Cape Town too cool to sell cars?
2006-06-07 11:53
As promised in a column a couple of weeks ago, it's time to meditate on that strange phenomenon known as the car salesman. I've just driven my newly purchased car down from Johannesburg to Cape Town. For those readers not familiar with South African geography (boy, writing columns used to be much easier before the internet meant that your target market became the world), that's a journey of more than
1 400km, over two days.
I had to buy a car in Joburg, because nobody in Cape Town would sell me one. I went to six major car dealers in Cape Town, both new and second-hand, and nobody showed any interest. How much money are these people making that they can afford to yawn in the face of a customer?
I could understand why Toyota couldn't be bothered to sell me one of their new supersized yankee McBakkies. The first time I went there, they told me I had to wait a week for a test drive. And that if I did want a double cab, I'd have to wait eight months after I ordered it before it got delivered. For some stupid reason I was actually, ludicrously, willing to wait those eight months.
But nobody phoned me to set up the test drive. Luckily, I'm a Capetonian, so if we don't get service, we just go back, apologise for bothering the company, and ask again. So I got to test drive the McBakkie, but when I said I was okay with waiting eight months for the car, the salesman laughed and told me the waiting list was now a year.
No way I could catch taxis for a year, not without knocking a major chunk off my life expectancy. And that's sedan taxis I'm talking about, of course. That's about as un-roadworthy as I want to get.
Cape Town's car dealers a waste of time
So I tried several other car outlets, in some cases leaving my name and number. At most outlets, the salesmen were so disinterested, they didn't even bother asking for my details. I started to think, maybe it's my fault? Perhaps these salesmen can sense that I don't deserve to own one of their cars?
In the mornings, before setting off on my fruitless search, I'd make sure I dressed carefully. No more witty T-shirts saying "Eerder Dood Dan Roodt", no more peak caps with dots. I would have tried combing my hair with a middle parting, except I don't own a comb. But nothing worked. I contemplated buying a BMW key ring to toss onto salesmen's desks, but thought that would be going a little too far.
Then I had a brainwave. All the car salesmen I was talking to were men! (I know, I know, the 'men' bit should have been an instant clue, never mind the moustaches.) It's a well-known fact, my women staff members keep telling me, that if you want a job done properly, you ask a woman to do it. Or beg a woman to do it, as they'd describe it.
I searched high and low (Cape Town CBD and Parow, for those readers who aren't local), and managed to find a saleswoman at Orbit Motors in Cape Town. After checking whether she had a moustache or not (she didn't), I explained my predicament. She was aghast at my tale of woe, agreed with me that men were highly unreliable creatures, the fleshly equivalent of Renault service, to use a metaphor we both understood, and promised to help me.
I gave her all my details, the real ones, not the ones I give to insurance salesmen, and went home happy in the knowledge that I'd soon have the perfect car. Alas. it appears that selling cars is the one profession where men and women can compete equally. She was easily as unreliable as her male counterparts. I'm still waiting for that phone call.
In desperation, I turned to the internet, and found two car dealers in Johannesburg. Finally, some service. Despite the fact that I was in another province, Wayne at Toyota in Bryanston, and several guys at Daimler Chrysler, managed to find several potential vehicles for me to buy. They phoned me at least twice a week with options, and even mailed me photos. Of the cars, not of themselves.
So I ended up buying a car over the internet, sight unseen, and then flying up to drive it down. Now that's a success story for Cape Town car salespersons. They've managed to refine their working life to such a degree, they actually get their customers to shop in another province.
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See Chris's previous columns in his blog The World
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