Waiting at the wrong gate, there’s no buzzer, there are dogs though, so I phone the woman who walks the 50meters from the patio to the other gate to greet let me in – there’s work required here and a friend has generously given my number out. I waved to the woman’s mother in law who sat inside doing needlepoint by the light of the bay window. We are standing in a garden in the leafy southern suburb of Rondebosch – an open cast mine for pet food companies. Sandpits, garden edging, grasses, plants and pavers are discussed. I am told what the husband wants done and after a good 10 minutes of pretending to know what I am talking about, I leave without being bitten.

Back in the truck and I have picked up my Mozambican carpenter/journalism student friend Vice from a job he is working on in town. Vice needs to move his wife’s possessions from the stinking damp room he rents in the suburb of Brooklyn near the container depot over to the other side of Table Mountain to the squatter camp in Hout Bay. There are a few bags of laundry, some plastic toys in a ripped black bag, some dirty plastic plates, a microwave, a large fridge, some bedding – they all get dumped in the back of the bakkie. Back on the road there are urgent questions about international payments, money orders, immediate availability of cross-border funds, all I can offer is vague baseless answers. It arises Vice is currently obsessed with raising funds to attend a conference in Canada AND Italy running in concurrent weeks. It’s now very hot and its Tuesday, we are waiting at the lights and he needs R900 cash to pay a deposit on a hotel room in Canada to meet visa requirements, and it needs to be paid by Friday. All travel, accommodation and food is apparently paid for by the Canada Youth Foundation. The invitation to the youth conference comes as reward for an article Vice had submitted in good faith – the subject, ‘how we live today – in the world, people’ Plenty of scope there. Vice finally admitted that he stitched the article together from a number of online donors. This didn’t change the fact that on the strength of his efforts he was awarded a prestigious invitation to attend the conference. The standard reaction when asked for money is make a goofy face, (NB keep lips pursed)/shrug /hands out (use one hand if driving)/palms up – sorry I honestly don’t have any money to give you right now. As is often the case I am telling the truth and really don’t have any extra money to lend out, particularly to fund a hurried international money order to a pay for a supposed hotel booking to a supposed conference in Canada AND Italy when the author has just admitted to me that he plagiarised his winning entry in what seems highly likely to be a bogus competition – a chance to consciously avoid doing something foolish? - yes please.

We have arrived now in Hout Bay and as Vice was busy talking about the benefits of meeting other young people at conferences we missed our turnoff, I wasn’t going to attempt it late with a fridge/freezer tied on the back. The self styled ‘Republic’ of Hout Bay is a wide sweeping valley that stretches a few kilometres back up towards the back side of Table Mountain; it’s a large self-contained area. There is an official township, which expands up the hill and gradually gives way to more makeshift and ram-shackled ground level huts made from old boards, tarpaulins, road signs, tied down with rope and string. Access to these more recently constructed dwellings is a back route above the cemetery. We enter the camp through a wire mesh gate and turn sharp left and up the hill. There is a large crevasse zig-zagging across the dirt road – the ropes on the fridge are holding tight as we pitch up and down like we are off-roading – which I suppose we are. We climb further and further up the hill. Most faces are tired and listless though some seem mildly interested, maybe it’s because I am white or more likely it’s just because they haven’t seen anyone stupid enough to drive up this road for quite some time. I am now wearing my best ‘spirit of the blitz’ smile that vainly attempts to combine sympathy, resilience and courage – the children smile and wave back.

Not until we reach the edge of the camp, the upper limit of the shacks against the hill does Vice tell me to stop. The place is right here - ‘what…by these toilets?’ - ‘Yes – this is the place’, this is where his wife is moving to live with their baby daughter. Hand brake on, in gear, keys out of the ignition - some fellows are watching me, I casually leave my door unlocked to make it clear I feel comfortable in these surroundings. The views are great from up here and unlike many other parts of Hout Bay you don’t suffer the eyesore of the squatter camp in your valley view – you’re in it. We unload all the stuff, running the gauntlet of 10 long drops, which are all quite literally overflowing with excrement and scrunched up newspaper - it’s disgusting. Everything is placed carefully on the sod floor of the hut. The trucking tarpaulin that clads the hut doesn’t let in much light so it’s quite dark. The hut is about 4 paces square - there is a small bed on one side and a blanket draped across to demarcate the bedroom from the rest. We bought the milk to put in the fridge; there is no electricity though.

Driving back to Cape Town via the coast it’s fantastically beautiful. the huge bluffs of the 12 apostles stand high above the bays, it’s sunny and the sea is deep blue. Canada and Italy have never felt further away.