by Ben Trovato
The pilot, perhaps sensing we weren’t sufficiently impressed, told us that the air temperature outside was minus 50 degrees. Please. That’s like Fish Hoek in July. What else you got, Cap’n? What’s that? We’re 30 minutes ahead of schedule? This is unheard of in aviation history. And for good reason. If you’re getting picked up, you don’t want to be half an hour early because the person picking you up is always half an hour late.
I was still guzzling my third beer when we started our descent into Cape Town. The city was covered in a thick blanket of cloud. “Not to worry, folks,” announced the pilot. “We have a shorter approach up our sleeves.” Great. The captain of flight MH370 also had a shorter approach up his sleeve.
The landing was bumpier than my last marriage but the pilot made no excuses. “Take care going into the city,” he said. You know you’re in South Africa when the freeway is more dangerous than the city.
PAY UP OR BEND OVER – BEYOND SOPHIE’S CHOICE
I recently bribed my first policeman. Yes, I know. It’s shocking to think that I have lived in this country my whole life and only now has this happened. I have friends in Johannesburg who bribe cops two or three times a month. I’m talking about ordinary, law-abiding people. Criminals obviously bribe the police a lot more frequently. It’s an occupational hazard and is probably tax deductible.
I was returning home from a dinner party, which, I might add, is a reprehensible thing on its own. What depraved monster conflated the two? Dinners and parties are very different animals. They should be held separately, in separate parts of the house, if not the city. Eating is nothing but the sating of a savage, primal urge. It’s as messy and brutal as sex and shouldn’t be done in front of others. One needs to make a beast of oneself. Get feral. Use all your digits and your entire face. I’m talking about eating, here, but it applies equally to sex.
Once your belly is full (after dinner, I mean. If it’s full after sex, you’re doing it wrong, although there are some people, mainly Germans, who would disagree), you may proceed in a disorderly fashion to the party. Which is what I did. After my 11th book was published, I became too important to drive myself around. I have someone to do it for me. It’s not a formal arrangement in the sense that she has agreed to it, or, for that matter, even knows about it. It’s on a more ad hoc basis. Or, in the case of nights out, ad hic.
On the night in question, I decided that I should take the wheel. The decision was made at 153 kilometres an hour and climbing. My driver seemed to think it was less likely that the evening would end in a twisted heap of burning metal if she stayed in the driver’s seat. I showed my disagreement by tugging at the wheel and pulling on the handbrake. Actions really do speak louder than words.
She pulled over in an ungainly fashion, alcohol fumes and phrases ill befitting a lady pouring from her mouth, and we switched seats. I took it up to a more sedate 120 kilometres an hour.
“Let’s see how you like it,” she said, sawing at the wheel. I laughed, cuffed her playfully across the head and brought the car back under control. It was hard to ignore the flashing blue light in my rearview mirror.
I checked the back seat for any stray contraband. It was clean, apart from a dozen full cans of beer. They’d been there for a while. It’s not as if I drive around like that on the off-chance that I might need a beer. I simply hadn’t got around to taking them out of the car and putting them in the fridge.
I pulled over and got out, partly to get away from the angry passenger and partly to intercept the cop before he reached the mobile bottle store. He was with the SA Police, not traffic or metro. He asked for my driver’s licence. My wallet was in for repairs, but my licence was in my pocket. I pulled it out, along with a wad of banknotes and my credit card. His pupils dilated as they adjusted to the sight of money.
“Have you been drinking?” he asked. What a ridiculous question. Everyone in South Africa who is on the road after 11pm has been drinking. Everyone. Without exception. It was 2am. What did he think I’d been doing – researching the nocturnal mating habits of the western leopard toad?
I said I’d had a couple of beers but doubted that I was over the limit. There was a very good chance I was telling the truth. I’m 1.94 metres tall and weigh 102 kilograms. The amount of alcohol it takes to make me feel even slightly tipsy would kill a smaller person.
He went back to his van and I considered making a run for it. It’s been a while since I ran anywhere. My heart probably couldn’t stand it. I would have to take a slow amble back to my car. It wouldn’t work. When he returned he told me that he had radioed for the traffic police to join us. Great. Sounds like the makings of a party. I even have beer!
