In the lounge of The Crest hotel in Hillbrow a Jewish woman sips tea and chats to her daughter. The 90-year-old woman has been staying in the hotel for 35 years.
Once a popular haunt for wealthy businessmen and home to large numbers of long-term Jewish residents, The Crest is now the stamping ground for an ever-expanding group of Nigerians who began moving in about five years ago.
”We had a billionaire in this hotel once, old Gladstone. Yes, he was worth something,” says one of the women.
”Pilots from the airlines used to stay here too,” she continues. ”On the 15th floor there was a bar with a live band at the weekends.”
Now the 40 remaining Jewish residents share the hotel with a group of Nigerians and the prostitutes who work for them. At night residents say they have heard the girls scream as they get beaten by their pimps. In the process, the rooms are destroyed and maintenance, says the owner, Jan van Rooyen, is an uphill battle.
”We used to be full all the time,” says Van Rooyen. ”We worked hard and the place was very beautiful.”
Now the beauty has faded and all that remains are shadows of grander days. The rooms are still lit by crystal chandeliers, the furniture is Seventies chic and ivy weaves its way round the metal trellises that separate the bar from the lounge.
During the day, other than at teatime, the lounge and bar stand empty. In the evenings the hotel becomes a very different place.
”When they opened a bar I thought it was a bad idea. The black and white men will fight. But the only white people to go in there are prostitutes,” says one resident.
At five in the evening the bar starts to fill with Nigerians who play pool and dance, while the elderly wait patiently in the adjoining lounge for the dining room to open.
”If my husband had lived six more months, we’d have been millionaires,” says one resident. Now she lives in the hotel and, despite pressure from her children to move, she is determined to stay.
”I’ve saved all my life to be independent and I want to stay that way,” she says. ”It’s only R2 000 a month here. Other places can cost R7 000 a month. Remaining here is an economic decision,” she continues.
Natalie has lived in the hotel for 13 years, since the elderly aunt she used to live with died. She doesn’t go out because it is too dangerous and instead spends the day watching the soaps in her room.
”I am happy,” she says. ”Once I go to my room, I am alone.”
For social life she goes to a sunshine club for senior citizens.
”I was lucky, I found a group that would come and pick me up once a week. Other groups wouldn’t come here to fetch us.”
She only has enough money for two more months in the hotel and beyond that her future is uncertain.
As they wait, a tall, heavily made-up, white woman passes.
”She’s with one of the Nigerians. He’s paying her, I suppose,” says one of the women. ”But I see her with other men as well.”
The next day the same woman is standing in the hotel lobby looking grey and sunken-eyed.
The tables in the dining room are all set for one. Even residents who chatted together before dinner, sit alone to eat. As they eat in silence, kwaito plays loudly in the bar.
After dinner most of the residents disappear to their rooms, where they will remain until tea is served at 11 the following morning. One or two stay in the lounge, but a group of Nigerians has taken the couches.
”Go over there, please,” shouts one woman at the group. ”Do you mind if we have this one little corner. They’re getting on my damn nerves.”
They don’t move and just stare back and laugh.
”You people have got everything here. We’ve got nothing,” she shouts.
A woman walks into the lounge wearing a brightly coloured silk nightdress. She sways across the room and sits on the knee of one of the Nigerian men. He takes little notice. Watching the scene, a resident comments: ”They’re getting spoiled now. They used to just stay in the bar. They never came this close to our lounge.”
There are 15 permanent Nigerian residents in the hotel, but many more stay on a casual basis. They pay R70 for a single room or R100 for a double.
Many long-term Nigerian residents were put under pressure to leave by the management. For the 15 who remained, there is a committee organised by Cameroon, a man the owner describes as a ”very decent chap”. He will tip the hotel off if a resident arrives who is likely to cause trouble.
”The guys have realised they must keep their noses clean. They tell me that this is their home and they would rather do their business elsewhere,” says Van Rooyen. She never asks them what their business is.
In the mix are two American tourists. When they phoned to book the owner advised them against it but they insisted on coming. One of their mothers used to live in the Bronx so they felt well-equipped for Hillbrow. They came to Johannesburg to see Sandton and Alexandra and are going to Cape Town the following day. But they are a rarity.
Things are changing.
”There aren’t enough of us anymore,” says one resident. There used to be bingo evenings and get-togethers in the hotel’s lounge for the long-term residents.
”Now life in Hillbrow is survival. It’s a test of character.” Even the local synagogue, Great Park, where many of the residents were married, is now a fried chicken restaurant and pub.
”We’ve just got to keep positive,” says Van Rooyen. The place has been raided a couple of times for drugs. At three in the morning police stormed the building, waking everyone and searching rooms.
”The raids,” says one woman who is leaning on a Zimmer frame, ”are not so frightening. As soon as the police see that it’s me opening the door they are very polite. They apologise and leave me alone.”
Charles, a long-term resident, is described as a ”rambling rose”. Every few weeks he takes off without telling anyone and catches a bus to Durban. There he stays at an ”Indian place” on a mattress on the floor.
”But we always keep a room free for him for when he returns,” Van Rooyen says.
Many residents at The Crest say they came here because they felt lonely. But after many years of staying at the hotel they have built a life, a community — a proxy family, even — and they say nothing will make them give it up.