Sailors, Prostitutes & Karaoke Culture

Cape Town dockside social life is dominated by east Asian sailors who love singing karaoke. Two dockside nightclubs installed karaoke facilities expressly for the Asian trawlermen who love belting out the ballads. Indeed, every time I go to the clubs, I'm waylaid by syrupy sweet Chinese love songs, bubble-gummy Filipino pop, Islamicized Indonesian melodies, soft Taiwanese rock, and lilting Korean classics. And they're all sung through the raspy vocals of drunken sailors.

But the performances are not bad. When Asians sing karaoke, they mean it. Unlike middle-class Westerners who perform with irony and self-mockery, the Asian sailors do their best to imitate the original version of the song. They honor it with fidelity. So too do the working-class coloured prostitutes.

(When I first sang karaoke at the clubs, I performed in a comic-ironic manner. But nobody thought I was funny. They just looked at me like I sucked, pitying me...and themselves. But when I started actually trying to sing the songs properly, everyone applauded. Now I'm a regular on the mic. Watch out Bon Jovi, Lionel Richie & Duran Duran!)

For the sailors, karaoke is just an amusement to pass the time and inspire male bonding. But for the nightclub prostitutes, it offers yet another avenue for solicitation. Classic solicitation techniques revolve around sexy dancing, pleasant conversation, and gentle caressing, but the karaoke microphone allows women to grab all the seamen's attention at the same time. Her voice is able to soar above the crowd's. So it's not a surprise when one of the women lets loose on a familiar pop song.

More impressively, some of the women sing songs in the sailors' languages! Many have mastered one or two of the seamen's tongues, so they enjoy showing off their linguistic skills through music. This certainly gets the attention of the seafarers. Once a lady has demonstrated that she can entertain the sailors in their own language, it's not long before they wonder how else she might entertain them.

It is one of the most striking cultural aspects of the dockside nightlife: listening to working-class coloured prostitutes sing Asian love songs in flawless Mandarin, Tagalog, Indonesian, Korean, Japanese, and Taiwanese.

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.

Pool-Hustling Prossies

At dockside nightclubs in Cape Town and Durban, foreign sailors enjoy playing pool. During an evening at the clubs, they take a break from the singing, dancing, and drinking to knock some balls around.

The other night in Cape Town, two prostitutes carouse and cavort with three Chinese sailors in the club. Seeing that the seamen are getting drunk, the ladies challenge them to a game of pool. Losers pay 50 rands each.

The Chinese accept. They rack the balls, chalk their sticks, line up the cue, and start banking solids. They quickly fill the pockets around the table. The ladies, however, miss wide, making it all-too-easy for the sailors.

The Chinese win. "Fifty bucks," they say with satisfaction. The girls look at each other and reply "best 3 out of 5." The Chinese agree.

And just as before, the sailors continue to clean house. When they take their third straight game, they beam, "OK, now give us money."

But the girls just shrug, reaching for their beer bottles to leave. "We were just kidding. We don't have any money."

The Chinese knit their brows in confusion. Then they get pissed. "What?! Where's your money?! You made the bet! You must pay!"

The women mosey away, seemingly unconcerned. They enter the club lobby with the Chinese hot on their heels. The shortest, drunkest sailor gets into the girls' faces. He screams, "Fuck you! Give money! Fuck you! Give money!" He shoves one of them and tries to slap the other. The women shove right back.

The owner and bouncer intervene, separating the opposing parties. They calm down the angry sailors, gently ushering them back to the disco. Meanwhile, the girls hang back, looking slightly sheepish.

Within two minutes, the altercation is over and long-forgotten. The sailors attach themselves to new ladies. The pool-hustling prossies walk around the corner to buy loose cigarettes at the tuck-shop. The bouncer returns to his post at the door. And the owner and I continue chatting as if nothing happened (while he pockets his palm-sized can of pepper spray).

Such deceptions are common in the dockside prostitution racket. The ladies have little to lose, except the warm feelings of the sailors (who, in this case, are not taking them out for sex anyway). They know that, if the seamen get blustery about it, the bouncers will protect them. So they take a cheap gamble. Why not? If they win, they split 150 rands ($22). If they lose, they just walk away.

Worth the risk, they figure.

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.

A Prostitute's Dilemma

You're a prostitute and you're pregnant: what do you do?

