Carol’s Column

Camping out for an ID and passing for ‘coloured’

Direct rays of the sun are dangerous and must, at all costs, be avoided.

Things have definitely changed from when I was young and used to cover myself with cooking oil, lie in the open all day and sizzle away like a koeksister in an attempt to become a dark glorious brown.

Today dire warnings of the dangers of suntanning insist that we all walk around covered from toe joint to proboscis and, in the event of exposing ourselves to harmful rays, drench ourselves with total blockout. Let alone freckles and liver spots, we're talking cancer here.

However, when I looked at myself in the mirror and noted how pale, wan and unhealthily white I appeared, I thought to improve the overall package, a little tanning would do the trick.

Aware of the dangers involved, I chose to purchase one of these self-tanning creams which promises you an effortless all-over golden-brown tan without being assaulted by the sun's vicious rays.

As obviously there was a lot of body surface to cover and the idea of turning golden appealed to me, I bought a large bottle of self-tanning cream, read the instructions carefully and applied it meticulously to every part of my body before retiring to bed.

These days I am sleeping alone as my husband is still camping at the Department of Home Affairs waiting for his bar-coded identity book to arrive.

Pretoria said it was posted "weeks ago" which means he should get it shortly, well hopefully, before the coming elections. Anyway, Minister Mango Buthelezi of Home Affairs assured everyone only this week that he had no doubt, no, no doubt at all, that his department would deliver the goods.

I mentioned this to my husband last week when I visited him with chicken wings and clean underpants so that he could watch the cricket on his portable TV. But that was before I applied the self-tanning cream on Sunday evening. On Monday morning, when I looked in the mirror, a Dayglo-orange being stared back and it was nobody I recognised.

However, contact lens insertion revealed it was not an alien, just me in a different skin, a vividly coloured skin.

To tell the truth, I thought I looked quite attractive, festive, funky and very, very different. Had it been the old South Africa, I could have been reclassified as Other Colour.

I hadn't realised what a difference the colour of one's skin makes which is ridiculous really as it's still me inside this outer wrapping. Strangers stare and make all kinds of comments ranging from amusing to sympathetic to rude.

When visiting an elderly aunt at a home for senior citizens, I was refused entry "in case I caused heart failure among the inhabitants", but a group of youngsters told me I looked cool, amazing and awesome. The check-out woman at my local supermarket whispered that I shouldn't drink so much orange juice and suggested takkie polish for my face.

Last night, I visited my husband at Home Affairs who, with the other 789 aspiring voters also camping in front of the counter, was in the midst of a heavy political debate about the merits of transformation. At first, he didn't recognise me. Then he introduced me: "This is my wife Carol and she's fully into the whole transformation bit. When I last saw her she looked like a camembert cheese, today I find I'm married to a carrot with teeth," he said.

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