Durban Poison

by Ben Trovato

  First, though, he has to remove a derelict tooth so he can make an accurate mould. Whoopee. An extraction. Next to a root canal, my all-time favourite.

  I was on the point of soiling my broeks when he introduced a revolutionary new development in dentistry. It looked like the night-vision goggles that US Marines wear while patrolling the streets of Baghdad at night, except I got to watch Seinfeld instead of wild-eyed Iraqi gunmen.

  The tooth was out before Kramer had even made his entrance. I begged him to extract a couple more so I could at least finish the episode, but it can’t be much fun listening to a patient laughing through a mouth full of blood, so he told me to rinse and spit and make another appointment.

  I told the receptionist to pencil me in for 2035 and fled.

  MAID IN AFRICA – A JOURNEY OF BLAXPLOITATION

  The exchange of labour for money is the greatest confidence trick since some dude called Abraham duped his slave into paying for his own circumcision. I don’t know the finer details but apparently it’s all there in the Book of Genesis. Read it if you like. Don’t tell me how it ends. Badly, I imagine.

  This is how transactions involving the swapping of work for currency almost always end. Bosses feel they’re not getting value for their money and employees feel they’re not getting money for their value. So the bosses start firing people who sometimes come back a bit later on and do some firing of their own. Fair play to them.

  That’s why, when it comes to people who perform menial labour, I have a soft spot for domestic workers. Despite the way they’ve been treated in the past, they hardly ever wake you up with a cup of tea and a gun to your head. There’s more chance of your wife doing that sort of thing. Except your wife wouldn’t bother with the tea. Unless it was poisoned. In which case she wouldn’t bother with the gun.

  Domestic workers have been with us for a long time. I don’t mean in South Africa, specifically. Throughout human history there have been drawers of water and hewers of wood and bastards exploiting them.

  Not much has changed over the last four thousand years. Sure, the pay has gone up a bit but the work is pretty much the same. Do the laundry, sweep the floors, kill the king’s half-brother, mop up the blood, fellate the first cousins and report to the supervisor for further instructions.

  I have a domestic worker and I live alone. I find that appalling. How much of a pig can one person be that he has to hire another entire person to clean up after him? A pretty big pig, as it turns out. In my defence, though, I didn’t go looking for her. She came to me. She knocked on my door one day and asked if I needed help. I asked if she was a psychiatrist.

  My instinctive reaction was to threaten to have her arrested if she ever again showed up on my doorstep offering to make my life easier. But then my empathy gland squirted a shot of empath into my brain and I relented. It’s why I can’t go to the SPCA on a Saturday morning just to browse. Of course I’m not equating humans with animals. I’m merely trying to make the point that I am sensitive to the needs of sentient beings of whatever species. But while I’ll happily take in a homeless dog, I’m unlikely to extend the same courtesy to a homeless man. Does that make me a bad person? In a perfect universe, yes. But the universe is not perfect. It’s way too big for a start. And just when you think you’re getting somewhere, you trip over a brown dwarf and fall into a black hole.

  “How are you placed for Tuesdays?” I said, as if I were arranging a regular squash game with my lawyer. Not that I have a lawyer. I did, once. His street name was Psycho Syd and he refused to defend me on anything, so I had to let him go.

  She said Tuesdays were fine. I quickly introduced myself because if you don’t do that right away, domestic workers will call you “boss” or “master” and you let it slide until it’s too late to start over and you spend years and years hating yourself for allowing this strange woman to make you feel as if you were the captain of the Amistad with a brother who personally captured Kunta Kinte.

  “Call me Sir Ben,” I said. “We shall reserve my full title for special occasions such as my birthday.” She nodded slowly. “And what, my good lady, is your name?”

  She glanced over her shoulder, clearly considering making a run for it. She wouldn’t have got far. I would have brought her down like a leopard on a startled doe and dragged her back to the doorway so that we might complete the formalities.

