So long, and thanks for ...

JOHANNESBURG , SOUTH AFRICA - Nov 06 2009 12:08

This week Volkswagen announced that it is to discontinue production of the iconic Citi Golf. Four Mail & Guardian staffers reflect on the demise of this much-loved -- and scorned -- motor vehicle

Adriaan Basson
The Golf Chicco was not God's gift to motorists. Especially not the 1.3 model that leaked upwards through the accelerator during the Highveld's summer storms. And mine was green -- not the prettiest.
But it meant freedom for a 21-year-old with a lust for life (thanks mom and dad!) -- swimming trips to Gordon's Bay while studying at Stellenbosch, weekend visits to my girlfriend in Pretoria, and even a trip or two to the Winelands to stock my Jo'burg flat with cheap wine.
The "green monster" was my travelling partner for four years. Together we experienced the landscapes of the West Coast and the Karoo and the freeways of Gauteng.
Like all worthy beings, it carried the scars of life. But together we survived and prospered until the end of 2005, when I upgraded.
I'm shamelessly sentimental about my green monster, and pity the 21-year-olds of 2010 who must settle for some weird-looking Korean number with an unpronounceable name.

Monako Dibetle
My first Golf was a 1993 red 1.6 Chicco -- a hand-me-down from my brother.
"Rooimier", as we called it, had been on the road for more than 10 years and done more than 500 000km. After a year, I sold it to a friend for R10 000 and upgraded to a 1986 burnt-orange Golf 2 GTS.
When I bought it in Krugersdorp (where manufacturing was discontinued in the early 1990s) the burly Afrikaans-speaking salesman told me: "You’ll be a hit with the cherries, ouboet!"
In fact, I was a hit with the neighbourhood rats, which practically made a home in the car, especially on rainy nights.
Someone suggested that the rodents could be causing the car's sporadic electrical failures by chewing the wiring.
I stockpiled red Rattex killer wedges, which initially worked like a charm. But the growing volume of rat droppings meant the boys were soon back in town.
I avoided driving my Golf 2 for long distances as it had a tendency to choke in the middle of nowhere -- as it did on a stormy day in Hammanskraal. For this and other nasty surprises, my teenage neighbours named my Golf "boni ya ko kasie" -- township bicycle.
Owning this car turned me into a full-time security guard, constantly on the lookout for thieves. I used exactly what the thugs use to prevent others from stealing their Velocitis, 20/20s and GTIs -- a Viro lock on the steering wheel.
It works, and this information is strictly exclusive to Golf owners.

Yolandi Groenewald
Universities were favourite haunts of the Citi Golf, and often you would find a whole row parked together.
My best friend's red one, the beloved "Tjorrie Worrie", ferried us from the Potch watering-hole, Bourbons, back to our digs.
One night, after a lekker kuier at Bourbons, we made our way back to Tjorrie Worrie. We got in and pulled off in a cloud of dust.
The next morning we discovered that a doppelgänger with a bashed bumper and a faded red tan had taken Tjorrie's parking space.
My friend's car keys had unlocked and started a totally different car.
We returned to Bourbons in the doppelgänger, found Tjorrie still parked in the beercan-littered parking lot, and did a rapid swop.
Citi Golfs have a reputation for being theft-prone. Hmm ...

Mandy Rossouw
Putting the Citi Golf out to pasture is perhaps an important step in human evolution. No longer will we be expected to drive a vehicle that handles and sounds like a tractor.
My indigo 1300 spluttered at traffic lights, while its too-quick jolt on accelerating damaged my driving credibility.
I bought it with great pride as my first car, but gratitude soon turned into resentment.
Parking was a challenge because owners were apparently expected to believe that power steering is for sissies.
Nothing ran smoothly or quietly -- friends knew you were at the gate long before you rang the doorbell. And because the driver's sunshield had no mirror, repairing make-up in traffic was a treacherous exercise.
Maturity is about knowing when to call it quits. I'm glad the Citi Golf has finally grown up.

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