Goodbye Mother City

The last time I came to Cape Town was two years ago. I was born In this city, I have lived in this city, I will miss this city. I have had an amazing time, and cherished the time I spent with my friends. I see them so seldom; I hope they know that they are always close to my heart.

Well if they read this then I am sure they will know, but if they don't, they, you know.

I am now heading up the west cost all the way to Lambertsbaai. I shall be taking the R27 to Langebaan, the stopping at Saldana, Yzerfontien, Melkbosstrand, Noorthoek, Portowen, and other interestingly named places.

Wish me luck.

If any of you have idea, or suggestions of were I should stop then just send me a message, or to be certain I get it, SMS me at 082 898 5490.

Small Towns, Drugs and Trance

Try as I might, I cannot get into trance. I am too invested in my Metal, Rock, Punk, Blues, and other genres that come with instruments and lyrics. That is not to say that there is not good electronic music being made; for example Crystal Castles and Skrillex – even the local group GNL. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I do not do drugs. In my experience, those two go hand in hand. Hell, unity through ecstasy dates back to the Thatcher's England.

So it is no surprise that small towns, with little to offer in the way of entertainment (and especially towns with a strong tourist appeal) have a very prevalent drug culture. It’s actually rather difficult to find a youngster in such a place that does not take some form of drug. This could range from a casual joint to the regular coke-and-speed user. It’s not only apparent in the youth but permeates through the generations via learnt behaviour  perhaps. I spoke to a youth who is considered stuck-up or is blatantly ignored by her peers because she does not do drugs. When I was growing up it was a lot easier not to do drugs. If you didn't, it just meant that no one was able to share their precious stash with you.

I have spent some time in these towns listening to the stories that float around; stories of abuse, violence, promiscuity, financial strife; even rape and prostitution. I don't know which came first; the drugs or the hard lives. Were the substances a way to take the edge of life's maladies or did the habit lead them down the darker alleyways? Though despite all the troubles that accompany the lifestyle, there still hangs the probability of a great night and a better high. Throw addiction into the mix and the story almost writes itself. It involves youth, inhibitions, decadence, and the kind of experiences that seem exclusive to that world. For those on the outside, missing out on the kicks, there is a type of appeal. Maybe the sex is easier to come by; the acceptance faster; a new tribe to belong to and a great time to be had. Besides; who needs a personality when you have 5 grams.

Zombie Walk

*note: due to the awesomeness of these photos and the degree of attention to detail the persons herein put into their costumes, I shall break blog etiquette and allow images to appear in something close to their full resolution despite the havoc it wreaks with the blog layout*

Since 2010, every year around Halloween, brings hordes of young people dressed as zombies to walk down Cape Town, to go to a bar and drink. All in the name of charity. It is the Zombie Walk.

Zombies have been an active part of our imagination and fiction for a very long time. However they do not have the same aesthetic appeal as their undead counterpart, the vampire; nor the power and prestige of the mummy. They do not have a venerable mythos like the werewolves, nor the tragedy of Frankenstein's monster. They are either the result of some misguided experiment that has gone terribly wrong or under the control of a necromancer. So then it would make sense that if you want to get a large group of people to move together, and still get to dress up, zombies is the perfect choice (aside from maybe the army or a riot).

But while I was walking I could not help feeling a bit guilty about all the fun I was having. You see, I am deeply cynical. So half way through the walk I looked around and thought to myself, hey, we are a group of similar-looking people all walking in the same direction because we were told to. I hate using the word 'conform' and I avoid the phrase 'non-conformism' like a leper avoids roller-coasters. This time however, I am forced to bend my accustomed vocabulary. Having a group of people dress up like zombies and walk up and down a stretched of beautiful coastline in the heart of Cape Town might just well be the epitome of conformism. It is the mimicry of mindless followers pandering to a popular cultural image. It may even be the very thing that individuals and creative people should avoid at the cost of losing their souls.

It's not though. It is a testament to the irrepressible creative energy of the individual. The great variety in the costumes; such as the homage's to pirates, illustrates how in the throngs of a possibly marginalizing environment we find a means to be ourselves. Well, that and dressing up like the undead, screaming "Brains!" is just hella fun.

