It was the bottom of the glass rather than the rich upper class that stirred the emotions at the Inanda Club, writes Katy Bauer
Last Sunday, a convoy of smart cars made its way to the Inanda Club for the second international polo match between South Africa and Australia. We rattled into the grounds in a phlegmy old Nissan, past the “BMW Guests Only” entrance.
At noon the curtain-raiser match between the Free State and Highveld Development teams was already under way. The junior players are either rich kids or grooms sponsored by patrons who intend to promote the sport as interracial.
The development initiative looked great, the sun shone, families unpacked picnics. At a glance the day seemed promising. Another glance brought the realisation that the smart set and the hoi polloi faced one another, like armies of yore – the polo field, a sort of no man’s land.
My mind had been crammed with preconceptions about the event for a week: a post-colonial display of Wasp supremacy; every South African who had ever met the prince of Wales, in one place at one time; a herd of hats; champagne corks popping like gunshots on marvellous Kenyan safaris, in a time when “one could shoot as many damn elephants as one liked without anybody snivelling about it!”
After 20 minutes, a real sense of disappointment was creeping over me. Why hadn’t we been ejected yet? Instead, a helpful friend of a friend – a polo player – met me as promised, and took me down to the paddocks to meet the South African team.
Springbok captain Buster Mackenzie loitered next to a muddy vehicle with two team-mates and coach Gavin Chaplin. All very relaxed and unpretentious, which is perhaps due to South African polo traditionally being played by the farming community. That’s changing fast with the influx of rich businessmen to the sport, but for now there’s more grit about than you’d think.
It’s expensive grit, mind. Mackenzie has 60 horses, which is not unusual. “The ponies mature into the game at different times,” explained Chaplin. “You need a pool of animals to train, and watch, and chose from.”
There are six chukkas (periods) per match, each lasting seven minutes, and it’s standard for players to ride a different horse in every one.
Throughout the day I nagged people to tell me exactly how much money you need to start playing the game. But wealth, like blindness or cancer, is a delicate topic not to be broached in the presence of the afflicted, and getting a straight answer wasn’t easy.
“This sport isn’t about money,” said one new player defensively, “It’s about camaraderie!” A veteran, third-generation player more honestly calculated the start-up cost to be around R250 000.
The team went off to change. I made my way to the stands, past a man playing Sarie Marais on the bagpipes, and three kids in Dalmatian suits leading a Shetland pony, a goat, two sheep and a dog.
The posh grandstand was divided into sections, which individuals or companies rented in order to enjoy their catered picnics without fear of invasion.
“Hello, my darling,” came a voice from the smart pen. It was a friend of mine. We were kissing each other’s cheeks a 100 times when a pinched woman asked whether we were part of picnic one. With little grace but some lan we said “no” and gatecrashed straight over the white picket fence into the more exclusive zone behind.
We sipped vodka and tonic and observed the intermission entertainment – a dog display followed by carriage driving – in supreme comfort. The first was more a show of humans than hounds: a man who looked like Humpty Dumpty jogged a fat golden retriever slowly round the obstacle course. A woman, probably in her mid-70s, wearing a black Trilby hat and a cream three-piece suit (jacket off), performed a routine carefully choreographed to the tinny strains of Ma Baker. A German shepherd shadowed her every move. It was almost erotic.
Then the carriage driving. Strange looking people in forlorn fancy dress waved from horse-drawn carriages. The winners received a bottle of champagne and “a big kiss” from Wendy Oldfield.
At interval the day took on a crappy, country fair feel, which was comforting. Then suddenly, like a wicked witch in a Disney film, lunchtime descended upon us. The guests vanished inside for food and we schlepped back across the field and chatted to some poor folks. A young woman and child ate sandwiches from a plastic bag. “We always come. It’s nice. That’s my husband,” she said pointing to a man in green overalls near the horses.
“This is our fifth time!” proclaimed another woman who oozed from a deckchair. When I got back to the fancy side, everyone had a look of 15 G&T’s about them. In the zillion degree heat, men in double-breasted blazers and women in sort of air hostess hats appeared combustible.
The main match had started. South Africa (the outsiders) had a three-goal lead. The skill was awesome. But it was too late, the demon liquor had gripped the spectators, it was a piss-up.
Unfortunately, a woman in picnic three, with enough fruit and flowers on her hat to topple a donkey, remained balanced. Unfortunately, the people just to the right of “our” enclosure were beginning to wobble. Giant men who looked like pet rocks wearing flat caps guzzled beer and shouted. Women who appeared to be carved from sticks of Max Factor clutched fur coats. They looked rather Bavarian.
The match ended. Poor South Africa lost at the last goal. Australia were awarded a cup, shaped like a gold-plated bust of Prince Charles (enormous handles). But the winners looked delighted to receive it.
The Bavarians on the other hand, were turning nasty. One of the women had thrown an intruder down the concrete steps and one of giants was now in the process of throttling him. “He’s a thief! He’s a thief!” they all bellowed. A friend and I leaned across the picket fence and tentatively tried to prize the murderous thug off the alleged thief.
The Bavarians hurled abuse: “Fuck off! It’s none of your business!”
A man from our enclosure rushed over and demanded that they “stop hurting the kid. Let the police handle it.” The giants wanted to beat him up too: “You people and your snobby little game!” Oi.
The light was fading. Fires began to flicker. The posh grandstand was in the grips of a ghastly old South African rumpus. Across the field, all was well.