That's the dilemma facing 4 dockside sugar girls in Cape Town. For most, it's nothing new—they've all borne children from foreign seamen.Still, it creates pressures, responsibilities, and expectations that most want to avoid.

For most of the women, pregnancy is an occupational hazard. They're fairly resigned about it. Though abortion occurs, many refuse it on moral grounds. Coming from working-class backgrounds, their families can usually absorb new members, despite their constraints.

Each of the four women face unique circumstances in their pregnancies:

The first—7 months pregnant—worked at the clubs up until a month ago when she was banned for stealing a Spanish seaman's jacket and wallet. She fled with the money to go smoke "buttons" (mandrax) with the local Nigerian merchant under a freeway overpass. Most likely, she will return to the clubs after her delivery, make amends with the owners, and continue soliciting like before.

The second—6 months pregnant—seems utterly despondent about her child. She often says she doesn't want it, but won't go for an abortion. Instead, she drinks lot of tequila, smokes ceaselessly, and takes poor care of her health. No pre-natal check-ups. She seems to want a miscarriage. But she also hopes that the Korean father will start sending money. He's coming to Cape Town next month. And what a surprise awaits him: he doesn't know yet he's got a child on the way!

The third—2 months pregnant—shrugs at the pregnancy while trying to raise a smile. The Filipino father died recently, so she can expect no financial support from abroad. Instead, she uses her situation to garner dividends in the present: she shows off her rounding tummy to the Filipino seamen, eliciting "pity money" from them. She tugs at the heart-strings of sailors who understand the "tragic" dimensions of her story, a story they are partially responsible for creating. Most seamen are not immune to the needs of these women.

The fourth—2 months pregnant—sees the baby as the glue that will bind her to her Filipino guy. She plans to marry him in November. She speaks with longing about setting up a home and a family with him, her eyes glistening with hope. Meanwhile, though her would-be husband doesn't like her to still come to the clubs, she continues going so that she can earn "tips": small fees for in-club companionship and conversation.

But I will be surprised if her dreams come to fruition. Though dockside relationships can lead to marriage, more often the practical, financial, and cultural concerns get in the way of a long-term union. The Filipino will probably send maintenance money for a year or two, then slowly let the connection fade, essentially abandoning his own child in the process. This is the typical story.

Dockside pros complain that pregnancy interferes with soliciting (making them feel tired, less attractive, etc.) and their ability to make money. But just as important, they rue that their kids will essentially be fatherless. Indeed, for many of the children, the father is not just absent, but unknown.

Waiting for the Gush of Seamen

When I get downtown, the dockside clubs are totally empty. No sailors anywhere. Everything else is in place—willing women, cross-armed bouncers, bored barmaids, earphoned DJs, sleepy cabbies—but their presence lacks meaning without the seamen. They are the source of their livelihoods. Needless to say, everyone feels slightly agitated.

The women lounge around in the booths and watch Animal Planet on the big screen TV. The "Crocodile Hunter" is busy taunting spitting cobras into squirting venom in his eyes. He relishes every jet of poison deflected off his glasses. Meanwhile, the club girls squirm as they watch slow-mo close-ups of snakes shooting liquid death from their hissing fangs. For the moment, it relieves the boredom, but it doesn't shake their deeper financial anxieties.

Eventually, a couple of Taiwanese sailors walk in. Three women race to them. The men sit down and enjoy the attention: their laps are never empty. And they're generous enough, buying beers for themselves and the ladies.

But after awhile, the women realize that one of them has to go. Three ladies with two sailors: not gonna work. Despite the promiscuous atmosphere at the club, the women are profoundly monogamous in their sexual negotiations: they insist that everyone pairs off. No three-somes allowed. (No one wants to split the fees.)

While the men crawl deeper into insobriety, the women follow close behind. But they also become aggressive with each other. Then it happens. Two of the girls go at each other. Fists fly toward faces, hands grab for hair, palms hurtle toward cheeks, fingernails claw at flesh, feet kick at shins, tongues hurl abuse, and lips spit at eyeballs. Their smacks reverberate across the room above the noise of the music as the two stumble, struggle, curse, and thrash about.

The bouncers watch with mild interest—quite unperturbed—then reluctantly break it up. But like on Jerry Springer, the bouncers don't separate them so far that they can't still smack each other every now and then.

The three girls—who live together!—forget about their quarry as they are escorted outside. They yell endless accusations and insults at each other while a small crowd of women gather around them (happy for the distraction). They eventually share a cab home and continue the drunken dispute there. The Taiwanese, meanwhile, just laugh, imbibe a few more beers, and accept the attentions of other ladies.

