Cape Town, Sandy Bay and Hunks – By Rubin van Niekerk

Friends suggested finding lucrative work as a waiter or barman in Cape Town where sex appeal counted. My interviews were brief, and once my potential employer discovered that it could speak, It got the job.

Juggling a few jobs was easier than I thought. The physical exhaustion of working marathon hours while smiling politely at spoilt customers at fancy places, required more diplomacy than I sometimes possessed. Then “the wicked little devil Mervyn” would hop onto my left shoulder with wicked reminders. 

Remembering my Forbidden Education at Film Fun resuscitated my sense of humour when required. Being well-read helped connect with affluent, class-conscious snobbish clientele. After a cocktail or two they became friendlier.

The Southern Constantia jetsetters thought the Atlantic Seaboard was mostly populated with trashy New Money Elite from undesirable countries unable to speak properly.

Oxford accents, whether fake or not, levelled the playing field between North and South. Being a mere barman or waiter, my fake attempt of at least speaking with a Southern English accent was acceptable. An Oxfordian accent was beyond my pay grade. 

Somebody needs to serve the cocktails, you know. God forbid they ended up with a server with a Boksburg Baroque accent. Oy Vey! This became my snooty education after three years of surviving vacations as lower class amongst the Cape Town upper classes from predominantly Constantia and Bishops Court. Rather amusing old chap.

I knew my way around well after frequent trips to Cape Town during my university vacations. Compared to boisterous Johannesburg, Capetonians were more reserved. They were no angels either and indulged in forbidden fruit in broad daylight. No dark rooms required… Their parties had more entrance requirements… 

Dress codes were simple. Less is more. Daytime parties on perfect days in Summer were the norm, and it was as wild as Johannesburg, yet they were polar opposites. Being eye candy gained me access and popularity. No Ferrari required.

Sundowners were casual, and dinner invitations elsewhere were nonchalantly cancelled if the vibe was great. Food mattered not. After two chardonnays, Cream Crackers were as good as Carr’s Water Biscuits with sour cream and salmon. Latecomers would inevitably catch up with some shooters or whatever they had up their slab.

The surfer look was in and with all the bottled blondes around I found Valhalla without having to die in battle first in lethal combat! Besides, there were enough dishy guys to die for. Sundowner parties sometimes continued until Tequila Sunrise cocktails were served as the sky turned pink. No matter if the grenadine was finished after too many all-nighters!

I tried to avoid too many endless sundowner parties as I was one of the few who had to work for a living. My cocktail skills and fake accent became a ticket to heaven. Or so I thought, being blonde. Most of the more glamorous hosts in Clifton or Bantry Bay seemed extremely wealthy and lived dream lives. Who knows? 

Working as a barman correlated in some respects to being a priest, playing father confessor to the odd lubricated patron who needed to get the weight off his chest. Maybe some priests, just like bartenders, had a small tipple too sometimes.

Sandy Bay is a wonderful discovery for any voyeuristic traveler who enjoys surrendering the trappings of labels and letting their hair down. It can be a sexual paradise if you wish and you are physically appealing without sporting a Rolex. Sandy Bay has a simple class system. Good-looking with a matching physique or not. A spectacular place in a class and wealth obsessed city. But it caters to nature lovers, nudists, loners and families as well. It is not only a gay beach and caters to open-minded people who enjoy the spaciousness and shady spots. 

Usually I stayed with a friend, John Dennison, who was a superb Shakespearian actor fit for any role. It took me a while to get used to him being a permanent nudist who never bothered to get dressed unless he went out. I started to feel embarrassed about being dressed and did the same! 

John was awfully charismatic and whispered in my left ear a lot. Like most actors his financial luck ran out from time to time. Sexually he was always blessed though with new fans he just encountered on Sea Point’s promenade. 

As a waiter, I got a free meal, which I shared with John after knocking off. He was usually available, despite his hectic sexual schedule. John encouraged me to spend more time on Sandy Bay, which is one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. 

