A recent trip to Cape Town, the place of my birth, caused a severe re-evaluation of this false dystopia and a general vibe that Cape Town can piss right off

The Weather Has A Bipolar Illness

How do you pack clothing for Cape Town? Fck knows. It was 37 degrees on the day of our arrival, and the Kombi was actually melting. A snowy wind blew from the southeast the next day, and we were in our thickest winter jackets. I wore my winter jacket, boardshorts, a beanie, and a cap over the beanie as protection from the skin-melting sun pouring through the wind. Not a good look.  

The Wind is Trying to Kill You

The Cape Doctor tried its hardest to blow my youngest child off a cliff and tried to blow the Kombi door off its hinges and the same cliff. The wind is your daily dose of abject misery. It blows around corners, and Cape Town can piss right off.

The Traffic Will Kill You, With Sadness

Don’t worry about peak-hour congestion; normal-hour congestion will try and kill you. Two hours to sit in the Kombi, listen to KFM drivel and think about how you totally messed up your life with bad choices after bad choices. No one deserves that.

The Water Crisis is Eternal

Day Zero is still there! They are still perpetuating the lie. No one told the inhabitants of this city that there is enough water now, and they are still not flushing their turds immediately, and showering in the garden under plastic bottles of recycled pool backwash. Or maybe it’s just the people I hang with. Either way, Cape Town Can piss right off.

The Cost of Living (and dops) is Barbaric.

“Four tequilas as our pre-drinks celebration, please, my good man.”

“Here you go, that will be R640. Enjoy.”

“Ok, right. That’s the budget gone, no dinner tonight, no jol, let’s go home.”

“But, Dad. You still get to have the dops.”

Why Live At The Beach If You Can’t Use It?

Every dip into the Atlantic Ocean is a full-blown Wim Hoff session, and the hyperventilating is involuntary. Swimming in cold water doesn’t make you high on life; it makes you cold, so stop talking, kak.

Capetonians

While driving back from the beach along a high coastal route, I saw a shirtless, sweat-drenched man with a hairless chest, a giant beard and long hair wrapped in what looked like a Vietnam war bandana running furiously up the hill. He was in the middle of the road (quiet, not much traffic, but still). When he saw us, he started roaring like The Hulk, possibly to give himself some extra energy to get up the last bit of the steep hill. He ran past us screaming, and, utterly nonplussed, I sipped on my beer to calm down while driving as a direct result.

My kids acknowledged that they also saw it, so it wasn’t an LSD flashback, but no one could explain it.

“Dad, I want to go home,” said my youngest.

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