MOZAMBIQUE

Just as we were about to be crushed (literally!) by the intolerable weight of two (pass/fail) classes and seven hours (!) at school per week, the beautiful respite that is reading week hazily appeared on the horizon. Joyho! With 12 days of freedom to play with, we decided that the flawless beaches, the azure waters, the suicidal drivers (what?) and the abundant seafood/life of Mozambique would host us.

[To Come: South Africa Is A Country; In My Country There Is Problem, And That Problem Is Transport, We Must Make Travel Easy, Then We Have A Big Party; Life Is A Highway, I Wanna Ride It All Night Long; Long Bus Ride Masochism; Retired Hockey Superstar Al MacInnis; When It Comes To Babies, What Balconies Are To Michael Jackson, Bus Windows Are To Me; The Swift Is Courted On A Bus, Hilarity Ensues; Why Scuba Diving Rules; And, Most Importantly, WHALE SHARKS]

When you cross the border out of South Africa (Yes, Matthew Smith, I feel its my duty to inform you that South Africa is indeed a country, not a region) into Botswana or Zimbabwe or Mozambique, it is quickly apparent that you are in a very different world. This was clear a few years ago when I traveled into S.A. from the countries in East Africa, and it’s even more obvious now having spent a few months in Cape Town. In terms of basic infrastructure - reasonably non-ridiculous roads, the existence of tap water, whether that water is potable, indoor plumbing, etc. - South Africa is light years ahead of basically every country on the continent. In fact, there is such a disparity that the rest of the continent seriously gets its hate on when discussing South Africa. It’s the sort of venom typically spewed by the rest of the world in deriding the profligate consumption of fat Americans, whabam!

Picture Unrelated To Content

But when you cross that border, the thing that immediately strikes you – actually, it repeatedly strikes you until you are unconscious - is the insanity of the roads, the driving and the drivers. Now, this is not at all an African phenomenon – the same things have shocked, appalled and terrified me all over Southeast Asia and South America. However, whereas Asians and South Americans usually require large cliffs/precipitous drops to really get the blood flowing, Africans manage to up the ridiculousness by doing this

or by just doing ridiculous shit on your typical, flat two-track road.

Take passing, for example. My first exposure to the African method of passing was in Uganda in 2006 at the hands of a suicidal driver of a white matatu (big white van cab) with shockingly bald tires. It kind of looked like this, but I don't recall a permutation of "Xenophobia" being imprinted on the windshield:

First, the driver will aggressively pull into the wrong lane without really looking to see what’s going on ahead. Then, because the car/van you are in is almost surely 75 years old, it will take a solid 4 minutes to pick up enough speed to actually pass the car (may Jebus help you if this is going on during an uphill stretch). Meanwhile, up ahead come approximately 12 consecutive games of chicken, with neither side apparently willing to give an inch. Then, at the last possible minute, as the white devils in the car busily open windows in order to hurl themselves onto the asphalt (or dirt, as the case may be), the two prospective crashers move ever so slightly to their respective sides, utilizing every iota of road and shoulder, and pass safely. A few minutes pass, then the process starts again. The white devil suffers silently in the back – often because he has blacked out.

Picture Unrelated To Content - But Check Out That Mutant Fish

Transport in developing countries is inefficient, uncomfortable and often terrifying, but it’s also hilarious. Didn’t Shawshank Red say something about human beings being able to become used to almost anything? Although it took about 700 of those passes, I guess traveling in foreign countries has beaten me into submission. In fact, I would even say I now have a slightly bizarre love of long bus rides in foreign countries; and, in my opinion, there is no better place to practice this masochism than in rural Africa.

