Tuesday, October 2, 2007

Sanitation Alert; Call Them Coloreds

As I prepared to go to sleep last night I pulled back the comforter and noticed that there was no top sheet and a few suspicious looking long black hairs on the bottom sheet. I have yet to come face to face with a bed bug and I'm still relatively free of body chancres. So, I pulled out my trusty bed sheet and slept in it to avoid contact with the bed or mattress.

Note: A bedsheet is like a sleeping bag without the insulation. It is a sheet that is stiched all the way around to provide a pouch to sleep in.

Saturday morning I awoke somewhat refreshed at 10:00. My activity for the day was to find a gym. After a few misdirections and getting lost a few times, I found a gorgeous gym within walking distance. (about 30 minutes down some deserted streets)

It was dark after my workout and I contemplated walking home but found the bar downstairs and asked the bartender to call me a cab. I sat at the bar to wait. While sitting at the bar, a woman and her "colored" boyfriend starting talking to me. The gist of conversation: in South Africa, it is politically correct to refer to black people as black people, mixed race people as colored. (In the US, using the word colored is reserved for Klansmen and other residents of Alabama.)

We discussed my plans to go bungee jumping and I told her I reserved the right to chicken out. Both her and her boyfriend told me if I chickened out I'd probably regret it for the rest of my days. I explained to them that I'm terrified of heights and that I get vertigo from platform shoes.

Back At The Hostel

I got back to the hostel and started to talking to a woman who had also gone to a gym. She was American and in her 30's. She said the words every guy my age wants to hear: "I want to go someplace tonight where the crowd isn't too young. "

Even though I'm probably 15 years older than her, she was a lot more worldly I am. I asked her about the crime in Cape Town and was she nervous at all. She said "no." I told her about the crime stories the Nigerian woman told me the night before. She said, the woman was probably just trying to make me feel sorry for her and give her money. Ooops. That's exactly what happened; I'm a sucker for a pretty face covered in knife wounds.

Anyway, the American woman and I bar-hopped around town and took a cab called the Rikki, which drives around and picks up random people. You pay a lot less, but it can take a while to get to your destination.

We got back to the hostel at 3:00, wished each other well and parted ways. I went up to my room to pack for my 7:30 bus ride the next morning.