What made it particularly interesting were the rock formations. The smaller rocks were easily accessible and sent a strong non-verbal message about potential sexual availability. Especially heading to a shipwreck further along. Shortly after the car park there are humungous boulder rocks that our small circle of Sandy Bay’s friends referred to as whale rocks.

Whale rocks often have only one person on them, sending a privacy signal that they may want to be left in peace while sunbathing nude. Their body language could however indicate the opposite. There were advantages, having a perfect view of the path to the sandy main beach, just after the smaller family beach. Nudism is the norm in some families who you will meet at Sandy Bay. 

One day on my way back, rock hopping, as it was called, was a challenging form of voyeuristic exercise. Getting distracted by a gorgeous guy could cause an embarrassing and painful fall. Whilst rock hopping, I saw the most gorgeous birthday suited blonde boy alone on a rock. Struggling onto that rock was irresistible, while he stared silently at my progress.

I interpreted these mixed signals as an invitation to get closer and see what would happen. Maybe he was just playing hard to get. If I was that gorgeous, I may have done the same. I ignored protocol and battled like the sugar plum fairy onto his whale rock, where he stood territorially, hands on the hips.

“You picked a damn difficult rock to get onto” I panted out of breath. “Well, that is the idea. I come here to be alone and enjoy my full body tan” he said. His pleasing full-frontal view earned him instant forgiveness. He tolerated my intrusion and appeared pleased with my physique. Then he lit a joint and offered me a puff. I was anxious to please although I did not smoke. He smiled when I coughed after my first puff.

We shared a lot in common and he radiated sex appeal. I told him about my exploration of Cape Town. He was a university student, a bit older than me, and had a Yamaha XT 550, the competitor to the Honda XL 500 thumper which I had.

Both bikes had single cylinders, enormous torque and vibrated so much that the inner bikers circle called them giant vibrators! When I mentioned that, Marc grinned and said, “That says something about both of us!” At this point he laughed and asked me to join him for a ride.

I told him I was in Cape Town with my Yamaha DT 125 as I came by train and there was a weight restriction on baggage. The DT 125 weighed about 108Kg versus 142 kg of the Honda Thumper. Marc beamed with a broad smile, as his XT 550 Yamaha was slightly lighter, and more powerful than my Honda Thumper. Besides being bikers, students and nudists exploring Sandy Bay we shared an adventurous spirit.

He was unfamiliar with Johannesburg, so I told him that it also catered to nudists but in an urban setting like various steam baths like Le Bain, London Health Clinic and so on.

We got on like a house on fire and agreed to have a bite, as I was not working a shift so getting to know him was exciting. Marc must have arrived after me; he had parked next to me, and I would definitely have noticed his bike. Fate must have known that our paths would be crossing with a powerful impact.

Dr Beck, a fascinating, well-travelled, wealthy German man, invited a select few to one of his dinner parties at a fabulous restaurant as his guests. Knowing his aesthetic preferences, I thought if I rocked up with a young Adonis, he would not object. 

Nobody would. Marc and I had a roaring time with the small crowd at Dr Beck’s table. He enjoyed our company and shortly after invited us to another incredible restaurant on the culinary must-experience list.

We explored the West Coast for an overnight camping trip with our two Yamahas. Eventually we arrived on a sandy patch far north of Cape Town, but close enough. It gets quite chilly at night so soon we were snuggling up for body heat and more. Marc was supposedly straight, but unfortunately, he was a Grey.

We became quite inseparable, and popular on the most desirable parties list. Hosts often thought we were brothers looking so alike, which we took as a stunning compliment. Why bother correcting them? It protected us from being prey. Some hosts were serious hunters and plied guests with drinks until they offered no resistance.

Soon we started travelling on one bike and enjoyed the excuse of physical proximity without crossing boundaries. Totally up my alley!

