Dur­ban POI­SON

Sunday Tribune - - FRONT PAGE - Ben Trovato

where, if I had to say I’m go­ing to King Shaka in the morn­ing, there would be at least one white per­son who would get me on my own and warn me not to make the same mis­take Piet Retief made.

The only time you need to use the full name of any air­port is when you make your on­line book­ing so that when you fi­nally reach the check-in counter, the surly hun­gover board­ing card­dis­penser doesn’t put you on a plane to some or other god­for­saken hell­hole like Mo­gadishu. Or worse, Port El­iz­a­beth.

The other thing about air­ports is that they are des­per­ately sad places that peo­ple only go to so they can get some­where else.

This con­ver­sa­tion, for in­stance, has never hap­pened:

Man: Get your things, we’re go­ing to the air­port.

Woman: *shriek* You’re tak­ing me on hol­i­day?

Man: Even bet­ter, baby. I’m tak­ing you to the Soar­ing Fal­con Spur Steak Ranch.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there are peo­ple who go to air­ports to eat and shop, watch peo­ple wav­ing and weep­ing and hug­ging, then drive back home.

I don’t know any­one who has done this. It seems like a deeply weird thing to do.

But back to the real is­sue. Air­ports shouldn’t be named af­ter awe­some peo­ple for the same rea­son Point Road should never have been re­named in hon­our of Ma­hatma Gandhi. Point Road should’ve been re­named af­ter one of the city’s in­de­struc­tible de­gen­er­ates who has out­shone all oth­ers in his life­long quest for drink, drugs and whores.

There are many can­di­dates wor­thier than I.

The over­ar­ch­ing emo­tions in air­ports are ones of iras­ci­bil­ity and sad­ness, un­der­cut with notes of frus­tra­tion, bou­quets of bore­dom and a rich aroma of feet.

Cape Town air­port should there­fore be named af­ter the an­gri­est, most mis­er­able per­son in the city. Com­pe­ti­tions could be held.


My money would be on one of the tell­ers at my lo­cal Spar.

She re­acts to greet­ings as if they were mor­tal in­sults and takes my credit card with the an­tipa­thy of a mother be­ing handed a court or­der re­pos­sess­ing her chil­dren. And it’s not only me, if you’re won­der­ing.

A few mo­ments ago, I googled restau­rants at King Shaka and, in­stead of be­ing show­ered with a mouth-wa­ter­ing buf­fet of op­tions, I was pre­vented from con­tin­u­ing and redi­rected to the elec­tronic equiv­a­lent of Guan­tanamo Bay.

“Our sys­tems have de­tected un­usual traf­fic from your com­puter net­work,” it warned.

My sphinc­ter snapped shut like a star­tled sea anemone.

I was then in­structed to ver­ify that it re­ally was me send­ing the

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