Cape Town's dockside clubs are prone to seasonal fluctuations. But usually there's at least a couple dozen sailors to go around. Tonight, virtually NO ONE came. Instead, what came out were the women's expressions of boredom, anxiety, and frustration at a totally wasted evening of work.

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 Woman in Every Port?

Popular lore holds that sailors have a woman in every port. Is that true today?

My first stab at answering the question came back in 2003 when I sailed from Los Angeles to Cape Town on two cargo ships. Along the way, we berthed in 14 ports and I got to see how the seamen behaved. Here's how I wrote about my evening in Oakland & San Francisco:

I start primping myself for a wild night out with the sailors. I spike my hair with gel, lube my pits with Right Guard, disguise my liver breath with Binaca, splash my cheeks with Old Spice, and wink at myself in the full-length mirror. Oh you dog you!

As it turns out, just a few of the sailors plan to hit the town: three Tuvaluan crewmen and the Estonian cook. I size ‘em up. The Islanders are young and imposing, more than able to handle themselves. The cook is wizened and of doubtful vigor, but his wry countenance betrays a crafty intelligence beyond calculation. Probably the most dangerous of the bunch.

As we disembark from the ship, I see that there are no ladies waiting for us at the docks. Surely they're waiting somewhere else for us.

We call a taxi. An Indian guy picks us up, mentioning that he almost never comes to the docks. Sailors are scarce. He drops us at the nearest BART station, where we jump on a train to San Francisco. As we travel under the bay, I’m assaulted by the smell of mildew and urine. I look down: Some genius decided to carpet the trains! An incredibly stupid idea, as the train seems the last refuge of hobos, juvenile runaways, and stray dogs whose bladders are finite.

When we get off at one of the downtown stations, I rub my hands in anticipation. With a gleam in my eye, I ask, “So, what did you guys do last time you were here? Make the rounds of the seamen's dives?”

They look at each other hesitantly, “This is our first time getting off here.”

I blanch. “What?! But haven’t you guys docked here before?”

“Yah, but we never went ashore.”

“Huh?” I’m confused. These sailors had never even explored the port!

But I’m too excited about my prospective initiation into the hallowed rites of seamen’s culture to consider the implications. “OK, well, no matter. So what do you guys wanna do? The night is young! We’re sure to find plenty of action nearby.” I’m imagining an evening of grinding lap dances, g-stringed booties and greasy poles, fights with the locals, tattoos from the steady hand of Chainsaw Bob, and waking up under the Bay Bridge in the arms of someone who may or may not have an Adam’s apple.

Then the sailors say what they want to do:

“I want to buy an I Love San Francisco t-shirt for my girlfriend in Tuvalu.”

“I want to get a Golden Gate Bridge tote bag for my papa.”

“I want to find a teddy bear for my newborn.”

“I want to call my wife in Estonia from a payphone.”

It took me a minute to register these desires. I just stared at their faces. I didn’t hear any of the words I expected to hear, like “hookers, liquor, marijuana, penicillin,” the key elements of my imagined maritime world. I was so sure that these bastards would be wild som’bitches, ready to release me from my life of teetotaling prudery.

As we walk to the nearest Taiwanese-owned tourist shop, I ask myself, “Whatever happened to the rip-roaring, brawling, whoring, disreputable dockside culture that I had so hoped to find?! Where were all the taverns that catered to seamen, the pros that awaited the arrival of te next cargo ship, the jazz clubs that would make space on stage for a sailor with his horn, and the thugs who preyed upon unsuspecting seafarers?”

I knew that the peg-legged sea-dogs and talking parrots were the stuff of legend, but it wasn’t so long ago that that seamen truly did have a woman in every port. Whole dockside communities made their livings by the presence of sailors. Today, that world has largely vanished. With no more Brutuses to fight, today’s Popeyes spend just a few hours (if any) at any given port searching out touristy t-shirts for their Olive Oyls and Swee'Peas. Then it’s back to work, on to the next port before 20 hours have even passed.

They were so excited by the idea of getting little trinkets for their loved ones at home, something to show that they were thinking of them while away. But, but…damn them!

What a disappointingly respectable lot, so responsible and conscientious. Like accountants and bureaucrats in a floating office. Already thinking of their duties for the company.

