Cape Town

Well, I'm off to a blistering start. I had contemplated spinning a story about getting into the wrong cab at the airport, ending up in a township and getting mugged of all my possessions since, y'know, it's more interesting than 'arrived-safely-my-isn't-it-pretty'. However, stuff's already gone wrong, so that should provide some amusement... I'm just sitting in my room (they had a single, and I chickened out of the dorm) at the Long Street Backpacker's hostel, on Long Street, Cape Town, wondering what to do with the rest of the day. It's looking like being a clear day, so I'm tempted to book some tours for the next few days, then simply take a stroll/hike up Table Mountain. First, though, I have to fiddle with my phone which, with impecable timing, blew up the moment I cleared Passport Control.

I kid you not, I walked out into arrivals, looking for my 'backpacker bus', took out my phone to call the hostel, and the screen 'went funny' on me (that's a technical term – amazing how quickly one loses the vocab when one's not working). I think it's terminal. Only to be expected, though, really. Heaven forfend it should have happened any time in the last year-and-a-half, when I could have done something about it.

Plugzilla

In addition, the super-dooper-all-singing-all-dancing-intercontinental-usb-adaptor I bought appears to work everywhere else in the world apart from South Africa. Instead, they have three fat round pins in the same configuration as a UK plug. Luckily, the guy working here has decided he trusts me and has very kindly leant me the requisite adaptor – it's resale value somewhat compromised by having 'LSB' written on it in permanent marker.

Speaking of criminal acts, I had quite a funny debate with the 'backpacker bus' driver over 'who's home has the most crime.' Despite defending Brixton to the hilt for the last ten years every time anyone so much as suggests it might not be utterly salubrious, any impugning of its 'edgeyness' had me reeling off stories of riots, murders, carjackings (True story: My road, Chris' first week living with me in London. Cosmic.)

So, this place is tatty but clean. Honestly, I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it's certainly not a Travelodge. It's now 10:16 local time and I'm beginning to hear voices – that's real voices. This is going to be great at some point, but right now, I'm feeling very out of water. Speaking to various friends on the phone at Heathrow, I very much wanted to join them for a Friday night pint, rather than fly to Cape Town. On the plane, it occurred to me that that moment was the last time for a month that I would be within my comfort zone, completely unstressed. It's all doing me good, though – but man, I'm impressed with anyone who decides to travel on their own aged eighteen. Right then, time to sort out what to do. I think Robben Island today, maybe.

Oh, while I'm here...

Hostel Dude: “Here's the door code. Four digits. Don't forget the hash.”
Me: “So is that policy, then?”
HD: “Sorry?”
Me: “'Don't forget the hash'. Is that hostel policy.”
HD: “Ah, yes, ha-ha...”
Me: “I'm very tired.”