Memoirs of a the Great Southern Land... NOT Australia

This is against my better judgment. And somehow I have this false hope that no one will ever read this; or at least no one who knows me differently ever will. This isn't a Catholic confession (surprise surprise). Neither is it a brag-trip about my South African escapades (though some might find a bit of Mustanser Hussain Tarar here - will explain later if I still feel like it).

I'd been planning for this trip for quite a while. Top on the agenda was Teazers. Ever since the trip was announced I'd been looking forward to the gay(not) abandon with which those sweet ladies shed their clothes. I'd actually gone and spent hours planning in detail exactly how to make the most of it. More on that later though. I'll try to follow the chronological order in which I fell victim to my digress desires.

(I hope you've stopped reading by now)....

The deep shovel's brought out some pretty vivid (read boring/insignificant) details about the whole trip. They add nothing to the plot, are sadly narrated and yet I insist on writing them (Maugham I am not).

Set off to the airport only to realise that my boss had left something behind. Detoured. Long line at the FIA Immigration counter. The Officer's sickening attitude. Made us photocopy some meaningless papers before he let us go. I hope his wife would give him some sex. These fuckers need to get it out of the system. Met Nabeel from A.F.Ferguson & Co. (AFF). People who hang around me often complain that I know 'too many people'. Not really something I can help actually. Been to two great institutions: St. Patrick's High School, Karachi and AFF. The network's just grown from there. Plus I also don't suffer from the insecurity that people won't remember me. They do (and which complex is that, they ask).

If you are still there either you are one soul with nothing to do or extremely curious. Both good. I am warning you though that you'd be utterly disappointed. If you're a guy the Teazers link above could open quite a window for you. So LEAVE!!!

Breakfast in the plane. Insignificant. Air hostesses - the same. It was a short flight so I did not fall prey to the temptation of getting any free alcohol. Dubai airport. The Red Shirt pulled me over to the sport shop. I was hoping it wasn't a Man U shirt. Had a strict budget meant for naked South African women. The Man U kit would've put a considerable dent in those coffers. Still it was the England shirt and I promised to get one before the World Cup. It's an eight hour flight from Dubai to Johannesburg. My only previous experience with long international flights had made sure that I was very comfortably dressed. (Loose-fitting tracks and sandals against the suit I'd worn on the way to Casablanca). My boss had some very stiff formal shoes on and he was very lucky to find a very nice casual shoe. (Un)fortunately they'd run out of his size and after a considerable wait (there was not much else to do) we finally bought the one on display. He's been thanking his stars ever since. My 'tour-guide' in SA was supposed to be a colleague (dare I say friend) from Karachi - Sameen Gul. The least I could do for all the promised entertainment was to buy him some cigarettes - two cartons of Dunhill Lights.

Yet another embarrassment waited for us at the immigration counter at Dubai. All passengers with Pakistani or Bangladeshi pass-ports were asked to stand aside while they were scanned for authenticity. Presumably they were in order. Luckily the flight to Jo'burg was in a much larger jet, but still eight hours take their toll. I can't get to sleep during flights. Perhaps it's the idea of missing something good. (WHAT???!!!). For a city which is quite the financial and commercial hub of SA, the airport was quite shabby. The lines at arrival were long and reminded me of the one I'd encountered at Karachi. People had painted quite a scary picture about Jo'burg so I was hanging on to my bags for dear life. Even when one of the security officials hinted at opening my bags paranoia stuck. Luckily we were allowed to proceed.

There's a part of me that refuses to give up on my becoming a good Muslim. I think we call it conscience. On a very serious note (would've even looked out of place) I'd like to believe that Allah hasn't written me off completely. Hence my conscience still pokes it's little head up and reminds me of who I am (or should be). Why I write this is because one of my first memories of the airport was a sign pointing to the 'Muslim Prayer Area'. A sign that I not only 'ignored' but the antithesis of conscience kicked in and I told myself the 'real reason' for being in South Africa. I suffer from this lack of self control which seems to get aggravated as soon as I leave Karachi. Perhaps why I've never really considered living or working abroad. I think I need to come back home to someone from the family letting me in. I NEED to be tethered.

Back to what happened though. Headed straight to the money changer window. I'd done specific research on Teazers rates. Knew exactly what a lap or table dance would cost. The money changer was just the first step towards the ultimate goal. Even in retrospect I can't find any fault in my single-minded quest for something I'd been obsessed with since a very early age: PUSSY!!! I remember early school days when I'd go to any length to try to get nude women pictures. And over the years I'd had more than my share. But somehow the real, living, breathing specimen was still the golden fleece; pun intended.

