When playwright Ronnie Govender – a former beer salesman and this week’s guest writer – attended a beer sellers’ reunion, he couldn’t help noticing what had – and hadn’t – changed
THE giant fig tree behind the Umbilo Hotel stood reluctant sentinel to the beer garden which had seen better times. Layers of soot and grime on its forlorn leaves stubbornly resisted Durban’s sub-tropical rains and the concrete fence lay cracked and listing.
An aged mongrel limped out of the way as I made my way past three middle-aged men with fading faces and fading clothes, lost in nostalgia – characters straight out of a Graham Greene novel. I entered the optimistically refurbished bar where the tills once rang merrily in that golden age when whisky was one shilling and sixpence a tot and cane was seven pence a tot and where I would not have been allowed to trespass, except as a wine steward or handyman. No wonder the nostalgic look on the faces of those Graham Greene characters.
As it was, I found myself being welcomed with a chorus of rousing “howzits!” and pumping handshakes. The occasion was the annual reunion of beer salesmen; some had retired and others like me had resigned after long service and had become members of a select group who had managed to keep their livers intact – survivors of a hazardous profession.
Tom Elsworth (the names of the characters have been changed), still handsome and elegant, despite the rapidly thinning and greying hair, put his arm around me and steered me to the counter, yelling above the banter, “Give the man a draught!”
“Do you mind if I have a Scotch instead?”
“Mind? What a question, my china!”
The glass was soon thrust into my hand and I couldn’t help the flashback to that notable second day in my new job as a beer salesman, 20 years down the line.
I had been virtually kicked out of teaching and was lucky to have landed such a sought- after job. I was feeling good as I parked my spanking new 1300cc Cortina alongside Tom’s BMW and was making my way to the non- white offices when Tom yelled from a bunch of early morning smokers, “Howzit Bobby, my china!”
I yelled back, “Howzit Johnny!”
Tom stopped smiling. “Hey, my name’s not Johnny.”
I didn’t stop smiling. “Well, my name’s not Bobby either!”
I walked out of earshot of the next sentence, which began, “Give them an inch … “
Tom seemed to have mellowed a lot since then. We were joined by good old Malcolm Witherspoon, my former sales manager. Malcolm was in his late fifties when I joined the South African Breweries and was now looking just that little bit senile, although he hadn’t lost his charming smile. He was also genuinely glad to see me and tried to shout above the din, “You’re looking bloody marvellous! I think I’d better change my diet to curry too.” That prompted another flash-black.
It was after my first week at the breweries and I was making my first weekly report- back. Witherspoon’s usually easygoing smile was replaced by a look of seriousness.
“Govender, this is only your first week here and I’ve already received a serious complaint.”
A few seconds elapsed as Witherspoon held me in a steadfast gaze. As a teacher that trick had often brought me the desired result in dealing with a recalcitrant pupil. Unlike my pupils, I returned the steady gaze until Witherspoon said, “I believe you were rude to Mr Smith.”
Mr Smith was the manager of the Tudor-style White House Hotel set amidst rolling cane- fields. It was my first call at the elegant hotel, outstanding with its whitewashed walls and black-slated roofs. Protocol demanded that I first introduce myself to the manager of the hotel, but this was a little difficult, given the fact that non- whites could not enter the hotel through the front entrance. I entered the Indian bar, introduced myself to the Indian barman, Sunny, and requested a word with the manager.
“Bro, tune the Lahnee there’s a new rep from the breweries. You know how it is, this is my first visit and he’s got to check me out and all.”
“No problem. Hang on, okay?”
“Okay.”
Sunny had to serve two public bars, one for whites and the other for Indians and coloureds. Blacks were not allowed on the premises, except as labourers. The bars were separated by a partition and Sunny disappeared through the linking door in the partition, to reappear later with the Lahnee, Mr Smith, who was the stereotypical English gentleman – tweed jacket (even in that sweltering heat), scarf and handlebar moustache.
I leant forward to hold out my hand over the counter and introduced myself. “Good morning, my name’s Ronnie Govender and I represent the South African Breweries.”