The outskirts of cities go by first, featuring women doing this (which I will never stop finding incredible)

and seemingly infinite numbers of shanties comprised of any and all materials. As endless as the shanties are, there seem to be even more children. No matter where you go, every place seems to feature crowds and crowds of children (half of the people in Africa are under the age of fifteen, I'm told). Then, just as quickly as these settlements of unknown populations come, they are replaced by huge expanses of nothingness. Savannah and scrub brush extend as far as the eye can see, and for hours on end you are lulled into a dream-like state. Often, the only thing to see is an African trademarked lone tree in the distance

But then, once again, you are lulled into your thoughts as more nothingness passes by. Finally, just when you believe there actually is nothing to see, a town pops up and the hilarity begins: a young boy on the side of the road wearing a 1980s-era Calgary Flames jersey with Al MacInnis’s Number 2 on the back

your bus stops and someone on it yells to the roadside butcher, who lops off the hind quarter of a cow, including the leg, and then hands it to your neighbour, who nonchalantly places it on her lap; Or, what’s that? An irrationally and inexplicably large soccer stadium that appears to have been funded by China in the middle of nowhere? Why the hell not.

As for Mozambique itself, due to an email from my buddy Rich, even I was slightly worried that we were upping the ante a bit:

The only shitty part about Moz (which turned into a great story) was that the bus we bought tickets for (to get there from Maputo) never showed up – I guess that happens frequently. So we ended up waiting for hours in the middle of nowhere in Maputo (from 3am to 8am). At 8:00, we decided we would just travel as locals do, so we went to the “bus stop” (read: large dusty field), got severely harassed, and finally found our way onto a bus whose driver guaranteed he would take us there “right away” (read: we had to wait for four hours in the blazing sun for the bus to fill-up (read: be packed so tightly with goats and chickens and smelly people and onions and everything you can imagine you wouldn’t want to spend eight hours with on a bus with no ventilation). The saying really is true – buses never leave until they are full in Africa – and they are never full. From there, the ride was terrifying – an overloaded bus, with bald tires, driving well over 160 on roads that were more accurately characterized as holes, with the occasional piece of concrete in them. We blew a tire and almost died, it was so hot that people were passing out and needed to be revived, it turned into a ten hour trip (estimated to be an easy eight), I had no room at all and was being crushed by a fat lady on one side and a smelly man on the other, I had to hold a chicken (live) whose body was wrapped in a plastic bag for several hours, and I was puked on (in the face). We only stopped once – and I didn’t have enough water to waste much of it on cleaning my face. Gross.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, our travels certainly didn’t measure up to that journey, although they weren’t without incident. We rocked the typical, ridiculous 8-hour bus rides on which every iota of space was taken up with people, personal belongings and poultry.

My leg-room usually taken up by massive bags of coconuts, I spent much of the rides dodging the discharges of the advancing babies that had me surrounded on all sides (it is totally uncool to be babyless in Mozambique). At one point, a couple of grandparents in the back row tried to disembark, during which the grandmother mindlessly handed me her exceptionally dirty grandson. She kept motioning towards the window and yelling and laughing at me. I kept saying “Lady, you’re scarin’ us!!!” but nobody laughed, I guess they haven't seen Billy Madison. Then, the grandparents got off the bus without taking the kid. Terrified that this was a Mozambiquan ritual that had left me the unsuspecting guardian, I Michael-Jackson-Over-The-Hotel-Balcony-In-Berlin held the kid out the bus for a solid 30 seconds while news stories making me out to be a Madonna-like African kidnapper flashed through my mind. I got really scared as the bus actually started to move and the crazy, crazy couple was nowhere to be seen. But finally, the grandmother appeared out of nowhere, grabbed the kid and left me with a nightmare-inducing “Blaaaahhhh!!!!!” in my face.

In the meantime, The Swift was avoiding the advances of a young man on the other side of the bus. In the throes of a blind fever, she accidentally gave him her real phone number, leading to a series of text messages over the next few days. After she politely asked him to leave her alone, he sent one final text: “But I just want to make love to you sweat lady” hahaha, ohhhh that is great. While admitting she was quite warm that day, she believes he was going for “sweet”. Me, I’m not so sure.

Anyways, it was all worth it to make it here:

Welcome to Tofo, renowned for its unspoiled stretch of beach, its seafood, its surfing and its marine life. We stayed at a place called Bamboozi’s

which had fairly hilarious accommodations

and a pretty amazing view from the restaurant

Our days sometimes started with catching the sunrise

While our nights were spent on that ridiculously amazing restaurant deck

During the days there was a whole lot of relaxin'

Being pensive

or scouring the local market. I've got to talk about African markets a bit... Walking around markets in the parts of Africa I have seen is both fun and frustrating, amazing and irritating. But, no matter what, it is always an experience.