En route to another spectacular restaurant, during another perfect sunset at about 20h00, Marc’s XT 550 was involved in a horrific accident with a nutcase in a VW Golf who made an illegal U-turn on a blind rise on High Level Road, Sea Point. Marc was travelling too fast to avoid the accident, however hard he tried during those three seconds. As I looked over his shoulder, as I usually did when riding pillion passenger, I had the most awful helpless feeling and braced myself for impact. 

Seeing the car and realising what was happening was way beyond scary. Sometimes it feels like you are having an out-of-body experience while seeing the disaster unfolding in slow motion. I had one previous similar experience with time slowing down while being airborne. This time I lost consciousness as we crashed and flew over the car. My shock was overwhelming seeing the inevitable. Holding Marc’s lean body tightly was instinctive as the carnage unfolded. Marc absorbed most of the impact, badly injuring him. 

I regained consciousness with the flashing emergency lights of an ambulance and the intense smell of blood with Marc lying next to me. Marc and I had fractures and open wounds which bled profusely. Marc mercifully remained unconscious, reminding me of the broken doll image still etched in my mind of Johan Wilken four years before. This time I did not smell two-stroke oil or petrol but heard the crunching of glass shards under the boots of the paramedics. It was difficult to get us onto stretchers and into the ambulance as my left leg was at a 90-degree angle as my femur was broken. No bone fragments were visible, so it appeared as a clean break. My aloof objectivity was abnormal. Maybe working in the hospital psychiatric ward and the Emergency section sometimes may have induced this shock induced abnormal emotional response.

Soon we arrived at Mouille Point hospital where we would be celebrating Christmas. My fractured femur needed a metallic rod to be inserted into its medullary canal. An extremely painful procedure but the most effective way to stabilize the fracture by locking screws at the ends of the aluminium rod of about 35 centimetres. Marc had multiple fractures and was lying next to me in hospital, which was comforting while we were so freaked out, in shock and looking like two Egyptian mummies.

Sharing such shock together brought us very close and we were very supportive of each other. The accident happened close to the restaurant and some guests passed the scene of the crash which explained our absence. Dr Beck spoilt as usual and I received a little Walkman with Rachmaninov’s 2^nd and 3^rd Piano concertos as a Christmas gift. Dr Beck loved the theme of Paganini. My first exposure to Rachmaninov was hearing the Mouille Point fog horns in the background. The jagged rocky coastline is extremely dangerous for ships. Blinding sea fog rolling in from the Atlantic required penetrating deep frequency foghorn warnings to ships. A ghostly atmosphere, especially in Somerset Hospital next to the Cape Town Waterfront. 

We celebrated Christmas with a huge sea food platter but neither of us had had crayfish before, so it was a little daunting with Dr Beck expecting a standing ovation or any show of delight that two mummies were capable of. We tried and were surprised that we both enjoyed it after getting used to the crayfish glaring at us with those alarming legs and claws that gave us the shivers to break them off and eat the sweet delicate meat.

Being virgin crayfish gastronomes, we had no idea how tasty it is. Another medical doctor friend also regularly visited and kept the staff alert. In this ghostly setting, I fell in love as usual with another Grey. Feeling like two mummies made it awkward being in slings. Marc was uncomfortable with any displays of affection and complicated matters. Tension grew between us. 

My mother was extremely upset about yet another accident and soon arrived on a flight from Port Elizabeth. She demanded my discharge, wheelchair bound or not. Having my mother as a Nanny was not something to look forward to.

Soon I was on a flight back to Port Elizabeth in a wheelchair. Saying goodbye to Marc felt deeply sad as I knew things would never be the same again. We maintained contact for many years, but Marc never recovered fully and went on to only date women. Hearing foghorns or Rachmaninov still takes me back to that time, carrying an extraordinary mixture of joy and tragedy.

This is an excerpt from the memoirs of Rubin van Niekerk – Editor of the Gay Pages and founder of the first gay business association in Africa, The Family Business.