I had seen the photographs of this event before and looked upon them with waves of great jealousy. I was very exited to get to go myself this time around. It did not disappoint. As we walked past a group of kids playing on a slide they ran up and started to scream with fear. Seeing as we are all kind, loving people doing our bit for charity, we harassed the kids and made them cry. Ah, there a few things as satisfying as scaring a child in an amusing manner. Then again it was not us, we were in the character of the Zombie; we were using the Method. There were pirate zombies, charters from Left For Dead, nurse zombies, sexy zombies, slave zombies, goth zombies. The best thing about the zombie the theme is that you can do pretty much anything as long as you make it look dead and decaying. Plus it kinda (but not completely) goes against the overtly sexy -- unless you are into that kind of thing.

Thank you to my friends at Wanderlust Games for inviting me, and all the friends I went with whom I had not seen in over two years. It was great to see you all again. I am sorry it has taken me so long to come and visit. Farewell until next year. Though I don't think I will dress up like a Zombie Life Insurance Salesman again.

Zombie Walk Contact Info
Phone 074 112 1960
Email zombiewalk.capetown@gmail.com

Replacing A Mazda 323 Bumper

When it comes to most things that seem difficult, there is often a trick to doing it that makes it a lot easier. So first I will explain how I stumbled around and then I will give you the trick. So if you just want to know how to do it then feel free to skip the exposition.

When I removed the bumper, I did not remove the lights, so I had to crawl under the car and get my dainty hand into tight spaces to remove the bolts. It was a labour of extreme frustration. I knew I was doing something wrong, because there was no way a large-handed mechanic could have used my approach. If half of the bumper in question had not been cracked and hanging to the ground then it would have been nearly impossible.

So flashback to last week Thursday.  I woke up around six in the morning, parked my car in the garage, and just stared at the car for a while. With just the side lights removed, I realized there was still not enough space to put the bolts in, so I removed the headlights as well. I spent an hour struggling with the bumper and getting it to fit onto the brackets; but one of the was bent, which made things even more difficult. I even removed one, tried to hammer it straight (which only resulted in chipping the cement floor). After I put the bracket back on and got two bolts in I realized that I had been a massive berk the entire time. I just had to remove the bracket and then it was a dream to attach it to the bumper. Putting the bracket onto the body of the car was as easy as outrunning a toddler in quicksand. Once the bumper was done, all I had to do was put the light back on and sit back with personal admiration.

Now for the tech stuff. On a Mazda 323 the bumper is bolted at four points to a bracket that is screwed onto the body of the car. To get to the bracket you need to remove the lights. So pop the hood and have at it. The first lights you will need to remove the side lights: unscrew the plastic bit under the headlight (I don't know if it has a technical name) then the headlights themselves. Now when you look down you will be able to see the bracket clearly, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. First you have to unscrew and unbolt the sides of the bumper which, if you look at from underneath, should be quite clear. Once the brackets have been unscrewed  the bumper will be off. Then just remove the brackets, put them on the new bumper and reverse the steps. No big shake. It should take just under an hour, perhaps a bit longer if you are doing it for the first time. You will need a 14 and a ten ratchet and a Phillips screwdriver. If you can find some one to occasionally bring you coffee while you work, that would be ideal.  If you take spray painting out of the equation, this will take a R1500 job and turn it into a R300 job. I know I don't have an extra R1200 just lying around, so if you are strapped for cash then this is a great way to save money.

The car in the garage, as if you can't tell

There you can see the bracket on the bumper

The new bumper on the car

Story of The Bumper and Stuff

Now as I have said, it was not in my budget to spent R3500 on fixing the car. So on Wednesday my father did a lot of calling around to find a place that had a a front bumper for a Mazda 323. Eventually he found one in Somerset West. He needed to take his Yamaha XS1100 in for a service at the Suzuki Shop in Grabouw anyway so the next day we left early to take his bike in and get my bumper.

When we dropped his bike off one of the guys as the shop told us about a place there in Grabouw called On Route that could help us. We though we might as well stop by and see if they had the parts we needed, as it would saved us a bit in petrol. Sadly they did not have the bumper, but I was able to get my right hand side light for R50 and the back light cover (which someone had broken while it was parked in Swellendam of all places) for R150. They also had an amazing scrapyard were you could rummage for parts that you might need. If I were the type of person who restored cars that would be like a scratch patch to a crystal healer . Already we were off to a good start.

