The Kwerekwere Saga (Warmest Welcome in Durban)

Chapter 3

As the bus cruises out of Bossman Station, I'm inclined to reflect on the influence ladies have on us men. Ordinarily, I won't be making this trip to Durban to know what the place holds for us. I'll rather plunge there and survive whatever the city throws at me. But here I am. In trying to make sure our end-of-year trip turns out well, I have to visit Durban in advance. Oh, Lerato! I hail thee.

Saturday morning, I find myself in Durban Station feeling tired after the bouncy sleep. All passengers alight from the bus to shake off fatigue before retrieving their luggage. Some stretch hands and legs while they yawn. I stomp my feet on the floor to shelve the muscle strain. After freshening up at the gents, I grab my bag and stroll to the metered-taxi rank nearby the station.

"Take me to the most popular part of the city, it's my first time here," I tell the first taxi-driver on the queue, who's reclining on a Toyota Corolla car. Dark in complexion, short and rotund, his pointed-nose rivals Donald Trump's. His bushy but well-trimmed moustache reminded me of Steve Harvey.

"You new? Sixty rand," he says in an Indian accent.

"What?!" My back stifles. I'm not sure if my reaction is for the price or the uncommon complexion of an Indian man. He's so dark that I, as a black person, feel Caucasian. But his silky hair, moustache and the oft-rolling eyes stamp him Indian.

"Yes, it's sixty rand." His head swings here and there.

"No problem, let's go." Sixty rand shouldn't eat much into my one-thousand-rand shoe-string budget. I'll be watchful of my spending, though, lest it affects the budget of the year-end holiday proper. Lerato shouldn't have to travel from Tshwane to Durban, after waiting for a whole year, and be eating Magwinya and Roiboos tea on an annual vacation!

The dexterity of my Indian driver as he swerves into the main road thrills, just as the manner he whistles to the Urdu songs oozing from his car stereo. I'll later discover Durban has lots of Indians folks, having had the impression that it's the land of the Zulus.

As we cruise on, I find the sleek and broad roads impressive. Pretoria doesn't have eight-lane roads like these. Driving through feels like one is swimming in an ocean.

Soon, the wind picks up as if to announce my arrival to a coastal city. The coolness and freshness of the air agree to it. No wonder people throng here for holidays. What a refreshing cool sea breeze! I should have a swell time here, I believe.

"Where can one relax and catch fun in this city?" I ask the driver.

"I'm taking you to South-Beach, a very popular place. From there, you can go to North-Beach where you have lots of hotels, the stadium and Sun Coast. You will have a good time. And if you like, you can go to Gateway or Morningside or Umhlanga or the townships. Transport is available anytime, anywhere and if —"

"All right. Thanks." I guess the explanation is part of the charges.

We arrive at South-Beach and he drops me off at a place called Point. I hang around the pavement in a four-way Junction, trying to reconcile the new environment. The maze of skyscrapers comes to my attention first and then hotel buildings of all kinds dotting the area. People move around in droves.

Along the roads, music blast from moving taxis as if only deaf and dumb passengers are allowed in. But the conductors manage to shout their destinations and commuters troop in without complaints. Whirlwind blowing papers and plastic in the air get people scampering for safety. Moving cars are not spared of the swirling dust. Whoever has their car windows half-shut should be ready for dirt-meals. The busy but serene ambience announces that this city is quite different from the commercial metropolis of Tshwane and Jo'burg. This is a city of seas and oceans – the whirlwind says and I concur.

"How far is the sea from here?" I ask a lady nearby.

"Just there." She points a finger and wrinkles her face as if I should know where it is. I then observe that I needed not ask in the first place. The ocean is a walking distance – less than two minutes away. My long legs plod towards the place.

A taxi parks by the service lane and the conductor jumps off the bus into the walkway. House music pierces through my ears, prompting me to cover them. I steal a glance inside the bus to confirm the product being promoted in the supposed roadshow, but the passengers' outlook isn't that of excitement. Only then did I hear the conductor shouting – "North-Beach! Sun Coast!"

Since I've seen a bit of South-Beach, and I like it, let me go to the North and catch a glimpse. I hop into the taxi, shelving my seaside visit. While house music deafens me, the conductor yells at every bus-stop. The narrow roads between the tall apartment buildings lining up the routes give it a unique ambience. Wow! Durban feels so nice and soothing.

We soon arrive at Sun Coast where I drop off. The imposing building is a mall with varieties of entertainment sections. Moses Mabhida stadium, one of the sports ground used for the 2010 FIFA world cup, sits in the background. People of all races throng the place with happy faces. The look and feel is amazing and I have a swell time feeding my eyes as I toddle around.

Lerato must come here with me.

The pavement outside the mall overlooks the sea, making the environment comforting and cool. A fresh wind of high quality wheezes through me, exposing my undershirt but who cares. The view of endless seawater unsettles me, and being close to the sea humbles me. But walking into the ocean like those around is out of the point. I've since learnt from my days in Lagos that I'm hydrophobic.

I dash to the mall, grab a cup of ice cream and return outside. Walking along the coast feels utopian. Tourists and locals alike savour the beauty of nature. Some cycle, others jog along and many treks barefoot.

Before long it's noon. I return to the Food-Court inside the mall for a proper meal. One can't visit a place like this without filling the tummy. And the delicacies here come in varieties.

A young Indian lady walks towards me. "Do you want Bunny Chow?"

"Bunny Who?"

"B-u-n-n-y C-h-o-w." She points at a picture on the electronic board, indicating a meal of bread and curry stew. Experimenting with food isn't an option. I can't take a meal that might upset my tummy. Visiting a Durban hospital isn't part of the plan.

"No, thanks." I wave the bunny part of it off, moving to the next stand. "Give me Streetwise Five," I point at my familiar picture on the KFC board. After fifteen minutes or so, my order arrives, steaming. I return to the lawn outside for a seaside meal.

Stunning Zulu ladies cavorting around are surprised to see me eating alone. Their hips quiver as if sending me Bluetooth messages that they are willing to join me. But I've since taken the pose of an oceanographer, chewing the morsels slowly and looking far into the sea with painstaking squints. Perhaps, that'll make them exclude me from their amorous plans. With a bulgy pocket, I might have reconsidered, but hardly will I have much left after paying for accommodation later this evening. So, I don't mind spending the night alone. By Sunday, I'll be back into the waiting hands of my sweet Lerato.

As if echoing her thoughts far away, my phone buzzes. Lerato on the line. "Where are you? It's a bit noisy there."

"I'm enjoying a documentary programme on National Geographic. You can't imagine how nice being by the ocean is. We must come here...sorry, we must be by the seaside, unfailingly. Sweet Lerato...Sweet Potato...Sweet Pu... Hope you're all right and cool. The day is great and the evening will be too."

"I can see you're catching fun, neh. Talk to you later."

She cuts the line and that suits. With my sloppy mouth, I may reveal my location.