A very friendly African gentlemen held our name cards up. We'd been 'programmed' to be wary of all our dark-skinned friends. (I hate mentioning the colour of skin when describing someone, especially when it could lead to a negative connotation, and more so because I LOVE African (dark) women... but more on that later!). We were being very careful with our luggage and money as we got out of the airport, which was as unimpressive from the outside as it was inside. The cars however were like nothing I'd seen here. And while we waited for our ride to show up I counted numerous super luxury cars leaving the airport.

The ride to the hotel was uneventful. Noticed how clean and green everything looked. Our hotel, the Airport Grand was another revelation; never let websites fool you! On the way over I'd seen the Ceaser's Palace, where another colleague form Pakistan, Dr. Tauseef, was staying. It was natural to assume that our hotel would be something on he same lines, and the website had suggested likewise. It was anything but. The corridors were so narrow that two people couldn't walk side-by-side. I was booked into a non-smoking room. When I requested a change I was sent across to the other side of the hotel, away from my boss. This was very good because I respect him and didn't want to put him in to an uneasy position in case I did anything I didn't want to advertise to the world. (Then why am I writing this!!!???).

The room was very small too. First time ever I'd been in a hotel without a mini-bar. So my plans of charging the booze to the room, ala Rabat, were foiled. Looked at the room service menu and there wasn't anything halal on it. Some people call this hypocrisy. I differ. My view is that breaking one boundary doesn't necessarily mean I should break others. So while alcohol was a boundary I'd broken years ago, I'll NEVER Insha Allah break the halal food barrier. (Although I think the cognac steak at Flo does have cognac - but then that's the alcohol barrier and I need to fix it). The prices revealed a rather interesting fact: beer was cheaper than water! Something to do with the fact that tap water was WHO certified and was perfectly drinkable. I ordered a Castle and while I waited browsed through the TV channels, hoping to find some of South Africa's glory. Unluckily none of the channels had or promised anything.

As anticipated my beer was late in arriving and I had to call thrice before the knock on the door. I wasn't carrying any change so I had to sign for it to be included in the bill. This was yet another self induced paradox. I was pretty open about my habits with some people at work, yet with others I didn't want knowing what I'd been up to. So out of dread that it might say "BEER" on the bill I paid for all future alcohol out of my pocket. Coming back to the Castle: it was wonderful. Advertising does reach beyond borders. I've seen many a match on Super Sports advertising the Castle logo and I guess it was combined affect that caused my first 'infringement' in SA.

Beer for those lucky enough not to drink is an acquired taste. I think it was my initial fear of throwing up perhaps that's made me couple beer with smoke. Anyway my first beer was cold and very tasty. I looked down from my window hoping to see some luscious beauty in a string bikini but alas this fantasy never came even close to being fulfilled. All I saw at the pool was an aged gentleman reading the paper.

I was glad that my boss was quite literally at the other end of the hotel. He's an extremely nice man and I didn't want to have a situation coming up where either of us was uncomfortable. That also meant that I had to leave him alone when I went for my escapades. But there were none planned for our first night there and I joined him for dinner.

Although the trip had totally drained me out the thought of going out to explore the city still excited me. At about 8:00, ridiculously early by Karachi standards, we set out. We asked the hotel receptionist for directions to the nearest halal food joint. She wasn't sure but suggested that we try out the East Rand Mall, quite close to our hotel. I rather naively asked if we could walk over, to which a bear of a man replied "If you're looking for arm to arm combat you could". Now I hail from Karachi and that alone makes you 'brave', but the gentleman's words hit the spot and killed any adventures of the sort that we might have had. So much so that my boss stuck to these till our very last evening there and we couldn't explore the Mandela square. But more on that when we get there.

A guy at the concierge saw our predicament and drove us to the mall in his "taxi". The exclamation because their definition of a taxi is what we call a van here. Sunday is usually a dull day here too but down south the city was dead. We got to the mall in about five minutes and had to agree to a king's ransom in advance for a secure ride back. There were about 10-15 couples hanging outside the mall but the colour of their skin somehow made them scary. (I hate writing this. I still refuse to discriminate between humans based on something as silly as race - BUT - the people had told us such scary stories that my judgement was clouded over and I couldn't tell the harmless from others).

There was a small food court offering a variety of cuisine. Old faithfuls Pizza Hut and KFC were also there but I chose to be adventurous and decided to walk around a bit before deciding what to eat. All the shops were closed but I stubbornly walked about looking into shops. Stupid move because when we came back PH and KFC were shut and the rest of the places didn't have any halal food. We returned to the hotel 400 rands poorer without having eaten anything. The last resort was the hotel's own restaurant. We were told that the beef and chicken were okay to eat and dinner was rather uneventful. At about 9:00 we retired to our rooms, my South African fantasies yet unfulfilled. I stayed up for quite a while hoping for MNET to show something worth jerking off over, but zilch.