We found the place in Somerset West, and got the bumper for R300, and a little strip of plastic that when under the light for R45. The bumper was black. I was in no mood to pay for it be sprayed to match the rest of the car and at first glance the black actually looked rather cool. Plus I saw a two-and-a-half story Iron Man sculpture. It was incredible, and made the trip that much more amazing.

Yes, it is as cool as you think it is.

On the way back we stopped off at the Grabouw Farm Stall and picked up some Springbok Pies. I know it has been said that Nanaga has the best pies; but that is an outright lie, a sinister farrago and just not true. The best venison pies come exclusively from The Grabouw Farm Stall. No argument. This is not a matter of opinion, or taste, its hard science. It falls under Piedology. Besides, it has become a ritual for me over the last few years.

Seeing as I had not slept the night before, I started to fall asleep on the way back. When we got home I made a valiant attempt to do the last of my packing but my body was having none of it. So I called it an early night, for the next day was bound to be brutal.

I feel so dirty for doing this. Must wash away shame!

Recap of Last Few Days

I almost feel like I apologize for not posting more than I post. This time the time of silence comes with very justifiable reasons. So let me give you a basic overview of the last few days before I leap into the articles explaining each step in graphic (maybe even sexy) detail:

On Tuesday my father and I hunted down a place that had a front bumper for me.

Wednesday we took his bike to Grabouw, and got the parts I needed for my car.

Thursday was spent packing up my stuff, stripping the front of my car, installing the front bumper and saying goodbye to my aunt and uncle.

Friday I said goodbye to the Hermanus family and headed off to Cape Town were I spent quality time with friends I had not seen in two years. It was epic.

Saturday I went on the Zombie Walk. Oh the pictures I took. If I said "Hot girl with fake blood", and you felt nothing; then you, sir, are dead inside. Dead; I tell you. Though not undead, because that would be cool.

Sunday, well, I have tied myself to the computer with snacks and Grapster (a mix of Grape Soda and Monster). Besides my friends are busy working on their game, and getting grey hairs over the Cry Engine. More on that later.

I hope you guys enjoy the slaving I intend to do today. I have so much to tell you and as always, I hope you enjoy reading the stories as much I did living them.

The Work Space

The view from my friend's place in Woodstock

Handy-Man Jai

When I titled this journey Surviving a Road Trip, I did not realise that I would be the biggest threat to the whole endeavour. For example, I was reversing my car out of a parking lot and bumped my bumper. The car is fine but the bumper is cracked, and it is not safe to ride around with a cracked bumper lest the wind has its way with it and rips it out while I am driving. So, I got quotes for replacing the bumper; and let me just say ... I cannot really afford it. So I found out where I can buy a new one. The price was under R500 -- now that at least I can afford.

So in order to put a new bumper on, I had to remove the broken one. Now I had never done this before, and I had no idea how to do it. Yet you don't know until you try. Would you believe it -- I actually got it off. Now there are few things I can do, and even less that I can do well. Mechanical things are on the "Do Poorly" list. So I spent just under a hour beneath my car, swearing in a very colourful manner as I tried to negotiate the screw which I assumed would remove the bumper. After I had to eventually make up my own curse words, I got the last bolt off. The result was me holding up the bumper as though it was Simba, and enticing passers-by to share in my triumph. Sadly, they did not.

To quote the characters from South Park, "I learned something [that] day." Just because you have never done something before, it does not make it impossible. Hell, you may even be certain that what you want to do is completely out of you skill set. Just try it. You might just surprise yourself.

Here is a picture of my handiwork. I realise that the image of a gutted car is depressing. At least, it is to me. So I thought I would add a picture of a boy holding a flower I took.

Last Night

So last Friday I told you about about the lady who took me by the arm and dragged me around the place. Well, by Hollywood's standards a good movie needs a sequel. So last night I met her and her friend for a night out. As I arrived the group of men that had been hovering around them walked off. They thanked me for the rescue. It was a pity that they chose the one bar in Hermanus with a cover charge. But Geko had a great view of the ocean, and being in the new harbour it was close to were I am staying (although in Hermanus everything is close).

