Angella Johnson: VIEW FROM A BROAD
I have found the Rainbow Nation. It has taken more than two years, but yes, I can unequivocally proclaim that President Nelson Mandela’s multiracial dream is alive and kicking under the bustling new Sundome Casino on the outskirts of Johannesburg.
You see, in the gambling world all are equal, regardless of race or creed – as long as you have money and a desire to toss it to the wind.
On espying the Sundome, the first of Gauteng’s six licensed casinos, I was immediately struck by its resemblance to a giant globe-shaped spaceship. Perched on a koppie, it loomed incongruously over a landscape of open space, interspersed with suburban houses.
Inside, the long bustling hall was all Sodom and Gomorrah (at least one of them, anyway): a cunningly seductive cocoon with strategic lighting, where hundreds of people milled around slot machines and gaming tables.
Intermittently, the buzz of voices and music was punctuated with the musical jingle of coins showering from the winning chute of one of the 1 700 machines that gobbled up money like suckling piglets.
This was the stuff of dreams for the hundreds of people there in search of the elusive jackpot. All racial groups were represented; from Muslim women to high-flying businesspeople betting thousands of rands at the poker and roulette tables.
Everyone was feeling lucky, including me. I clutched my paltry R200 stake in my sweaty palms and headed straight for the R1 slot machines. (Well, it’s always best to pace oneself.) Within minutes the hypnotic pull had taken hold.
I was on my third machine and down R13 when five coins came clattering down the chute. This was the sweetener.
A few minutes later and I was up R30. My pulse skipped a few beats with the adrenaline rush. This was the buzz all gamblers felt after a win. I was hooked.
Perhaps it was not such a good idea for me to do this story. As a borderline compulsive personality (I’ve been to Overeaters Anonymous) it was like tempting fate.
Some sensible part of my brain screamed that it was a mug’s game. The reckless side believed a R1-million jackpot awaited me.
It took 30 minutes for my bubble to burst. After being up R100 playing at five rands a time, I managed to lose every cent and ended up frantically scratching in my bag for coins to play on the cheapest machines.
I fought the temptation to rush to the cashiers waving my credit card (I’m told they took about R7-million in cards alone on the opening night) or to dissipate my measly savings via one of the conveniently placed ATMs.
Instead I took the opportunity for a walk-about, to soak up the atmosphere and bond with some of the other players in this timeless zone.
Armed with a glass of whiskey on ice (courtesy of the house), I ambled over to a heavily made-up matron with bouffant blue rinse hair, wrapped in an elaborate animal print kaftan.
“Don’t talk to me while I’m playing. I like to concentrate,” she snapped. (Like it takes that much grey matter to slot in a coin and press a button.)
She then turned back to the machine, dipping her hand into a pile of R5 coins heaped in a margarine tub. She was still playing when I left four hours later.
Gambling is serious business. I saw faces fixed on the task at hand, eyes glazed with greed. This semi-conscious appearance brought Arnold Ramaphakela from Tembisa to my attention.
“I’m here for the money. I spend to get more,” he bragged through blackened teeth. “Whites, they have money and they come here to get more. I spend all my money here and then it’s over.”
Ramaphakela has been virtually a daily visitor since the casino opened a month ago. So where does he get the money to gamble?
“That’s the problem. I’m a qualified mechanic, but I can’t get a job. So I take whatever work I can find and come here looking for more.”
His companion, Doctor Kitt from Pretoria, was down to his last R250. A pitiful figure, he was playing two machines at once and not having very much luck. I asked what he did for a living.
“I steal for money,” he slurred.
Hijacking or housebreaking?
“From banks. I don’t do petty crime.”
It sounded like empty bragging to me. Both men had been in the casino since 4am (it was now 6.30pm) and were well- soaked with the R5-per-drink alcohol served at the bars.
Several rows away, near the R2 machines, Dina Ferreira (72) had a smile on her face. It was her first visit and she had lost R200, but “what the heck”!
“I like to gamble. It’s a nice pastime. You forget all about your troubles and aches and pains. It’s a fun game, but you must know when to stop – which I usually don’t but my husband does,” she said cheerily.
She and her husband save up for their monthly day out gambling. The couple used to go to the Carousel near Pretoria and tried not to lose more than R500 between them, although Dina admits to once losing R400 on her own.
“This machine is rubbish,” cried a man nearby (clearly not on a winning streak) as he stormed off in a huff.
Ferreira, from Krugersdorp, cast him a sympathetic glance. “I love poker machines. It’s addictive. The trick is to know when to stop. And once you’ve won on a machine, move on.”
The couple had been at the casino, along with a niece and nephew, since 2pm. They appeared not to realise that some four hours had passed.
In the food section at the end of the huge open-plan gaming room, Raviv Natha brushed away crumbs of the flaky hot pie he was tucking into. Gambling can create both hunger and a powerful thirst.
Natha, a medical doctor, arrived with his Brazilian brother-in-law at 7pm. By 7.45pm they had been “wiped out” to the tune of R200 each on the tables.
“Unfortunately, this place is only five minutes away from my home and I love to play Black Jack. But I come here with very little money and leave my credit cards at home.”
Natha insisted that he was just there for the fun and not a compulsive gambler, yet it was his second visit that week. But at least he is up R5 000 in total winnings over several visits.
“I love the risk. You could come here with R200 and walk out with R5 000. But I won’t play the machines because they’re really for suckers. [I know that!] I’ve seen people cry here when they’ve lost everything.”
Natha described how one man tried to sell him a solid gold chain, worth more than R8 000, for just R500.
“It’s okay for people like myself who don’t mind losing R200 to R300 for the thrill of it. But many come needing to win. That’s when you cross the line from enjoyment to desperation,” he said.
As Ron from Gamblers Anonymous points out: “Families suffer great hardship when a father or mother becomes addicted.
“Gauteng looks set to become a gambling mecca following its six licences so we can expect more stories like this,” he warned.
“As a vice it has always been a problem, but I think it’s going to explode in this recession – especially with the explosion of one-armed bandits in every township cafe.”
Now I don’t want be like Minister of Health Nkosazana Zuma and try to squash everyone’s pleasures – no smoking, no sex before marriage – but this warning reminded me of a line from a William Blake poem: “The whore and gambler by the state/ Licensed build that nation’s fate.”