The end of the world was scheduled for 21.12.2012, this of course meant that instead of repenting for our sins and spending time with the ones that birthed us we had to go out and make fools of ourselves in the form of hopping around Durban aimlessly.
The evening began without drama and luckily those Mayans planned our demise (demises?) on a Friday so all parties were in full swing, the plan to spend our last hours of existence was now assured to be in a hot sweaty club with a bunch of coolies with sex on their minds and the taste of cheap brandy on their breaths. This little graphic should give you an indication of the night life in Durban, and no it’s not that we spend our time in dives and holes by choice, what has been described above is a depiction of a ‘’classy” Durban scene.
The evenings processions began as all of ours tend to, as soon as arriving home I began furiously texting ‘the girls’ to find out exactly what each of them had planned for the evening, and because of my severe case of fomo I was also tempted to ask them about their day but luckily I quickly came to my senses and realised that unless it involved random acts of violence in the form of tongue stabbing with strangers I didn’t really care as long as whatever they were doing later included me.
When the responses started pouring in, from all 3 of my friends, things were beginning to look bleak, it seemed my last day on earth would be spent at News Cafe drinking tea over a hubbly while ogling too young white boys with bodies that Indian girls can only hope to feel up in their whickey whickey dreams. On hind sight that may might have actually been the more rational thing to do. A responded with a simple text reading: Vogue. I decided to run with it and amped myself up, the ever ready and always faithful J did not disappoint and quickly hopped onto the amped train with me. It was hard to tell whether or not she was faking it over text but I was still coming to terms with my mortality, and being an atheist no fear of hell or thoughts of running around as a cockroach in my next life entered my conscious to prompt me to be a good person and ask her if she really wanted to.
Armed with hair straightener in hand I prepared myself for battle, if this truly were to be my last day on earth and an unlikely after life really existing I’d hate to pitch up at the pearly gates and turned toward the ‘tamil’ heaven doomed to spend eternity with the likes of Sivaji, Ranjankant and pretty much every other moustached and paedo-looking creep because of my very evident south-indian hair. Grooming now concluded I kissed my parents good-bye, promised to be responsible and sped off at a pace very irresponsible for a little hatch.
The first stop was Cuba… by the stadium. My response was distributed into shock horror and disgust in equal parts. I think we’ve all heard too many indian jokes about gold teeth to make this description feel authentic. To fully do justice to the abomination that was Cuba I will explain my tolerance for filth.
I have been with a Sri Lankan, burdened with a name about 13 syllables long which I can’t care to recall right now. He was the colour of the black spots you see in your eyes when you stare at the sun and I’m fairly certain he did not speak English, but to be fair that night I spoke in slurs and drunken sign language. He was not a lean man either; he resembled a big cuddly bear, but not the type you grip at night for comfort when scared. The semblance between the two was purely based on them having the same waist circumference.
I have also been with someone who in the 5 years we dated probably bathed about 2 times. Needless to say I grew accustomed to breathing through my nose and STILL I could only stomach Cuba for about 5 minutes before I threw a mini tantrum, flipped my recently straightened hair around and demanded we make a swift exit before I delved deeper into the anthropological value of figuring out the mating habits of the classless.
The next stop was Vogue which upon entry looked like the beginning of a matric dance and not just because of the age of the kids. It was that awkward vibe where no one has started sipping from their secret hip flasks yet and are still at the stage when they’re uncertain of their sexuality. Girls crowded in the corners giggling to one another and boys puffed up their chests and ran their hands through their far too gelled hair. The dance floor was empty and people glanced upon it nervously as though it were their wedding bed, or if you know whores like myself, glanced upon it as though it were an empty unisex toilet stall, where magical things happen between you and the stranger you choose to share fluids with that night.
The vibe left a sour taste in my mouth as I prefer places where you can go up to someone, slur obscenities at them and then later jam them, no questions asked. This seemed far too quiet to make a fool of myself, I was not looking forward to the possibilities. Our first response was to run to the bar and guzzle down jager bombs. I looked down at my car keys in disgust and silently rue the day I decided to get my license. We stayed there for about half an hour more before we realised, awkward looking kids was all this place had to offer us. I much prefer my socially inept conquests to be at least 18.