The first thing you will notice are the smells, which hit you in oppressive waves – it is always the same mix of drying fish, B.O. (this suggestion may bring up issues of culture, of poverty and of Western insensitivity, but someone really needs to start an NGO that brings deodorant to Africa. There, I said it. Every person who hasn't been to Africa may be shaking their heads in disappointed disgust right now, but everyone who has been here is nodding vigorously), spoiling meat, roasting something (cassava? I’m told), burning garbage-like items and thousands of other unrecognizable scents. Each vendor is either your best friend or your worst enemy, and you know which they are immediately from the look you receive. The former makes you immediately suspicious; the latter makes you feel incredibly guilty about everything you’ve ever been given in life, ever (of course, this is pretty much a constant emotion for me when I travel). Hands are always on your arm, your lower back, leading you to where, apparently, you need to be. Introductions fly around, with unforgettable names uttered at every stall – this leads to frequent cursing of Mama and Papa Fin (and don’t think you get off scot-free in this, Uncle Dunc) for my semi-normal name (although try telling me that during the dark ‘Duncan Donuts’ years of 1990-1994). Nice to meet you, Mel Gibson. No thank you, Karl Marx. Oh, hello there… Banjo Patterson? Sorry, did you just say your name is McDonald’s? It’s unfortunate that I will never be able to let one Mozambiquan artisan know that I’ve named my first-born Big Tomato Finley after him.

Inevitably, three things will come up while navigating the frenzy of an African market. First, assuming me to be American: “Barack… he is good, yes?” (There’s nothing quite as awesome as discussing politics with a self-named Mozambiquan named Big Tomato). Second, once they find out I am Canadian: “Bryan Adams… he is good! Yes!” (Despite B.A.’s demi-god status, few Africans have been impressed to hear that my favourite song for most of the early ‘90s was ‘Everything I Do I Do It For You’ – they prefer ‘Summer of ‘69’, like the mainstream suckas that they are). Finally, assuming me to be rich, “Sir!, My [Insert Whatever Semi-Useless Item They Are Selling – Salad tongs, candle holders, or, increasingly, mini-helicopters made of beer cans] is VERY good! YES! I make good price for you! Yes! YOU CAN LOOK FOR FREE!!!”

The best part about Tofo, however, was waiting in the ocean.

Scuba diving is truly amazing - swimming 100 feet below the surface with life you could never even dream up... it's incredible. But don’t take my word for it, listen to Georgie, a recovering drug addict (nineteen months clean, bra!) that I met in Thailand a few years ago: “Diving, man! Diving! You’re, like, sitting at the bottom of the ocean, looking up as your beautiful bubbles float towards the sunlight. Then, you turn your head, and Mambo Number Five! That’s a shark OR a turtle OR some beautiful goddamn fish you’ve never even heard of man! I tell you, it’s like the closest you can come to an acid trip without dropping acid, you know?” With glimmering reviews like that, how can you not get into diving?

I went on a few dives throughout the week in Tofo and saw all sorts of crazy crap. The greatest was when we were sitting at about 6 metres below the surface on a safety stop at the end of a dive, and three stingrays came swimming towards us from the depth of blue. Amazing.

But the greatest experience of the trip – and probably one of the greatest experiences of my life – occurred while swimming, not diving, when we went out on a boat in search of whale sharks one day. Whale sharks are filter feeding sharks that happen to be the largest living fish species in the world. They are the gentle giants of the sea, not at all dangerous, and reach sizes of over 12 metres long (although there are rumours of some that have reached 18 to 20 metres(!)).

I have desperately wanted to swim with a whale shark ever since I heard it was possible, and Tofo was supposed to be the place to do it in southern Africa. Unfortunately, nobody had seen any of the big guys around Tofo for the week before we went out on our trip. And for the first hour of our excursion, we had no luck. I was just resigning myself to disappointment, when the boat driver started squeaking in Portuguese and pointing into the water. I yelled my only Portuguese words back at him “Bom Dia! Bom Dia!” (Good morning! Good morning!) and then hurled myself in the water. After a minute of swimming, we came upon him/her: 6.5 - 7 metres long, white spots, slowly waving its massive tail back and forth (which I narrowly avoided getting destroyed by a number of times). It was pretty incredible, and although after a few minutes he swam down into the depths, I was very happy. But not overjoyed. That was for later.

