- La Veu d'Àfrica

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	It’s all relative. Octubre del 2009

Roberta Coci, Johannesburg in Barcelona, NARRATIVE, October 4, 2009.

Last night I went out with a group of new people, as I’ve been inclined to do pretty much every night since I arrived in Barcelona. The life of an expat – best summed up in Rodriguez’s words: “I make 16 solid half-hour friendships every evening”. On meeting two girls who’ve lived here for one and three years respectively, I groped at the chance to pick their brains, find out what’s kept them here, what they love and what they hate about the city. “Well, actually I’m thinking of going home,” sighed One-Year. “There’s just too much I can’t handle about this place anymore.” “Last week I was feeling the same,” replied Three- Year. “But I’ve met this really awesome guy, so now everything’s looking a bit more positive.” Feeling slightly anxious at this, the first dismissal of life in Barcelona I’d heard, I quickly chewed and swallowed my butifarra, wiped the grease off my face and asked, “But why? What don’t you like?” The answer was unanimous: “Everything takes so long here.” At that I nearly coughed up my pork sausage. “Say what?” “Yeah, you want to get a simcard, it takes you days, to find an apartment who knows how long, anything requiring paperwork you may as well just forget about.” Then it dawned on me. I observed their flawless, clear skin, their blonde hair and their slightly flat accents. “You’re from further north, aren’t you?” “Germany” replied One-Year. “Norway” came Three-Year’s response. Cha-ching. You always hear about African Time, but that was the first time I’ve seen the reverse in action. Since I’ve arrived in Barcelona, I’ve marvelled at the proficiency and speed with which everything is done here. In my first week I went to apply for my NIE (residency) at the only place you can do so in Barcelona – a police station near the beach. On seeing the queue I debated turning around and climbing back into bed, but then I noticed a police officer walking up and down the line, checking everyone had the right papers and dividing people into two streamlined queues that moved swiftly along as I watched. Two minutes into the line he approached me, told me I had the wrong form and gave me the correct one. By the time I had filled it in, it was my turn at the counter. A trip to the bank and ten Euros later, I was a resident of Spain. Hands up anybody who’s tried applying for residency in South Africa? Or even a simple driver’s licence, for that matter? From opening a bank account to signing up for a cell phone, and let’s not forget about using the public transport on offer, I’ve found that everything I’ve done in Barcelona has fallen into place without me even having to try. But speaking to these girls made me think of it in a different way. Things may not run too smoothly in Africa, but there’s an upside to that. With African Time comes African Temperament. Put me in a queue and I’m not going to complain. Instead, I’ll turn to the person next to me and start up a conversation. Delay my plane by an hour and I’ll take out my book and enjoy the totally ‘free’ time that I’ve been unexpectedly given. Yip, we may not have high-speed hover trains and our civil servants might make Baloo the Bear seem like a grandmaster on speed, but if the offside of that is patience, a sense of humour and the ability to simply chill out, then hey, who am I to complain? Now get me another one of those butifarras.



	Roberta Coci, Johannesburg. October 4, 2009.

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