Empyre was a club on North Coast Road, this is a road where prostitutes probably felt cautious to frequent yet someone came up with the idea of putting a club in a hole in the wall there and we of course went running along to check out Mi Casa performing.
This place seemed legit and it was decided that this would be a fine place to prowl. The men weren’t fantastic but we weren’t particularly fussy so male was pretty much the only box to tick that evening. This was of course before we got hit with some epic pick up lines including the go for gold: “Hey girl you married?”, for all I know the poor boy might have just been querying my marital status as a polite conversation starter in order to get to my far more attractive friends, but I, with my egomania and narcissistic personality assumed he wanted my pootang. I rang the silent call for help all woman who move in packs are privy to and we gracefully stepped into our lines as if perfectly choreographed by the Russian synchronised swimming team. The look of disgust and mocking laughter in our eyes sent him scurrying away into a corner, where we preferred him. Out of sight.
It was getting late, our watches read 3am but it may as well have laughed condescendingly at us, the crowd was thinning out more rapidly than some of our prospects hair lines. We skulked to the smoking lounge ready to admit defeat. This is where hope showed its face to us in the form of a Uni-Browed cupid. UB was friendly in a non threatening way, I quickly scanned his mouth for gold and when I decided he could pass by a Lonim worker without threat of being mined I chatted pleasantly with him. Although not unpleasant looking he was definitely the wingman for his far better looking friend, I say this without insult as I am well versed in this role and the Barney Stinson in me was still trying to get my very own Ted laid. The friend appeared finally, glimpsed ‘Ted’, and the rest was set in stone. Polite chit chat resumed, my conversation had taken a turn for the worse where I had blatantly told him I prefer arseholes and refused him a picture. Somewhere in the mix a ‘walk’ was offered a threesome suggested and a ‘just for the hell of it’ jam was granted. It was all very x-rated but I’m a lady, or at least pretend to be, and won’t get into the details. It was certainly not the end of the world but it was an evening for the record books, if we were ever brave enough to actually own up to our bad behaviour.
The evening began without drama and luckily those Mayans planned our demise (demises?) on a Friday so all parties were in full swing, the plan to spend our last hours of existence was now assured to be in a hot sweaty club with a bunch of coolies with sex on their minds and the taste of cheap brandy on their breaths. This little graphic should give you an indication of the night life in Durban, and no it’s not that we spend our time in dives and holes by choice, what has been described above is a depiction of a ‘’classy” Durban scene.
The evenings processions began as all of ours tend to, as soon as arriving home I began furiously texting ‘the girls’ to find out exactly what each of them had planned for the evening, and because of my severe case of fomo I was also tempted to ask them about their day but luckily I quickly came to my senses and realised that unless it involved random acts of violence in the form of tongue stabbing with strangers I didn’t really care as long as whatever they were doing later included me.
When the responses started pouring in, from all 3 of my friends, things were beginning to look bleak, it seemed my last day on earth would be spent at News Cafe drinking tea over a hubbly while ogling too young white boys with bodies that Indian girls can only hope to feel up in their whickey whickey dreams. On hind sight that may might have actually been the more rational thing to do. A responded with a simple text reading: Vogue. I decided to run with it and amped myself up, the ever ready and always faithful J did not disappoint and quickly hopped onto the amped train with me. It was hard to tell whether or not she was faking it over text but I was still coming to terms with my mortality, and being an atheist no fear of hell or thoughts of running around as a cockroach in my next life entered my conscious to prompt me to be a good person and ask her if she really wanted to.
Armed with hair straightener in hand I prepared myself for battle, if this truly were to be my last day on earth and an unlikely after life really existing I’d hate to pitch up at the pearly gates and turned toward the ‘tamil’ heaven doomed to spend eternity with the likes of Sivaji, Ranjankant and pretty much every other moustached and paedo-looking creep because of my very evident south-indian hair. Grooming now concluded I kissed my parents good-bye, promised to be responsible and sped off at a pace very irresponsible for a little hatch.
