I am in – thanks to pissy Frenchmen and African muti

Obviously the gods are pleased with my dreams of becoming an editor. My pursuit of rapid upward mobility in the editorial world has just been given a leg up by a chance encounter in a dim lit bar.

At the end of my last post I was outside the Convention Centre, and as I typed in the last few words I heard the chiming of my digital watch, ringing 4pm. Just about time for the daily Klippies and Coke that my granny always recommended. Despite what Elmarie says, it IS good for your liver.

I hauled my bags onto my shoulder and made my way down to the la-dee-dah pubs at the V&A Waterfront. I made a point not to look any seagulls in the eye. I’ve heard about their legendary ability to make off with your wallet while threatening to claw out your eyes. Wow, the V&A Waterfront! A safe haven for tourists and training ground for militia seagulls.

With great trepidation, I opened the door to the cheapest looking pub and requested the price of that that venerable South African brandy, Klippies At a mere R34 for a single shot I swallowed my East Rand grown pride and ordered a Black Label. At only R18 – the price of a 5 course meal at our local Springs Roadhouse. Seated next to me in the shadowy bar I could make out the shape of a 1litre bottle of Versus wine with two men draped over it.

From their Polo pants to the unfiltered cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, they looked characteristically French. This would have been a very un – PC stereotyped assumption, had it not been preceded by my astute observation that they were speaking French and were wearing T-shirts that said: “Long Live Royale – and her fabulous tits!”

Hoping to touch up on my French and show some true South African hospitality to the two men, I made my way over to their slumped figures, the taste of my beer making its way down my throat like a snail making its way down a drain pipe.

“Good day”, I said in near – perfect French (translated here for your convenience dear readers). “Welcome to South Africa, what is the purpose of your visit to our beautiful country?”

The man to my left raised his bleary eyes, filled with what appeared to be despair and the epitome of human misery, slid in a surprisingly agile manner off his chair and – clutching his stomach – ran in the direction of the bathroom. My quizzical look at his companion accompanied the fading sounds of his friend shouting “merde”.

“You must excuse my friend”, he said in remarkably good English. “He’s suffering from the shit food of your country”. He looked at me pointedly and then grasped the bottle of wine. The only thing that redeems your country is the cheapness of your wine. “He took a sip from the bottle. “But only barely”.

The rather pissy little Frenchman told me that they were two exhibitors (more like exhibitionists) from Paris at the WAN/WEF conference and that his colleague had contracted food poisoning from tinned tuna and beans meal that they were forced to eat on the SAA flight over.

Having failed to find a doctor, they tried their luck with some “African Muti” sold to them by a UCT student on Long Street and now they were feeling so hot.

After listening to his alcohol diatribe about the pitfalls of trusting anyone in a third world country , I was relieved when he slid off to join his friend in the loo. Hell! I thought, if there is one thing South Africans must do, is to be reliable. I nonchalantly slipped the two men’s exhibitors passes into my pocket and headed for the door.

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