Travel in Style on MetroVuil

For a mere R19 one can experience all the excitement, culture and almost-identifiable odours our fair city and fermenting seaside have to offer.

‘Fair’ because, as we all know, the Mother City not only has an “overconcentration of coloureds” but a hefty surplus of whiteys as well; and ‘fermenting’ because, after a few days of Winter sunshine, the washed-up seaweed and bloated seagull carcasses start to smell a bit poofy.

So, in spite of Capeys calling it 'MetroVuil', with relish I did pay my pony and receive a return ticket on the prestigious Metrorail transport service, ready for all the glamour and garbage that lay in the near future.

Our trains have a reputation among those from the Southern Suburbs as not much more than piss- and blood-stained germ receptacles. German and English tourists might find their journey "picturesque", but locals believe the only souvenir you’re likely to pick up is a scarily scratchy skin scab or a belly-bursting B-boy’s blade.

As the vibrant city, suburbs and seaside passed by the window I shoved my nose in a paperback – this was partly because I enjoy reading, but mainly because the windows had been either spraypainted by mildly inventive taggers, or ignored by wildly indifferent cleaners.

Looking at the state of the carriage, I quite easily imagined being dragged in a rusty beer can tied to the bumper attached to a pair of newlywed cousins’ camper van; the soundtrack to this mini mental motion picture courtesy of the young gentleman behind me with a taste for tasteless kwaito, but not an ear for earphones.

I’m not sure if it was my gentle face – never betraying the cold-hearted bastard beneath – that made the manky petrol-sniffer sit across from me and attempt to strike up a chat, or if it was because I was reading Jonny Steinberg’s ‘The Number’ and she thought I maybe had an affinity for Cape Flats crack whores.

When I looked up and told her, “I don’t want to talk to you. I just want to read my book,” a look of disgust crossed her bruised-fruit tik-face.

“Tjy,” she exclaimed, “what kind of a rude uncle are you?” and moved off to bother someone else who chose to find another seat.

At my journey’s end in Fish Hoek I strolled along the beach licking a vanilla soft-serve, hoping to see some hotties in bikinis or maybe a shark attack.

Alas…

But the lack of babes or bloodshed didn’t disillusion me one bit. There’s still the journey back to the city, I thought, more than enough time to rubberneck a violent mugging or train track suicide.