The first stop was Cuba… by the stadium. My response was distributed into shock horror and disgust in equal parts. I think we’ve all heard too many indian jokes about gold teeth to make this description feel authentic. To fully do justice to the abomination that was Cuba I will explain my tolerance for filth.
I have been with a Sri Lankan, burdened with a name about 13 syllables long which I can’t care to recall right now. He was the colour of the black spots you see in your eyes when you stare at the sun and I’m fairly certain he did not speak English, but to be fair that night I spoke in slurs and drunken sign language. He was not a lean man either; he resembled a big cuddly bear, but not the type you grip at night for comfort when scared. The semblance between the two was purely based on them having the same waist circumference.
I have also been with someone who in the 5 years we dated probably bathed about 2 times. Needless to say I grew accustomed to breathing through my nose and STILL I could only stomach Cuba for about 5 minutes before I threw a mini tantrum, flipped my recently straightened hair around and demanded we make a swift exit before I delved deeper into the anthropological value of figuring out the mating habits of the classless.
The next stop was Vogue which upon entry looked like the beginning of a matric dance and not just because of the age of the kids. It was that awkward vibe where no one has started sipping from their secret hip flasks yet and are still at the stage when they’re uncertain of their sexuality. Girls crowded in the corners giggling to one another and boys puffed up their chests and ran their hands through their far too gelled hair. The dance floor was empty and people glanced upon it nervously as though it were their wedding bed, or if you know whores like myself, glanced upon it as though it were an empty unisex toilet stall, where magical things happen between you and the stranger you choose to share fluids with that night.
The vibe left a sour taste in my mouth as I prefer places where you can go up to someone, slur obscenities at them and then later jam them, no questions asked. This seemed far too quiet to make a fool of myself, I was not looking forward to the possibilities. Our first response was to run to the bar and guzzle down jager bombs. I looked down at my car keys in disgust and silently rue the day I decided to get my license. We stayed there for about half an hour more before we realised, awkward looking kids was all this place had to offer us. I much prefer my socially inept conquests to be at least 18.
Empyre was a club on North Coast Road, this is a road where prostitutes probably felt cautious to frequent yet someone came up with the idea of putting a club in a hole in the wall there and we of course went running along to check out Mi Casa performing.
This place seemed legit and it was decided that this would be a fine place to prowl. The men weren’t fantastic but we weren’t particularly fussy so male was pretty much the only box to tick that evening. This was of course before we got hit with some epic pick up lines including the go for gold: “Hey girl you married?”, for all I know the poor boy might have just been querying my marital status as a polite conversation starter in order to get to my far more attractive friends, but I, with my egomania and narcissistic personality assumed he wanted my pootang. I rang the silent call for help all woman who move in packs are privy to and we gracefully stepped into our lines as if perfectly choreographed by the Russian synchronised swimming team. The look of disgust and mocking laughter in our eyes sent him scurrying away into a corner, where we preferred him. Out of sight.
It was getting late, our watches read 3am but it may as well have laughed condescendingly at us, the crowd was thinning out more rapidly than some of our prospects hair lines. We skulked to the smoking lounge ready to admit defeat. This is where hope showed its face to us in the form of a Uni-Browed cupid. UB was friendly in a non threatening way, I quickly scanned his mouth for gold and when I decided he could pass by a Lonim worker without threat of being mined I chatted pleasantly with him. Although not unpleasant looking he was definitely the wingman for his far better looking friend, I say this without insult as I am well versed in this role and the Barney Stinson in me was still trying to get my very own Ted laid. The friend appeared finally, glimpsed ‘Ted’, and the rest was set in stone. Polite chit chat resumed, my conversation had taken a turn for the worse where I had blatantly told him I prefer arseholes and refused him a picture. Somewhere in the mix a ‘walk’ was offered a threesome suggested and a ‘just for the hell of it’ jam was granted. It was all very x-rated but I’m a lady, or at least pretend to be, and won’t get into the details. It was certainly not the end of the world but it was an evening for the record books, if we were ever brave enough to actually own up to our bad behaviour.