GRUBY’S GROTTO

[Martin Hash]

Grubys Grotto.jpg

Gruby’s Grotto is in Livingstone, Zambia. The old colonial Danish diplomatic mission building with its surrounding veranda, wooden floors, large arched doorways, and oval windows was almost a tourist attraction in its own right, but the owner, a profane, vulgar, diminutive clone of Frodo Baggins was the real attraction: we’d been warned about his coarseness but the experience was surprising none-the-less. The nickname, “Gruby,” is entirely appropriate, but people who judge by appearance will be at a distinct disadvantage – Gruby’s business acumen is among the best: he runs the Xtreme Rafting tour down the challenging Zambezi River rapids; and he also started bungee jumping from the bridge to Zimbabwe, high above Victoria Falls Gorge, longest bungee fall in Africa. These business enterprises, plus another high-end fishing resort and his future plans will make Gruby a rich man – if he isn’t already – hard to tell. Purportedly, once a year Gruby burns his hair off! I’m not sure I know what that entails but I believe it. (I wonder if he also burns off his beard?)

At Gruby’s, the booze is cheap and the party lasts all night. The first night there I got out of my tent to ask Gruby if there was a clock in the bar. He looked around, perplexed.

“Nope, I don’t see one,” he said.

“I didn’t think so,” I commented. “Because if there was a clock you’d know it was 3:30 in the morning.” Gruby still didn’t get my drift so I also told him, “And an hour ago it was 2:30 in the morning – time is funny like that.”

Gruby seemed confused and didn’t say anything but he did turn the music off.

Gruby is loyal to his customers and his friends. African businesses can be a bit shady, and when one scumbag white owner tried to deny a refund for services he never rendered to one of Gruby’s lodgers, Gruby was on the phone cussing out the bastard, and the money was soon forthcoming. In a similar vein: apparently one of the locals preys on tourist girls too drunk to say no. Gruby had banned this guy from the Grotto but he’d reappeared and was up to his old tricks. Gruby tells him to go but as is the proclivity of many Africans, he didn’t just walk away but instead persisted in trying to mollify Gruby’s irritation. What may have started out as Gruby’s pique, quickly escalated into anger, and the little man became a dynamo of physical action.

“Get out, you f**kin’ monkey!” he screamed, among other things.

One of Gruby’s security guards was enjoined holding back the immense racist guard dog, insane to tear out the throat of the trespasser, but the second security guard stood nearby seemingly inattentive. It was Gruby himself who ended up pushing the offender through the gate, who then kicked one of the panels in before running off down the street. This irritated Gruby even more: he was wired by the confrontation and embarrassed by his own lack of self-control. The idle security guard then became the immediate target of his fury - kicking, hitting, he pushed the lax man out the gates, yelling “you’ll never work again!”

I decided my tent’s front row spectatorship of the night’s events was bordering on voyeurism so I went to the bar for another beer. That was my second night at Gruby’s. By the time we left a week later, it was with a sense of mixed regret and relief – what a rush!