2004-01-25 - 6:53 p.m.

Cape Town, South Africa

Hello from very far down in the southern hemisphere indeed. The excerpt from that etiquette book about motorbikes turned out to be unusually prescient for me, for within an hour of arriving in this scarily modern city, I was clinging onto the back of some guy on a Harley Davidson thanks to being set up on some kind of biker punk city tour. He kind of grunted at the various landmarks, such as Table Mountain, which you easily spot as it�s a huge fucking mountain looks like a table that looms right over the city.

Following that, we (me and the very odd selection of people making up the press group) were whisked up in a helicopter to see the same thing from the air, plus that Island where Nelson Mandela was in prison. So two virginities lost in a morning. I also quickly fulfilled my ambition to eat the cutest indigenous animals of each country I visit by knocking back some not-fast-enough springbok, with some ostrich thrown in for good measure.

Yesterday we went on a Township Tour, the kind of thing that really sets me on edge since it largely involved looking at incredibly poor people through the windows of a minibus. These are available to the public and not just something laid on for freeloading press types. It�s good to get some kind of context on how the society is here, and bits of it were interesting � am I being stupid or did everybody know that �blacks� (pure descendants of tribal people) separate themselves from �coloureds� (anyone with any mixed heritage) here? Way to divide and conquer, huh? Our (coloured) guide (who kept saying things like �If I shout �Get Down!�, please do so immediately� and then laughing whilst we tried to work out how serious he was) also regaled us with stories of how the male tribes people have to endure a horrific circumcision ceremony to become a man, most of which involves living in the bushland for a month seeing if you�re one of the twenty percent of young men that die alone from badly infected wounds to the groinage. Cheery stuff.

I�m not one of these people that says things like �Oh, I love such and such a country, but I can�t stand to see the poverty.� Seeing the poverty is fine, because compared to living in it, it�s a pretty sweet deal. But I�m not sure how far these kind of tours go to ensuring people�s dignity. It brings in money because we all feel guilty and buy their crafts at the markets, so I guess that part of it is OK. But as you drive through the really shitkickingly poor parts, and the people smile and wave, you wonder if you got out whether you�d be gutted like a fish and all your possessions stolen, because that�s as sure as hell what I�D do to rich tourists who came to look at me. I can kind of see what they�re trying to do, but the jury�s out on whether this is the way to do it. Why not invite the poor people up to our suites in the Hotel du Swanque? At least that way they could raid the minibars when our backs were turned.

We were advised not to go to the local nightspots, but another evening in the sterility of the hotel was unthinkable, so me and two others headed out to get into trouble, only to be greeted by the most relaxed, fashionable and above all hemorrhage-baitingly cheap bars that I�ve ever seen. The most beautiful people from all races were out drinking, though noticeably in different establishments, so even in affluence, the divisions still exist. I think the place has a great future, just the past still hurts a bit I would think.

OK, have to head off to another dinner talking shop. Just hope there are some new fluffy mammals on the menu.