Pulled between a nightmare of dreary mid-Apartheid architecture is the road connecting Parow and Durbanville; the roaring N1 creating the upright of this tarred cross. Nailed, as it were, to the cross-slats is a wasteland of cultural misanthropy: dull streets interrupted only by the faded colours of political posters and headlines for Die Son and The Daily Voice: “Sex, scandal, skinner, sport...”, the neon of Adult World blurring with the hillside crucifix in the twilight. Beyond the Boerewors Curtain – a place your mother warned you about – a place of boers, bokkies, braais and, in the backstreet bars (Blizzards), badmouth boys who gooi a blêrrie good beat. This is the new shit. This is Parow.
“Dis die fokken waarheid, so gan vertel jou fokken ma”
Then walking across the memorial field, haloed by brandy-coloured lights, hopping fences into Terrace and passing around the 2l bottle. Watching the stars fade, driving back to towards the city then detouring to Plattekloof for one last party. "Are you near houses that look the same?" Strange question in a maze of identical architecture. Finally a man on a motorbike picked us up from a disused service station. When we arrived at the last-house-party-before-home, Parow was playing on the cd player. Full circle like the harvest moon. Hos ja.
blake/peake/dante/escher/darksatanicmills/neonbibles/blackdoorstriplights/descendingstair/gormenghast/fate/ assignmentsduringvac/circles/sleep/end.
