The Kwerekwere Saga (Warmest Welcome in Durban)

Chapter 5

Worry splashes on my face when the manager takes me to a big hall instead of a room. Do hotels in Durban use halls as rooms? The place is big and wide and there should be about sixty people within.

"Take your duvet." He hands over a piece of rag-like cloth. The fabric reeks of fumigation chemicals, but I receive them nonetheless.

While he leads me to the bed allotted, I examine the hall carefully. Series of bunker-beds line up in four rows. Whites, Indians, blacks and coloureds occupy the beds, each doing their thing. Many have stumps of cigarettes and weeds lodged between their fingers and there is this pungent smell of...I can't even detect the substance.

The sick and feeble; healthy but poor; drug-addicts and run-girls; all manner of people lay in different corners in the hall. The place resembles a refugee camp, worse even. A television sits on a rafter at the end of the room. And a wall clock that rings every hour hangs on the wall. Rags and used tissue papers litter the concrete floor. One glides through the aisle so as not to bump into sharp objects.

I feel like turning back to look for another place, but a hunch urges me on. These people might have paid 10 rand, I guess. My 50 rand should qualify me for a better place. After all, I don't look like any of these bunch of riff-raff.

The people around cast curious gazes, apparently shocked why a tall, clean-looking dude like me shouldn't be in the bigger hotels. But, they leave me no chance to explain. We all have our different stories to tell about how we got here. Mine is altruistic – I'd love to tell them.

The well-laid bed assigned to me looks fragile. To confirm it, I shake the iron rod and it squeaks: "You're in KwaZulu-Natal." Won't I fall off this thing before daybreak?

As if reading my thoughts, the white guy occupying the lower bunk says: "It's strong enough, fella. I've been here for three months now and people use the mattress." The glint on his face suggests he's okay with his condition. But if this bleached white dude can cope here, why shouldn't I? I consider it necessary not to give the impression that I'm a rich dude. The multiple scars decorating his face suggest he'll know a few things about pick-pocketing.

"Oh, okay." My hard stare makes him duck.

Many of the folks look like delinquents returning from a six-year jail term. I hope these guys won't steal my transport fare before daybreak. I quickly transfer my wallet from my back pocket to the hip pocket, tucking it deep into my jeans trousers. Then I wrinkle my face like someone back from the wilderness, hoping to win some respect should my huge frame fail to scare them.

"Excuse me, dude. Can I climb?" My voice takes a bass tone as I hurriedly place my leg on his mattress to let him know I can be aggressive if need be.

"Sure," he replies with a smile, even pointing to a slab through which I can climb to the upper bunk.

To leave the place still appeals, but being so tired, the thought of moving around is daunting. Where else can I go this night? Back to the beach or Sun Coast? All the guesthouses are booked and I can even lose track of the way on these crime-ridden streets.