Things in South Africa rarely make sense. Like when the driver of your van-cab gets out of the car at a red light at a major intersection to have a fistfight with the driver of the van-cab behind you, and then when the light turns green they separate and return to the cars and drive away; Or when the 75-year-old sociopathic day doorman of your apartment building stops you every day to either tell you how faithful he’s been to his wife during their 56 year marriage (the answer: mostly) or to tell you how he wants to slit the throats of all South Africa’s racists “like I [he] used to in all of Africa’s jungle camps”…. Pardon moi, sir? Or when the night doorman busts out “My Humps” on repeat at all hours of the night; Or that the fire hydrants here are yellow! And there’s a lemon behind that lemon-shaped rock! Or that The Salzberg has a crew of transvestite admirers that accosts her in excitement every time they see us; Or that a shocking number of things around this multiracial city are named after Cecil Rhodes, one of the world’s most notorious racists; Or that the local juvenile prison is named after Old School: "Welcome to Harequa Detention Centre: A To New Beginnings"; Or that the most popular flavour of potato chips here is an epic battle between either "Chicken" or "Smoke Beef"; Or that The Swift and The Salzberg were forced to take a 4-hour standardized test upon arriving at the University of Capetown for the purposes of scoring the proficiency of South Africa’s high schools, despite the fact they graduated from high school 8 years ago, in Canada.

So, with all that providing the context, I can’t really say I’m surprised that one of our professors disappeared 9 weeks ago, supposedly to go on paternity leave, and that we haven’t heard from him since. Nobody knows where he is - the university, his secretary, Nelson Mandela, Dog The Bounty Hunter (I just wanted to get those two into a sentence together) – he may have burst into flames for all we know. But, pending his survival, and depending on whether my status as one of 5 native English speakers in the class carried me to a pass, law school is all done.

It’s been a long road since Kindergarten grad

with many misadventures and lessons learned along the way. Ferg and I learned in Kindergarten to avoid friendship with the kid who pulls down his pants for show ‘n’ tell. I learned in grade 4 to only say things about people if I had something nice to say, or to at least look behind me before I said the bad stuff – this lesson was learned when I (very correctly) referred to my monstrosity of a teacher, the perfectly named Ms. Horsley, as a “complete and total bitch” while she happened to be standing right behind me. This led to, among other things, the first failing grade a student ever received in the downright subjective, short-lived grading category of “Attitude” on Irwin Park Elementary School report cards. In grade 7, I learned the importance of temper control when I decided to kick a wall and break my foot after my towering blast to centre field in California Kickball was accidentally caught by a classmate named Michael Moore, despite the fact he could barely see out of his glasses and the fact that the ball had knocked him unconscious. In University I learned it is always better to be safe than sorry (and thus to consult a dictionary) after learning the word "disseminate" from the sentence "Information from Jewish internment camps was disseminated around Europe by a vast network of intermediaries" and assuming that it meant "to de-Jew" something. My Holocaust History professor was only to happy to correct me. Education!

Anyways, here we are a needlessly excessive period of time since that epic Grade K grad. It’s a pretty terrifying thought, almost being a real live adult living in the real adult world. The end of the 5/6/7-day weekend is drawing nigh. It sure is a good thing I have another 4 months to reflect on that.

Myself and 4 pals are off on a month-long roadie around Namibia, Botswana and South Africa, with possible side adventures to Zambia/Zimbabwe and/or Lesotho.

Picture Unrelated to Content - Sunrise from Lion's Head, Capetown with insane, cloudy weather

The Finley family is (probably justifiably) slightly apprehensive that a 2-Wheel-Drive Mercedes that can almost legally drink in Quebec and Alberta and has driven enough kilometres to circumnavigate the earth via the Equator not once, not twice, but seven times won’t be able to survive the admittedly less-than-good African roads, but what the hell, we may as well see. The Mix CDs are made (featuring such instant classics as ‘Don’t Carjack Us We Listen To Rugged Hip To The Hop That You Don’t Dare Stop; ‘Trees Cause More Pollution Than Cars’, a Ronald Reagan Joint; Great Movie Songs: The CD That Has No Earthly Business In A Maine Hayfield; The But My Real Passion Is Working With Ritards CD; and, Bulimic D Presents: Hardcore Rap) and the preparations have sort of been made. I may not have a driver's licence, but I have moxie. I dare say it is going to be amazing

After we get back, it’s the World Cup of Futbol for 3 weeks. I am unreasonably excited about this for 5 reasons:

