After arriving and unpacking (our accommodation was a colonial style Dutch beach house, owned by friends of Bianka's), it didn't take too long to discover a bar at the end of a cul-de-sac which probably constituted the town's main strip. Sitting at the edge of the street we had a view of the petrol station, hotel (it looked like a prison), beach and perhaps most crucially, the police station.
The ensuing eight hours sailed by with each round of drinks seeming to elicit either new companions or wilder goings-on and stories. Initially, a South African couple sat by us. Inside of twenty minutes he had my email address and was trying to sign me up to a copper mine in the DRC.
Chantal and Cornel would appear at the next round and stay with us through the night. Handily, they were the proprietors.
Burnouts and some argie-bargie by the hotel.
Another round.
Local getting dragged into lock-up by the cops at the station.
Another round.
Locals protesting local's incarceration.
Another round.
Cornel telling me of how he supported Kevin Bloody Wilson on a cruise ship.
Another round.
Cornel explaining his broken hand and arm was due to trying to jump onto a sprinkbok from a car doing 100km/hr. He missed.
Another round.
Listening to Kevin Bloody Wilson and Rodney Rude at Cornel's insistence instead of Bob Marley.
Another round.
Somewhere in amongst this, shots were being presented too.
Then a seafood platter on the house appeared.
The night is a haze but how this sort of supreme luck (the food and much of the drinks in the latter part of the evening were free) and hospitality continues more or less unabated in my travels is beyond me but absolutely welcome.
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