As we sat down and chatted I found out her friend was a miner in a tiny town near Poffadder. Let us just say that my concept of random has just been upgraded. Though they were really great fun to hang out with. It became especially entertaining when we went to Shimmies to find the dance floor empty; an array of dolled-up ladies, overly Axed men and hungry-eyed middle-aged women sitting at the bar. Ha, that did not stop us. After I consulted my cell-phone Sangoma I was assured that dancing like an idiot to repetitive music with enough sarcasm to choke a kitten would be the perfect thing to do. After three songs the floor started to fill with more people, who seemed to take the whole affair with a bit more seriousness than we were. After a bit of observation, I realised that drunk men are far more certain of their sexiness than the faces of those around them demonstrated. That's why the genders drink together I suppose.

It was getting late and my party was needed elsewhere in the morning so we went to the new friends house for coffee, and a hearty round of witty banter. As we left her house the girl from last Friday had trouble starting her boyfriend's car. It was an old Toyota that resembled the old Datson bakkies. I owned a Nissan 1400 for many years (until someone hit it while it was parked and wrote it off), so I offered to help. After I showed her where the choke was she drove off, leaving me in the cool night air feeling like a real man. Besides, if a guy can't help a damsel start her boyfriend's car, then what good is a man?

I will be spending the weekend putting the finishing touches on my plan for the next leg of the journey. I will be going up the west coast then down through the R62, back to Port Elizabeth, then from there up to Hogsback. If any of you know of great places along the way I would love to hear your suggestions.

PS: Sorry this post has no pictures of last night. I did not want to cart around my shiny camera. It might have made me look like a ponce.

So here is a picture of a potplant on a chair. Yeah, that how I roll. I have tea with nature.

Photographs.

Right then. As you may have read, I have been gifted a camera from my father. It is a very good camera. The problem is, I am not a particularly good photographer, despite having a jacket that would make me look otherwise. Therefore what I have been doing is mulling around; going to pretty places and taking the odd photograph, in the hopes of betting better. Oh there have been some right horrors I will tell you mate.
Though, persevere I shall.

I have already posted the bearable pictures I took on Saturday, but I thought I would show you a few I took earlier last week. Some of them were taken at Bot River. Lovely place. I will tell you more about it later.

I do hope you guys have noticed increased quality of my pictures. I do it all for you, my readers, so stroke my fragile ego. I may hang on passing compliments, which are softly repeated as a rock myself to sleep, listening to the rain fall on my aluminium roof.

Zebra Crossing

There are some places in Hermanus that are iconic; many historic buildings that stand proud testament to a rich coastal lineage that reflects our nation's tenacity and will to persevere. Most of them now are either revamped shopping malls, luxury accommodation or some or other débutante paraphernalia. So let's look a littler nearer on the time-line shall we?

Zebra Crossing feels to me like one of the cornerstones of the Hermanus CBD; probably because it is on a corner. It is strikingly familiar, but as any persistent rashes will inform you, familiar does not guarantee good. However this place has as much common with a rash as a thistle has with the Hadron Collider. This is easily on my top three places to have a beer in Hermanus. I would say it's the best, but then they would be honour-bound to give me free beer and that's always dangerous.

I have regularly met interesting and open people there. Why would that be? Well, my theory is, the music. Of all the places I have ever had a drink, this establishment has the finest playlist. This often separates the wheat from the douche-bags. My supporting hypothesis is the staff: You are greeted with a warm smile and a sincere gesture of friendship (well I am anyway, if you didn't then you might just have needed a shower). When you consider the research done by Location and Menu, it makes sense why they have been around for so long. Its right in the middle of town and if you wonder from one shop to the next you are almost certain to walk past it. They also have great food. Years ago they were the standard I measured all bangers and mash against. I went there last week, and they have only improved. The size of their bangers would make a lesser man blush. Most of the time you pile on the mash and vegetables onto a tiny slices of banger just so you can have a bit of meat with each mouthful. This time the mash was lucky to get a role as a back-up flavour. It was incredible. In fact, I am going there again today, even though I can't really afford to. Its not that their food is expensive; it's just that I am a bit broke right now and the petrol price is eyeing me like the new kid on the cell block. Things could get hairy.

I love Zebra Crossing. If you are ever in town and after buying a whole bunch of useless trinkets for family members back home you consider going to the Wimpy to rest your weary wallet; stop. Then turn around and go to Zebra Crossing. If not, Gordon Ramsay will insult your children and throw a Michelin star at your throat. Don't say I didn't warn you.

