INLSA

Seven years. I’m nearly there – just three more to go. Then maybe Patricia or Tony – or whoever’s in charge – will invite me to a special luncheon where I will receive a badge in the shape of Table Mountain, free aquarium vouchers, a pair of large sunglasses, a wardrobe of ironic eighties clothes, an Audi TT and my own set of beach bats – and I will finally be allowed to call myself Capetonian.

Recently, there has been much debate about whether Cape Town is a racist city. When my husband and I arrived here, we glanced nervously up and down Long Street, frowned at each other and whispered: “Why are there so many whites? Where are all the black people?”

Having come from Durban – a cultural melting pot so boiling the handles have burnt off – the Mother City seemed cold and congealed, reluctant to clutch her brood to her big, rocky breast. Like a picky foster parent choosing kids from a catalogue, she appeared partial to pale people who had an interest in fashion design, mojitos, garage bands and friends of friends who had gone to drama school with one of the Spencer sisters.

Now, seven years later, I don’t see those things any more. It’s probably because my R90 sunglasses have a huge scratch on one lens, and when I wear them everything looks smudgy and torn in two. It’s like my eyesight has undergone continental drift. But I also think that, contrary to what many believe, Cape Town might have undergone a slow transition. If you stroll up Long Street now, you will encounter black people who are not serving chilli poppers and are not from New York – but are instead chilling with their mates over post-work pints.

It could also be that I have changed. Cape Town no longer seems foreign. Things don’t jump out at me like they used to. Like one of those people who suddenly get hairy hands then race on all fours through the woods and bite campers, my transformation is almost complete. Apart from the hairiness, here are 10 reasons I know I am almost 100 percent Capetonian:

l I can now pronounce “buchu” without spitting – and can drink its tea without gagging.

l I now know that when someone yells rude things about my mother’s private parts, they are not necessarily aimed at me or my mother. Chances are the person is either talking to themselves or are just very cross with a friend for lying on the pavement in a lot of wee.

l I have become very rugged and am thinking of fitting a big, black snorkel onto my car for when I’m out in the wilderness, fighting off dassies and rampaging through jam-infested farm stalls.

l I still haven’t learnt to speak isiXhosa, but I pretend to read Siyafunda on the train and greet the fruit sellers with a loud “molo” – and then immerse myself in rubbing an imaginary stain off my skirt lest they start speaking to me in a clatter of clicks.

l I no longer contemplate a quiet overdose when presented with a restaurant bill whose total makes the economic crash look like a small parking-lot bump.

l My dogs have more comprehensive medical aid than me.

l I no longer wear kelp on my head when swimming in the sea. Playing the fool with ocean flora is strictly for out-of-towners and people from Bothasig.

l I shorten place names: Muizies, Gugs, Chappies. If you’re not Capetonian (as I nearly am) you’d be forgiven for thinking these are names of Smurfs. I also now know that Newlands Forest is just “the forest” (lower case for casual coolness), Table Mountain is “The Mountain” (upper case because it’s a Wonder of the World and is very, very special) and Rondebosch Common is “the Common” – and not, as some paranoid locals believe, now called Wanza Way or They’re Coming, They’re Coming Close.

l I have weird things in my kitchen: edamame beans, cacao nibs, acai berries, chia seeds. I don’t know what to do with them yet but am hoping that when I am 100 percent Capetonian, I will suddenly wake up with the knowledge I need.

l I like to spend time doing bugger all. Sometimes I do this in public places wearing appropriately oversized sunglasses. Other times I revel in me-time at home, mulching the vegetable patch and reading books on raw food while craving microwaved cheese on bread.

However, there are times when my Durban roots show. In those moments, I tear along the beach in my board shorts, flicking sand on waxed Germans, ruining games of beach bats and hollering “roti, roti”. Then I plunge into the sea and howl like a werewolf about how *&$%*@% cold it is.

helen.walne@inl.co.za