The Hitchhiker’s

‘My legs are too white’ I sneered at my reflection and shook my head. I hated wearing dresses, but it was a humid sweltering day, wearing anything but a dress meant great discomfort. The heat was choking, the humidity thick and sludgy simply lurking. I had just showered but was already perspiring, everywhere – between my breasts, behind my knees, perspiration falling down my face. I loathed Durban in February, and more so because I could not stand wearing dresses. I would wear jeans and boots – going to the beach, all my friends would be in skimpy bikinis whilst I would reluctantly join them in black pants, a vest and thick boots, a look of disdain etched on my face. I would find the shade and spend the next hour or two smoking and moaning until my friends, tired of my complaints, would give in and we would head for the nearest bar. It was with some sort of irony that I lived on the beach and that most of my friends were surfer boys. If I wore short skirts, which I did occasionally, it would be with thick tights. Never bare skin. Never. I discovered years later that this was some sort of body dysmorphia, but then – I just concurred with the opinions of others that I was simply weird.
‘Get a tan then!’ My friend Kerry said quite wisely.
My legs were too white, especially for South Africa, for Durban summer – where all those around me were golden tanned, healthy, sun-kissed. I was pallid, ghost skin and black hair. I put on my ubiquitous attire of jeans and a vest and boots, afraid to even show my feet – never sandals, feet covered. I had tried; I attempted to put on a dress, a dress that my best friend from school had made for me for my birthday and a dress that although I liked, although I could imagine wearing, a dress I never would. Instead I would give it to Kerry, my friend Kerry who was the complete opposite in looks and personality. Blonde, blue eyes, tanned, dressed in unbelievably short shorts; we were the opposite spectrums, we were salt and pepper. We drank whisky, not associating drinks with seasons, too young. Whisky it always was, eventually as time went it would be gin and tonic perhaps, or vodka or perhaps a cold beer. But now, for the moment, in the stifling flat we drank J&B and water, smoked Peter Styvesants, and after a while, feeling mildly tipsy we left the flat and walked to Joe Kools.

Durban is small, there are not many clubs or bars to frequent and so after a while you get to know the barman, the bouncers and the regulars. You get to know where a certain group will be sitting; whether that be downstairs by the pool tables, outside on the veranda, around the corner bar, you will know, you will know what nights to expect certain people, you will know what time they should arrive. You will know all of this – Durban is small. We made first stop to the bar, ordered two shots of peach schnapps and then to follow two J&B’s, we greeted those we knew, and then pushing our way through the crowd, heaving, perspiring, close – we made our way outside, the still air – still beating down, still choking, still. Our friends were sitting at a table, a table strewn with captain morgan’s, castle beers, shot glasses. They were drunk, as gradually so too were we. Conversation was vacuous, inane, friends speaking about nothing in particular, just catching up. Being polite, ‘I like your top’ or ‘how was the surf today’. Most of my friends surfers, long blonde hair, wearing baggies, loud shirts, or no shirts, their hair bleached from the sun – hours spent in the water, hours waiting for the perfect wave whilst I was inside smoking, smoking and reading macabre novels, listening to melancholy music; salt and pepper.


Kerry and I drank, J&B and water, schnapps. We smoked, Peter Styvesant reds and then we said our goodbyes. We were off, to meet other friends. Girlfriends. We were meeting at the grunge club of the moment, The Rift. The Rift in a rather ominous part of Durban, not without the occasional shooting, stabbing, and doors locked – look left and right, run into club. But, it was my favourite club – quite typically – it was dark, played The Pixies, played Rage Against the Machine, played music that allowed me to dance wildly to alone on the dance floor. I was always the first. Left, right and run into the club.

We hitched a ride to the club. Kerry and I, the two of us stood – she in her short shorts, me beside her, both of us drunk. Hands out, ‘Take us to the Rift please’ and the young man, his girlfriend, or sister, or perhaps just his friend, sitting in the front smiling and seemingly stoned and quite content to just drive around. They are listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers, ‘Under the bridge down town, is where I drew some blood…’ we arrived at the club, left, right and we ran inside shouting our thanks over our shoulders.