The Weekend

And I'm back. Thought you'd rid of me that easily; I say nay.

Well; a quick update on the car: She will be all fixed up and raring to go by tomorrow, so that bodes well for the remainder of my journey. Aside from the body work I had to fix, I also had to get a new steering rack, reset the wheel alignment, have the right front strut straightened and the the stripped mounting re-tapped. If that had not been done I doubt I would have gotten as far as Cape Town before the car fell apart. I would like to that the guys at Hermanus Suspension & Wheel Alignment Centre (028 313 0689) and Mavericks Panel Beating Centre (028 313 2112) for their excellent work.

My weekend started off at a pace, then fizzled down into mild atrophy. Would you like to hear what happened, boys and girls? I can't hear you. I said, would you like to hear what happened .... That's better.

The night started of quietly, with me sitting at Jax, writing feverishly; trying to understand the intricacies of a social phenomenon: the "Lady Herd" -- or, as they are casually know by the observer, as "those chicks sitting over there ordering shooters". They graze from one bar to the next ordering unnecessarily complex drinks and suggestively-named shots. At a disquieting pace they chase a vulnerable state of being, though I understand the benefits of doing so in a group. It ensures that if something happened to one of their party -- such as unwanted male attention -- or the drink gets too much, then at least there is someone they trust to take care of them. Also, it ensures that no mater where the party may be "at", they will have someone to "jam" with, and ensure a positive "vibe". See that, I am starting to pick up their colloquialisms. Soon I will be able to live among them as one of their own. What I was pondering, though; was what the measure of a good night for these groups could be. I had many theories that I had worked on over the many years of me staring at these groups from far-off vantage points, averting their gaze if ever our eyes were to meet. After consulting with a newly-found source on the matter (congratulations on her engagement), I was informed that all my theories were correct -- but also wrong, because unless there was a pre-approved mission statement each person in such a group has their own social agenda, based on their concept of fun. So if it is dancing 'til your feet hurt, drinking until everyone has a twin, finding a cute boy whose name you would try really hard to remember the next morning; or just seeing your friends again, the reason lies with the individual rather than the group. The one thing that the group does share is that they like being in each others company; most of the time at least.

I also met a girl with what I consider the coolest name ever: Isaure. Come on guys; I know right. Who of you are not naming your next daughter that. Her name reflected her own aesthetic. Plus she was a cool person. We both knew enough French to tell each other that we could not speak French. At least that's what I think she was telling me.

The rest of the night was the result of being dragged from one bar to the next by a very excitable girl with red stockings and a Jack Skellington shirt. I suppose the fact that I could quote almost every song from The Nightmare Before Christmas helped gain her favour. This even included a pass through the high-rise meat-market called Shimmies. Oh how I do try to avoid the place. Yet when they started to play "Gangnam Style" and Skrillex, I will admit that my opinion was not as cast in stone as it had been the night before. I will additionally concede that she did take an average night and make it an adventure, consisting of lost friends and switched cell phones. I tried to understand the finer details, but before I could find some one who could explain it to me, I felt someone pulling at my arm naming a new destination with gusto.

After the girl's boyfriend picked her up, I casually walked down the street, enjoying the salty breeze that passes over the Old Harbour and added a crispness to the air in Hermanus' CBD. I decide to wind the night down at Barnies, where I saw people I had met during the night. I even met some amazingly good-looking women, with strong and confident personalities. Some of them even wrote in my journal. What can I say; I wrote a lot that night. As I was walking home, one of the ladies I had met at Barnies pulled over and offered me a lift back to Church Street. Who was I to decline? No no no no. She dropped me off and took the rest of her friends home ... Come on guys, really; get your heads out of the gutter. Wait, you weren't thinking that... Man don't I feel silly right about now.

Saturday: A friend of mine woke me up to enjoy the beautiful day. I am glad she did. So we walked on the rocks, I took some photographs. We spoke, joked and I can't think of an appropriate verb to rhyme with that statement.

At Bojangles we met a very sexy man in a wig and dress. Hey, its his fault for telling his friends that he was getting married. You know what is bound to happen next: It's sexy dresses with your hands tied to a glass and a group of guys chanting variations of "finish that drink right now or we all think you are silly."

