From my hosts in Brackenfell, I met up with my new host in Houtbay, and we quickly discovered that we shared surprisingly similar student life experiences. I spent part of the day playing pool in Imizamo Yethu (also known as Mandela Park), a squatted camp in Hout Bay, and also learned the recipe for poisson à la Koos.
Kobus had gone to work again on this Saturday morning, while Denise was enjoying a much-deserved work-free weekend. Yesterday, she’d told me about the ongoing issues with her car and how much she dreaded the daily two-hour commute through Cape Town’s notorious traffic jams between Brackenfell and the city center.
Today, her father was coming over to try and fix her car, but instead, he surprised her by delivering a brand-new Mazda — complete with a CD player, which delighted Denise. She was all smiles at breakfast, with a huge weight lifted off her shoulders.
I was due to meet my next host around 1 p.m. at the Long Street Café, a place I knew well by now. On their way to the beach, Denise and Ryan kindly dropped me off in the city center, where I thanked them wholeheartedly for their hospitality over the past few days.
At the café, I met up with the barefooted Arjan “I forgot my shoes”, a Dutchman who has lived in South Africa for nearly nine years. As we chatted, I realized something astonishing: Arjan had studied Economics in my hometown of Zwolle, at the same university where I studied Journalism! Even more incredibly, he had lived in the same student apartment I had lived in for 18 months, just a few years earlier. We immediately began reminiscing about our former flatmates and the crazy times in that old, rundown house.
What a small world!
Arjan, now a senior investment analyst, had married a New Zealander named Brenda, and together they have a 10-month-old son named Thomas. As we drove to their home in Hout Bay, Arjan recounted how he ended up living on this edge of Africa.
“I was doing my final internship for Economics in Johannesburg,” he explained. “When it ended, my boss asked if I could stay. There aren’t many investment analysts in South Africa, and they really needed me.” Now, Arjan much prefers South Africa over The Netherlands.
“I went back to the Netherlands recently,” he said, “and I just couldn’t handle the hypocrisy. Everyone’s so busy being busy. You even need to schedule appointments weeks in advance to see your ‘friends,’ and people can’t stop complaining about the smallest things.” He had a point. “People in the Netherlands don’t realize how good they have it.”
After dropping my belongings in their guest room, Arjan and I had a drink in their lush, tropical garden. “Come on,” Arjan said,
“I want to show you a place that most South Africans wouldn’t take you to.”
We drove to Mandela Park — a large squatter camp (“informal settlement”) in Hout Bay. Rather than calling it a slum, Arjan preferred to think of it as a self-made community. He parked in front of a small, music-blasting shack where children danced on the street. Every structure was pieced together from old wood, plastic, and other salvaged materials.
We entered the shack, which turned out to be the local pub, where a few men were playing pool. Our presence—a couple of white men—naturally attracted attention. Before I knew it, I was drinking beer with Arjan, dancing with kids to tunes from the jukebox, and playing pool with the locals. The pool table was unbalanced, and some of the balls were damaged, but it didn’t matter. We weren’t exactly pros, anyway!
The locals were incredibly friendly and loved chatting with us. They take pride in their community, where everyone knows one another, and despite their modest lifestyle, they seem genuinely content. One older man, Jesse, proudly showed me his home and family. Inside their tiny three-room shack, his wife was preparing dinner, and I wasn’t allowed to leave without trying a bit of chicken. Ha!
It struck me how “normal” life seemed here. Most homes had electricity, and many even had street numbers. While their furniture was old, they had working televisions and managed to maintain a standard of living that would surprise many. Squatter camps are often portrayed negatively in the media, but this place was different. The people here were proud, happy, and resourceful.
As we walked around, we saw a white woman in a fancy car dropping off her servants for the weekend. “Most white people would never dare to come here,” Arjan remarked. And yet, many of South Africa’s servants come from communities like this.
Later, back at Arjan’s house, I reflected on my visit to Mandela Park with a short nap. It reminded me that people live very different lives, and if we understood these differences better, we’d likely have more respect for one another’s achievements.
The constant negative stories about South Africa, especially the crime, can get tiresome. Of course, crime exists, but it’s no worse than in other major cities worldwide. Yet, the international media seems fixated on South Africa’s troubles, often ignoring its beauty and progress.
After my nap, Arjan and Brenda prepared poisson à la Koos — kingklip fish grilled with a spicy butter, garlic, and apricot jam sauce on a South African braai.
As the evening set in, Arjan and I watched hilarious Dutch TV shows before heading out around 11 p.m. to Deez a small Mexican café in town. There, Arjan introduced me to Jenga, a game of strategy and balance, which becomes even more challenging after a few drinks. We spent the night stacking wooden blocks into towers, trying not to knock them over as we sipped our drinks.
Back at their home, I heard an owl in the tree outside my window as I drifted off to sleep.
Good night, Hout Bay!
Ramon.