We began to drive back towards shore, when again the driver started squeaking. This time I didn’t even wait to say good morning, and I was in the water and swimming as fast as I could. Out of nowhere, the biggest mouth I’ve ever seen was suddenly coming right at me

But before I could even spit an “Ohmyfuck” into the water, he/she ever so slightly changed course, and we avoided a collision I might have lost. I took off after it – this one about 8 or 9 metres. It was tiring work just keeping up with it, even though it looked like it was barely moving its tail. There were 15 of us on the boat, and for the first 5 to 7 minutes, everyone stayed in sight. But before long, I turned around, and realized I was all alone, just me and the big guy, swimming in the big blue. It was one of the most peaceful moments of my entire life – swimming silently an arm’s length away from a schoolbus-sized shark for 5 whole minutes. It's hard to describe how amazing it was...It’s moments like that that you travel for, that you live for

These aren’t my pictures, but you get the idea:

Whale Sharks Rule, Stay Cool.

Cape Town and Vancouver, sitting almost 17 000 kilometres apart, are similar in so many ways. Like Vancouver, CPT sits on the ocean and is framed by towering mountains. The variety and quality of food is amazing. Like Vancouver, the incredible and nearby outdoor activities – hiking, running, surfing, kiteboarding, biking, etc. – are a huge part of the culture of the city. Cape Town and Vancouver both like to proclaim loudly to anyone who will listen that they are the best goddamn city in the world. And of course, like Vancouver, the awe-inspiring, incredulous-smile-inducing natural splendour found in Cape Town frequently has me babbling in a French accent. On warm, sunny days (everyday?), I am convinced that there is no better place to live (other than Vancouver, of course, Mama Fin).

Having pointed out the similarities, however, it is the differences between the two that are most interesting. Whereas Vancouver is safe, polite and no fun (at least in terms of non-outdoor-activity, juvenile, binge-drinking fun), Cape Town is (comparably) dangerous, (relatively) racially tense and (very) fun (in both the outdoor fun activity adrenaline sense and the immature binge-drinking sense).

Allow me to elaborate.

1. Welcome to the danger zone

South Africa is dangerous, or so I’m told.

Luckily for me, as far as I know (Oh, hello there… Oh, look at you you have a switchblade, that’s nice… Wait, are you trying to sell me that retractable sword you’re holding or is this a mugging?…. Is that a weird question to ask?…. What’s wrong?… Hey, look it’s the police!… Where are you going…?) I’ve been able to avoid this well-known dangerousness thus far.

Now, at the risk of sounding naïve and overconfident, let me suggest something radical here: maybe, just maybe, the reason we’ve been safe thus far is that it’s not as dangerous here as most people back home believe (unless, of course, we are speaking about Johannesburg. It is just as terrifying and dreary as you may have heard). Is it more dangerous than Vancouver and Toronto and other places in Canada? Absolutely. One always has to be on edge a bit when walking down the street and common sense is more important on a day-to-day basis in terms of staying safe. And is it dangerous for people in less fortunate circumstances than I? Although I can’t really say, I would guess it is. But, generally, I really do feel confident and safe walking around, and it’s not like one sees crazy violence every day (Right after I wrote this, our waitress at a restaurant near our apartment chased away a hobo with a broken beer bottle while shrieking death threats, but she appeared to be having a rough day. We’ll label that one an anomaly.) On top of that, even when overt acts of violence do occur around me, such as that time we happened upon a gun-toting, marauding gang of hoodlums chasing other gangsters down the middle of the street, I’ve proven very adept at scrambling behind the hotdog vendor lady.