1) “The Jet” Jewell will be here

2) M. Alexander Richmond will be here

3) Monsieur Rinfret will be here, topless by popular request

4) We have tickets to a Round of 16 game that will probably feature Spain, possibly the world's best team against either Portugal (which would be rad for geographical rivalry reasons, in addition to the fact that that fine country features metrosexual soccer star and also arguable best-player-in-the-world Cristiano Ronaldo), Brazil (which would be awesome because they are awesome, and also feature another arguable best-player-in-the-world, hilariously named Kaka) or Ivory Coast (which play some sort of an exciting Afro-style). We also have a Quarter Final game which may just feature probable best-player-in-world, Leo Messi. Do I know anything about soccer? Absolutely not. But being in a sports crowd in Africa is ridiculous – everyone goes absolutely insane and sings and dances together, and there are few things I love more than semi-coordinated, semi-spontaneous sing 'n' dance-alongs. See "Twist and Shout", Ferris Bueller for evidence. I can’t wait. (It should also be noted that this dream may of course be thwarted by the fact that no African people can actually afford the tickets, but it will still be fun - See pictures of Ritard Jewell, M.A. Richmond and M. Rinfret above)

5) According to newspapers here, not one, not two, but three! of Cristiano Ronaldo’s girlfriends may be coming to watch the World Cup in person. As great as it would be to run into Paris Hilton or Kim Kardashian in person, it’s Canadian songstress Jann Arden that everyone here is most excited about seeing. Evidence:

She may have rejected me as a friend on facebook not once, not twice, but thrice (that is actually the only part of this section that is true), but one day Jann!

From there, it will be a trip to Egypt and Jordan with some great pals, then to London to see in person that Levin now wears scarves, and then Ontario and then B.C. I am as annoyed with me as you are, don’t feel that you are alone in that.

Anyhoo, if anything bad happens on this roadtrip remember:

OK.

My pals Alex and Caity made the excellent decision to rent a VW Bug from Best Beetle Car Rental Co. (which is an anagram for Reputable! if you add in ‘p’ ‘u’ and ‘!’ and leave out a bunch of other letters) for their stay in CPT. They were a little surprised when they received their contraption (it’s not really fair to call it a car) to find that it was covered in flowers and ladybugs, that it was old enough to have passed a spry, freedom-fighting Nelson Mandela on the street before he was ever put in prison, and that it had a penchant for just randomly turning off on highways, leaving its unfortunate seatbeltless passengers without the luxury of braking or steering.

Ol’ Volga had all sorts of adventures in CPT. Her key broke off inside her and her licence plates spontaneously abandoned ship. When she wouldn’t start, which was approximately 50 percent of the time, the entire back seat had to be removed from the car so that she could be hot-wired (Reputable!/Best Beetle actually provided a copper wire for this purpose. Service!). We were once stuck in a traffic jam on a very slight incline leaving a rugby game and Volg, who wasn't big on hills, protested by just turning off numerous times and rolling backwards while the owner of the brand new Benz behind us would scream “Sweet Merciful Crap!!!! My Car!!!!” I would say we were most surprised when the gas pedal actually fell off, or I guess through, the car, leaving a substantial hole in the floor – how is that even possible you ask? I have no idea.

Towards the end of her tenure in our life, we decided to give ol’ Volgy a facelift. Reputable!/Best Beetle had made the grave mistake of telling Alex and Caity they could do whatever they wanted with the car except blow it up. Clearly, they underestimated our moxie, not to mention the disgusting amount of time we had on our hands.

I was inspired. Finally, my little-known, half-demented, longstanding dream to deface a crappy car with hilarity could come to fruition. Throw in no financial or other consequences, and one has the perfect recipe for creative genius. Volga the Beetle our canvas and immaturity our Muse, we invaded a paint store. And, well, I’ll tell you - if painting a car you don’t own shining, shimmering, splendid gold is wrong, then I don’t want to be right

Throw in a little national pride

A sweet new name

It’s “The Ho Train”, not “The Hot Rain”... Shut up.

And, my personal favourite, The Swift’s Phone Number

And there you have it, the most badass-est car in all of Southern Africa. The ladies of Capetown didn’t even know what to do with themselves– it was like fishing with dynamite. In a related matter, this is what Google feels is a Ho Train

As beautiful as Princess Jasmine (don’t you dare close your eyes), we took The Ho Train strutting proudly through the streets. To the Waterfront, to the mountains – she was the most beautiful belle at the ball. However, it was in the predominantly black township of Gugulethu on the outskirts of the city that she shined brightest. Not surprisingly, The Ho Train was met with hysterical, Beatles-like screams as children chased her in glee (this became awkward when the kids would invariably catch up to the Ho Train, given that it limped from 0 to 60 in approximately 4 minutes). We were clearly distracted by the adulation, as the Ho Train became hopelessly lost in Gugulethu for between 1 and 7 hours. Luckily, however, nobody effed with us (can’t say I blame them) and luckily, the destination was well worth the Odyssey we had traveled.

