Mzoli's

“That famous braai place in that ugly township”, was the description I was given before we went to this infamous place on Sunday. You literally pick your meat at the butcher’s counter and then they barbeque for you. You then head outside into the sunshine on a dusty road in a township to enjoy the afternoon amongst thousands of others. The place was packed to an equivalent of the Holylands on St. Patrick’s Day. It was one massive street party and so much fun overflowing with beer and steak. Although we got a few looks being white kids in a township, we were still welcomed. Everyone was just chilling. There were impressive speakers playing tuneless African songs and dancing just popped up everywhere, though there was some crazy dancing in the toilet queue…At first I thought that people in the neighbourhood might get a little upset at having such a party every week, but they fully embraced it. People converted their kitchens into make-shift taverns. I bought litres of beer inside a women’s kitchen for less than £2. There were no rules. You could do whatever you wanted and that was fine with the world.

My friend pointed out that no where else in the world could you experience such different things in one day: to go from a posh breakfast, to a braai on the street in a township and then to watch the sunset on one of the richest beaches in the world. I was at first appalled at such discrepancies in a country, but she made out to be one of the most exciting and electric things in the world.

Robben Island

We went out to Robben Island on a sunny Saturday afternoon and had a lovely time. Touring prisons is creepy business though. Despite the new paint and washed floors and perfectly cut grass outside to welcome dignitaries, there is still something creepy in the air. People have lived their whole lives within these walls, and many people died inside these walls. I think the worst part was knowing that people had been tortured inside those walls and here I was taking photos.

The one thing I will say about the famous Mandela cell is that it was small. So small. It’s a miracle that he didn’t go insane. I did see the famous lime quarry that helped build up movement, leadership and intelligence within the ANC. It was bright, dusty and uninviting even under the late afternoon sun. Apparently this is the place where men, white and black, received multiple university degrees and learned the beauty of tolerance. This rock is also responsible for hundreds of men’s eyes as it blinded many of them. According my lovely guide, this is why you may not use flash photography with Mr. Mandela. We were led around the prison itself by an ex-political prisoner, which was a bit cruel in my opinion. I highly doubt that this man wants to tell loads of foreigners about the torture he endured, let alone stand in his old jail cell. However, according to our previous guide, this was a job. One of the only jobs that he could get, so he embraced his fate to never fully leave behind the Island.

Racial Profiling

I have never been a person who particularly cares that much about someone’s colour. But then again, Colorado is not a particularly colourful state; especially not in the very rich, white and particularly Jewish neighbourhood of Greenwood Village. I then moved to Belfast and to even ask if Belfast has colour would literally make you laugh out loud. So it’s been a very different shock to come to a society where the colour of your skin means everything. You start to act like the locals and adapt such an attitude. While apartheid might be over, it doesn’t mean that people have stopped judging based on your colour. I have since become known as the white girl, everyone from strangers on the street to my friends (half of whom are white…but apparently I, literally, am the whitest person they know). I found myself thinking today watching a man in my neighbourhood walking home from work that he looked like a nice man. He was wearing trousers and a shirt with an obnoxious backpack, and he was white. And I realised I made the assumption that the man was ‘nice’ because he was white. I was appalled. I was also a bit sickened at myself to make a half-joke/half-assumption that men wearing diamond studs and sunglasses in a hummer were drug dealers. They were black. However, the hummer was in a township where the average income is practically nothing, so who knows? My friends make jokes about the colour of their skin, but this is a serious matter that means so much to so many people here.

What would you do for a dollar? For a pound? Usually not that much as for most people that isn’t that much money. Maybe something stupid for a few laughs. Or in my case, pay my friend ten rand (£1) to eat an entire clove of garlic. Very hilarious but very regrettable the next morning. While that’s funny enough, there are millions here in south Africa who would do a lot for that same ten rand. When I observed training on medical laws at the HIV hospice in one of the townships, the women needed to fill out a survey at the end of the session. Being the extreme keen person that I am, I had about 40 pens at the ready. I take great pride in my pens, the really smooth rolling pens that write beautifully. These women noticed my pens as well and complimented them. I told them that I got five pens for R14, a really good deal in my humble opinion. A woman turned to me and said, ‘R14! That’s a lot of money for us!’ Now if she was just referring to herself, her family, the hospice care workers or black people living in townships in general is left up to the interpreter. However, it made me think of the things that I take for granted. Pens, for example. Something so incredibly silly and trivial as a pen, that costs more than someone’s dinner.

