Carol’s Column

Rambo Carol flexes muscles and vanquishes her foes

Durban has men who fly. Without wings, aeroplanes, microlights and other such aids. Actually, the city is famous for many things. Its bustling beachfront, the delightfully cosmopolitan mixture of locals - sari-clad women looking like mobile flowers, Zulus, many in colourful traditional gear, suntanned whites and plenty of tourists sprinkled in between.

It's also known for long year round sunny days, strong tongue curling curries and a seriously attractive Victorian-style city hall, the envy of most other towns in the country. Now Durban boasts a new architecturally pleasing multimillion-rand International Convention Centre which can hold its own anywhere in the world.

It was here, a few days ago, that the flying man was seen.

I was attending Indaba 98, Africa’s premier tourism show, where 788 South and southern African companies were exhibiting enticing travel wares to more than 5 000 international delegates.

In 1997 more than 5,4 million people visited our country and numbers are growing, which makes tourism a major foreign exchange earner for South Africa. Naturally, it also impacts positively on growth and employment.

Pallo Jordan, Minister of Environmental Affairs and Tourism, opened Indaba: "Africa needs to move away from being a begging continent and to move towards becoming a continent that will flex its economic muscle in such a manner that she can no longer be ignored," he said.

"Tourism in an African context needs to offer tourists the opportunity of experiencing the real Africa." Ag, ja, well, no, fine.

The conference centre is a mere 10minute walk from the beachfront hotel where I was staying. Here streets are pleasantly wide and it was about 4pm when I decided to leave.

Laden with two brochure stuffed bags, handbag slung over my shoulder, I trotted seawards and passed between a large male standing on the left of the pavement chatting to three men on the right.

Now I'm a smallish person. An Afrikaans friend calls me Dwergie when he's being complimentary, which I think means miniature dwarf.

Suddenly, my shoulder was almost ripped from its socket as the big bruiser yanked my handbag hard. Enraged, I dropped the packets, swung round and punched him on his face.

This is when he flew. Well, he was definitely, if momentarily, airborne. Then I kicked him hard on his leg and he limped away at considerable speed. His compatriots made derogatory remarks. Incensed, nostrils flaring, I turned and snarled. An ugly sight. They fled too.

Readjusting my handbag, I retrieved the fallen papers, walked to the hotel, put my hand in an ice bucket and began to shake.

Of course it wasn't the power of my punch which had made him fly -it was the shock of a scrawny midget fighting back. Had I acted cerebrally instead of instinctively, perhaps I wouldn't have slugged him in case he was armed.

Hmmm ... I'd still have zapped him. It's called temper, not courage. My hand ballooned muchly. A colleague, Dave Pincus, in his time a champion wrestler, suggested a knuckle might be fractured.

Back home, the doctor sent me for X-rays. Well, the knuckle is not fractured, just displaced and swollen. That's the downside. The upside is I have my handbag and the would-be bag snatcher has, I hope, a damn sore head, a viciously bruised leg and a shattered reputation.

I usually never listen to or believe politicians. Who does? But I'm sure Pallo Jordan will be pleased I took him literally, the bit about Africa flexing its muscles so that she cannot be ignored.

Mama Africa disguised as Rambo Carol strikes back.

■