𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗢𝗨𝗧𝗦𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗥𝗦 𝗢𝗡𝗖𝗘 𝗪𝗔𝗟𝗞𝗘𝗗

The outcasts have gone, but the streets remember them.

Sea Point, before it became the neo-liberal mirage, or fata morgana, it is now, had a cast of wonderful outsiders, cranks, crackpots, whatever. Colourful people, all slightly unhinged in a delightful way. There was the woman who always wore her church hat, dressed in her Sunday best, with elegant high-heeled shoes. On closer inspection, though, they were quite worn out, just like her gloves. Her make-up was overdone, and if you came near, you could smell brandy on her breath, even at ten in the morning. One day she just disappeared.

There was another woman, tall, like a thin skyscraper, who wore shiny dresses and white make-up, red lipstick, large sunglasses, dressed as if she were heading to a Great Gatsby party. She walked for miles up and down the promenade, her own catwalk, now also gone. Once I saw her walking without shoes, her toenails were painted pink.

There was a man who lived rough on the streets, wearing a cowboy hat and carrying a broken guitar. At night, from his spot under the tree in St James Road, you could hear him singing Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World”. He was found dead one winter morning, having succumbed to exposure and drink.

Then there is this man in the photo, whose name I never got. I used to see him in all sorts of outfits, sometimes a pale blue safari suit, once with a necklace made from a metal beaded chain and a bath plug. The sunglasses always stayed the same. He alleged he owned a mine in Africa, though he would not say where, but he whispered it in a conspiratorial tone, as if we were being watched. Years ago, I asked him if I could photograph him, and now I haven’t seen him for a long time either. If anyone knows him, let me know if he’s still around.

These soulful people are all disappearing from the hood; like hot bath water after you’ve pulled the plug, so to speak. Long live the outcasts of this world.