Why, of course I took photos.

After that I met the new man in Isaure's life and then went home to climb into Marvel's Civil War -- which I finished last night. Lets just say I had interesting dreams.

All in all a good weekend.

Last Friday

Seeing as it is Friday, I thought I would tell you how my last Friday went. Jax just had some renovations done and a birthday party had been thrown there the day before. So instead of wasting the decorations they had their own re-birthday party to celebrate the new look. Well, it had the kind of turnout that would scar a ten-year-old child. If there were five people in the place it was a lot. After a beer, and a lot of writing at the bar I thought I would head down to Barnies and spend my last thirty rand. Besides, I felt like a calm and quite night.

When I got there I met up with a very friendly crowd. They saw me writing and inquired as to what I was doing; the kind of reaction I have gotten used to over the last few months. They wanted me to write a story about them, and I was open to the idea. From the names I got they seemed to be a family, probably because they all had the surname Viljoen. There was an Anton, a Judy, a Lee-Ann, and others. Now I would love to tell you what their story is; really, but they greeted me with three small quantities of different-coloured and unnamed liquids. I did not want to reject such a cordial offer, as I though it would offend their native customs. Alas, from that point onwards I cannot hope to tell you what transpired. Thankfully I did not have to drive home.

From now on I refuse to put anything to my lips that does not come in a bottle that I have seen opened. So if I do end up doing anything this weekend, I just hope that what ever place I end up at serves orange juice.

Here's a some pictures of the friendly crowd at Barnies. Oh, and the outside of Jax.

Black Spot, With Eight Legs

I suffer from arachnophobia-lite. I can pre-emptively hear you scratching your head in uncertainty so let explain the condition to you: If I am in the presence of ladies, well then I will man up and man up hard, and remove any menacing looking spider that might impeding on our gathering. Yet, If I am alone, I scream like a little girl, prance into a corner and whimper until the offending creature gets embarrassed by my effeminate cries and leaves, or someone maternal comes and rescues me. This fear has never been founded on anything other than the movie Arachnophobia. I had never been bitten by anything venomous, until a few weeks ago when I was helping my father here in Hermanus with the removal of a hedge. Then I got bitten three times on my ankles. Two were rather innocuous, but the one bite left a mean scar. You know what? I may have deserved that. I was demolishing their home with a veracity that would be comparable to Guernica. But last night's attack was just plain spiteful.

Have I offended some eight-legged spirit and thus become fodder for its scurrying acolytes? Did I go out on a bender and drunk-dial the Navajo twins Nayenezgani and Thobadztistshin; who in retaliation got their buddy the Spider-Woman to set her goons upon me (Google it). I mean, I climbed into bed last night after clawing through Hunter S. Thompson's The Rum Diaries in a single sitting, then felt a prick on my shin. But I was tired; so rubbed my foot against the offending area and thought nothing further of it. I wake up this morning with a headache, no appetite, and this unshakable feeling that if I sit still for too long a panic attack may just tackle me to the floor. That's the fourth bite in a month. Was it just waiting for me under the covers, rubbing its little arachnoid legs and snickering to itself? Come on guys, I pay my bi-monthly tribute to the dark elves and their goddess (it's an Elder Scrolls joke). It's not like I owe any witch-doctors money.

What did you say, cute hippie chick with dreadlocks, loose fitting tie-dye pants, an array of crystals hanging from your neck and toe rings glistening on your bare feet -- you say it's the universe telling me to carry on with my journey, that my time hear has come to its end and I must venture forth and find more adventures? Why thank you, and no I don't think I will need the Tarot reading, but I appreciate the offer. I tell you what -- during your next reflexology session with the universe, would you kindly pass on some information to me that it might have overlooked; being busy with all those pesky galaxies, super novas, black holes and that darn dark matter that keeps hiding from everyone. Just so you know, it takes a while to fix a bent steering-column. Sure they should have picked it up and fixed it the first time the car was taken in, but these things happen. So until it is completely safe for me to carry on, I shall not. I think I have risked my neck enough as it is, without putting it closer to the chopping black than it needs to be.

Oh well. Don't fret, aside from being a marked man by invertebrates, and the car coughing up the odd issue, I do have some more interesting things to share with you all.That will have to wait for tomorrow though. I am not feeling to well today.