  “Betty,” she said. I snorted and raised the singed remnants of my eyebrows. “Madam,” I said. “I am not referring to the name foisted upon you through neocolonial imperatives. What is the name given to you by your mummy? Your tribal name.” She sighed heavily. “Nkosiphendule.” I nodded. “Great. Betty it is, then.”

  Yes, I am fully aware that the domestic worker industry is traditionally exempt as a subject for humour and that I am treading in a minefield where every mine could blow my career to bits. Not that I have a career.

  It doesn’t really make sense, though, that the efforts of those who toil in this field should remain off-limits in our daily quest for cheap laughs. After all, thanks to the success of the national democratic revolution, domestic workers are now exploited by all races.

  Domestic workers are in a similar category to politicians. We talk about them and complain about them but we can’t seem to get rid of them. Just as you might emigrate to get away from our politicians, I know people who have sold their home so they could start a new life without their domestic worker.

  Every blue-collar worker brings his or her own idiosyncrasies to the job. Plumbers show us their cracks. Electricians carry on as if their last job was on the space shuttle. Builders destroy your house and disappear. Domestic workers are no different when it comes to displaying strong and weak points.

  The apex maids, if I may use that phrase without endangering my livelihood, are in great demand. However, they are like unicorns. Unicorns in uniforms. Suburban etiquette dictates that if you find one, you don’t keep her to yourself. Friendships have ended and families fallen out because of one person refusing to share.

  Most, however, fall somewhat short of apex. Not a few fall into the Movers and Breakers category. Betty is a Breaker. Her first couple of Tuesdays were marked by the sound of plates and cups plummeting to their death. In normal circumstances, the hurling of invective follows the smashing of crockery. But on Tuesdays the impact is followed by an eerie silence. If a soup bowl breaks and there is no sound to acknowledge it, perhaps it never happened. Or perhaps, the next time I open the cupboard and find one instead of four bowls, I will think I must have taken the other three for a little outing and inadvertently left them on a park bench or at the beach.

  Then came a Tuesday when it was as if a poltergeist had snuck into the cutlery drawer and was wilfully tossing knives and forks about the kitchen. Now I leave the premises before the demolition derby can begin. I often have nowhere to go. There are some Tuesdays that I sit at a bus stop and wait for six hours to pass.

  Some people get Movers. I think I’d rather have a Mover than a Breaker, to be honest. They keep you on your toes by shifting things to new and interesting locations. Okay, sure, if you find your car keys on the toilet roll holder and your underwear in the microwave, she might be more than just a Mover. Quite a few Movers are also frustrated interior decorators and you’ll frequently find the layout of your lounge has changed substantially by the end of the day.

  Then there are the Groovers and the Takers. When you get home, you’ll find your DStv is on the gospel channel and your radio is set to Ukhozi FM. That’s when you know you have a Groover. You tell yourself that she combines the dancing with the cleaning rather than simply kicking things under the furniture as she pirouettes from one room to another.

  The Takers generally help themselves to whatever they please. They arrive with a small handbag and leave with three bulging plastic bags. It’s not really stealing, though. I think it’s more of a civil service mentality and it’s best to let it slide. Unless, of course, a bakkie arrives to pick her up and a couple
of guys load up your bed.

  So here’s the question. Would you rather live in a developed country where everything works but you can’t afford a servant, or in a country with a rapacious, corrupt government but, thanks to a history steeped in violence and injustice, there’s a pool of cheap labour available?

  And it is cheap. Oh, yes. Thanks to white liberal guilt, domestic workers in the Western Cape are the highest paid in the country. They get an average of R188.50 per day. Or, in terms we can all understand, the price of a case of beer. KwaZulu-Natal romps home in third place with R151 a day, the equivalent of a McMeal and two bottles of wine. That’s more than enough to feed a family of five for a week.

  You don’t want to live in the Northern Cape if you’re a domestic worker. Those penurious swine pay their servants R120 a day. I wouldn’t live in the Northern Cape if you paid me that every minute.