Rounding out the evening, we ate a soggy meal at Burger King and rode the train back to Oakland. One of the sailors pissed on the side of the ship when we got back. Then we climbed up the gangway, heading to our respective rooms. I read myself to sleep while the crew watched soft-core porn in the recreation room.

In years after this voyage, I've learned that there are still outposts for maritime sexual recreation in different ports. Cape Town and Durban still have them, but not in the strength or capacity that they used to. By all accounts, the numbers of women available for seamen has greatly diminished over the last few decades.

So, a woman in every port? No way. In some ports? Sure.

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.

Male Needs & Prostitution Sectors

The needs and constraints of sex-buying men determine the logic and structure of the different prostitution sectors. Though most analyst's focus on female sellers, it is the johns who actually determine the shape of each prostitution niche.

For instance, the dockside sex sector caters explicitly to the needs and constraints of transient foreign seamen. Their transience and foreignness, as well as their work life and social demands, forces prostitutes to accommodate them in certain ways. Truck-stop women cater to truckers who also have special work-related constraints. Courtesans cater to international businessmen. Call-girls cater to local middle- and upper-class men. It is not that the women who dictate the profile of the sector; they participate in a sector that is already structured around the needs of men. It's a case of sellers meeting the buyers' demands.

So what are the sailors' needs and constraints? How might they compare to johns' needs of other sectors?

SAFETY: Foreign sailors are particularly vulnerable to local predators who can take advantage of their relative ignorance of the city. They can rob, abuse, or injure them. Thus sailors demand safe places for their social and sexual recreation. Without safety and security, they will not proceed with sexual negotiations.

From the 1970s, dockside nightclubs have provided a safe space for foreign seamen to drink and socialize with their mates, to enjoy the companionship of local women through dancing and conversation, and to engage in negotiations with a women for a post-club tryst. (Before this time, brothels were more common for dockside sexual recreation, but due to the containerization of cargo which obliterated the traditional dockside community—and the declining numbers of seamen—downtown nightclubs have become the norm.) The clubs maintain the safety of the sailors by discouraging local men from entering and by enforcing strict rules against theft and violence (by sailors and women).

Safety concerns are not a high priority for men in other sectors because they are rarely targets of abuse. The women are.

SOCIAL OPPORTUNITIES: Sailors usually arrive at the clubs in groups with a crucial social agenda: male-bonding. Nightclubs recognize the importance that sailors place on creating affective bonds outside the workplace. It enhances their trust, esprit de corps, and teamwork capacity when they're back on the ship. So the clubs give them a space to drink, dance, sing, shoot pool, watch TV, call home, etc. They can enjoy camaraderie with their mates while tasting the pleasures of female companionship.

The women who solicit from them must accommodate their activities to this larger need. This is not a problem. For the men, success with females—even if they are prostitutes and, by definition, available for hire—has long been a staple of male bonding. So most of the women's efforts actually complements the male-bonding sessions at the club.

OTHER SECTORS: In contrast to foreign sailors, local curb-crawlers who pick up streetwalkers (usually in cars) do not strive for safety or social opportunities. They already enjoy safety. And they prefer to roam solo. Their nocturnal dalliance is explicitly focused on finding a sexually available woman and having sex with her. Curb-crawlers have a more concentrated view of what he wants from a prostitute: streetwalkers strip their services to the bare minimum to accommodate these sex-buyers. No need for a brothel, a club, a male-bonding situation, or sophisticated conversation for them: just a body to satisfy their sexual urges.

Guys who seek instant availability and a level of discretion often choose brothels. Then they do not have to drive the women around (like curbcrawlers), take them to their homes (curbcrawlers, sometimes), don't have to socialize with men (like sailors), nor engage in conversation. They don't want the hassle of wooing a woman at a normal nightclub because that can imply relationship entanglements which he seeks to avoid. The brothel offers available women behind closed doors.

All of this is to say that different prostitution sectors cater to the needs and constraints of sex-buying males. It is important to understand this when considering prostitution and the role that women play within it.

Dockside Solicitation Strategies

One of the key aspects of my upcoming book, Sugar Girls & Seamen, concerns solicitation strategies employed by dockside prostitutes. This blog entry offers a brief look at what's involved.

