Friday night
Sean O’Connor
After loading saddlebags at Fish Hoek Fisheries, purveyors of the most generous crispy-fried fresh hake this side of the boerewors curtain, Angela, Karen and I bivouac on a road overlooking this timewarped dorp to enjoy our grub. We wet tongues and tonsils with some of the good stuff before climbing into our bakkie, the Japanese Horse, for our shimmy into the local bars.
Heading for Simonstown, we pull up at Dixie’s Diner. Dating couples fondle their wine glasses in the restaurant while blokes confirm their blokeness in the bar. Nothing special except big Irish whiskies for a tenner. We’ve imbibed and our stirrups are tinkling when a veteran drink slinger named Burpy Douglas throws a shaky rope at Angela. We threaten a smile and ask the way to the next decent saloon. He directs us to the Blue Bayou in Simonstown, which turns out to be as empty as an armpit – with corresponding atmosphere. After that we try the 2 & 6, in a classic stone building just a few yards away. Youngsters skulk in the shadows.
Inside, the whiskey’s still cheap compared to town and the genes are still male. We switch to beer. The Windhoek Exports are a powerful omen of success on the pool table. While Karen and I (mostly Karen) whip an under-friendly twosome, Angela has some more lassoes tossed at her by a gun called Shane. I recognise Aubrey, an old timer who’s dodging a play his wife is still watching in a theatre somewhere in the docks. He allegedly left “to sleep in the car”.
He tells us about the war, about coming back to South Africa to find an equal evil here in the mid-Forties. The four of us enjoy a good wag while Shane hovers and then strikes after Aubrey leaves, with the same devastating success as Burpy Douglas.
About nine hours ’til sunrise and we’re on the trail again to the Red Herring in Noordhoek. Cresting Black Hill we see the lights scattered along the valley, pressing up against the slopes. We stop at the Sun Valley Mall for some cash, where a totally nondescript bar contains a small crew of bikers and some other shaggy hardcore types.
The Herring meanwhile is packed and smoky, locals colonising the bar counter while the corners swell with well-outfitted teenyboppers. One of them comes up to me while we order and puts her hand into mine. Looking into her heavily made-up eyes I guess she’s 16. “Seventeen,” she happily grins. Instead of getting to grips with Mandy (not her real name), we play darts. Angela plugs the bull’s eye like she’s after the reward money on the head of Osama Bin Laden.
It’s about one when we decide to corral the Japanese Horse and head for The Fountain Lounge in Kalk Bay, up an alleyway off the Main Road. It’s small and the dcor is great. A DJ plays some acceptably lame trance for the slacker patrons. This place closes at five, serving meals for the desperate. A couple more drams, then coffee, a round of tequila and we’ve lost the trail ’til morning.
Shaun O’Connor is a teacher and aspiring novelist