  Before you decide to emigrate, bear this in mind. A company called Maid of London charges the equivalent of R204 an hour for someone to come around and do a little light dusting. And if you’re going to New York, be prepared to pay between R1 500 and R3 000 a day to have your home cleaned. For that price you’d expect Angelina Jolie in a frilly French maid’s outfit. Instead, you get a belligerent Bulgarian banging on about how the dirty Syrian refugees are destroying Europe.

  In South Africa the recommended minimum wage for domestic workers is R10.95 an hour. R10.95. You’re probably thinking this was set by the National Party in 1984, right? Wrong. It was set by the labour department last year.

  With friends like these …

  DURBAN POISON – NOW YOU CAN SMOKE IT AND DRINK IT

  The poetically named Anheuser-Busch InBev has bought SABMiller for $107 billion. Big deal. That’s my monthly bar tab. I’m not usually a fan of megalithic corporate conglomerates, but this one is promising to penetrate deep into Africa. If there’s one thing the poor need, it’s greater access to fresh beer.

  Unlike some people I could mention, beer has always been there for me. That’s not strictly true. It hasn’t been as loyal to me as I have been to it. I have spent many nights in its company, only to wake up the next morning to find that it has stabbed me in the brain and made off with my cell phone.

  I am not alone in this. Many of my compatriots are in a committed relationship with beer and yet South Africa is not even in the top 24 countries that love beer the most. This is pathetic and I, for one, am deeply ashamed. I know I’m doing my bit. It’s you people out there – drinking wine and other rubbish – that are letting us down.

  At the bottom of the list, 67 per cent of Ecuadoreans drink beer. We can’t even beat that. Fiji, for heaven’s sake, drinks more beer than we do. Namibia at least does the continent proud, coming in third with an unhealthy 96.7 per cent Bhutan, of all places, takes top honours. There, the entire population drinks beer. They score a perfect 100 per cent. Those Buddhists sure could teach us a thing or two about commitment.

  October is a month in which beer is worshipped around the world. Maybe not so much in Saudi Arabia. The northern hemisphere traditionally pays tribute to beer at the height of the fall. The height of the fall often depends on where you’re standing and how much beer you’ve had. America named this season after the Pilgrims developed a taste for Wampanoag homebrew and spent seven months struggling to get to their feet. We call it autumn although we also fall a fair bit. It’s very confusing.

  The Germans gave us Oktoberfest. However, they also gave us the Third Reich. Then again, they gave us the Easter Bunny. But they also gave us the accordion. On the other hand, they gave us aspirin, essential to any serious beer-drinker’s survival kit. It all evens out in the end.

  Many countries have followed Germany’s example and celebrate their own version of Oktoberfest. According to my research, “The southern Mexico City borough of Xochimilco hosts an annual traditional German knees-up complete with beer and bratwurst, all served up with a fiery Mexican twist.” The twist presumably comes when the Los Zetas cartel crashes the party and kills everyone.

  Durban doesn’t have an Oktoberfest because it’s held in September so they have to call it the Bierfest. Fair enough. It’s humid, a venue is available and the beer is on ice. What the hell difference does it make what month it is? We’re going to be drinking beer solidly every day until the end of the year anyway.

  The first mistake the organisers of the Bierfest made was to introduce a European element to the festivities, offering oompah bands, “Bavarian” barmaids with their chests hanging out, weird German sausages and so on. Their second mistake was not inviting me.

  I was becoming anxious about missing the few remaining opportunities to celebrate the month of beer. Of course I had been celebrating all along, but slumped on the couch throwing peanuts at the monkeys and talking to a dog I don’t have isn’t much fun. I wanted to be among fellow aficionados, or, as my mother used to call them, drunks.

  After going for a surf at Umdloti the other day, I was standing under the shower when this guy joined me. It’s not what it sounds like. For a start, he had his own shower. And he didn’t just come out of the bushes, either. He had also been surfing. Surfers in Durban don’t generally talk to each other unless they are related or have known each other for at least 20 years.

  This dude broke with tradition and said he’d seen me around. Asked who I was. I gave him a fake name because I don’t trust anyone, least of all myself. Next thing you know, I’ve been kidnapped and sold off to a gang of degenerate white slave traders operating out of the Bush Tavern. It can happen.