I'd made quite a reputation getting up vary late after long hauls. Simply couldn't afford that again so had both the mobile alarm and the wake-up call. Strangely I got up before either. It must've been the sun. I woke up to some very pleasant sunshine on all mornings, something my own bedroom doesn't offer. My mum had made it a point to press all my shirts knowing that I can't so I was quickly ready and down for breakfast. Lo and behold my boss was already through his breakfast making my efforts look in vain. Breakfast is my favourite meal. I love the variety hotels offer and make it a point to eat as much as possible. Our ride for the day, and indeed every day afterwards was a silver 'taxi' driven by Johan. It was in the van that I found out that our trainer was a lady who happened to be staying in the same hotel as ours.

The Reckitt office was quite close to our hotel. The receptionist was very pretty. In fact ALL the women in the office were. No wonder the business is doing so well. Time flew during the first half of the day. We'd requested for a halal lunch and they mustered up some nice fish for us. (Hopefully halal). What made this first session rather remarkable was that it was the only time during our four days of training that we actually understood anything.

Luckily I don't remember any more details of the course that day. What I do remember is the anticipation that hung over me the whole day for what was to come later in the day. We finished off at about 5:30. Tracy, our colleague from Finance, had planned a "dinner" for the guests. The inverted commas because she picked us up at about 6:00. They do things rather differntly there.

Dinner was another funny story. Don't quite understand why we are forced into having the same food we flew away from. Earlier in Morocco too our first meal was at an Indian restaurant, here too our hosts chose to treat us at an Indian restaurant. What's the point I ask? But in fairness I think with our 'qualms' about what we can and can not eat they play it safe. Just an observation. Besides this IS a diary of sorts and I can write what I bloody well feel like. Food too was interesting. I ordered biryani and got spicy rice with chicken and pulses in it. Not quite what I had in mind. To be perfectly honest though ALL I had in my mind was to get out the bloody place to the evening's entertainment. The ladies polished away a bottle of white wine. Tracy was driving and I was secretly hoping she took her alcohol well. On the way back she missed an exit and we drove around hopelessly lost for quite a while. Wonder if the wine had anything to do with it. Sense prevailed and she called her fiancé to ask for directions. I think it was Nawaz, one day into the city, who finally recognised the route that got us back.

A point here about Nawaz. My honest admiration for his absolutely brilliant mind. When we were issued out boarding cards at the Dubai airport he looked at the numbers and figured out that going south we'd have the sun in our eyes. Lo and behold it was as he'd sid it would be. I can't ever even try to understand how he figured it out. All I know is that he's the sharpest man I've ever worked with and even trying to emulate his quickness would be a a waste.

I'd met Dr. Tauseef at the RB office and we'd agreed to pick him up at about 9:00. Sameen was luckily on time and we set off to the Ceaser's Palace. Presuamably Doc had nothing better to do while he waited so he downed about five beers by the time we arrived. That had him in quite the mood for the evening's entertainment.

Some of our colleagues had been to Teazers earlier and given us some pretty interesting guidelines. First of all you should not attempt to get the best of the lot. It's the girls who don't look quite as good who make the most effort to please you. Made sense! Also to feel maximum impact of their efforts you ought to wear thin shirts. As I'd said earlier I wasn't sure how severely my mechanism would be affected by the whole thing. If the excitement got the better of me I could've got into quite a stick spot - pun intended again. So I used some simple Pakistani ingenuity and wore a condom.

Author's note: It's been over a year and a half since my last post. In this period so much has happened that I can write for months. Quite significantly England got knocked out of the World Cup, as usual, at the quarter final stage. They also gave away the Ashes to Australia and the Rugby World Cup to South Africa. But all this has it's own place in history and may be on my blog. For the moment it's back to Teazers and my South African escapades. A normal person would've lost some of the memories after such a long time. I haven't! Even if a reader doesn't believe me I wouldn't give a flying fuck would I. Nobody is supposed to read this and if some poor souls do then they better not question my version of events. It's true.)

We set off. I can safely say I was the most excited of the three. Sameen had been there quite a few times before and Doc was, well, quite experienced. Married and also he'd also gone to these bars elsewhere in the world. But trust a guy to be cool. I was just keeping it all under cover, as well as I could. Smoking as the car sped down the highway. The roads were very fast and Sameen shared a rather interesting anecdote. As per SA law if you are caught speeding over 180 km/h (the speed limit's about 120 km/h) you not only get a ticket, you also have to spend a life in jail. A poor guy sped and died. Not your usual crash though. On his solitary night in jail he was raped by the inmate, contacted AIDS and later died. What a way to go!

It took around 40 minutes to get there. Most distances there were like that. A measure of the size. I didn't quite know what to expect but had seen enough movies to expect it to be an out of town and sleazy. This was neither. Was in a square with some high class shops and even a restaurant. This is how different they are from the rest of the world. Teazers live up to their claim of 'the tease without the sleaze's.

(to be continued.... I'll edit this later)