Durban Website Designers

Great works? Philanthropic largesse? Charitable foundations? A ‘good man and a fine human being’? Hardly.

Many years ago, I came across a newspaper report that crystallized everything for me. It was 30 years ago and occupied no more than a couple of column inches in the Witness.

It was a report of a Court case that involved a man and a woman. The woman had charged the man with attempted rape - nothing new here I hear you say. The difference was that the woman was 98 years old. The attempted rapist was 103 years old!

Brilliant! That’s what I would like to be remembered for - attempted rape at age 103.

‘Where’s great great great grandad?’

‘He’s in Court’.

‘In Court? What for?’.

‘Um, attempted rape’.

‘Attempted rape? I thought the only thing stiff about him was his Zimmer frame and his cocoa. Who’d he try and rape - the night nurse?’

‘No, the lady in the next room.’

Can you imagine the wonderful scene …

‘Come on Maude - you know you want to.’

Sounds of scrabbling at nightie and popping buttons.

‘No, Arthur, keep away from me. Now I know what the strange look you’ve been giving me all week has been for. All this time I thought it was trouble with your colostomy bag. Now I know it’s nothing more than lust, pure lust. Until I lost Sidney, I was happily married for 63 years.’

‘Aw, Maude, don’t you ever wonder what it would be like to have hot sex with another man?’

Sounds of popping knee joints and shuffling about.

‘What on earth is that? Good grief, I thought it was your walking stick. Just keep it in the bedpan where it belongs.’

‘Maude, baby I’ve had the hots for you since last week’s Bingo. The way you clicked your dentures over your card had my hormone racing - well, walking.’

‘What on earth has come over you Arthur? I know - you’ve been mixing your nitroglycerine with laburnum leaves again haven’t you?’

Sounds of stitches rupturing and dentures hitting the tiles.

‘Ooh, your cleavage sends my pacemaker into overdrive, Maude.’

‘That’s it Arthur - I’m calling the orderly - Nurse! Nurse! I’m being attacked!’

‘Maude, baby gums, we’re nearly there if I can get my leg onto the bed - c’mon now, don’t be a pooper - Aaaagh! NnNnNnnnnnnnnnng! I’ve put my bloody back out!

Maude? Maude? Hey Maude, where’ve you gone Maude?’

Think of the respect he’d get in prison amongst all the other rapists. A 103 year old rapist - brilliant.

Going through the garage of a friend, guess what I came across. Subtle clue on right.

Now, these must be thirty years old, and, not a bad beer if I remember correctly. The question is of course, what do I do with them. They’re pristine and unopened but will probably taste (& smell) awful. Maybe I should auction them to somebody who remembers the old days when there was real competition in the beer business in South Africa. Now, as we all know, the behemoth of South African Breweries has no competition and is free to foist the most disgraceful concoctions on the public and have the nerve to call these chemical Frankensteins ‘beer’.

I’m happy to entertain suggestions just as long as they don’t involve any anatomical terms.

This is not so much a renaming as a Durbanization of it. Comrade Sutcliffe never ceases to justify his excesses without mentioning the word ‘African . . . ‘. So I shall do the same.

The Airport Decor

I think razor wire would make an appropriate South African statement. Any thoroughfare can be decorously supplied with copious amounts of it. Let’s not spare expense here - none of this cheap and nasty, namby pamby  flatwrap stuff - only the coated, double spiked variety. We know how insecure and unsafe visitors feel when they anticipate, with only a little degree of glee, their impending sojourn here, so, reassure them as they step with trembling foot off the plane with a stunning panorama of glistening razor wire.

Both behind and in front of the razor wire are dozens of full size portraits of Michael Sutcliffe in an ANC T Shirt and hat, arm erect and fist clenched, a defiant bulldog expression contorting his features. A triumphant mien. African despots in less worthy parts of Africa would be jealous.

Wait!

What is it he’s holding in his fist?

It’s a road sign. It’s an old road sign. It reads ‘Manning Road’ with a red stripe across it.

Having been suitably reassured, our pax march with new found confidence towards the immigration counter - careful to keep to the travelators in case they touch the African 12,000 volt wires accompanying them at waist level. With minimal attrition, the planeload arrives at immigration.

Immigration

Now, as I understand it, when a visitor arrived at a Zulu kraal, there was a whole performance to welcome him. Here, the ceremony is called the ‘Marie Celeste Welcome’.

Not a soul in sight. Chicken Licken half eaten on the desks. Huge mugs of tea slowly cooling. Pencils half chewed. Monitors blinking aimlessly.

This African ceremony starts with a slowly increasing clamour from the passengers - those who are not on their first visit will know that the arrival of any plane coincides miraculously with the disappearance of the immigration staff. It’s the sort of thing that Arthur C. Clarke would talk about.

As the decibel level increases, a cleaner is spied on the other side, pushing a bucket. Noticing the agitated rabble she shouts in Zulu towards a distant door whereupon, after a suitable period, a lone, half-uniformed individual slowly makes his way to a desk.

Each passenger is interrogated at length.

‘What’s the purpose of your visit?’

‘Where’s your visa?’