  A few days later I saw his picture in the paper. He wasn’t involved in human trafficking at all. What he had done, though, was start his own brewery. I cursed myself for being such a fool. It was as if I had allowed a soulmate to slip through my fingers. The company is called Poison City Brewing. My newspaper column was called Durban Poison. Their logo is five surfboards positioned to resemble the leaf of one of Durban’s most popular herbaceous plants – the Cannabis sativa. I have five surfboards and … well, I needed no further proof that the invisible hand of Jah was trying to bring this brewery and me together.

  Using my finely honed investigative skills, I tracked him down and insisted that he introduce me to his beer. It’s a lager called The Bird. I hoped he would leave us alone for a while so that we might become better acquainted. Instead, he invited me to a mini-Oktoberfest at his home. After making sure that nobody would be wearing lederhosen and I wouldn’t be expected to do the ridiculous Chicken Dance, I agreed to attend. He said that, as a nod to tradition, his German wife would be there. Blonde? Yes. Okay, then. Dark-haired German women terrify me. It doesn’t feel right. Like tall clowns. Or talking sheep.

  It turned out to be way better than a normal beerfest because the beer was free. Obviously it had to be an invitation-only affair. Open something like that up to the public and you’d have to get the riot police in. Especially on the North Coast.

  Being a Sunday I was dressed casually – much like a homeless person dresses casually – and was relieved to find myself in good company. This wasn’t the kind of crowd one might expect at, say, a wine-tasting soiree. I suppose a beer made by a company called Poison City Brewing, with a logo that might get you searched at a roadblock, was never going to attract a conventional crowd. I might have been the only person there without a tattoo. Or, oddly, a young child.

  And that’s the point, really. Anti-establishmentarianism might be damnably hard to say when you’re off your face, but with a bit of effort it can become the new zeitgeist.

  If craft beer is the Che Guevara of the brewing industry, carry me to the barricades.

  * The company has since brought out a cannabis-infused beer called Durban Poison. My work here is done.

  I WAS DOING RESEARCH, I SWEAR

  Never mind Julian Assange and Wikileaks. Forget Alan Turing cracking Nazi Germany’s Enigma code. When dating site Ashley Madison got hacked, it did the most damage ever. If you go outside and listen carefully, you ca
n hear the distant sound of erections toppling over like shot giraffe.

  Okay, so Ashley Madison isn’t strictly a dating site, although I do think that if two married strangers get naked and filthy within five minutes of meeting, it’s still a form of dating. Extreme dating, perhaps.

  The tag line on their website, as everyone knows by now, is, “Life is short. Have an affair.” They may want to change it to, “Life is short. Have a divorce.” Lawyers are already referring to Christmas in September.

  The site goes on, “Ashley Madison is the world’s leading married dating service for discreet encounters.” Discreet is highlighted in red and italicised. Apparently that wasn’t clear enough for the hackers. As for the company’s claim of 39 470 000 anonymous members, well, they might want to make a couple of changes. For a start, replace “anonymous” with “anxious” or “mortified”.

  When it emerged that the site’s security had been breached, every married woman in the world wanted to know if her beloved was on the database. Ninety per cent of those signed up to the service are men. The phrase “Members Only” has never rung more true.

  Although there probably are some wives on the site, women, married or not, generally don’t need to trawl the internet to get laid. They simply go outside and smile at any passing man who takes their fancy. Perhaps do that thing with their eyebrows to help the slower ones get the message.

  So who did the hacking? They call themselves the Impact Team and my gut tells me women are involved. There’s a vicious recklessness in this act of terror. But, speaking as a twice-married man, my gut has been wrong before. It could just as easily be a bunch of disgruntled husbands. Or religious zealots.

  Noel Biderman, legendary lounge lizard and founder of the Toronto-based Ashley Madison, has without doubt made it easier for married people to cheat. Would they still have cheated had the site not existed? Probably.