Who am I, eNatis?

I don't care much for Joost van der Westhuizen or for his Barbie doll wife, Amor Vittone, whose treffers I avoid with as much horror and disgust as Aids-infected needles. I care even less for the “Posh and Becks” image that these two are trying to portray, albeit with Afrikaans accents.

Thus, you can guess that I really could not care less whether it was really Joost who romped around in white underpants (with holes in them) with some skanky Hillbrow stripper, or which part of her anatomy he apparently snorted cocaine off. Nor do I care about what kind of socks he owns or any tattoos he may have near his nether regions.

Admittedly, his confession that his Johnson is smaller than that of the person on the video clip did elicit a chuckle from me, as it takes a big man (no pun intended), or perhaps a very desperate one, to admit such a thing publicly.

But, to be fair, upon reflection, I found myself feeling sorry for him. You see, I actually find myself in a similar predicament. The traffic department has this photo, which it says is of me, but I swear it really isn't. So I can kind of empathise with Joost here. (I also feel sorry for him because the whole of SA now knows he has a small penis, but I'm not necessarily saying that I empathise on this point.)

But let me start at the beginning. As much as I don't care about Joost, I simply despise speedcops and all other forms of so-called traffic officials. I also despise their over-priced little eNatis system, which is designed to make the punishment of occasional speedsters like myself swifter and more brutal.

I laughed when the system crashed and burned upon launch, pretty much as spectacularly as the Challenger space shuttle. I raged when I realised that my tax money paid for this infernal thing in the first place and that even more would towards fixing it.

Now, as I understand (but who can keep up, really?), eNatis is the retarded bastard child (or some other relative) of the terminally ill “Who am I Online” project, which the Department of Home Affairs insists on keeping alive by intravenously feeding it large piles of cash every now and then.

Due to my dislike for all things related to traffic law enforcement, I developed a habit, over the past few years, of ignoring traffic fines and hoping that they would go away quietly if neglected long enough.

Due to my dislike for all things related to traffic law enforcement, I developed a habit, over the past few years, of ignoring traffic fines and hoping that they would go away quietly if neglected long enough.

Martin Czernowalow, online editor, ITWeb

As a result, I also developed a sixth sense about roadblocks and an uncanny ability to avoid them - much as I do Amor's treffers. I was quite content to be driving along and, suddenly and without warning, turning into small, dark side roads or doing handbrake turns at the slightest hint of flashing blue lights ahead. In fact, so much so that it became second nature.

It was my girlfriend who pointed out that my behaviour was bordering on the bizarre. One evening, while driving home from dinner, we must have been about a block from her house, when I unexpectedly veered off into a side street (upon suspicion that a speedcop might be lurking in the bushes up ahead) and added about five kilometres to the journey. Naturally, my significant other raised a quizzical eyebrow and I confessed my little problem with the law.

After a prolonged debate about the ethics of capitulating and how this would impact my personal integrity, I finally conceded the impracticality of living out the remainder of my years as a fugitive from the traffic department. I agreed to hand myself over (or at least to register on www.payfine.co.za and assess the situation).

Well, at this point, I just need to stress that I was grateful that my posterior was firmly planted in my chair when the Web site returned my results, or I could have fallen over, hit my head and swallowed my tongue.

It would be an understatement to say that the situation was dire. According to Payfine, my outstanding balance with the Johannesburg Metro Police Department (JMPD) amounted to R7 000 (and two outstanding warrants of arrest) - spanning a period of roughly two years. Naturally, this raised my ire, as well as my blood pressure, and I shouted that I'll be damned if I was going to hand over R7K to the speedcops.

Images of traffic officials, wearing surgical masks, hunched over the sick eNatis system, with tubes and cables snaking across the floor and a heart rate monitor beeping weakly in the background, flashed before my eyes. I could picture a female speedcop, with an ample, jiggling backside - from too many roadblock doughnuts, no doubt - rushing into the emergency room, carrying a steel case filled with my hard-earned cash, shouting: “We found a donor!”

That was just too much. I was not going to pay. Never. Not even if hell froze over.

My girlfriend, bless her heart, is also my voice of reason and agreed that not paying is an option. But then she also pointed out what happens in prison to nice, white boys like me.

The following day, I promptly settled all outstanding business with the JMPD - using one of these third-party payment companies, which, for a small commission, can get fines substantially reduced. I was not exactly going to go near any police or traffic departments in person, not with outstanding arrest warrants.

Which brings me to the crux of the matter. Among the dozens of outstanding fines that Payfine reflected under my ID number, three fines and their associated pictures were clocked up by the driver of some silver Toyota Corolla, in Roodepoort.

Now, like Joost, I found myself shouting: “That's not me!” So much for the brilliance of eNatis, with its single-view, omnipotent, all-seeing presence. Surely, this system would be capable of picking up duplicate ID numbers - unless this individual has stolen my entire identity and is going by the name of Martin Czernowalow. But that, let's face it, would be as stupid as it is unlikely.

Anyway, I have since been trying to muster up the courage to report this anomaly to which ever troupe of bureaucrats it falls under. I have also realised that, like Joost, I would need to come up with some solid evidence that the offending motorist in the picture is not me. From the rear view of the car, I cannot attest to whether this individual has holes in his underpants, or whether he shares my affinity for cheap, black socks. I can also not comment on any tattoos, in shady places, and I can frankly not testify to the size of his genitals - although his fines never exceed R50, so I can only surmise that his cajones are smaller than mine.

What I can say is that I don't drive a crappy car like that and that I generally avoid Roodepoort, as it is there that I am most likely to encounter Amor, belting out one of her treffers in the Pick 'n Pay parking lot, on a Saturday morning. But will that be enough to get me off the hook?

I suppose I will just have to keep a close eye on the Joost saga to see if I can glean any useful tips about how he manoeuvres his way out of this one. Go Joost, I'm with you all the way!