workers

You can find a person here to do anything/everything for you. With such high unemployment the informal sector is massive. It is always a little bit shocking because you know that you can pump your own petrol and get your own toilet roll. But if a couple of cents help someone, then I guess you learn to become very privileged and wait for someone to nicely fold your loo roll. The owners of our house started arranging for a domestic worker to come and clean. I thought it would be like halls in university where they tidy the general area and thus was quite shocked to see a lovely woman washing my dishes early this morning. I tried to tell her that it was my mess and I would happily clean it and apologised for the general state of the house. I think I may have offended her. I then continued to feel awkward while trying to make some breakfast for my hungover, pyjama clad self. I then tried to offer her some juice, which she politely declined in xhoso so then I had no idea what to say to her. While I understand that giving someone a job is vital, it also felt that I was back in the apartheid era. Hence my attempt to force orange juice down her throat to try and fix a century of social wrongs. If only it was that easy.

the end of the world cup...

I arrived the day the world cup started only to be questioned by security if I was here for the football. No I insisted, I was here to research. The answer was surprising enough and was easily proven by the 10 kilos of books in my hand luggage. However, four weeks later and I am ecstatic I was here for the football. My hand luggage will be filled with yellow Bafana Bafana jerseys, face tattoos of the South African flag and multiple vuvzelas. The end of the world cup was something else. We had just gotten used to this ecstatic event claiming the streets in fan frenzy every night. We tried to plan for the night, first deciding on either orange or red coveralls. I supported the Dutch will all the passion I had for the sole reason that I think that the Dutch have a better sense of humour. Despite a past built on slavery and war that is largely traceable back to the Dutch, Capetonians still embraced the orange spirit. We left at half past two in the afternoon for a match six hours later. Our smart attempts at taking the train failed, as they were so full that they were bursting at the brims. People were hanging out the back of the train almost as posing for that scene in Slumdog Millionaire. We finally got on the train being the annoying drunkards that we were covered in barely legible slurs scribbled across our chests. We were a lot of white kids causing a lot of noise. I expected some form of abuse or at least stares, but the atmosphere was electric. After waking up one baby, I would like to say that we had the whole train singing Waka Waka…or at least in their head.

But just like the World Cup itself, the finale could not last. Our night ended in a bar fight filled with pepper spray and a few bashed-in skulls. That is the very condensed version. While the rest of the story is interesting, it is over and done with. We made it home ok, albeit missing a few belongings including one of my precious vuvuzelas.

It makes you wonder about the predicted plateau of the World Cup and if we are on a downward spiral. Can people only get along when their faces are projected to the world for judgement? Can people only get along under the pretext of fun and games and a whole lot of beer?

I woke up this morning to headlines of xenophobic attacks griping the nation. Since South Africa has the largest economy in Africa, it is a very appealing place especially during the World Cup with all the lucrative opportunities of exploiting tourists for a packet of chips (don’t get me started…) However, with a conservative estimate of 25% of the population unemployed, the competition for jobs is fierce, fierce enough to kill. A few years back waves of xenophobia spread throughout the country and about 60 people died and hundreds more fled back to neighbouring countries like Zimbabwe. Last night hooligans targeted Somali shops, looting and threatening to kill the owners unless they left the country. The predictions are that the attacks are just going to get worse. So much for the Rainbow nation. I don’t know who won on nationalist sentiment last night: Belfast on the 12^th or the township Kaleytisha brandishing sticks at foreigners? It’s terrifying to think about. I have met the nicest people in the world here. But apparently not everything is, as it seems on the surface in this glistening jewel of a country.

And on an opportune note, this is when all of the police are going to be on leave after the overtime of herding around foreigners for the past four weeks. Not that the police have a particularly good reputation of a fair standard with non-nationals...

We live in a different part of town, close to the city but filled with wannabe hipsters and NGOs. I like the neighbourhood but we are told to be careful after a student was stabbed here last year and some various drive-by shootings. So far it’s been good though. The worst we have encountered is some very bad singing from a man who was clearly off his face and screeching the Lion King at the top of his lungs.

