A foray into the foreign

I've got to admit, Gugs is not my usual stomping ground. Nyanga, Samora Machel, Philippi, oh Khayelitsha ofcourse, but seldom do I venture into Joo-Joo-le-twa. So it was all a bit disconcerting yesterday when I found myself driving around the area, in a van carrying far more people than it should have been, (almost) ofcourse. It was my last site visit of the quarter, so now Imma be office-bound for the next couple of weeks. Not looking forward to long days with my Mac, but I'll make it work.

So Gugs. Its claim to fame is most likely Mzoli's; place of beer and braaimeat/shishanyama. Maybe the Gugulethu Seven for those in the history-know, and potentially Amy Biehl for Americans who volunteer there. I was out with one of my students and his Hip-Hop crew. I watched them popping, locking, tutting--moves inspired by the Egyptian king, Tutankhamun, all very angular like a lived translation of some fruity hieroglyphics--and mixing it up with the hlokoloza dance. It was a vibe. The spaza shop over the road sold packets and boxes, tins and bottles, the shop-owner had a French accent. While we waited for the bus we listened to the school's marimba band. Marimbas always sound so much more than they are, and this band had a regular drum-set to complement the woody hollows, so it was all Jungle Book meets Toy Story meets the irregularly tarred playground that they were jamming on.

The drive on the way home took us to the part of Gugs near the railway line, where there are houses and decent roads, and the prevalence of postboxes is unavoidably noticeable. It's a permanent, paved driveway kind of place. A place just around a few corners from corrugated iron and tyres on the roof to keep the black plastic down when it rains and winds. Being in this kind of setting sometimes makes me feel like I've accidentally fallen asleep and missed out on the transition zone between genres of whatever it is that I'm seeing or hearing and it all just happens at once and at everything.