So we waited. And waited. And waited. Eventually I said we should both be in bed and that we needed to sort something out. I explained that I didn’t mean we should be in bed together, but in our own beds, in our own homes. He wanted to know if I had any suggestions.
“A spot fine, maybe?” I brought out the crumpled banknotes. He glanced at my hand and shook his head.
“It’s better we go to the auto-teller,” he said.
There we were, my first bad cop and me, beneath the trees in the early hours of the morning, gently corrupting one another. It was almost romantic.
He walked over to my car and got into the driver’s seat. I was confused.
“Should I follow in your van?” It seemed to make sense that if he was taking my car, I’d take his. He laughed and said I should get in the back. The passenger, relieved that somebody other than me was driving, chatted amiably to the constable.
A couple of kilometres down the road, he pulled in to a garage. I got out and withdrew a thousand bucks. We returned to his van and I slipped the cash into his sweaty paw. He pointed to the back seat of my car. I opened the door and hauled out a six-pack. Anything else take your fancy, officer? How are you doing for shoes? I tell you what. I’ll throw in the woman if you promise to leave me alone. He took the money and the beer and I drove home.
Now. Condemn me if you must, but bear in mind that this cop was bent long before our paths crossed. And it’s no good using the street kid argument. Not giving them money doesn’t mean they’ll go away. Which brings me to the ‘sliding doors’ scenario.
While we’re waiting for the traffic police to arrive, I decide not to offer a bribe because it’s illegal. Besides, I don’t feel at all drunk. I get breathalysed. The result is positive. I’m the equivalent of two beers over the limit. I get pushed into the back of the van and taken to a police station where I am booked and thrown into a filthy cell. There are seven other men in there. Their eyes are hard and full of bad things. Within half an hour, I have been wrestled to the ground and had my boots stolen. At 3am I am woken by two men holding me down while a third rips my pants off. My screams for help are ignored as a man with a spider-web tattoo on his neck does unspeakable things to my bottom.
I’d prefer to pay the bribe, thanks.
LIKE NOSES, SOCCER RULES ARE MEANT TO BE BROKEN
A lot of people don’t understand soccer. By people, I mean women. At some point during the 30 days of any given World Cup, your husband, boyfriend, brother or father will insist that you watch at least one of the games.
“What do you mean ‘you don’t care who wins’?” they will shout. They will tell you that the last time Germany and England had a clash of this magnitude, three million people died.
Whatever you do, don’t shrug your shoulders and say, “It’s just a game.” Not unless you have the local paramedics on speed-dial.
Like everything else, the Greeks invented soccer. The Chinese, however, claim they came up with the idea. And the Egyptians say it was them. Today, you couldn’t put together a halfway decent team if you had to choose the best players from all three countries.
In a World Cup, there are 32 nations competing in eight groups. If, at any stage, you’re confused about who is where, just google “group positions”. It won’t tell you much about the World Cup, but you’ll learn
a bunch of stuff that will come in handy at your next ménage à treize.
You might think there should be only one law in soccer – no stabbing – and you would be right. Instead, there are at least 17. The men watching the game with you will insist there are many more laws than that. They will make them up as they go along.
Here is a truncated version of the basic ones you’ll need to know if you hope to stand a chance of following the game.
Law 1. Soccer can be played on grass or artificial turf, but it must be green. This is nothing short of colourism. Five minutes into the game, go and stand in front of the TV with your arms folded. Demand to know why the pitch can’t be yellow or blue. Refuse to move until you get a satisfactory answer. Or shot.
Law 2. The ball must be spherical in shape and made of leather or another comparable medium. Its circumference must be in the range of 27 to 28 inches. Or, in African terms, the size of the average willy. I have seen children playing soccer with a ball made of plastic bags wadded together with an elastic band. They should be arrested and charged.
Law 3. Matches are played by two teams of 11 to a side. You may ask, why 11? Why not 13? Or 27? Turn the TV off and wait for an answer. It will be quick in coming. My advice is that you’re quick in going. Run away and hide the remote. Use it to bargain for your life.