‘Do you have any valuables about your person - especially jewellery, DVDs of Isidingo, dollars and cellphones? Which pockets are they in?’

(Pause to make quick cellphone call).

‘Where’s your Permanent Residence Permit? - do you know my grandfather was part of the Mau Mau?’

‘Where will you be staying?’ . . . ‘My brother will take you there - very reliable’.

etc. etc.

After 90 minutes, the planeload arrive in some numbers at Baggage Claim.

Baggage Claim

Well, not really.

It’s more like ‘You Think You’re Going to Have Baggage to Claim?’.

Like immigration, it’s deserted, just the low rumblings heard in similar baggage claims around the world. Except in this case it may well be nausea from the 30 metre leap after hitting the Michael Sutcliffe Commemorative Pothole in the runway.

There are anxious looks between passengers. The anxiety level increases. Mutterings turn to loud exclamations of concern. Looks turn to the window onto the apron in hesitant expectation. Cries of ‘Welcome to Durbs’ ring loud.

After 20 minutes, a solitary individual is seen approaching the apron side of Baggage Claim, on a solitary tractor towing a solitary trailer of luggage. Well, it appears to be luggage from the trail of assorted cases and bags in its wake.

He parks next to the carousel. Hope springs in 400 breasts.

He gets off and takes the bags off, one at a time, very deliberately to put on the carousel. Anxious eyes are cast to the end of the belt.

As the luggage makes an appearance, there is a degree of screaming, scrabbling and jostling only seen when an aid truck visits some famine stricken part of the planet.

What’s this? Every bag is labelled ‘SA286 HKG’. Hang on. This is not our luggage (meanwhile another single trolley with 30 bags has arrived).

Further investigation reveals that it’s not even the luggage from an arrived flight from Hong Kong but an outgoing flight.

Depression, melancholy and then anger surface as passengers realize that their luggage is on its final journey - to China. Miraculously however, fifty or so passengers have found their bags. Not on the carousel but behind janitory equipment next to the toilet.

Each one has a new security label not noticed when the bags were checked in. It reads ‘Inspected by Thatha Baggage Services (Pty. Ltd)‘ and marked carefully with a date stamp not an hour ago. In very large print at the bottom is written ‘Proud Supplier to SAA’.

Each bag is unexpectedly lighter than they remember at check in. Perhaps it’s the effect of the compulsory Valium given to passengers before arrival in Durban. Other airlines spray the cabin - inbound to Durban means sedatives and a funeral policy to go with the customs declaration.

Next blog: Customs

As a long time resident of this slowly disintegrating city of Durban I was saddened to see the forthcoming demise of one of the best known attractions, the Umgeni River Bird Park. Let me say that I understand that the City is not directly involved with it. However, an effort could have been made to save it, given the rampant profligacy of the lunatic asylum that passes as a City Council.

I was looking at an aerial photograph of Durban’s Golden Mile taken not so long ago. we’ve lost the Lido where Capital Radio and the Sand Pebbles used to be, the Little Top and the Snake Park. It’s not that they’re gone, because, let’s face it, they were a little on the tacky side, they have not been replaced and they should have been. We had Water World, an excellent water park that was forced to shut in favour of a pale imitation at uShaka.

Which brings me to another topic . . .

The Naming of the NEW AIRPORT!

I gather they are looking for names. Why? It’s long been referred to as the King Shaka International Airport so why bother? I understand that it has to be named - if it is to be renamed - after a dead person. Why can’t it be simply as it is - the Durban International Airport? Our dear Town Clerk - Comrade Sutcliffe who craves a legacy could offer his name to the new airport.

Of course he’d have to be dead first but I think that would be a small price for the bulk of Durban’s denizens who cannot abide him. There would be a wry smile playing on the lips of the long suffering burghers as the plane taxied over the small bump at the end of the runway. Give them that warm feeling.

The ‘Michael Sutcliffe International Airport’ - Yep, sounds suitably grandiose.

But why does it have to be a dead person - let’s be imaginative here.

The ‘Take your Life in Your Hands at the Robots International Airport’ complete with dysfunctional runway lights and strange men guiding the planes in with bunches of plastic coathangers. They could even take the place of duty free, wandering up and down the aisle with catapults, limp roses, cellphone chargers and other ‘must-have’ items. The inflight drinks come with exceedingly suspicious floaties to remind travellers of the Blue Flag beaches we once had.

The ‘Michael Sutcliffe Commemorative Pothole International Airport‘ complete with huge hole in the middle of the runway to remind passengers that they had just returned home. This hole would be attended day and night by teams of municipal employees leaning on picks, staring into the middle distance and lying under trees especially planted for the purpose. Most of the airport would of course be in total darkness. Taxi times from the runway would unfortunately be excessive as a result of the plane having to take evasive action around the piles of rubbish.

It’s a pity that one of the major construction companies got the tender. I would have liked Afriscan to get it, given their experience of roadways. If the runway was anything like their 4km ‘rumble strip’ that passes as a heavy goods lane on the M7 between Malvern and Pinetown (subject of a further posting), no plane would ever be able to land and would still be bouncing when it passed La Lucia. Even lorries with independently sprung cabs don’t use this execrable piece of road.

