Hands in the air

Last Saturday I went jorling for the first time since we arrived in Jozi a few months back. It’s not like I haven’t been out to various great restaurants and the three bars (it might actually be two) that cater to the hundreds of thousand, dare I say millions of people who live in the northern suburbs but this was new. This was a trip downtown on a Saturday night to the dark heartland of Jozi, the Newtown Precinct.

Actually the precinct itself buzzed with activity when we arrived at Sophiatown (I think, I was a bit dizzy) around 11.00 at night. The precinct is an urban renewal and regeneration project with a fascinating history. After a turbulent history the area is today host to a mix of bars, restaurants, galleries and museums. Mary Fitzgerald square, the precincts centrepiece is also host to a World Cup fan park and I plan to be there for the opening game.

Mental as anything

It was a mate’s birthday and a few of us had spent the initial part of the evening at a place called The Woods for the clubs “dubmental” night. It wasn’t mental it was terrible. Maybe I am getting old but I was raised on classic Jamaican dub where mix masters like King Tubby, Scientist and Scratch Perry dominated. They produced laidback bass-heavy versions with an emphasis on crucial brass sections and re-mixed voice. Modern dub is a cacophony of electronic hail backed up by a gut-crunching bass that seemed to digest my dinner. The venue itself was like a garage with a light bulb. The owners must have pumped all of a grand into the joint. The best thing about it was the cheap drinks.

The small crowd, all white, was made up of the traditional smattering of waifs, students, extroverts, Goths, hustlers and dirty-old men you find in dimly lit clubs posing as alternative. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. After an hour under low decibel tremble/high decibel electronic screech assault we decided to move on down to Newtown proper. Steve and I decided to walk the four-hundred meters or so to the bar Sophiatown. The others pleaded with us to drive, that we were taking our lives in our hands and that we should be very careful.

Hippity hop

Apart from a few homeless people and a couple of car guards clustered around an open fire on the pavement, the streets were empty until we entered Mary Fitzgerald Square. People hustling and bustling between bar and car, street and club. The place was hopping. At one point I was the only whitey in the joint as the crowd sang along to Li’l Wayne’s Lollipop. At some point I battled to the DJ booth and asked for the Dre/Tupac hopper California Love but no luck. I am not saying I recognised every tune but there was some Jay-Z, some Ice-Cube and some whining R&B rubbish.

Idiots

The vibe was relaxed and I was getting the odd flirtatious glance from the girls and a nod or a thumbs up from the guys. Most of the guys anyway. There was a knee-high Rasta who kept on telling me he got my back, but I told him my back was cool. I think he was running a scam where he has mates who cause shit and then he comes to the rescue for a small fee. Then some other guys started harassing the girls in our crowd and things went a bit south. Grabbing them and insisting on a dance, standing all over them and generally acting like assholes. The girls with us are gay and there have been a string of “corrective” rapes in South Africa recently, the most horrific involving the rape and murder of the captain of the South African women’s football team.

The situation got a little unpleasant without getting violent but did leave an unpleasant taste. At least the bouncer seemed interested when I made contact just to test his attitude. I spoke to the girls with us and they were cool. For all that, and the hangover I sported the next morning I am keen to investigate some of the other stuff on show down in Newtown. As with many things here you just have to be on your toes and expect the unexpected and realise that the air of normalcy hides a chasm of chaos.