Law 4. Players are required to wear a jersey, shorts, shin guards, socks and cleats. The socks must cover the shin guards entirely. Because there’s nothing more obscene than an exposed shin guard. It’s discriminatory, is what it is. Players should be allowed to express their individuality by wearing whatever they please. Insist that everyone in the room removes their clothes in protest. You will probably need to google “group positions” at some point.
Law 5. The referee is the authority on the field, and his word is law. This is ridiculous, considering that so many of them shouldn’t be allowed onto a pitch without a guide dog on a leash.
Law 6. The assistant referees are primarily responsible for assisting … blah blah blah. They have no real power and are generally used for target practice by people in the cheap seats.
Law 7. A soccer match is comprised of two 45-minute halves. Another outrageous rule. They should keep playing until one side surrenders.
Law 8. Kick-off is determined by a coin toss. Boring, right? Why not toss a dwarf? Two sports in one. Better value for money means bigger crowds. I’m surprised Fifa hasn’t thought of it.
Law 9. Some drivel about the ball being in or out of play.
Law 10. A goal is scored when the entire ball has crossed the goal line. A silly rule. A goal should be deemed to be scored if the player runs around like a sheep dog, tears his shirt off and thrusts his hips at the crowd.
Law 11. The offside rule. The inability to understand this rule is not necessarily gender specific, as a lot of men seem to think. I have on many occasions jumped up and put my boot through the telly after the ref blew his whistle for no reason other than to stop my team from scoring. The offside rule is more complicated than Fermat’s last theorem. Never ask anyone to explain it without first being sedated.
Law 12. Fouls and misconduct. There are more potential offences in soccer than there are on the books of the International Court of Justice. If players adhered to the letter of the law, the game would essentially be netball with feet and about as exciting as synchronised swimming. No pushing? No spitting? What is this – the Gautrain?
Law 13. Free Kick is broken into two categories, direct and indirect. There is no such thing as a free kick.
Law 14. The penalty kick. The referee uses this to punish goalkeepers to whom he has taken a personal dislike. When you see the goalie lose the match single-handedly, after previously stopping 374 shots, you will weep at the injustice of it all and almost immediately begin taking it out on your partner. Next to Law 11, Law 14 is the biggest cause of divorce among couples who watch soccer.
Law 15. The throw-in. I know. How can there be a law governing the picking up of a ball and throwing it back into the game? All you need is a pair of arms. And hands, obviously. The only reason you wouldn’t have hands is if you played for Saudi Arabia and got caught nicking an extra biscuit at halftime.
Law 16. The goal kick. Who cares?
Law 17. The corner kick. Marginally more interesting than the goal kick because it puts the player in close proximity to a hostile, heavily armed mob.
TRIPPING LIKE AN ATTENTION DEFICIT BIPOLAR BEAR
I find it best not to move around too much in winter. Body heat and energy need to be conserved at all costs. Expeditions from my desk to the kitchen are fraught with danger. There’s a reason you don’t poke a bear with a stick while he’s hibernating and tell him to get off his hairy arse and find some food for the family.
That’s why I have had a bar fridge installed under my desk. I went foraging earlier in the week and my little metal friend is now stuffed to the gills with beer, cheese and chunks of boiled pig. According to Tim Noakes, this is all I need to live a long and healthy life. I even have a slab of duck fat that I rub on my face to keep the warmth in and the diabetes out. It’s a trick I picked up watching a video of Lewis Pugh swimming to the North Pole. Oh, and I also have an ichthyoallyeinotoxic fish that I take out and lick now and again to offset the carbs in the beer. Another beneficial side effect is that it makes me hallucinate. I’m surprised Noakes hasn’t mentioned this in his Banting diet. It’s a species of bream called Sarpa salpa, although in KwaZulu-Natal he prefers to be called karanteen. Down the south coast, where the holidaymakers hang out, he goes by the more informal name of strepie. However, he can’t speak Afrikaans so don’t waste your time trying to strike up a conversation. Catch him, beat him, cook him, eat him. Enjoy the trip.