People love to play the danger game. Everybody one-ups each other with stories of the absurdly dangerous things that have happened to them or their friends. It starts out with something relatively harmless, something about how a group of three Europeans has been relieved of twelvephones over the past three months (in fairness, they gave up one of those phones voluntarily in exchange for three hotdogs). Then you find out that you have to be scared of the animals too; some German students returned home once to find that baboons had broken in, smashed all the furniture, and then shit everywhere, including, somehow, in the microwave. And of course, there was the house of students in Capetown that was robbed eight times in one semester. The eighth and final robbery, and by far the greatest, involved the thieves literally boring a hole in thewall of the house, piping in sleeping gas and then making away with absolutely everything, including the iPod and passport from under one guy’s pillow (a pillow he happened to be resting his head on). Honestly, that doesn’t anger me at all, I’m just impressed.

But there may be other reasons we’ve been safe so far. It’s possible that no self-respecting carjacker would allow themselves to be seen in a baby blue 1993 Mercedes.

Most likely, however, it’s that our street cred is at an all-time high. It’s amazing what one act of badassery will do for you. One night The Salzberg and I were walking down the street to grab a quick drink. I was prattling on about the time in 1987 when I told a guy reaching for Little Womenat the video store to “Please Fuck Off” when I heard a roar typically not possessed by 100-pound Asian girls: “WHERE’S MY PHONE MOTHAF****!?!?” Colour me surprised when I turned around to find her holding a tall and skinny local fellow by the scruff of the neck. The other hand, of course, was raised up and ready to inflict damage. At this point, as the clearly physically inferior member of the duo, I had to decide how to help. You’d probably be surprised to hear that the best way to do so was to start feeling the African guy’s ass to see if the phone was in his pants, but this is the route I took. Colour the would-be thief surprised to find himself being emasculated by a small Asian girl and sexually assaulted by a slightly perplexed white guy. Oh, he didn’t have the phone, by the by.

The good news for those breathlessly waiting for my safe return to the Motherland (Mama Fin, Papa Fin, … Levin?) is that I have concocted the perfect recipe of ruggedness to ensure that nobody will eff with me. First, I make sure to rarely shave, thus sporting a shockingly impressive beard at most times. Second, I show I mean business by never leaving the house without the white and gold sunglasses/pimpshades I accidentally bought off the internet (although this decreases mugging, I get offered drugs every few steps down the street).

Third, I make sure that my admittedly rippled, muscular chest is puffed out at all times. Fourth, I walk with purpose, never making eye contact with anyone. This signals to would-be muggers that I have places to be and that an attempt to mug would just be a waste of everyone’s time. Finally, I never stumble. Stumbling is bad. Stumbling is weak. Just ask any wildebeest (did you know that a wildebeest can fully run within 45 minutes of being birthed??), stumbling costs lives.

So sleep well, rest easy - my safety on the streets of CPT is ensured.

2. It seems to matter if you're black or white

I am well aware that I’m not really the person who should be educating anyone on race relations in South Africa. I am a privileged white Canadian from a relatively homogenous neighbourhood in the least black city in North America. I took a class in Black Canadian History at Queen’s once (incidentally, probably the least racially diverse university in North America) and learned that the Underground Railroad wasn’t as awesome as we think it was (nor was it literally a railway). I’ve watchedRemember the Titans and absorbed its message (racism is bad). I have 1.5 black friends (hi Rach!!) and people usually find it funny when I listen to rap.

So with my credentials clear and your expectations of the insight I may provide as low as possible, allow me to proceed.

As we all know, South Africa’s government policy for more than 40 years was that ofapartheid(literally, apartness) between whites and all other ethnicities. Enabled by a well-trained racist police force and justified by the euphemism of “separate development” of blacks and whites in different delineated areas, whites retained the power and the best land in South Africa despite comprising less than 10% of the population. Meanwhile, blacks were left uneducated, undernourished and powerless in townships and “homelands”, despite making up approximately 80% of the population.

In the late 1980s and early 1990s, this all supposedly changed. Crippled economically by international economic sanctions and spurred by public opinion, the ruling National Party released Nelson Mandela and other political prisoners from jail. After considerable political jockeying and negotiation, majority rule became a reality in 1994 when the African National Congress, led by Mandela, was voted into power. The ANC preached reconciliation and equality, and South Africa was to become the great Rainbow Nation in which people of all colours live in harmony.

