Pretoria is weird place.
This is me reporting from a Northern Johannesburg, privileged and relatively normal (as normal as it can be with a family like mine) background saying that Pretoria, South Africa is the weirdest place on the planet. The Ripley’s Vault has nothing on PTA, The Land of Ooo seems like a regular place compared to what I like to call “Afrikaans Town” or “Beyond The Boerewors Curtain”. Pretoria is nuttier than squirrel poo and I get to spend the next 4 years of my life soaking up whatever it is this city has bathed in.
You guessed it. Little Harribee is all grown up and attending Varsity. The scariest thing I have ever done besides for eat flying ants.
It’s been a whirlwind week of Afrikaans karaoke, purple-haired roommates who write deeper poetry than I do, guys who wear suits everyday, “sokkie-ing”, Residence feuds and closet racists.
I’ve been asked to buy everything from electric toothbrushes ( while filling up for petrol) to weed (he asked me through the gate of my house). And I’ve discovered that my favourite thing to do so far is to sit on my front porch with my roomie, drink tea and yell “HELLO DAMES!” to whoever walks past. We are the Creepers of Prospect Street and proud of it.
I wish I could fit my week into one blog post. But instead I just have to sit here trying to find an appropriate ending while wondering why bad things like writer’s block happen to good people.
So I’m going to tackle this in installments.
“The Pretoria Chronicles Part 1: Pik Botha; the closet racist who lives next door” will be published soon.
Until then, I have a tertiary education to attempt.