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”