So where do blacks and whites in South Africa stand now? From my point of view, still very much apart.

I realize that it takes time for things to change and that, in the grand scheme of things, 16 years is not a whole lot to undo decades of systematic racism. But at the same time, on a day to day basis, I’ve been very surprised at what I have seen and haven’t seen. I have almost never seen blacks and whites walking down the street together or talking like they are friends. There are still “black” neighbourhoods and “white” neighbourhoods, the former often found on the side of the highway

and the latter often found by the ocean with incredible views (at least in Cape Town).

There are “black” sports (soccer) and “white” sports (cricket and rugby, despite what Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon may tell you). The vast, vast majority of service industry jobs and/or menial jobs (for example, as a sort of make work project, there are men everywhere waiting to help you park your cars and to watch over them while you are gone) are possessed by black people. You get the picture.

The tough thing is, what is the typical South African, black or white, supposed to do?

If you are a white farmer who possesses land probably as a direct result of policies from the apartheid era, are you just going to hand over your livelihood? If you are black and have noticed that your quality of life is still the same as it was in 1993, do you do nothing or do you get violent? I certainly don’t have the answers and it’s impossible for someone like me to empathize. Like I said above, I’m the last person who should be pontificating beyond his firsthand experiences. (Goo, how topical: http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/world/white-supremacist-leader-eugene-terreblanche-killed-in-south-africa/article1522118/)

But, joyho! There is some positive news. The one place where I frequently see black people and white people regarding each other as friends and as equals is at school. Schools and universities are also apparently the only places where HIV/AIDS rates are relatively low in South Africa, despite countrywide rates currently sitting at approximatley 25%. I guess this is the operation of that sublime axiom: education frees people. From prejudice and hate. From inequality and poverty. It certainly isn’t perfect, but it’s pretty exciting stuff eh? Good talk, I’ll see ya out there.

3. "And it’s a sin, to live this well" – Harvey Danger’s ‘Flagpole Sitta’ from the seminal album, Where Have All The Merrymakers Gone?

To the Fun

More good news it that the amazingly awesome things to do and places to see in and around Cape Town far, far outweigh the negatives mentioned above. Cape Town is fun. Like really, really fun. In fact, it’s a little too fun, as the prospect of leaving has me genuinely sad and wrought with Anticipatory FOMO at times (and I’m not even leaving for good for another 3.5 months). I mean, I’ve been here 2 months and I’m not even ridiculously good at kiteboarding yet, FML.

Anyways, let’s start with a simple proposition and proceed from there: It’s Always Fun When It’s International Model Season

In Cape Town, You Can Hang Out With Dimwitted Models

Through some mutual friends, we have found ourselves acquainted with a male model from Ottawa. While he is decidedly non-male-modelly in terms of his ability to occasionally string together a sentence longer than 4 words, emphasis on “occasionally”, the rest of his brethren, both male and female, are walking, talking caricatures of themselves. This obviously makes for near-constant hilarity. Certain days at the beach or nights at the bar are basically real-life Zoolander sequels, complete with non-accidental use of “Blue Steel” and gasoline-fight incidents. Before you ask, obviously I spend most of my time trying to organize walk-offs, but none have really gained momentum, presumably because Billy Zane has not been around to watch nor has David Bowie been available to judge (yet). I should also note that, from what I’ve been able to deduce, only about 60% of the female models around Cape Town are ambi-turners (My sincere apologies if you understood none of that because you are pathetically unversed in Zoolander).

