kagablog

CLOSET CITY

Descending into Durban from Tollgate Bridge, the unsuspecting traveller may well believe that he has arrived at a throbbing, vibrant city. Those tall scrapers that bedeck the sea-front horizon along Durban’s Golden Mile shade out the shimmering sea - create a discordant perspective that from that side (the sea side) the city is far larger than it actually is. And if one is feeling positive one may well tell oneself that that early morning fog hanging over the city is the result of a heat shimmering from a city steaming in tropical readiness for life. But closer inspection - and depending on one’s disposition - may reveal something quite different - a fog of gloom embedded with the words: Closet City. And its about time somebody said it! Taking its lead from the booming surf industry in the ‘70’s with it’s insistent bisexual imagery, the surfers have become unwitting guinea pigs in some closeted advertising saga. Durban IS Surf City, isn’t it? The surfers bought the bisexual image, but they forgot about the fact that life and sexuality are intimately interwoven. And so somewhere in between, it was life that had to be sacrificed, replacing it with its Ugly Sister, Heterosexism. There are no gay surfers, are there? There are no gay rugby players, cricketers, soccer stars. A surfer is yet to be found at an art exhibition opening, or at an interesting movie. They guard their closetness with the astuteness of a nesting mammal. They will not be seen in any ‘grey’ (gay) area. This is where their natural instinct shines most brightly. They can spot a suspect area 500 surfboards away. Would that they used this perceptive gift more constructively. Convert this instinct into a sea level, and we see it rushing from the sea shore through the city, into the campuses, into the interior, like some tidal disaster. And into the clubs. They take their heterosexism with them. Has anyone ever tried to ‘do’ anyone wearing one of those “Just Do Me” T shirts, and had success? The one T shirt the surfers wear most? Imagine the fantasy wish list of the male who dreamed up that slogan! Surely, one of the prime examples of a philosophy that has inverted in on itself. Ampleby would have thought that club life represented a haven away from the pressures of a conformist society. He would even have hoped that TV might have had an effect on them. But no - there they go, into the clubs with their closetness, waiting for that brief moment when Everything Can Be Forgotten. When they can dip into the sexual cesspool and not have to remember anything. Preferably they would rather like to stagnate in some rock pool on the Bluff. They steadfastly refuse to do the one thing life expects of them - take a leap of faith. Faith in themselves. To fight back with every fibre of real life. Of emotional honesty. But emotional honesty has never been an aspirant male quality. Neither has it been a female one. Patience is a Virtue. People come to Durban to learn that Virtue. One might be forgiven for believing that Durban is ‘laid back’ - it’s not…its inhabitants are in the grip of Patience - at best. At worst - they’re in the enthral of his Ugly Sister: Procrastination. But this was the god that Ampleby worshipped - the god of Patience - there was little choice. Patience revealed all truth. It was just a matter of time. In order to deal with Patience time had to be transcended. Time passed anyway. It was how you passed the time that mattered. This was the secret of Durban.

THE FLIP SIDE

The Hum of African Traffic. Anarchic. Chaotic. Urbanic. Bright Durban light. Sangomalong red skirt, wrist skin-fur, chestbead laden, white beaded black headdress, beaded ankles, yellowedeyes bloodshotganga muti-concoction drenched blood pressure seeing Shaman. Reflections. Bright sparks. Luminous green padded thigh wrapped Mama baby backed sleeping head bobbing. Fingers stirring bight white phuthu hand feeding. Bark smells, monkey skulls, drum dries taught salt cow hides. Chicken feet. Dust cakes nostrils flare. Colour-sparked combinations flash clash. Drapery rich textures odours earths cottons. Turban-headed hooped-neck-beads leap dark chocolate skin. Jeans mix denim, white vests see Europe. Taxihoots throng mesh metal flesh.

Rules cannot translate into any language. Nobody understands them, they drop off like over ripe fruit no longer edible.

A whitey. Nobody can see him. Of no consequence. Incongruency does not register reality. They don’t believe he’s there. Alone. Unafraid. He’s higher than that whore goddess sea had ever thrown him.

BLUE MONDAY

Chlorell appeared at Ampleby’s door. She pushed him aside, sped through an ‘inspection’ of his flat, eyes darting everywhere as if looking for something, left without saying a word. Two days later, a robbery.

Ampleby and Abby crossed paths for the last time the night he was due to leave South Africa for Australia. The accidental coincidence of this meeting was shocking and phenomenal. After all of his concerted attempts to ‘bump’ into Abby in those early days of infatuation, and here it finally happens in Abby’s last few hours in the country, spontaneously! Abby had been at the beach front for a last swim. Ampleby had been swimming at a different beach. At the corner of Gardener and Smith streets Abby was held up at the traffic lights. Ampleby pulled up behind him. The recognition of Abby’s vehicle was sudden and shocking: the familiar jolt of proximity alerted, sharpened his spirits. Keened his attention. Abby felt Ampleby’s presence….caught himself in time from taking obvious cognition….their eyes barely glanced at each other through Abby’s rear view mirror. As they continued down Smith Street, the traffic lights out of synch, Ampleby kept catching up to him. Eventually, when his vehicle turned off at a junction, Ampleby continued home.
Farewell beautiful friend….may you find what you are looking for…..

That night Ampleby had a nightmare - the sea had transformed into a huge amorphous silver vampire sucking out the life blood of Durban’s youth. A beguiling crystal magnetic mercury that fed on teenage energy, pacified them, absorbed their rebellion, sent them home flaccid.