Knives, Knaves and Babes

Recently in Cape Town, Chinese and Vietnamese sailors mauled each other in the streets. After a silly drunken dispute over one of the dockside nightclub prostitutes, dozens of them poured out of the clubs to engage in battle. With fists, foreheads, shins, and feet, they brawled. Bystanders say the groups were pretty evenly matched, but after the cops broke it up, a number had to be sent to the hospital.

The next night, the Chinese came prepared for combat. They armed themselves with knives, picks, blades, and other stabbing and cutting implements. One guy even brought nunchucks! But the bouncers at the three dockside clubs expected trouble, so they frisked the seamen and confiscated their weapons.

The night remained tense. The Chinese were restless, watching the streets for the Vietnamese to arrive. The prostitutes complained that the guys were too too preoccupied to just relax and have a good time (and pay them money). But to the relief of almost everybody, the Vietnamese never came.

For sailors in foreign ports, the knife remains the weapon of choice. It's useful as a tool on the ship, and a handy score-settler ashore. Just eight months ago, a Vietnamese crew surrounded and stabbed to death a Chinese sailor at one of the clubs. Though they don't carry them all the time, if seamen expect trouble, they try to hide knives on their persons somehow. Usually, they're easily detected by the bouncers who merely confiscate them, shake their heads, and send the guys inside.

One club owner says that the Taiwanese seamen used to always have weapons available, even after they were frisked. He long wondered how this was possible. As it turned out, the youngest crewman would sit outside the club with a heavy jacket draped in his arms. He seemed content to just enjoy the night air rather than the disco. But when a fight started inside and spilled into the streets, the Taiwanese collected weapons that were stashed in the jacket. Because the youngster never came into the club, he was never frisked.

A sly ploy. But the club owner put an end to it. He had the cops pick up the boy and threaten him with all kinds of unpleasantness if he didn't desist. He did. Still, the bouncers tell me that sailors sometimes plant weapons in drainage pipes near the clubs so they can grab them in an emergency.

Even a little edge can go a long way in a drunken brawl.

Male bonding with prostitutes

At the Cape Town and Durban dockside nightclubs, prostitutes not only entertain sailors with flirtatious companionship (and sex afterwards), they also enable a fundamental social need of shipmates: male bonding.

Recently: Chinese crewmen celebrate their last night ashore. They've been in Cape Town a couple of weeks now, partying at the clubs every night. But tonight, they gear up for another voyage to the deep. Tomorrow, they'll sail to the South Atlantic fishing grounds for another 4 months of trawling.

The 16 of them are festive and friendly. Dozens of beer cans litter their table with more arriving all the time. The ladies fetch 6-packs for them, pocketing the change in the process. The girls don't interfere with the bonding, but spice it up a bit, boosting the guys' sense of pride, confidence, virility, and masculinity. The women play an important supporting role in this ritual.

Every few minutes, after some conversation and a speech, the Chinese stand up to toast each other. Then they sing karaoke, dance, and caress the ladies who've latched onto them. On other nights, these activities might be followed by a sexual rendezvous.

But tonight, they're more interested in raising their fellow-feeling before their journey. They've had 2 weeks to release whatever frustrations they had from the previous trip. Soon they'll be stuck together again in the dangerous, monotonous, stressful, and confining "total institution" of the sea-borne ship. So tonight, they need to reaffirm their commitment to each other as brethren of the sea. They'll sail better together for it.

Club pros have learned how to deal with male bonding imperatives. They don't interfere so much as accommodate their solicitous behavior to this unique context. Tonight with the Chinese, they do what they can to inspire male bonding, all the while encouraging them to part with their last rands before they leave.

This is one of the key differences between dockside prostitution and other sex sectors. There is no similar need for male bonding in the streetwalker, brothel, truck-stop, courtesan, or agency trades. The johns of those environments usually run solo.

Every nationality has its own style of male bonding at the clubs. Each incorporates the ladies in different ways. And the women quickly learn what behavior works with each ethnicity. They gauge their success in a number of ways: by how well they entertain the guys; how well they bring the guys closer together; and, of course, by how much money they can hustle out of the guys before they leave.

No sleeping on the job, ladies

In front of a Cape Town dockside nightclub, a prostitute stands alone at the entrance steps, bored. But it's freezing outside. So after we trade greetings, I ask, "Why aren't you upstairs in the club? No sailors tonight?"

She frowns, "The bouncer kicked me out an hour ago. I fell asleep in the booths because there were no guys inside. Now I have to sit out here until I can get a hundred rands to pay my way back in." Then she looks me in the eyes, slightly hopeful. "Can you borrow me a hundred bucks?"

The problem: she's transgressed an unwritten rule of club etiquette. Dockside prostitutes are free to solicit at the seamen's clubs so long as they get the guys to buy alcohol. AND—of course—so long as they stay awake! That's part of the bargain. But on nights when there aren't many guys to entertain, the ladies get restless. Some can't resist the temptation to nod off. It's a familiar sight.