In fact, don’t give it a single name at all. Let’s have a rotating name that changes every week between those of an obscure Victorian civil servant, a struggle ‘hero’, a South American terrorist, a prominent member of the Broederbond and any Durban street kid. So here we go . . .

‘The Alfred Milner Harry Gwala Che Guevara BJ Vorster and Sipho Mdlalose International Airport’

This should please Comrade Sutcliffe, our cartographically challenged Town Clerk.

The Free Valet Service would move travellers’ vehicles efficiently from the concourse to Mozambique - at no extra charge.

Tired of bulging bags and pockets? The friendly porters will be pleased to relieve you of your wallet and cellphone so you can board the plane feeling suitably fleeced.

The Public Address system would be earsplittingly loud but completely garbled except for repeated use of the indeterminate sound ‘Eeeeeeeh’ and the occasional ‘Haauw!’ as an incoming plane hit the Commemorative Pothole. ‘Eeeeeeish!’ would of course be used when a jumbo load of passengers has been directed to the wrong gate.

Feeling a little ‘down in the mouth’ because the plane has come to a grinding standstill against a pile of rubbish well away from the terminal building? Don’t worry! Our fleet of Quantum taxis will crab their way towards you. You’ll know they’re on their way by the sound of the rattling seats. With luck, most of the passengers will make it to the terminal.

The Flight Information Displays wouldn’t have such boring words as ‘Arrived’, ‘Departed’ or ‘20.05′. No! Booooring! How about ‘Still Bouncing’. ‘Somewhere on a taxiway’ or - the best I think instead of times - ‘Just Now, ‘Now’ and ‘Now Now’.

The list is endless - I’ll come up with a few more local customizations in the next post.

BTW, ‘King Shaka’? Never.

What a mongrel title! It has to be ‘Inkosi Shaka‘. Can’t keep Sutcliffe lying awake at night worrying about it can we?

A bunch of us have birthdays in August so to celebrate, we went to Rosetta and had a gourmet picnic. As usual, there is the family disaster - an outing just wouldn’t be the same without it. This time it was the sister in law - locked the keys in the car boot - a Volvo car boot, and with the house keys attached. If you’re going to cock up on a Sunday afternoon, make a good job of it.

After some pathetic attempts to get in, a locksmith was called from Maritzburg. He prised the upper corner of the driver’s door open a little with a nylon wedge and then used an inflatable wedge to open it a little more. This wedge is sort of like a small hot water bottle with a bulb on one end. You get most of it through the crack and then pump it up to open the door a little more. Apparently, you have to be registered locksmith to get one of these.

Extracted from IOL and a little old but it serves to demonstrate the peevish nature of Durban’s Town Clerk. However, I’m glad that someone is getting stuck into this bunch of congenital incompetents.

DA shoots from hip and Durban boss detonates
July 3, 2009

Perhaps it was a hastily written statement, but comments made this week by the DA have outraged Durban city manager Michael Sutcliffe. Marti Wenger, the DA’s deputy shadow minister of co-operative governance and traditional affairs, called for an investigation of the tender process for the Durban City Council’s World Cup website, which had been awarded to a black economic empowerment company at a staggering cost.

Sutcliffe said he would not investigate how the contract was awarded, as the only reason the DA wanted it probed was because the work was being done by a black-owned, black-run company. “It’s downright racist, and you can quote me on that.”

There are question marks over the cost of developing and managing the website, which information technology (IT) experts say is outrageously expensive at R6.5 million. The city says the budget is for a host of work to be done to develop an information portal for Durban.

The verdict on whether this portal is worth the price is likely to be delivered only once it is fully functional, with all the bells and whistles the council claims it will have.

But the DA statement offers illuminating insight into how the party works.

When questioned in more detail on the allegations, Wenger did not seem to have all the facts at hand, which suggests the statement was hastily put together simply to generate airtime for the DA.

So is the hullabaloo just politicking, or has taxpayers’ money been misspent?

No matter how hard I try, things never seem to work out.

The Durban Film Festival is on, including a fair number of Indian films. My wife wanted to see a couple at the last minute and booked on Saturday for the evening shows - one film at 8.15 and the other at 10.15.

I had had a bad night the previous night but, not wanting my wife amongst the Saturday philistines at the casino, agreed to come along. Well. things started going bad from the start. Firstly we bumped into the Tri Nations rugby crowd and then I realized that there was no airconditioning and me with a heavy coat.

The 8.15 film is delayed but we go in and it’s mostly full - it’s Fast Gun Murugan (or something like). It was a sort of spaghetti western set in India with a social comment - and quite interesting. By dint of relentless concentration I kept my eyes open, snuggled up with my boiling jacket. Eventually however, gravity prevailed and they shut.

The next thing, I am poked sharply in the ribs and informed sotto voce that I was snoring. Me? Snoring?

Only after the film I was told the the folk behind were some invited film dignitaries and that my wife had to wait for them to leave at the end of the film and then lower her head and scoot out.

I did offer to stay for the 10.15 film.