On my desk is a computer, a printer and a fax machine in case someone from the 1980s needs to send me a document. I have an array of remote controls within easy reach. One for the hi-fi, two for the TV and three to alert the armed response company that I am being attacked by a swarm of flying wombats. I have since cut back on the bream.
When I pause between sentences – because every good writer takes a break between sentences – I flick between CNN, Sky, BBC World, eNCA, Al-Jazeera and Russian Television. I know everything that happens anywhere, sometimes before it even happens. And when I pause between words, I flick between Facebook and Twitter. Sometimes I pause between letters and check my email.
If I were a child, I would have grown-ups fighting among themselves to get Ritalin down my throat. If I could tear myself away from my computer and the television, I would go to a doctor and get my own Ritalin. No, I wouldn’t. I would never make it. I’d log on to Twitter while I was driving and plough into someone’s house. Into their lounge. Where the TV would be on. The paramedics would find me bleeding and tweeting and when they tried to strap me to the stretcher I would resist and scream, “Fuck off! The Israelis are bombing kids on the beach! Save the rhino! Climate change is killing us! Don’t touch me!”
There is too much information coming in and not enough going out. Something’s got to give. But it’s not just information. Facebook, a bottomless reservoir of inconsequential froth and mawkish inanity, is heroin for the easily distracted. Like the collapse of a star – and I don’t mean Lindsay Lohan – it creates a gravitational force that sucks you in. And the deeper you go, the stupider you get. It won’t ever spit you out. You have to climb out by yourself, minus several IQ points, clinging to the ephemeral tendrils of … aww, cute! A husky wearing sunglasses! What was I saying? Oh, yes. The effort it takes to drag oneself from the suck-hole of Facebook is often … Oh, no! Kirstin has lost her iPhone! It’s midnight and Vuyo can’t sleep! A miniature horse! John is going to Mauritius! A talking cat! Ravi just had an ice cream! Ooh, a test to see what kind of dog I am!
IT’S A MAN-EAT-DOG WORLD OUT THERE
Oh, to be in the ancient Chinese city of Yulin in June. To walk along the shores of Lake Hongjiannao, smelling the peach blossoms and basking in the sultry summer
air. To amble around the Dongkou market, languidly browsing through the schnauzers and the chow chows.
I do love the way Chinese towns each have their own delightful traditions. In Yulin, for instance, visitors are encouraged to celebrate the summer solstice. This is best done by picking out a plump Pekingese and having it grilled right there in front of you. Your host will serve it with a side order of plump lychees and a glass of potent grain alcohol. Yum!
The annual festival is a vibrant swirl of sights and sounds – mainly the sounds of 10 thousand dogs vying for the privilege of being barbecued, stir-fried or boiled. Much like the Chinese themselves, the dogs are happiest when called upon to sacrifice themselves for the greater good.
Personally, I can’t think of a better pet than one you can play with and then, when you’re feeling peckish, snack on a leg or nibble on its tail. A playmate in the morning and dinner at night. What’s not to love?
The news report I read about this charming Oriental custom said there were a few spoilsports who tried to dampen the festive spirit by shouting about cruelty to animals, but all this seemed to do was encourage vendors to hold their animals hostage. One dangled a dog from a noose and threatened to kill it unless the bunny-huggers paid him a handsome ransom. Now that’s what I call an entrepreneur.
There was also a swaddle of Buddhists who wandered about the market performing religious rites to “console the souls of the slaughtered dogs”. I have no doubt the dogs were awfully grateful, but I can’t help feeling their cause might have been better served had a platoon of animal-loving Tibetan monks armed with AK-47s turned up instead.
You can find vendors, like 55-year-old Zhou Jian, who lamented the presence of people who think dogs belong on couches, not menus. One year he only managed to offload three shar peis, two pugs and a Manchurian hairless. Most of his merchandise went unsold. “How am I meant to feed my family?” he said, packing away several cages of Chinese crested dogs. “Oh, right. But that would be eating into my profits.”