As punishment, the bouncer will escort her outside. If she pays a R100 fine, she can go back in. If not, she must wait till the next night when she'll be able to solicit inside freely.

I offer an empathetic smile, but I don't bail her out. And she doesn't expect me to. In her 12 years of hooking, this has happened many times before.

After a few hours inside, I come down and find her busy massaging the feet of the hefty manageress. I laugh and ask: "Didn't get your hundred bucks to go back in?"

She winks and whispers, "I'm hoping this foot massage will do the trick."

The manageress—deeply relaxed by the pedi-pampering—pipes up: "Harder!"

But after another 15 minutes of bunion-rubbing, the manageress lets her slip back inside.

The Problem with Local "Johns"

Cape Town: Last night a local drunk guy stumbles into a dockside nightclub. Not many sailors around and the ladies are restless for business. The owner lets the drunk man in, hoping that he might spend some money on the girls.

Half-an-hour later—as I'm talking to the owner downstairs—the drunk comes skidding down the stairs head-first. He slams into the opposite wall of the stairwell. The bouncer stomps down the steps behind him. He takes a look at the crumpled heap and grabs him by the collar to haul him outside. He roughly deposits the drunk on the sidewalk, giving him a final slap across the face for good measure.

One of the prostitutes comes down the stairs and says that the guy had been cursing the girls and verbally abusing the staff. The bouncer asked him to leave, but he persisted. Then the bouncer clapped across the face and sent him tumbling down the stairs. To all of this, the owner doesn't even blink.

Violence in this context isn't uncommon, but this particular scene reveals some unique aspects of dockside prostitution.

At "seamen's clubs"—where local ladies solicit sailors for business—drunk men are everywhere. And for the most part, they're harmless. But if a local guy comes around, there can be problems.

Local guys don't feel welcome at dockside clubs. They're surrounded by foreign sailors and the local women aren't interested in them. Though they're in "their own" country, they get the distinct feeling that they don't belong. This can piss some guys off, especially if they're drunk. So they mouth off at everyone—going on about "this is South Africa!" and "you girls are just whores!"—but then the bouncers sort them out.

One of the reasons why local women solicit at dockside nightclubs is so they don't have to work with local men. The women can protect their privacy and anonymity by going with seafarers who have no impact beyond the dockside. Locals, though, can hassle them within and beyond the clubs. And, according to the women, they're more likely than sailors to throw it in their face that they're prostitutes. So the ladies tend to ignore locals (unless they demonstrate that they're really generous and really cool).

Breaking Up Brawling Sailors

The other night at one of the dockside clubs in Cape Town, a dozen Chinese seamen stood poised to brawl with 8 Filipino sailors.

The trouble started by the pay phones. A Filipino guy bumped into a Chinese who was busy talking to his family on the phone. The Filipino failed to apologize and the Chinese shoved him in return. They got in each other's faces, growling in their respective tongues. Then the Chinese went back to the phone while the Filipino stomped off.

Soon after, the Chinese guy complained to his shipmates who immediately demanded redress from the Filipinos. The atmosphere at the club changed. No more good times, no more touchy-feely with the ladies, no more happy-go-lucky jacks. The crews flexed their sinewy muscles, ready for fisticuffs. The women stood helpless as their johns abandoned them to stand by their mates. Their honor was on the line.

Such displays of testosterone and rigor are regular features of dockside interaction. Insobriety, jingoism, and competition over females put the sailors on edge with each other. Usually nothing happens, but if the macho tension becomes too great, bedlam can ensue.

A few months ago, a group of Vietnamese sailors stabbed a Chinese seamen to death in one of the clubs. A Vietnamese guy had a drunken dispute with the Chinese over a prostitute. When the Chinese left and stumbled over to another club, the Vietnamese sailor rounded up his mates and followed him. There they surround him while one of the gang finished him off with a single stab.

When I was in Durban last year, Korean and Indonesian sailors cracked each other's skulls with pool cues. Two women—unhappy with the fees they had negotiated with the Koreans—tried to see if they do better with the Indonesians. A big NO-NO. When the Koreans saw the women with the other guys, they waylaid them. Two had to go to the hospital. And the women left empty-handed.

So what is the club owner to do? Bouncers typically get between the opponents, establish their dominance, and send one of the parties outside. In this situation by the phone, the Chinese were escorted outside.

But the owner called the Chinese guy back inside and insisted the Filipino sailor apologize to him. The Chinese accepted with a handshake and joined his mates outside. But they refused to accept it. So the owner sent out two 6-packs of beer that mollified them. Cops and security guards kept an eye on their public drinking—shrugging off the illegality—but the problem was defused.

The next night, the same group of Chinese and Filipinos were at the clubs again, sitting right across from each other. But they carried on as if nothing had happened. Such is the power of alcohol-based conflict-resolution strategies by savvy club owners.