Here look at my injuries, I know they are not that impressive but it hurts.

Bojangles

Above Zebra Crossing, in the centre of Hermanus, one will find the club Bojangles. This venue has passed through many owners and just as many names. I am not certain as how to even classify its current incarnation: I am not sure it strictly falls into the Meat Market category; though it does play the regular meat market music with a touch of trance every now and then. Its is reminiscent of Mordor; or Rome, in that most roads seem to lead to it. This may be because it stays open until 4am, so when all else has closed and you don't want to go to bed just quite yet, then that is where you go.

The clientèle is diverse. I wish that was was a subtle way of saying something else; it would have made the statement a lot funnier. As a result I struggle to pinpoint the exact reason why the various people have come this particular bar to engage in inebriated revelry. The again, I am not to sure why I tend to walk up the stairs instead of past the doorway. According to Bar Theory there are many reasons why people come to bars. They include, but are not limited to: booze, sex, drugs, entertainment, sports events, familiarity, social interactions, escapism, love, loneliness or even boredom. Hell, any of the aforementioned could explain why people come here. I think reason falls under the umbrella of curiosity. 

I do have mixed feelings about the place. It is not my usual haunt, nor does it resemble it. But the staff are friendly and after two visits they make you feel like a regular; which is always good. Nor is it a bad place to come and have fun. You are bound to meet some interesting people -- that is if you are brave enough to strike up a conversation with people you don't know from soap-on-a-rope.

The owner of Bojangles also owns Jax, which I have mentioned before -- a place I keep finding myself drawn to, possibly out of nostalgia. Bonjangles, from what I gather from the locals, has done well in integrating itself into the Hermanus culture (or sub-cultures, I am not to sure). It also allows for rather random encounters. I will admit, due to Hermanus; like most costal towns, being a rather cliquey place, it can be hard to break into a social group if you are on your own. Despite this people can be rather overwhelmingly friendly. A well-meaning gesture of greeting left me with a cracked rib. I wish that was a joke.

Checkers

Right then. Let us wind back the clock a few years. Back to a time when men were men, women were barefoot in the kitchen, and stereotypes did not result in the kind of scorn I can pre-emptively see seeping from the pores of every woman who has started to read this. That was the time when the only place you could do all you one-stop mega-shopping was at Pick 'n Pay. The investors rolled in and after much arguing; a Checkers reared its gleaming head in a new shopping mall here in Hermanus. Like every new kid on the block, it will do its best to out gun the old guard. This time they used free food and booze with pretty girls in fancy clothing. Who would I be if I were not to investigate?

So in the middle of town they erect a massive tent, brand the thing with Checkers logos, and put two teams of attractive women to guard the entrance. A good start for the PR people I would say. The premise of the entire show is a free cooking and lifestyle extravaganza, with celebrity hosts and celebrity cooks. I wanted to see Nataniel, who I think is a talented individual, both in his writing and in singing (sadly I know too little about food to comment of his prowess as a cook). Instead I got to see the food editor of the Huisgenoot prepared steake with mushroom sauce. She was accompanied by a local celebrity whose face seemed familiar but unfortunately I could not place him. Yes, I know, I should have taken note of who he was. This is in no way a stab at the gentleman, whom I am certain worked very hard to be were he is today, but being a local television celebrity makes him about as important to me  as a yoghurt enema. Sorry dude, no hard feelings.

I did learn that when one cooks a steak in a pan (and not on fire like I normally do) its best to not heat the oil in the pan, but rather to coat the meat with the oil and then put the meat in the heated pan. I would have never guessed. Between the cooking, models came and strutted their stuff; clad in the newsiest ranges from local designers and boutiques, which included David Thale, Maria & Me, The Bromwell and Hip Hop. In case you were wondering, I had never heard of any of these before. So I suppose it did well as far as advertising as well as reminding me how uncool I really am.

When we walked in were were each given a glass which was filled at one point with wine, then later with Jack Daniels (which they watered down with soda) and Jamerson (or was it J&B). When the cooking was done we were all given a pre-prepared sample of the food we saw being prepared in front of us. Now this is being sponsored by Checkers, are gosh darn it, they were going to make sure we left remembering it. It was like being in a live infomercial.