People are so friendly here. Half the time those hellos that you hear on the street could be considered harassment, but the other of the time they are genuine ‘hellos’. People call you sister, which I think is nice. Cause I am this foreign white girl, but they still would like to think that I am a sister. I was getting out of the train station as it was turning dark and steps were starting to quicken as people tried to get home before night fell. I was walking down an empty corridor following this one woman. You could tell she was uncomfortable with someone following her but she looked around and saw it was just a young girl. She then turned to me and started to make conversation, ‘well it’s not too cold tonight!’ she was genuinely lovely.

I was crossing a very busy street and there were multiple buses in front of me so it was difficult to see when to run across. Then this very flamboyant man took my arm and said ‘I’ll get you across safely sweetie’. At first I was a bit apprehensive with this man touching me but he was harmless and in the end very funny. Huh.

continued....

I have continued on with my feminist reclamation. Today I got done with work early and decided to do some shopping in town. Taxis are quite dear, but shared taxis are quite popular. Shared taxis are interesting, a fifteen passenger van filled up to the brim while a man hangs out the window whistling at you to get in. So I wandered around the main road for a bit trying to figure out which one to get in, when such whistling man just told me to get in the car. So I did. And squeezed in next to a man with five bin bags which I’m fairly certain were full of chicken feet. I was also next to a nice looking business man who asked me straight away where I was from. I guess it is that obvious that I am not from here. It could have been the sunglasses or skirt, but it was a boiling 22 degrees, though all of the locals were bundled in jackets and scarves. It was a bumpy ride and very hot in that car, but slightly hilarious. We ended the journey at the top of the train station and needless to say I was the only white girl out of hundreds. People keep trying to say hi to you, but I kept the head down and marched through. It was an insane bus terminal, if you can even call it that with hundreds of these vans going nowhere in particular and people just running everywhere. After a bit of manoeuvring I found myself on the main street and attempted some unfortunate shopping. It was about five and I figured I better figure out a way to get home before it got dark (not that ready to reclaim the actual night…). It was approaching twilight and I had quite a debate about taking the train or not. All I could hear was don’t take the train at night, but it was rush hour and I didn’t think that it could be that bad. So I bought a ticket and amazingly found my way on a train. Although I watched my bag like a hawk, nothing happened. Except the randoms that run onto the train selling fritos and cigarettes for cheaper than chips. Or the blind woman who sings all the way down the train and back up again clutching her son’s arm while he holds out a battered cup.

Reclaiming the night......sort of.

I went on the Reclaim the Night March in London last October and it was incredible. Thousands of women marching to reclaim the night back for themselves. The march was started back in the 1980s after the Yorkshire Ripper had raped and murdered multiple women in England. Women were told not to go out alone, especially at night. However, women banded together and fought against this oppression. They claimed the night for themselves, as it was their night as well. While I certainly advocate safety and don’t be an idiot, there is also something to be said for reclaiming the night, especially in South Africa. People are so paralyzed by their own fear. But by feeding into the fear, they are just contributing to the cycle of violence and allowing people to get away with it. Saying that white people shouldn’t ride the train or women shouldn’t go anywhere alone not only allows for criminals to continue their activity legitimately but it also paralyzes half of society.

The first week I was here, I was terrified. I came here filled with stories of rape, murder and kidnappings. However, I am learning that you can’t be controlled by fear. Otherwise you do nothing and live a very sheltered and boring life. The sun sets at half past five and then you are locked up inside your house behind your electric gate fearing every little noise in the dark.

So I am reclaiming the night, well starting off with the day.

I was told by friends never to take the train alone because that I looked foreign, I was white (white as they come) and a young woman. However, some friends wanted to go to Simon’s town on Monday and the easiest way was by rail. The other easy thing to do was for me to get on the train in my area and then they would catch the same train five stops later. All of my friends said no, don’t do it, just take a taxi. However, I have never been one to listen and jumped on the train clutching my belongings to my chest and breathed deep. It was fine. It was better than fine. It was the best transport I have had in South Africa. The train was as clean as most inner city trains, was on time, fast and took only one hour (quicker than driving) and cost less than a pound.

no internet

Work has been surprisingly unproductive the past few days because the internet has just given out. I can only access the UCT website and google homepage- but can't go beyond that. All because of a submarine....

