The Setting: An Unnamed Hostel, Johannesburg, South Africa.
Cigarette in hand and wine out of a tea cup — it’s the British way.
Five liters of boxed wine, a bottle of brandy, countless Castles and Black Labels. All polished. It’s Sunday. Late. Very late. We’ve already reached into our pockets for loose change to buy Cindy another pack of cigarettes. But there’s no trace of booze anywhere in the vicinity, and, this being the Lord’s day, no one is allowed to sell alcohol this late at night in Johannesburg.
The hostel owner, Jack, suddenly remembers there’s a wine cellar in the basement.
“No, there isn’t,” his fiancé, Meg, replies.
“Yes, there is.”
“NO. THERE. ISN’T.” Meg insists.
Jack runs off and returns with several bottles of wine covered in dust and labels peeling.
“Jack, don’t you DARE open that 40 year old bottle of wine! I’m saving that for our honeymoon,” Meg screams.
***
The first night we met Jack we found him drinking wine out of a coffee mug at the hostel offices.
“Please, have a glass of wine with me,” he said. “It’s my birthday.”
Although we had just landed from a 20-some hour flight, we couldn’t refuse. We ended up hanging out with a bunch of his Jo’burg friends who suddenly appeared and drank ’til the early hours of the morning.
Stories came up.
Like the time Jack chased down a burglar who had broken into the hostel and tried to run off with the flat screen TV in the middle of the day.
Or the awkward incident when the policeman he has to pay off to keep his property safe and the policeman’s prostitute du jour barged into the wrong bedroom where the paying occupants were making mad, passionate love. Moral of the story = always lock your hotel room door. (Or don’t, depending on your love-making habits.)
Finally, there was the night Jack and Meg were driving home from a restaurant and were stopped by a gang of 15 black kids blocking their path (boys and girls). Meg’s window was a bit too low, so one of them reached inside and yanked the keys off the ignition. Jack leaped out and began to clobber anyone in sight, in the process getting stabbed in the face a few times. “Luckily, Meg was driving, otherwise it would’ve been her with these scars,” he says, turning his head to show us. “Can you imagine, a woman with scars like that?” With blood gushing out of his head, he had to be rushed to the ER. But he wanted to go back and get the guy who stabbed him. “That fucker now sleeps with the fishies, trust me,” he whispered while Meg was distracted.
After all these stories (many of which won’t be repeated in blog-form), Jack — a Cape Town native — expressed his undying love for Johannesburg. “Best place I’ve ever lived. No question,” he said.
***
We met Meg, Jack’s fiancee, the morning after the birthday celebration.
“Where’s the birthday boy?” I asked.
“Who?”
Apparently it wasn’t Jack’s birthday last night.
“Well, we’re still going to roast that whole goat at the braii tonight, right?” I asked. “It’s being delivered with the head and everything…?”
“Um, don’t listen to anything Jack says when he’s drunk.”
Hopefully that doesn’t include all the diamond mining tips I picked up. He was kind enough to open my eyes to an introductory course that would cost no more than 1000-rands, or about $75. I wouldn’t have taken him seriously had he not pulled out an uncut diamond out of a ziplock bag in mid-conversation. I would be ready for the Congo within weeks, I was promised!
Kelly doesn’t know about any of the diamond business stuff yet. Also, she’s not allowed to go because it’d be too dangerous, I was advised.
I want this in my living room.
Kelly, not able to stand the tension, raises a leg.
The bottle is finally opened. The cork disintegrates in the process.
In retrospect, it wasn’t the best teacup of wine I’ve ever had — in fact, it was full of cork, kind of cold and a little bit terrible — but desperate times call for desperate measures.
We had extended the night, which was the point. And with company like these, well, I would never want to go to bed.
How will we ever make it back to our bed after all that indulgence? Oh, right. We live here.
Man, I love hostels.
[Actual names and minor details have been changed for the privacy of members involved.]
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loving these entries; perfect combination of expressive images and vivid stories. they simultaneously make me want desperately to go myself, and feel it’s entirely unnecessary now.
Thanks! I kept a journal in tweet-form on my iPhone (sad or brilliant?) the entire time, so I’m trying to bring those memories back with these posts. Glad you’re enjoying ‘em.