IN-DEPTH: Day 9 – In the night garden

No, the title of this blog is not the name of the porno screenplay I’m currently writing (the working title for that is actually Forest Hump – I’ll keep you updated, just waiting for Tom Hanks to reply to my emails), it’s actually a BBC kiddie show my little sister would watch when she was smaller, and the title kept returning to my mind the whole time in Yeoville today. It had some strange characters, Upsy Daisy and Igglepiggle and the three Tombliboos… Now that I think about it, whoever says that drug addicts are unemployable should really sit down and watch TV with their kids sometime. Because I’m telling you that all those people you see at parties snorting, smoking, sniffing and shooting any processed material they can get their hands on are the ones who regurgitate those chemicals into colourful illustrations for our young innocents to watch while we lie in on Saturday mornings.

Anyway, today we went on a little night time visit to Yeoville Market, because Zel wanted to spend some time watching the traders who clean the market after it closes as part of her project. We got there about 7:30pm, and I was expecting the place to be a ghost town. I was wrong because, if possible, it felt like at that time Yeoville was more busy than it is during the day. I suppose that I based my expectations on the boring, affluent suburbs that I grew up in, which by 7pm were about as busy as Joburg roads in December when most Joburgers have made the Great Trek to the coast for their holidays. In fact, we stayed there for an hour and a half, and the place was still fairly busy even then. We watched them clean with homemade dustpans and scraggly brooms, and even saw one of the cats the market placed in the building to kill rats. It was a little black one, who looked at once rather cute and fluffly, and able to rip off my arm in a single movement. That was my evening made, because I love the fluffy creatures.

Exciting moment of the day: standing on the street after the market was mostly locked up, and watching a fight between drunk people on the other side. A woman, staggering magnificently I might add, whose friends were trying to put her in a taxi to go home. Her male companion was trying to place her inside, but she (in a display of the wonderful spirit of the angry drunk) flat out refused. The best part was when she picked up a stone and threw it at him in an effort to boost the validity of her argument, which I imagine went along the lines of “aaaarrrggghhh! I… I… donnawannago, doesn’t wantatata… LEAVE ME! I’m just going to start home-ing walk now.” Also, one the way home we drove through Hillbrow, which is a cheaper and more effective way to raise the adrenalin more than bungee-jumping, rock-climbing or finding out that your half-finished essay was actually due two hours ago.


About robykirk

Robyn was born and raised in Johannesburg, South Africa, still isn't dead and despises writing in the third person. She received her undergraduate degree at Rhodes University, having completed a Bachelor of Arts in Politics, History and Journalism at the end of 2013 and completed her Honours in Journalism (career entry) at Wits University in Johannesburg during 2014. From April 2015 until March 2016 she worked as the Communications Intern for the MRC/Wits Agincourt Research unit in rural Mpumalanga. This blog is a collection of the work produced: - for the Wits University student newspaper and website Wits Vuvuzela during 2014 - during her internship at MRC/WIts Agincourt Research Unit (2015/2016) and independent blogging (2014-present). Robyn is interested in everything besides sports and mean people. In the past she has specialised in photojournalism and television journalism, and considers visual media to be one of her strongest skills. She decided to become a journalist because learning about other people’s lives was more fun than putting on pants and having her own. Follow her on Twitter: @RobyKirk

Posted on October 9, 2014, in In-depth blog, Wits Vuvuzela. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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