Actual email copied below:

SEACOM PRESS RELEASE

Dear Customer

SEACOM SERVICE DOWN;

SEACOM actively seeking options to restore service

At 09:19 GMT, 5 July 2010, SEACOM experienced a submarine failure resulting in service downtime between Mumbai and Mombasa. Current investigations indicate that a repeater has failed on segment 9 of the SEACOM cable, which is offshore to the north of Mombasa. This unexpected failure affects traffic towards both India and Europe. Traffic within Africa is not affected.

SEACOM has initiated emergency repair procedures to replace the repeater. Once mobilised, the repair ship is deployed to the location of the fault to pick up the cable. The cable is then brought on board to undergo the repair – the faulty element is replaced with a new repeater - before being put back in the water.

Whilst the repair process itself will only take a few hours, the overall process may last a minimum of 6-8 days. The actual duration is unpredictable due to external factors such as transit time of the ship, weather conditions and time to locate the cable. For this reason, the estimated duration of this repair remains uncertain.

SEACOM, in co-operation with individual clients, is actively seeking alternatives to restore service whilst the repairs are undertaken.

Yours sincerely,

JL Parmentier Martin Sanne

COO Head of Sales

We went to a club last night called Hemisphere. It was a lovely club on the 31st floor of an office building which provided some lovely views. Typical club of sweaty dancing idiots. As I looked at the bar there were two men in suits. One was trying to have a good time dancing, while the other was stiff as a board staring at the crowd. I soon realised this man was his bodyguard and he had his hand inside his jacket clearly on a gun. I was shocked and then started squabbling to everyone that the man had a gun.

20 minutes later and Nathan and I think it would be the best idea in the whole world to try and get the bodyguard to dance. We dance our way over and get promptly pushed aside. 20 minutes later we are best friends dancing with both this mysterious rich and probably important man and his bodyguard. The bodyguard then started pushing everyone out of the way clearing a lovely space for us. He even took his hand off his gun while buying us drinks...:) Hilarious.

I am working at the medical school, which I guess has some important bits and pieces in it. As such every door is locked and you need a key card to get in. The most complicated part of my morning is getting into this building. There are turnstiles outside that you swipe your card to get through. However these turnstiles are made for a very very small person. Not a person who insists on carrying the very cool vintage Adidas bag; which just so happens to be a suitcase. A suitcase which does not like to fit in the tiny turnstiles. I end up doing a very poor cupid shuffle trying to get in without getting stuck. Amelia, who I work with, got stuck midway last week. I thought it was hilarious. The 15 people waiting to get out of work were not so impressed by these Americans hindering their exit from the prison of work. New goal: figure out how to smoothly get to work before the end of my internship. I find this unlikely to happen.

This is a really great article on how HIV is gendered and the violence against women found in many societies. If you read this and are still unconvinced by feminist causes, then I have no idea what to say to you.

http://www.utoronto.ca/iwsgs/GAAP/publications/other/genderyouthrisk.html

While walking to work this morning at 9am (way too early....) I look over and standing right next to me is an armed guard with an automatic gun (could have been a rifle though seriously have no idea) pointing straight at me. Naturally in my morning slumber I freaked out. He was merely guarding the ATM people across the street. In the UK, they are wearing bulletproof vests and have an armoured vehicle. Fair enough. But to have the sniper across the street ready to shoot, is a bit terrifying.

the big H word

HIV/AIDS is the virus that is killing South Africa. With one in four people infected, everyone is affected. Children are raised by grandparents as their parents died a long time ago. The rates just continue to increase. This country is quite liberal, especially in regards to sex. Quite different to some very Christian African nations.

So there are condoms everywhere. In every toilet in the University of Cape Town- there is a massive box of condoms. I was impressed coming from Queens where you would be shot or at least deeply frowned upon for suggesting encouragement of safe sex.

I thought this article was funny- Britain donating condoms in anticipation of the world cup...or in anticipation of a lot of horny Brits on holiday.

lol.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2010/mar/09/condoms-south-africa-world-cup

My work for the past week is to research different HIV programmes for high-risk youth. While there might be condoms in all the toilets, it doesn't mean that people are using them. And with statistics like one in four, your chances are not looking positive. My boss wants to create a new HIV/life skills course for high-risk young adults. For those living in townships surrounded by poverty and violence. She wants to make the course fun and engaging- to try to teach life skills to prevent violence, to respect women and relationships. Sexual violence and HIV are interconnected and women are three times more likely to be infected. And with one in four women being victims of sexual violence, things are not looking good. So the goal: find a programme that works and change society. It's overwhelming at times.