Let's see. The wine we got to taste was call Odd Bins. In other words, Checkers, in their infinite and compassionate wisdom go to the leading Wine farms, and take their excess wine and resell it at a fraction of the cost, to us their loving patrons. Hence the name. A rather large and cynical side of me wanted to ask them what the difference was between that and Tassenberg, but the question was answered for me when the presenter mentioned how it is exclusive to Checkers. Ha, I see what you did there. Tackle the stigma with exclusivity, nice. Oh they also have an exclusive selection of coffee beans, in case you were wondering.
I might have come down a bit harsh on this massive company, but in truth, I like what they did. As far as a marketing campaign goes, this has been my favourite  It added to the atmosphere of the Festival  and it was actually enjoyable. The food was good, the girls were pretty and I learned how to make steak in a pan. Hell, I will even go and buy Odd Bins next time I need to get wine that does not need to be in a 5l box. Call me a sucker, but they gave me free food.
 

Sea Shepherd

At the Environment Expo in Hermanus, as part of the Whale Festival, I attended a talk by Sea Shepherd. I thought you might like to hear some of the things they told me and many other people who gathered there that day.

Paul Watson was a founding member of Greenpeace, but left the organization because he felt they were not doing enough to actively protect the environment. Now he focuses his time and effort on protecting the creatures of the ocean. I can understand his reasoning. We know less about our oceans than we do the moon. It is the largest ecosystem on our planet. Hell, if we wipe out all living creatures on the ground, including ourselves, in a few million years life will just crawl out of the ocean and start all over again. It has happened before. Conversely, if we destroy our oceans, there goes the largest source of oxygen; and with it our lovely atmosphere. Sure Ray-Bans and sunscreen companies will make a killing but other than that, it will be disastrous for us all.

They target many different industries. The one that gets a lot of press is their anti-whaling campaign. I am sure many of you have hear of or seen the show, Whale Wars. They told us that the Japanese have spent money for the Tsunami Relief Fund to hire extra security for their whaling ships. They also told us that the Japanese say that they are not catching the whales for commercial reasons but for scientific research. I am not sure what kind of research requires that degree of whaling.

On the Galapagos islands they are active in preventing shark-finning. They also work with the government there to help catch poachers. This includes a dog unit that patrols the beaches and ports. This a great success story of environmental activism and government working together to help protect wildlife.

Then there is the ever present seal-clubbing. No I am not referring to what second- and third-year students do to first years at Varsity. From what they told us at the presentation, 400 000 seals get clubbed every year in Canada. They also told us how they are trying to prevent the covert clubbing of seal in Namibia. Even though it is illegal, apparently over 87 000 seals get clubbed every year. They told us how early in the morning, at Cape Cross, thousands of seals get clubbed, after which bulldozers turn the sand as to hide all the blood. Then the seal get packed into bakkies, covered with a tarp and driven past the long line of patiently-waiting tourists, all of which are oblivious to the atrocities that had happened only moment before. Due to Sea Shepard's attempt to expose this industry they have been deemed enemies of the state. However, they told us that despite this, they sneaked into the country, got footage of the clubbing and then sneaked out again without anybody being the wiser.

They also spoke at length about the decline of the Bluefin Tuna, and their work at the Faeroe Islands.  There Pilot Whales are driven to the beaches by small villages, were they are slaughtered en mass. They also explained how dolphins in captivity are caught, and broken; even driven mad, before they are tame enough to be trained. The fact that a dolphin is prepared to eat a dead fish is a worrying sign, and that any dolphin kept in captivity is a form of abuse. If you wish to know more about this topic I would suggest you watch the excellent and enlightening documentary The Cove, which focuses on the Japanese whaling industry as well as the use of dolphins as food and entertainment. I really don't have the heart to go into it any further.

Now these things all pose worrying questions. What is the difference really between hunting dolphins to that of tuna or sardines, or even snoek? For one thing the high mercury content in the flesh of a marine creature so far up the food chain in exceptionally dangerous for human consumption. To me the most important thing is sustainability, for as long as we do not harm that which feeds us, we can feed of it for a very long time. Honestly I have a very scant understanding of marine life, mostly because I cannot stand the smell. I cannot imagine how the insane amount of pollutants, oil spills and excessive fishing can be good for this highly interconnected and complex system. I guess that's why I don't eat fish, unless I know who caught it and where. Seriously I am not kidding.