Every weekend in Gugulethu a huge party goes off surrounding Mzoli’s butcher shop, which can be found just around the corner from the small concrete hut that sports a wooden sign with big red letters reading “SURGERY”. Complete with DJs, huge crowds and truly shocking amounts of meat

it is probably the best party I’ve ever been to at a butcher shop in Africa.

Upon arriving, you purchase beers for the long wait to purchase your truly shocking amount of meat. You then leave this meat with the BBQ dudes in the back, preferably with a bribe to bump your food to the front of the queue. Depending on the bribe (did you know that up until a few decades ago, many countries made bribes paid in third world countries for business purposes tax deductible? Knowledge!) you will then wait between 45 and 450 minutes for your food. Of course, if you went bribeless, that is approximately seven and a half hours of binge-drinking before lunch. Needless to say, it was lucky that the car was shimmering beautifully in the sunlight, or else I would have never found her afterwards.

We left Mzoli’s, and our fans

behind and went to drive back to the city. Not long after leaving, we hit a police checkpoint. Now, I want you to imagine you are the police officer on duty. You see a bright gold Canada-mobile approaching, billowing smoke as the (fortunately sober) driver has forgot to release the E-Brake. It appears to have no working seatbelts, no licence plates and, if you look closely, no gas pedal. In turning your attention to the occupants, the driver does not have a valid international driver’s licence and there appear to be two girls passed out on each other in the back in meat comas. The front passenger has two open beers, doesn’t understand the question “where are you from?” (it was the accent!) and spends two solid minutes not understanding that the seatbelt he is pulling on is there for show, not for functionality. At this point, what would you do? Call for backup? Order that the car be immediately incinerated as an insult to public safety and cultural sensibilities? Compliment the occupants on their sweet ride and allow them to proceed? Door Number 3? You guessed it. T.I.A. Bru.

The Ho Train has now gone on to greener pastures – literally. Alex told me they made sure she lives on a farm in the country now, and that she runs free wherever she wants, and that she’s happy. It's just tough though, when two great friends are separated

I have tried to press on, and there have been a few fun things, I guess. Allow me to disjointedly explain and describe.

…...

Cape Town is known for having some of the best kitesurfing beaches in the world, which also happen to provide some unbelievable sights

The Salzberg and myself, joined by my buddy Matt who traveled to South Africa to see if he could out-homeless the homeless on two continents with his formidable wardrobe, arranged lessons to set in motion the day that I will kite myself to work.

As it turns out, however, that day may be much farther into the future than I had anticipated - kites have minds of their own. This was all too clear to a 15 year old South African kid who, in addition to taking lessons with us, is now likely being treated for post-traumatic stress disorder. The look on his face clearly betrayed his belief that I was waging some sort of unprovoked warfare on him with my kite. It was uncanny – I would be practicing the kite moves and everything would be going fine, when all of a sudden my kite would disobey me and soaring, tumbling, freewheeling through an endless diamond sky follow a path directly to his face. It’s hard enough to learn how to kitesurf without having to throw yourself to the ground every other minute to (unsuccessfully) avoid a Devil Kite’s wrath. In the meantime, The Salzberg’s lifeless 85 pound body was being hurled through the air despite the fact her kite quite literally sported the surface area of a dinner plate. I thought the instructor was going to pass out.

By the second day of lessons, I came pretty far, I was like a shooting star out there. I was able to get myself up on my board, fully kitesurfing for almost an entire second before a wave would cut me down at the knees. What an incredible sport. On a different day we came out to watch a competition and saw one guy ripping along while a pod of dolphins swam and jumped alongside him. I will be genuinely upset if that never happens to me.

…………

In an instance of blissful awesomeness, we came across a pirate ship at the waterfront that takes sunset cruises around the harbour.

With recommended ages of 4 to Adult and fun for the whole family, the website suggests that you book your child’s next birthday party on the Jolly Roger to really shiver his or her timbers. It wasn’t my birthday and I’m not 5 years old, but I wasn't about to turn down a chance to be a pirate

I can’t say I remember a whole lot of what was a glorious time spent on the Jolly Roger, but I do remember that the ship was manned with real pirates

that we scaled the rigging to great heights

that there was a stock

and that The Swift was dressed like a pirate wench

We were having so much fun that we didn’t even notice that the Jolly Roger never actually left the dock. I’m told that rather than making a 7-year-old’s birthday party, we were interrupting a band’s album release party (what kind of band releases its album on a sunset cruising pirate ship? A band named The Morning Boners, that’s who) and that we were kindly asked to leave the premises.