Mr Smith didn’t even nod and ignored my outstretched hand, which hung in limbo. Mr Smith was about to leave, when I said to Sunny, “Bro, where’s the tap around here? Maybe if I wash my hand, this ou will shake it.” And went into an exaggerated imitation of the ritual of sycophantic servility which is expected of subject people everywhere.
Mr Smith glared at me for a few seconds and walked away.
My explanation completed, Witherspoon’s exasperated look softened and was replaced by one of practised liberality. He said, “I think I know how you must have felt, but believe me, things have to change. You have got to have patience.”
Witherspoon was a supporter of the Progressive Party and I pushed my luck.
“I am sorry, Mr Witherspoon, my grandfather was patient, my father was patient. I am not going to be patient.”
All that was missing was the soapbox.
To his eternal credit, Witherspoon didn’t exercise his authority the way the other sales managers would have. Thank God, for I had already been squeezed out of teaching because of my big mouth.
Soaking ourselves in nostalgia about the good old days, we were joined by Charles and Bobby – yes, a Bobby did join the breweries, much to Tom Elsworth’s delight and my annoyance, and what’s more, this Bobby didn’t mind being called Billy or Sammy. He was an ever-obliging chap with an ever-obliging smile. Age hadn’t affected that smile, although there was a little more self-confidence now.
His pal Charles was ribbing Bobby. “One thing and all, eks?, your bros know how to fix the wickets and all in India. Nobody can win there, eks?!”
Bobby agreed enthusiastically, “Yeah, South Africa’s too good for them!”
Charles went on about doctored pitches, lousy chow, second-rate hotels and sounded like Trevor Quirk, Martin Locke, Mike Haysman, Peter Robinson, Robin Jackman and every other parochial South African cricket commentator and writer all rolled into one.
I thought about the abysmal facilities that the majority of Charles’s fellow South African sportsmen had had to contend with, even to this day. I thought about the complete lack of toilet facilities or change rooms at most of the grounds. I thought about Basil D’Oliveira who had to leave the country to gain international recognition. I thought about Parsuraman Thopplan, whom Australian batting great Keith Miller regarded as one of the world’s finest bowlers but couldn’t represent his country. I thought about South African bantamweight boxing champion, Kid Sathamoney, who, after flooring the Empire welterweight boxing champion in a sparring session behind closed doors with 16-ounce gloves, was refused a passport in order to challenge for the world title.
I thought about “Bomber” Chamane, Scara Wanda, Sugar Ray Zulu, Dharrum Mohan, Carlton Moloi and Bob Pillay, who, given half a chance, would have made it into first division football in Europe in the footsteps of the first South African to have done so, Baker Naidoo.
I was getting just that bit miffed and was about to strike a sour note at what was otherwise a really chummy gathering when I thought about that other South African who, despite far worse, could still see fit to wear a number six rugby jersey. I also thought about my grandson who didn’t know about Basil D’Oliveira or Parsuraman Thopplan and who was a diehard supporter of the South African team.
Instead, I tentatively ventured, “But don’t countries prepare wickets to suit their bowlers? Aren’t the pitches in South Africa prepared for fast bowlers?”
Charles was in his element. “You kidding? Those wallahs gave us sub-standard pitches. Okay, forget about the pitches! What about the lousy hotels, the dirty dressing rooms?”
I was about to say something like, “It’s a question of priorities. Neanderthals like you don’t understand that India, like many other countries, still has to work its way out of massive poverty.”
I was about to let rip about many such home truths in the choicest possible metaphor, as I would have done when the country was being ruled entirely by racists, including covert ones like Charles, but stopped myself. What the hell! It’s not the same anymore. Sure, we still have a long way to go before there is real change. Sure, Joe Parker and Mark Banks still tell the same tired old racist jokes, and white sports writers and commentators still drop racial innuendoes, but there’s also that South African who can still wear a number six rugby jersey and smile.
I felt good that I didn’t get on that tired old soapbox, as was my wont, and I really meant it when I wished everyone a happy new year as I walked to my car under the enduring old fig tree.
Playwright and author Ronnie Govender is director of the Playhouse Theatre, Durban. His book of short stories, At The Edge and Other Cato Manor Stories, has just been published under the Manx imprint by Bard Publishers of Pretoria