After seeing this music video, I knew I had to become best friends with these people. And not like bobblehead high-school besties; I mean dead body best friends. They reminded me of every weird kid I grew up with on the block; especially the time that those weird kids painted their entire bodies and had what would forever be known as Sacrificial Barbecue ’98. Never drink from the punch bowl that has the needle floating in it, hashtag hepatitis.
Anyway, I needed to become best friends with Die Antwoord. Thus, I did what any responsible adult would do: I filled a backpack full of action figures, boardgames, comic books and candy bars, then hopped on the first direct flight to South Africa that I could book. I was a little nervous at first riding in a propeller plane for 17 hours, but the ostrich that was flying assured me we wouldn’t have any problems. She seemed somewhat desperate to get to wherever we were going, so I took her word for it.
We touched down in Cape Town with only minimal bruising (all internal, so no worries). Just for one second here, I’d like to take a moment to rant about how much Open Office disappoints me. It’s an otherwise brilliant and free word processor, except for for two computers in now, it’s spell checker has never decided to get it’s dwanky ass in gear and work properly. Did you know that even though I am the greatest human being alive, I also happen to be possibly the worst speller? I use words, I don’t dress them. Tighten up your shitty spell check game Open Office, if only so that I never have to interrupt a story about Die Antwoord again.
Okay, so upon touching down in Cape Town, and it became rather apparent that I didn’t plan this trip very well. Or at all. Like “damn dude, you just jumped the fuck on a plane with an ostrich and winged it the fuck out”-type planning. I found a magic marker and wrote the words “SEX TOURIST” across my grey collared shirt. I figured I would be able to get a read on how the locals felt about that decision with some immediacy.
I stumbled my way into a cafe where the man behind the counter had two missing fingers on opposite sides of the same hand. My brother once told me about the beauty of Africa and its people; I wasn’t quite seeing it yet, sitting directly next to a young girl itching away at the pin of a grenade in one hand while holding a bouquet of flowers in the other. A dark-skinned gentleman with a thin gold chain and a gap between his front teeth sat opposite me as I sipped something illegal.
“I’d like to meet Yolandi, and the man they call ‘Ninja'” I told him as I stamped out my cigarette and brushed the ash off my lap. He grinned wide, thrusting the gap forward. Tap, tap, he pushed his fingers into the table. I took out a bubble gun and layed it down. He took it across, and the smile grew even larger.
Thinker St. James will return in The Time I Played Laser Tag with Die Antwoord (Part 2)! Don’t die in the meantime!