My personal favourite of the models goes by the name of Darius, a super-inflated American who has been known to label himself with monikers such as Dizzy D, Thursday D, Saint D and/or Half Taye Diggs, Half Tyson Beckford. If he’s not telling me that his greatest fear is African Killer Bees or that he models himself after Ochocinco, or spending 45 minutes explaining the essence of true beauty to my friend Alex, then he’s providing incredible entertainment with his 85 IQ and freestyling “abilities”. Upon hearing that Dikembe Mutumbo, a 7 foot 2 former NBA Centre from the D.R. Congo, once walked into a bar, spread his arms wide and yelled “WHO WANTS TO SEX MUTUMBO” at all the terrified Georgetown students, Saint D thought it would be a good idea to start yelling “WHO WANTS TO SEX DARIUS!?!” at passersby in any and all locations (I’m not even exaggerating). Evidence:

Not surprisingly, Dizzy D is a hit with the ladies. His skillz were especially apparent when he used his considerable knowledge of the Far East to try and pick up The Salzberg. He told her he studied computer science in college (presumably because we all know that computer smarts + Asians = Sex) and that he likes girls like her because he, and I quote, “loves those slanty eyes”. When she mentioned that her heritage was Taiwanese, the response was, of course, “Ya, I knew that girl! I love Thais!” When she good-naturedly told him that Thai girls don’t come from Taiwan, he smiled, disagreed, and then asked her if she wanted to touch his pecs. We also got him to freestyle the other night: “I love your eyes cuz they are slant-eee; Jackie Chan UHHHHH (Kanye grunt) Jet Li; I love you China Girl UHHHHH China China Girl” I love international modeling season in Cape Town. Needless to say, she’s smitten.

In Cape Town, You Can Go To World Class Beaches (Pretty Much Every Day When You Have Such An Embarrassing Amount of Free Time)

For example, this one

Or this one

Or this one

This one

Aaaand this one

And my personal favourite, Dias Beach at Cape Point i.e. the most Southwesterly point of Africa (or something):

Why is it my favourite? Well, I have never seen more than 5 people on it at any one time

And it features a rad flipping, Superman-ing hill

You Eat Very, Very Well Here

There are many examples, but the most amazing is the South African phenomenon that is Chicken Bunny Chow. This involves gutting a loaf of bread and filling it with chicken curry. Cost? 3 dollars. Rumour has it that the impending visit of one Michael A. Richmond has both fathers locking up their daughters and food peddlers stocking up on loaves of bread. This is a File Photo of Mr. Richmond from “The Chunky Years”:

And You Can Watch Penguins Awkwardly Waddle Around

Or Even Occasionally Watch Them Awkwardly Have The Sex

In addition to tender moments afterwards...

(Note: I am terrified that the list of animals I have seen in the act is getting entirely too long. I swear this is just something that happens when you travel a lot, get your mind out of the gutter Sioned. And it’s not like I seek it out, I mean, it’s not like I’m never going to improve on this picture anyways):

You Can Drive Your Baby Blue Benz Through The Mountains Like You’re Jimmy Bond, While Repeating Your Mantra: “Left Side Not Right Side Left Side Not Right Side”

And Sometimes Miscellaneous Rad Things Come Up, Like Thoughtful/Kind of Hilarious Graffiti

Or Counting Out Tens Of Thousand Of Rand To Purchase A Baby Blue Mercedes While Dressed Like What I Think A Drug Dealer Might Dress Like

You Can Scale Great Peaks

Such as Table Mountain

Or my personal favourite, Lion’s Head

Or Watch Concerts and Festivals From Your Deck

Pretend You Can Surf in Muizenberg

(Many popular South African beaches feature flags to signal to surfers if any sharks have been spotted. There is one that means "all clear" and one that means "Ohmyfuck we just saw a shark get the eff out of the water". That black one, incidentally the only one that is ever up, stands for "The water is ridiculously murky and we can't see a thing, but good luck and godspeed".)

Or There Is Always The Ridiculously Awesome Rooftop Pool

Of Course, I Especially Enjoyed Belting Out ‘Oh Canada’ at 4AM After Canada Reigned Supreme At The Olympics

(Note: Attracting the attention of the armed guards of the neighbourhood when your excited screams sound like home invasion)

If You Are Lucky, You Get Visited by Mike Touch

File Photo:

And J. Kronick (plus his lovely better half)

And Sister Fin

And Brother-In-Law Fin

And the Cupboard Nazi

And Leighdawg (Who was clearly very much influenced by Who Wants To Sex Darius while she was here, as you can see)

You Also Spend Time Getting Ridiculously Excited For the World Cup

And, Of Course, Drunkenly Gallivanting With Pals

I can't believe you made it this far. You rule, stay cool.