The Pie Man’s Revengeby Mello Moropa, images by JR Onyangunga / 30.11.2009
We were sipping bottle-cap shots of gin from our humble car-bar when Dr Pachanga, turned to me and said, “God loves us.” And at that moment I realised that my relentless and often fruitless pursuit for the party in this cocktease of a city has not been in vain. The best way I can think to put it is: The Alexander theatre did us best. And all blame goes to Dr Pachanga and the Pie Man.
A chubby brunette gave us some info about a jol at the Kitchener in Braamfontein. Dr Pachanga and I were keen. We had just shot a short film and felt we owed it to ourselves to get drunk as best as we could. So we left headquarters with a bottle of gin, a carton of orange juice and the hope that this would not end up being another, “Jozi Night”. The type that feels like getting a full body massage from a blind, one armed Thai prostitute. All a dude wants is a happy ending, really.
We got lost. And after driving past Club Ink’s menstrual red carpet for the third time I was ready to give up, go home, jerk off and go to sleep. But not Pachanga: “Let’s go to the garage, someone there will know.” This is where the Pie Man enters from stage left. Pachanga notices a thin, tall white boy dressed in a metallic silver blazer and pink skinnies (very indie indeed) at the till. The guy is paying for ten pies. And what do you do when you see a fellow such as this, buying ten pies from a garage at just past midnight? You ask what the fuck he’s up to. “They’re for my bouncers. I’m throwing a party at the Alexander Theatre. It’s right across the road. Come I’ll show you, let’s go.”
We arrive and it looks promising. I spot at least eight truly hot girls as we follow the Pie Man towards the entrance. And while I was in the middle of an inner debate about whether or not that Asian girl with the pink top would do a black guy, the Pie Man turns around: “The cover’s a hundred bucks okes.” Shit, I knew it, it was too good. I was working out the best route home when I hear Pachanga tell someone, “We are the media. I’m the photographer, he’s the writer!” It’s an old Congolese mind control spell I’m sure, because right after he said it, we were literally forced into the place.
It was the club scene in the Matrix except with way less black people. The DJ’s were in a tower at least 3 metres above the dance floor: pumping their fists in time with the electro tidal wave radiating from the speakers. Dr Pachanga let’s loose, capturing beautiful souls in his lens. Some kid balancing a jar of what I’m sure was a dangerous liquid on his head.
A brunette starts bumping the Dr’s groin with her bum. He has become distracted. I snatch the camera and head towards the origins of this electronic barrage. On the way up the stairs I encounter a blonde in a little black dress. She sees the camera and begins to pose. Snap! Snap! Snap! I want to make out with her now, but I have a girlfriend and the DJs were waving me up into the booth. The view from the top surprised me. It looked like everyone was one gigantic, rhythm challenged organism: beautiful.
I spot Pachanga. What’s going on? It seems like him and the brunette are wrestling. I make my way down the tower; push through the wall of sweat, hair, legs and breasts, to find Pachanga on the floor. The brunette had him in a headlock, using her leg. He assures me that he is fine so I move on. More pictures, more drinks more, amusement, the play continues.
So now I’m at the car bar with the honourable Spoek Mathambo. He takes long deep swigs of my gin and seems to get increasingly sober with each mouthful. He’s saying something, but I’m not listening. I’m thinking about what I have learned from this party (a habit I picked from watching too many episodes of Shera). Firstly, I would definitely do Tamara Day.
Secondly. Fuck it. That’s all I learned. Tamara Day and two bumble-heads we met earlier invite us to Truth. The one bumble-head has an inexplicably wide smile, as if he is trying to show off every single tooth. He scared me that one. It was only after we drove passed the Marlboro exit, that I asked Pachanga, “So where is Truth?”
“Midrand,” he replies.
“Fuck that, it’s Sunday today, the day of rest.”