but the biltong is likely to contain enough for the sauce.

I served this, later that day, with penne, garnished with coriander leaves and a few biltong shavings. And wine. Lots of wine.

Weekend Argus

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