I danced, and I danced and eventually my feet ache. I sit with Kerry and Monica and some other friends that we met up with. We are still drinking J&B and water, except at The Rift it’s in a plastic cup and there is no ice. We continued to drink anyway. We smoked and after sitting and catching up a song comes on that we all like, The Violent Femmes, ‘I say hey Mr Driver Man, drive that thing fast, I got somewhere I gotta go…’ we all jumped up, hopped around singing along.

The club closed at about two, we are ready to go. We realise, myself, Kerry and Monica who is now with us that we have not got a lift home. We have forgotten to find one, so content with dancing, singing and dancing ‘All I know, is that there were rumours he was into field hockey players, there were rumours, he was like, he was gone the next day, it was like – so hush hush, they were so quiet about it – and then the next thing you know…’ singing and singing. We were without a lift. The area known for it’s high levels of crime, the bouncers are ambivalent to our worries, our growing panic. How will we get home! They don’t care, they just want to lock up and leave, on to their own party. Three little girls, three stupid little girls.

And so we walk. We don’t know where we are walking two but we walk, our hands out, hoping someone will stop. It’s still hot, but I am perspiring even more than ever now due to panic – the evening is silent, it is dark, there are very few street lamps. I want someone to stop. I want to get into a car and feel safe.

Eventually, after perhaps an hour, near tears – arguments between us, eventually a car stops, an old Mercedes, silver and having seen better days, it pulls over. Slowly, windows wind down and we tell the man, thin, pale a moustache and hair flat – from sweat or from gel, I am not sure, but slick upon his head – we tell him where we are going, to the beachfront, North Beach. He nods and we get in. Relieved. Monica sits in the front and falls asleep straight away. Kerry and I are at the back, relieved, but not shutting our eyes, still alert – sort of.

‘You can turn here’ Kerry says. I look up. He is driving past the turning.
‘You’ve just missed the turning, you can do a U-turn’ I say, ‘or we can just get out here, this is fine – we can walk,’
Kerry and I look at one another, he’s ignoring us. We both have our hands on the door handles. I kick Monica’s seat.
‘Stop please’ Kerry says, almost frantically, not quite calm. ‘Monica wake up!’
He slows down, he doesn’t stop but just slows down, and I shake Monica, ‘Monica WAKE up! Get out NOW’ and Kerry and I open the door, and whilst it’s still moving, slowly, we jump out and then in shock, realising for the first time the meaning of surreal we watch as our friend stares back at us as she is been driving off in the Mercedes with a strange man with hair stuck to his head. Her eyes are wide and frightened, we scream, we run and I fall. Kerry carries on. ‘Jump! Jump!’ but we don’t know he has a gun out, a gun to her leg. ‘Jump!’ our throats are hoarse. We are now sober. The car is almost at full speed; if she waits another few seconds we will lose her. I have sudden thoughts of what will happen, what he will do to her, I have sudden thoughts of what we say to her parents, what we admit to. I am still on the ground. Kerry is running, the road is empty.

She jumps. She jumps out of the speeding car and rolls and rolls. I get up and run after her. We grab her, pick her up and we all hug. No tears, not just yet. Shock has taken over, I am not aware of my own actions. I am just moving. We hug and hug and with shaking scratched hands I light three cigarettes and then we notice that a car has stopped. It’s a friend, an old school friend at the back of the car. She noticed us hugging, noticed our distress, noticed something not right and told the driver to stop. The driver being one of the bouncers from The Rift, we had love and hate, we were mixed with feelings.

Then, a few months later, I am visiting a friend at his new flat. His flat on South Beach. It’s a high rise flat, there is a big parking lot in the front, and as I walk into the parking lot I see a car, a familiar car and entering the building a man with hair slicked to his head. Black hair. Full of gel I see. We get into the lift together, I know that he has a gun somewhere. I know that without having to look. He looks at me, without recognition. No smile, just a blank face. The door opens, and a heart thumping, thumping, thumping, I get out. He hasn’t recognised me, I have him. The bastard!