Mike Sutcliffe and me
I WAS at the launch earlier this week of an excellent little book, Durban – Architecture and History: a Guide, published by Itafa Amalinde Heritage Trust (formerly the Durban Heritage Trust). The Guide somehow manages to compress into 64 pages the whole story of Durban, its origins and history, its rich and colourful diversity, the vibrancy produced by the juxtaposition of Africa, Asia and Europe.
All this is brilliantly illustrated by what seems like hundreds of tiny photographs and pictures not much bigger than postage stamps – old and contemporary, monochrome and colour. They bring us the totality of Durban in a remarkable way.
Afterwards I repaired to an eatery in the Point precinct, in the company of a blonde lady of stunning beauty, charm and poise. Yet I was troubled in my mind. By publishing such an anthology of Durban's charms, is the Trust not setting up targets for those who would destroy Durban's heritage? One paragraph in particular gripped me:
"Sadly the division continues but under new masters. An example of this is the provocative way in which old street names are to be relegated to the dustbin of history by the City Council and replaced by the names of persons who represent only a part of the population – recent ANC heroes and populist heroes replace the old local, nationalist or colonial ones. A new form of vengeful dispossession is taking place."
As some readers will already know, I do not get steamed up over such issues. I subscribe to the calm reflection of the St Petersburg Forum – St Petersburg, Leningrad, St Petersburg again. The eddies of time will solve all.
But then who should walk into the eatery but Lenin … er, Michael Sutcliffe, city manager of Durban. He joined us at our table and a lively discussion ensued. I will not divulge the details of a private conversation, but let's say it centred on whether our eatery is off Point Road or Mahatma Gandhi Avenue.
Discussion was lively but by no means acrimonious. Sutcliffe is a man who enjoys a laugh. However, I think my blonde lady was losing a little of her poise at repeated intellectual ripostes such as: "Mike, you're talking bulldang and you know it!"
It went on quite a long time. Neither of us budged an inch from our positions. But it was in good spirit. Seldom have I had such an entertaining evening.
Then the final touch. When we called for our tab, the waitress said it had already been paid. An African fellow sitting at the bar had paid it and he absolutely refused to let us chip in. I think he felt we'd entertained him for the evening and it was the least he could do. I don't think he had any idea who any of us was.
Ex Africa semper aliquid novi – out of Africa always something new. You find it out in a Portuguese eatery in the Point precinct. And it's something pretty good.
Tailpiece
A FROG goes into a bank and approaches the teller. He can see from her nameplate that her name is Patricia Whack.
"Miss Whack, I'd like to get a R30 000 loan to take a holiday."
Patty looks at the frog in disbelief and asks his name. The frog says his name is Kermit Jagger, his dad is Mick Jagger, and that it's okay, he knows the bank manager.
Patty explains that he will need to secure the loan with some collateral.
The frog says; "Sure. I have this." He produces a tiny porcelain elephant, about an inch tall, bright pink and perfectly formed.
Very confused, Patty explains that she'll have to consult with the bank manager and disappears into a back office.
She finds the manager and says: "There's a frog called Kermit Jagger out there who claims to know you and wants to borrow R30 000, and he wants to use this as collateral."
She holds up the tiny pink elephant. "I mean, what in the world is it?"
The bank manager says: "It's a knickknack, Patty Whack, give the frog a loan. His old man's a Rolling Stone."
Last word
The greatest mystery is not that we have been flung at random between the profusion of matter and of the stars, but that within this prison we can draw from ourselves images powerful enough to deny our nothingness.
GRAHAM LINSCOTT
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