Dear Nagatha Christie,

A Hari Krishna handed me a book recently (I'm still trying to figure out if she was infact a Hari Krishna....or a Scientologist posing as a Hari Krishna).There's a gem in the book that stuck to me like syphillis, and it reads...

"When your mind is crippled with auhority, as it is, it is very difficult to be free."

At the best of times I'm easy; but being free is a tad bit harder. Don't get me wrong, your misplaced concern and morbid facination with my wherabouts are totally appreciated and fall into the same category as the all the other creepies that add colour to my life and negatively promote rampant paranoia on my part. I particulary enjoyed how you made the Higher Authority sound.....my mind instantly conjured images of Darth Sidious. Kudos due on your part for the subliminal Star Wars reference.

While we are on the subject of constructive critisism, you do however stand to be corrected. Please, in all future communication refer to me on my lawful name, Charlie Sunshine. Say it like it's one word. Much like A Tribe Called Quest or A Pimp Named Slickback (say the whole thing if you will, yes- everytime.). I have out taste and sensitivity to your moral code decided to negate the explanatory noun in front of my name. I encourage you to try it out though, you might just be suprised just how much you like it. Although, I do know that your full name would be somewhere along the lines of Whiny Bitch Be Called Nagatha Christie. And yes. I will respectfully refer to you as such everytime....out of said moral duty and obligation- as you so elequently pointed out.

What can I say...Bitch's been having problems....lets see what my bottomless pit of excuses spits out today? I don't think I've quite kicked my nicotene addiction...even though a Malboro Red hasn't passed my lips in over a year- unlike most people, I say thank you for second hand smoke. And well, to be quite honest, I've been living in fear for the past few weeks of becomming a fully fledged not-so-barefoot hippie. Yes, you're right. I'm much to manic for that to happen. Minutes to madness is my motto when the sun shines. That and the fact that my parents never really let me play outside in fear of me being shot on the street when I was just a wee sprite (rough neighbourhood, coupled with middle class misplaced fear)...so the soles of these pretty feet aren't engineered to be shoeless. I also had to take time to revise me and Moth's zombie apocolypse survival plan- it would be neglegant on our part to not have all our ducks in a row....besides things are getting stranger by the day. A hairy worm keeps on following me in the garden. True story- so what does that tell you? Imminent.

The Higher Authority...defeated after a stomp.
 How you like them apples now, biatch?

But please, don't you dare fret about my standing with the Higher Authority. I saw him at a trance party a few weeks ago- standing defeated with a cardboard sign in his hand, looking to bum a lift home. Doubtfull he's comming after me, defeated is a colour he wears quite well. Your scare tactics won't work with me- I'm wys mos.

Burn, Bazinga! And haarties for you....in less than 48 hours I might add. Ahem.

In brightest day, in blackest night...no eeebil shall escape my sight.

Sincereley,

Charlie Sunshine

P.S. Yes, everytime.

Photos: Gillian Chambers

A rasta and a Bergie (mountaineer, vagrant) climb onto a train...(waiting for the punch line, aren't you?) deep in conversation the rasta uncharacteristically timid, warns the bergie that his imaginary ticket is not even valid for first class and he'd be safer catching a free ride undetected in the third class carriages. The bergie looks him dead straight in the eye and says wryly,"There's no first class in heaven." True story.

That's what you can expect with our public transport system-thinly veiled chaos that just about works. Much like our mountaineer friend; stumble drunk and totally pickled for the last decade, but spitting words of wisdom.

I carry a torch for travelling with public transport, I've travelled this Peninsula up and down with nothing more than my two pins and a pocket full of change. Partly because I quite adamantly refuse to make the final plunge into adulthood and get my driver's license. It, in my opinion would be fiercely negligent for any government to allow me to operate anything more dangerous than a toaster. Logic will always prevail (and so will my endless bag filled with excuses).

My favourite journeys are always on the train, filled with young couples stealing kisses at the back of the carriage to the tired dad coming off the construction site, his blue overalls stinking of cement. This gruff man places his chubby little girl next to him with utmost care, opens her bag and takes out Gloria's preschool message book and reviews attentively. He smiles. Good job, Gloria! The journey always manages to shove your face ingloriously into the stark reality of peoples lives; their struggles and their joys.

Photos: Gillian Chambers

Come summer time, when the year winds slowly down you'll often find troupes of fidgeting boys, crooning old school ballads and minstrel favourites while the older boy plays a beat-up guitar, chanelling David Kramer and directing the younger boys who to target and when to turn up the charm. There's a band of new-age hippies that conduct fierce drumming circles on the train and blind Malawian women who haunt the early morning trains singing sad hymns of perseverance. And that's the thing. Its an even playing ground when you're sitting on a train- white collar, blue collar, no collar. Same same.

Frustrations aside (and let me tell you many people would lament and sing a different tune) if you really want get to know the people of Cape Town, the demographics, culture, idiosyncracies...take a train from the city right passed Kalk Bay all the way to the knife's edge at Simon's Town. The journey is indicative of the landscape, contrasting, dynamic and distinctively local. From the grimy backskirts of the Salt River factories to passing over the tunnels at Kalk Bay harbour, the tracks seemed to have been laid with an air of mischief as if to constantly remind us of the extremes of our city and the climate of our times.

So if you're curious, maybe just a visitor to our city. Jump onto a train, get on the southern suburbs line, grab a seat near the window and wait patiently for the journey to begin. You're never guaranteed how long the journey might take and as the grey and yellow ribbon jerks forward the air sparks with anticipation. What crazy wonder will stumble on this train today and trade lessons in life, because we're all the same. Pink inside.