A Sailor and His Cape Town Girl

In 2003, I sailed on two cargo ships from Los Angeles to Cape Town. On the voyage from London to Cape Town, a Filipino sailor told me about his Cape Town "girlfriend" who worked at one of the dockside nightclubs. Here's how I wrote about it back then (using pseudonyms here):

When I take my walks around the ship in the afternoon, I always chat with Manuel, an Able-Bodied Seaman, who goes about his duties chipping, painting, scrubbing, and splicing. He’s a short, pudgy guy, with a low-budget Superman "S" tattoo on his jiggly tricep. But he’s very easy with the smiles. A nice guy.

Manuel comes from a wealthy family near Manila. He says his father is a big-shot businessman who could have landed him a cushy office job with a dubious “import-export” firm, but he chose the more exciting life of an sailor. Lots of Filipinos try their luck as seamen, so he did too. He’s in his early thirties now, having worked as a seafarer for nine years.

One day he asks me if I have a girlfriend. I reply I do. In fact, she lives in Cape Town. His eyes light up, “You have a girlfriend in Cape Town?! Wow, me too! Me too!” He gives me a slap on the arm, buddies now.

Then he whispers conspiratorially, “The other guys are jealous that I have a girlfriend in Cape Town, so I don’t like to speak about her in public.”

“Ahhhh, right, of course,” I feign understanding.

He whips out a few pictures of a pasty white girl with black hair and a pleasant face. He gets a far-away look in his eyes as he talks about her. “That’s Christy, my girlfriend. I love her so much. She’s Portuguese.”

Manuel met Christy at one of dockside nightclubs where she works as a "barmaid." Though the club is known as a pick-up joint for sailors looking for prostitutes, Manuel assures me that Christy has nothing to do with that. She just works with the drinks. He boasts that he is the first guy who she met at the bar that she has really ever spent time with. “I’ve done this run to Cape Town a few times now, so when I first saw her at the club, I immediately fell in love. She’s so beautiful. Just look at her, man—isn’t she beautiful?!”

I scrutinize the pictures, “Yah, a real peach, Manuel.”

“Yah, my beautiful peach," he exclaims. "So, after the first time we met, I wrote to her from the ship and even called her when I was back home. Then I saw her twice again after that when the ship came into Cape Town. We’ve remained faithful for the last two years.”

Manuel's gush of sincerity and vulnerability is refreshing. I'm happy for him. “That’s great, man. So why are you so secretive about it with the crew?"

He knits his brows, “They’re jealous. They’re always laughing at me, telling me that she’s nothing but a whore, that she isn’t faithful to me, that her job allows her to meet plenty of guys who will pay money to hang out with her. They say she’s not serious, but just having a good time with me. They say I should just look for a real relationship in the Philippines, like they all do.” His eyes glisten, “But Henry, I’m in love with this girl. Look at her! She’s so beautiful!”

I look at the pictures again. In one photo, Manuel’s got his flabby Superman arms wrapped around her as they perch on a barstool. His face is the image of pure contentment. In another, she rolls her eyes at the idea of being photographed behind the bar’s cash register. The third is a portrait shot of her in front of a line of fancy skyscrapers, not in Cape Town. In the last, a dog yips at her legs in her backyard.

When I ask where she lives, the name of the suburb reveals that it is one of the areas built for “poor whites” during the apartheid era. Apparently her family came to South Africa from Mozambique in the 1970s when the liberation war sent the Portuguese colonials packing.

“So do you have serious plans with this woman?” I ask.

“I’ve asked her to marry me three times already!” he exclaims.

“What?!” I jump.

“Yes, I want to marry this girl, but she says that she wants to take her time about it. She’s still in her early twenties, so wants to have a few more experiences in her life before she gets married. But I’m in my thirties, I’m ready now.”

As I keep thumbing through the few photos, I ask where the one with the fancy buildings was taken. Manuel’s embarrassed now, “This one is actually in Hong Kong.”

“Wow, so she’s well-traveled!” I enthuse.

He emits a nervous laugh, “Yah, kind of. Uh, actually, a rich Chinese businessman who she met at the club offered her a trip to Hong Kong.” He quickly reassures me, “But it didn’t mean anything, it was just a holiday. She said that she didn’t do anything with the man, but just wanted to have a different experience. You know, travel a little. But she didn’t do anything with him. Nothing. I know. I trust her.”

I battle to compose my face to look convinced, “I’m sure you’re right, Manuel.” I can see that he is struggling too, anxiety creeping across his brow. I switch back to safer ground, “OK, so…still, do you think you’ll get married?”

Manuel’s back on a high again. “Oh yes, definitely. She just needs time. And after this trip to Cape Town, I’m sure she’ll be ready.”

Manuel wants to take Christy to the Philippines, maybe even give up his sailing career so that they can live together, as proper husband and wife, near his family. He might even take up that import-export job if she comes. He’ll build her a house too! And she can have lots of dogs! Etc.

He’s got two days in Cape Town this time, then another two in three weeks time. But he has no idea if he will ever come back to South Africa as a sailor. His agency can hire him out to any company on any route. It's just been Manuel’s luck to get to Cape Town enough times to fall hopelessly in love with a dockside woman.