Watching sharks – not the political kind
I’m sitting on a wooden deck in the bush watching the Mzimvubu River meet the Indian Ocean. Dizzy Gillespie and Arturo Sandoval are tearing into Dizzy the Duck.
They first rocked this murderous blues in Finland before I was born. Old it isn’t.
The Croc and I are working on our day off. Again.
We’re in Port St John’s. We’re here because of sharks. Not the political ones. We’ve left those behind. For a while at least.
The sharks we’re here for have fins. And teeth. The same sharks that have been taking lifesavers at this time of year for the past seven years at Second Beach. The same sharks that took a teenager on Christmas Day. Only his swimming trunks have been recovered.
We have to sit on Second Beach all day. Every day for a week. While getting paid.
Port St John’s is a trippy place. For most of the year it’s this slowed up stoner haven – and heaven. There’s more potholes than cars. You have to beat prospective weed sellers off with a stick.
There’s lost hippies from all over the planet who got stuck here. There’s all these acid heads with fried brains running backpackers. My kinda ville.
Then over the festive season it becomes the Transkei’s Golden Mile. The crusties take cover. House music rules. Nobody sleeps until the second week in January. The entire beachfront is one big gridlock party. Also my kinda ville.
Not a bad way to spend the week. It’s a very different gig to last week’s. Last week was the relaunch of Comrade Cyril’s political career. It was a blast in its own way. It’s cool watching a political professional doing their thing.
The Second in Command is a sharp cat. Cyril can’t sing or dance like the Commander in Chief. Cyril’s still a bit stiff after nearly a decade and a half in the background after getting stomped by Thabo Mbeki.
But he’s back. Big time. And unless he blows it with the Commander in Chief and the comrades, he’s gonna end up running the country.
I wonder how Thabo feels now?