The bright lights of Hillbrow are still luring visitors from all over the world. Emeka Nwandiko sampled its pleasures
The crown jewels of South Africa’s tourism are the “big five” at Kruger National Park, the majestic Table Mountain with its beaches below, the Drakensburg region and Hillbrow.
Hillbrow? The densely populated inner city suburb where killings per night are surpassed only by the red fields of Richmond and the Cape Flats?
Visitors to South Africa have begun to take an interest in the deeper recesses of Johannesburg, where self-respecting locals dare not walk by day, let alone by night.
It might even be responsible for catapulting South Africa to the 25th most travelled destination in the world. Up from 55 in 1990, according to a recently released report by the World Tourism Organisation.
Five years ago, former narcotics cop Peter Kirchhoff started tours of Hillbrow, when he and a partner set up the Explorers Club. He estimates that up to 300 tourists are taken to the ‘Brow each year.
Claire and David (not their real names) are Kirchhoff’s newest clients.
“One thing about Hillbrow is that you do not know what to expect,” says David, who comes from Central Africa. David works for a multinational consultancy firm and has been in South Africa for five months. Claire hails from New Zealand.
“I was at this bar and a friend spoke to me in a language I did not understand. He took offence. He said to me in English: `David, do you know I could have you cut up and dropped off at your mother’s doorstep?’ It’s a short thing with death here.”
But to these veterans of world travel, the prospect of facing death in Hillbrow gives them the same thrill as tourists who go bungee jumping or shark diving off the Cape coast.
They pile into Kirchhoff’s car for the first port of call – The Base night club.
Two burly bouncers bar their entrance and demand that they subject themselves to a body search.
Claire is searched by a female equivalent of King Kong. One guard is a bit over zealous in his search for weapons and twice touches this journalist’s crotch.
On the way up to the dance floor, Claire is greeted obsequiously by a man wearing a T- shirt, shorts and sandals. It’s not long before she parts with one of her cigarettes.
Brandi and Monica’s The Boy is Mine is playing at full blast. All around is a hive of activity. On a television screen African- American artists, mostly females semi-clad, ooze sex appeal while their male counterparts puff up their chests, drive fast cars and extol the virtues of being cool.
The local males tomcat in an assortment of Nike T-shirts and European football jerseys, while the women strut about in tight jeans that ripple with each step.
The music switches to happy-house music. Claire talks about the cost of living in Johannesburg. “Life is so cheap here. When I was in London for two weeks, I spent 400. Here you could live off that for six months!”
She crosses her legs and steadies herself after nearly slipping off her chair: “I finished one bottle of vodka last night. Being here brings back bad memories,” she says, gulping down beer.
It is about 9.30pm. Claire and David are itching to move on. But not before getting a gram of Cambodian marching powder (cocaine). An order is put in and R300 worth is delivered to a flat in the CBD where it is cut up for consumption.
David says: “One of the reasons I left New York was because drugs were too expensive. Here in Johannesburg you can buy drugs and sustain the habit.”
After snorting two lines, he says he is impressed by the quality of coke and laments that he has “been ripped off by Nigerian dealers at the Safari hotel”.
Their host at the flat, an expatriate Australian in her early forties, is one of the few whites who have not fled the CBD. She says: “It’s lovely being here. People are so nice. You just have to keep yourself safe.”
Kirchhoff finds that crime and the perception that Johannesburg is a violent city have kept tourists away. “About 80% of my market does not come here. The most frequently asked question on my website is safety.”
He believes that the media’s preoccupation with crime ignores the gems that can be found in the nooks and crannies of Johannesburg.
“What people do not realise – or refuse to accept – is that Johannesburg is an African city that is diverse and vibrant compared to old Johannesburg,” Peter says.
An inkling of the old order can be seen at Champions nightclub, the tourists’ next destination. Black people serve customers while white supervisors look on, arms folded.
In no time, Claire is on the dance floor, pumping her arms up and down. All around her, perfectly groomed men march in time to the turbo-charged Bee Gees song You Should be Dancing.
David beats a retreat to the loo to chemically enhance his marching technique.
Claire, who is on her second tour of South Africa and her first in the ‘Brow, says: “South Africans know how to party. They spend so much time worrying about jobs, violence, and crime. When they go out they just have fun. They are chilled.”
But she is aware that, according to Interpol, South Africa is a world leader in incidents of rape. “Even if a guy tries to pick me up, I say no. They’re not forceful. They say they want to marry you and that’s it. But in New Zealand and England men take it badly if you say no. I never walk in the dark alone, not even in my home town.”
The trio take a short drive down Smit Street to try out Razzmatazz. There is very little razzle to dazzle them, as the smell of unwashed bodies sends them backing out.
Pink Cadillac is next on their itinerary, but it is closed. They walk to the Ambassador Hotel, holding their breaths to avoid the burning smell of urine emanating from an alleyway.
To the left of the lobby, a five-piece Zairean band is playing. Kwasa kwasa music seeps out of an anteroom.
Claire has given up carrying her cigarettes. Within a minute, she has been hit on for three of them. They decide they don’t like kwasa kwasa and decide to leave.
Where next? Claire: “Rosebank is so commercial. It is where white people go to party. It is not fun at all.”
“I’m not going to Rosebank,” says Kirchhoff resolutely.
That settles it. It’s back to Yeoville to snort up. Several lines of coke later, they are joined by a Scotsman, Tom. After 1.30am, he goes with them back to Hillbrow.
There is plenty on display at the Royal Palace hotel-cum-brothel. The place is replete with black Portuguese-speaking women with hair extensions cascading over their shoulders.
Kirchhoff is approached by a member of the hair-extension brigade from Botswana who has seen better days. She foists herself on him, holding his neck in a vice-like grip before kissing him. Kirchhoff struggles to disentangle himself before succumbing to nocturnal charms of the city.
“You should have a tour for whites [from South Africa],” Claire suggests to Kirchhoff.
“White guys are too scared to do this,” he says. “They think I’m mad. What makes Johannesburg hard to navigate is too much bravura and you get into trouble. Too much fear and you see nothing.”