Waka Waka...It's time for Africa

I really don't know anyone who hasn't heard the World Cup songs- Wavin' Flag and Waka Waka...though according to Amelia- the USA has completely ignored these songs and the world cup and africa in general. However, in South Africa people are obsessed with these two songs. They are played everywhere, all the time. It's exciting. It leads to impromptu dance parties in the toilet queue with strangers (though she could dance better than I could).

Interesting football songs/mashups with these two songs:

http://www.footballandmusic.co.uk/world-cup-mashups/

Moving

We had to move houses from the lovely, leafy suburban neighbourhood of Pinelands to the Observatory. Obs is a bit more dodgy but certainly more lively. The hipsters have moved into this neighbourhood and put in their own cafes and bars amongst the city houses. It should be a fun adventure. We (Amelia- the other American intern and me) are the only ones in the house at the moment. It's a brand new house (two houses actually), renovated to a big, long-term hostel place. However, the house is currently massive with just us two. It's an interesting place. The kitchen and lounge are in two separate houses. Getting out of bed for late night munchies requires unlocking four doors and crossing the terrace in the cold darkness, while the mysterious neighbourhood dogs barks away. Interesting. I think I might miss 18 Stranmillis Park....though not that much.

On Moving Day, I also realised that a) South Africa is a lot more expensive than planned for and b) I have a lot of crap. My suitcase has already rapidly expanded. Those 20 kilos are going to be hard to keep below on the 5th of August....and I still need to buy three more vuvuzelas.

parking: take two

With my car's poor turn radius, lack of experience and driving capability- parallel parking is a problem. Especially on a massive hill where the cars are parked very close together. But you look over in desperation at the situation and see a man in a fluorescent vest waiting to help you back up into the spot. These parking attendants are in every car park just waiting to help you for .20p. They are a godsend. Sometimes a bit annoying as they show you a spot in an empty car park, but they still mean well. Although there income may result in a less than a fiver for the whole day and night, they still sit out there in the cold trying to track down the an odd job to make some money for food. They don't beg or pester you like some other people in the city but genuinely help you (especially people like me who are inept at parking :). Without a few of these attendants, I would have been stuck- literally.

driving

I had to hire a car last week. At first I was terrified, given my driving record and driving being on the wrong side of the road down here. Turns out I am a better driver on the left than the right lol. Everyone kept telling me, 'oh this is South Africa, rules don't really apply'. Apparently they do apply and I have just been breaking all of them. Take turning left on a red light. Acceptable in the US and UK. My assumptions about South Africa following the same rules were unfounded and I am just lucky I haven't received a ticket. Also, the curbs are extremely high. And my crappy rental car has a turn radius of a tractor. It makes for a very awkward and long process to turn around while on-lookers laugh.

Theft

Everyone knows that South Africa is notorious for crime. This story made me chuckle though.

Two areas of concern: 1) why the police didn't notice that their station was being robbed...says a lot about the police. 2) slightly stupid robbing the police- or not depending on number one lol.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/world/africa/10414055.stm

Penguins

Everyone knows that I love penguins. And last Sunday I had a lovely day to myself driving down to Simon's Town, which is a lovely seaside village notorious for having penguins on their shores. I was in heaven and spent the morning stalking the adorable things and then enjoying the sunshine with a glass of wine by the harbor. Here is the short video that still makes me giggle looking at the waddling penguins. I really do want one...

World Cup Fever

The World Cup is insane here and so much fun. The whole country is just alive. Apparently for the past few months the government has encouraged everyone to celebrate Football Fridays and wear football attire to work to get in the mood. Although the locals make fun of the foreigners and how everything seems to have been built for the World Cup, they still have fun. South Africa played on Tuesday and it was insane. I didn't think that it was going to be that busy because the match was on at 4pm and most people are working... apparently a lot of sick days were phoned in that day. We were walking around the Waterfront trying to find a place to watch the match and the roar that erupted from the street after the first goal was insane, you would have thought that there was a terrorist attack. We ended up watching the match not in a 2,000 person fan tent, but in a very quiet jazz bar. But it had cold beer and a giant screen tv- so it was fine in the end. Although South Africa won the match, they didn't make it through to the next round. First host nation ever who hasn't made it through. Oh well. The parties were insane and everyone is still flying their flags prouder than ever.