Dockside prostitution is a specialized niche in the sex trade. This is because the clientele—transient foreign seamen—face different constraints than the clients of other sectors (streets, brothels, truck-stops, and agencies). Prostitutes must cater to these salty waifs in unique ways, taking into account their transience, foreignness (legally & culturally), and social needs (for male-bonding & female companionship). This blog entry highlights some of the solicitation strategies used by Cape Town & Durban sugar girls.

First, imagine the scene: a South African dockside nightclub. On any given night you'll find dozens of foreign sailors sitting around enjoying themselves with beers and whiskeys. They sit in booths, at tables, or at the bar. Every club has a dance floor, a pool-table room, and a couple of them have karaoke rooms. They meander between them throughout the evening.

From 8pm, prostitutes start to stream in. In Cape Town, they tend to be 'mixed-race' coloureds and in Durban they're mostly provincial Zulus. When they arrive, they greet their friends, ignore their rivals, and order up their first drink from their favorite spot. They chill for a few minutes, usually in pairs or small groups, and survey the scene.

As they talk, they establish what kind of action is available for the night: Chinese, Koreans, Filipinos, Croatians, Germans, Senegalese, Samoans, etc. Then they chat about what ships are supposed to be in the harbor and whether this will impact their evening's activities. Perhaps a returning client is on one of the ships. That would definitely raise hopes.

After awhile, some of the girls head to the dance floor to show off their curves and availability. They make sure they're visible to any promising clients. Other women head straight for a table to join a group of men, asking for a light to initiate the connection. Then they're able check them out up-close and personal. Others sit alone at the bar, looking mysterious, above the fray. If a sailor likes a challenge, he'll be enticed by the seeming disinterest such aloof women display.

This is only the first move, part of a marketing campaign to get the attention of the seamen. Once contact is established, a woman will usually settle in at a booth with a sailor and his mates. They'll greet and incorporate her into the group, offering her drinks and cigarettes. She'll oblige.

For the next 3 or 4 hours, the woman will work hard to keep her man's attention. AND she will continue checking out other options while gauging whether this guy is worth the time. Throughout the evening, she'll make provisional claims on a number of men—with one guy typically being the primary—while the men also make make claims on multiple women. A promiscuous flirtation saturates the flitty relationships at the clubs.

Conversation, dancing, drinking, smoking, and touching fill the hours. But throughout, a woman guides the sailor toward a negotiation for a sexual contract after the club. For even if the seaman treats her to drinks and cigarettes, maybe even proffering 'taxi fare' or some cash for the good times, the real money is made through a sexual rendezvous. She might score some 'taxi fare' (R30/$5) or a hundred rands ($16) for the companionship but if they can the chance to provide sexual services, they can demand R200-300 ($30-50) for poorer crewmen and R500-1000 ($80-160) for wealthier officers.

Most sailors resist the offer, stumbling back to the bosom of their ships instead. Many go to the clubs for male-bonding with their mates or for some casual comfort and companionship from a lady. Drinking is crucial too. And if they're not very well-paid crewmen, then they may be even more reluctant. But most sailors do, at some point, take advantage of the sexual services provided by the port sugar girls.

Thus, even though many women go to the clubs 6-7 nights per week, they may average about 2 or 3 post-club hook-ups. The rate is higher for Durban because the women deal with overnight container-ship sailors while Cape Town women deal mainly with long-stay fishing trawler seamen. In other words, Durban provides more sailors for shorter durations, allowing for more potential clients. In Cape Town, the fewer sailors tend to stay longer. But, even though Durban women get more clients, they also charge less, making monthly earnings between the C.T. and Durban women about the same.

In conclusion, solicitation takes hours, requiring a range of social skills. Conversational abilities are important, foreign language skills can be a big plus, willingness to touch and caress on the spot is crucial, attractiveness is a bonus (but not necessary), and savvy clientele choices are de rigeur.

Unlike other sex sectors, it's not enough to just show up and be 'available.' The women have to actively solicit in a competitive atmosphere. The difference between success and failure is hundreds of rands on any given night. Hence, in-club skills makes up the most important aspect of sugar girls' work (more than actual sexual skills). Though it is not formally paid for, solicitation not only makes the sailors feel great at the clubs, but it steers their attention toward the girls for post-club extravaganzas.

These interpersonal club activities have a big impact on the women's social lives, cultural investments, and sense of identity as prostitutes. Obviously their work incorporates so much more than just sex. Their solicitation techniques are socially complex and culturally sophisticated.

The next blog entry will compare solicitation at the dockside to that of other prostitution sectors.