After taking a detour to be photographed by tourists who were excited to see “real, authentic African pirates”

and to wage war against the Japanese

we exceeded our own lofty expectations by actually boarding/attacking a different ship. As it turned out, this ship was a romantic sunset catamaran that featured unlimited champagne and a number of couples who weren’t dressed like pirates

I remember even less of what was a glorious time on The Sea Princess, but I do know that High Seas D unleashed WHO WANTS TO SEX DARIUS

whenever he wasn’t asking people whether now was an appropriate time to take off his shirt “for everybody”. I also think my pirate sword almost hit a dolphin when it accidentally walked the plank

Sadly, we aren’t welcome back on The Sea Princess

……..

When I went GREAT WHITE SHARK diving, I talked to a dude who was literally covered in shark tattoos. He was both terrifying and of the opinion that the only thing anywhere nearly as “bodacious” as swimming with sharks was swimming with their food. Trusting him immensely, I added seal diving to the list.

A short distance away from Hout Bay, an eccentric community 15 minutes away from Cape Town that reportedly once declared itself a nation and issued its own passports, there is a small island that hosts a colony of Cape Fur Seals. We suited up in rad gear

hopped in an inflatable boat without really any idea what was in store for us and made our way out to them. Adding some zest to the experience was the ridiculous 13 degree water (FYI, the water around the Cape is incredibly, ridiculously, incredibly cold) and the ever-so-slight chance that a GREAT WHITE SHARK would show up for a bite to eat.

As it turned out, shark-tattoo-bodacious guy couldn’t have been more correct, it was amazing. The water was teeming with seals

especially inquisitive pups just a few months old. They had the most incredible googly eyes, with which they would lock onto you, initiating epic staring contests of Robert Goulet-Bighorn proportions from a few centimeters away (Naaaaaature). Other times they would swim around all willy-nilly, over, sideways and under, through our legs and back around, with a bite or two to see what we were. Unreal.

……..

Aside from the whole family and friends thing (boop), a top five reason I could never actually permanently live in Africa would be the inability to play and watch hockey. I would also miss Hank and Danny Sedin

I’ve been watching playoff games that start at 2 and 3 and 4AM, it’s a killer, especially when the games go into overtime and/or the Canucks disappoint me so. Thankfully, being in Africa hasn’t stopped messages from Mama Fin in which she innocently says endearing things such as “Did you see that abortion of a hockey game last night?” or “I would gladly run over Dustin Byfuglien in the street if I had the chance.” Finleys rule.

……

Speaking of Mama Fin, her and Papa Fin popped by for a visit that they greatly enjoyed except for the moments they were terrified for their lives. Here are some nice pictures.

Camps Bay, Lion's Head in the background

In front of "The Sentinel", the pointy mountain on the left, which was named after the Secret Service thriller starring that delightful Michael Douglas

How Cool Are Mama and Papa Fin? They Stayed in the Sugar Daddy Suite, So Pretty Goddamn Cool

We took a tour around "The Heart of Cape Town" Museum, which commemorates the world's first heart transplant. The recipient lived for an entire... 18 days. Oh.

Mama and Papa Fin posing with a statue of Morgan Freeman

And here are some other nice pictures

Answer: Misty Cliffs. Question: A beautiful place in South Africa or The Swift's stage name

It's good drivin' country

Morris the Mercedes - Not Gold, Still Beautiful

Crystal Pools

Jumping into Crystal Pools



The epic climb out of Crystal Pools

Moisture is the essence of wetness, and wetness is the essence of beauty
The look on this face suggests that I should never be a barefoot rock-climber

The view from Lion's Head into Camps Bay

Table Mountain


Matty visits, rocks deep green vee, loses street cred

I'm told that one of these cyclists that I saw for 0.2 seconds was Lance Armstrong - watching cycling, probably one of the most underwhelming things I've ever done

........

Despite all the great things to do here, sometimes it makes me sad, though… Ho Train being gone. I have to remind myself that some birds aren’t meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice. But still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty now that they’re gone…. I guess I just miss my friend.

If we're lucky, maybe one day we can reunite: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YInN9mc9vXA&feature=related

Luckily though, when all else fails, I know I can take solace in the words of Bulimic D, the most entertaining of all male models:

-“Sometimes, man, I eat like a whole pizza, and I’m like ‘Damn! Why did I put that trash in my body?!? So, I like, puke it up, and it’s all good. It’s no biggie, man, I can puke real good.”

-“Darius, that’s a disease, I think you’re bulimic.”

-“Fuck that shit man, I can’t read minds”