Tonight the Netherlands beat Cameroon and the entire city was orange. I didn't know you could make that many things orange. But another reason why I love the Dutch.

Donations from anywhere

It always surprises me where certain organisations get their funding from and in the cases of most, where they don't get funding. Take Belfast for example. The only Rape Crisis Centre in Northern Ireland receives no government funding and couldn't afford electricity last year. It is now being supported by students through lovely RAG pub crawls. But now they have electricity and people get to have fun on pub crawls, so it works for everyone. Still you would think government funding might help a little...

Reading today I found out that the Uitenhage Phapamani Rape Crisis Centre receives no funding, despite the fact that police utilise their services by recommending them to rape survivors. The centre is supported by Volkswagen. Hmm, I thought. Now that is interesting.

It is lovely when you read about people or massive international car companies caring and helping those who really need it.

Singhi the radical cabbie

Singhi was my first encounter with taxis. The very very expensive taxis that are the biggest fraud I have yet to experience. But Singhi was a lovely smiling man who seemed quite taken back after I asked him how his day was going. That polite commonality opened the floodgates to Singhi’s thoughts, and yes he has many in that crazy Zimbabwe, Rastafarian mind of his.

On Irish aid workers- “Well there are a lot of people who come down here to build houses, and the Irish come as well. But they party a lot. A lot. I have seen the Irish clear out a bar and drink all of the beer. However, they get up in the morning and finish the house, they are so hungover. I have never seen better houses built with that bad of a hangover”.

He claimed I was the only person he had met who didn’t believe in leprechauns and wondered if he chased the rainbow that he had seen in the morning if he would find a pot of gold.

On video games: “Well my girlfriend told me that I needed to stop playing video games. It was either my toys or her. She is now my ex-girlfriend. But see I didn’t have video games growing up and now they excite me. I spend all my time playing them. Sometimes when the road is wet, I pretend I'm on Mario kart on playstation. Just look how shiny the road is. I like to break all the road rules”. Brilliant I thought, though his car clocked out at 50mph. making for a very expensive cab ride.

Hmmm...

South Africa is a country of contradictions. Some people are so affluent and there are those who stand outside the suburban supermarket begging for just £0.10 to feed the baby in their arms. It pretends to be a modern city, but it is a city without a proper welfare system or public transportation. Everything is just a mish-mash. Reading through statistics you realise how random this place is. Some hospitals are donated by the US and some by the Japanese embassy (wtf?). I went to Camp’s Bay and it’s the most popular spot to film in Africa and where the models go to sunbath (the bus driver was quite excited by this fact).

You become paranoid, because you have to be. You start thinking- ‘which bag should I put my valuables in, so that when they get stolen it wont be that bad?”

First Impressions

The first time that I went to Africa, I went with an amazing organisation, The Cunningham Foundation, to one of the poorest countries in the world- Ethiopia. The experience was amazing. I had properly prepared to go to ‘africa africa’ and filled my immunization record with exotic shots like yellow fever. My second time back on the continent was so incredibly different. I had accepted an internship at the University of Cape Town. I sent three emails confirming my placement and my dates of travel. That was it. Perhaps it was six straight weeks of exams or that my mind was preoccupied with the joys and lack of responsibility of student life- but I didn’t really think twice about my choice. I made a choice and that was the end. I got on that plane with some vague notion of a summer filled with research and put the majority of my energy into saying goodbye to those who I would miss over the next two months. 29 hours on a flight later and I woke up amidst a pink and orange sunrise over the mountains, as I tried to stay awake.

I arrived and after making the necessary purchase of an adapter, I then preceded to have two panic attacks convinced I had lost and/or my blackberry was stolen. Five minutes later the same thing happened with my purse. They were, like usual, at the bottom of my bag. But unlike ‘usual times’, I was in South Africa- the country notorious not for peacefully overcoming apartheid but for the crime ridden streets and rape capital of the world. I was terrified. I was also tired, a bit delirious and frankly unsure of what the hell I was doing. I was picked up by a guy with dreads and a car that shook to the beat of ‘gangsta shit’. I got in and quickly made friends discussing the joys of the world cup (I quickly became a massive football fan) and the easiest conversation starter- drinking.

I unpacked, showered and started the next two months of life in cape town.