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.
Showing posts with label drugs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drugs. Show all posts
Close Encounters of the Absurd Kind
I’m having one of those days when I look like a Long Street tik addict.
You know what I mean – hair a bit greasy and unkempt, chunky jumper that looks two days overdue on a wash, and the obligatory backpack - like I’m bouncing from hostel to park bench to Senator Park crack dorm.
I always wonder what they carry in those backpacks. One’s mind stereotypically runs to maybe a few pairs stolen underpants, a sentimental Mandrax pipe, and a honey-stained copy of ‘The Tao of Pooh’.
They also all seem to have a starry glow in their eyes. Not a bright and bushy kind of starry, but an eerie shimmer round the edges – what a ‘His People’ churchgoer would call either “Demonic!” or “Filled with the Glory of our Lord!!!”, depending on what kind of mood they were in.
It’s easy to write off those types as drug-addled losers, but Lucy and I had an experience one night that forced contemplation.
In our favourite nightclub, Deco-Dance, while dancing badly to the cheesy 80s pop, we noticed that there was an unusual surplus of people who just didn’t look quite right.
Now I know that faces aren’t ever perfectly symmetrical, but these punters’ mugs resembled a Mr Potatohead built by a brain damaged, wannabe-Picasso’s clenched butt-cheeks - not ugly in the classic sense, just assembled wrong.
Discussing it with the barlady, I posited my theory that they were demons from Hell, probably here to recruit the souls of inebriated sinners.
“Ridiculous,” she said, “there’s no such thing as demons… they must be aliens in flesh-suits; here to observe before a forthcoming invasion.”
That makes sense, I thought, and I warned Lucy to stay close in case one of them fancied her and radioed for an emergency beam-up.
Now whenever I come into contact with one of them on Long Street I imagine that their backpacks contain not undies and hallucinogenic paraphernalia, but a ray gun, one-piece silver tracksuit, and a Lonely Planet Guide to… well, a rather overpopulated planet.
You know what I mean – hair a bit greasy and unkempt, chunky jumper that looks two days overdue on a wash, and the obligatory backpack - like I’m bouncing from hostel to park bench to Senator Park crack dorm.
I always wonder what they carry in those backpacks. One’s mind stereotypically runs to maybe a few pairs stolen underpants, a sentimental Mandrax pipe, and a honey-stained copy of ‘The Tao of Pooh’.
They also all seem to have a starry glow in their eyes. Not a bright and bushy kind of starry, but an eerie shimmer round the edges – what a ‘His People’ churchgoer would call either “Demonic!” or “Filled with the Glory of our Lord!!!”, depending on what kind of mood they were in.
It’s easy to write off those types as drug-addled losers, but Lucy and I had an experience one night that forced contemplation.
In our favourite nightclub, Deco-Dance, while dancing badly to the cheesy 80s pop, we noticed that there was an unusual surplus of people who just didn’t look quite right.
Now I know that faces aren’t ever perfectly symmetrical, but these punters’ mugs resembled a Mr Potatohead built by a brain damaged, wannabe-Picasso’s clenched butt-cheeks - not ugly in the classic sense, just assembled wrong.
Discussing it with the barlady, I posited my theory that they were demons from Hell, probably here to recruit the souls of inebriated sinners.
“Ridiculous,” she said, “there’s no such thing as demons… they must be aliens in flesh-suits; here to observe before a forthcoming invasion.”
That makes sense, I thought, and I warned Lucy to stay close in case one of them fancied her and radioed for an emergency beam-up.
Now whenever I come into contact with one of them on Long Street I imagine that their backpacks contain not undies and hallucinogenic paraphernalia, but a ray gun, one-piece silver tracksuit, and a Lonely Planet Guide to… well, a rather overpopulated planet.
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