Durban

If this entry comes off as coloured slightly in the negative, it is possibly only partly the fault of the city – in Durban we had to endure the final in a series of camera woes, where we were charged R200 to be told Alanna's year-old Canon (which she'd carried from Port St. John's, where it came in contact with a very mischievous Indian Ocean) was basically unfixable. Alas. We've since shelled out for a new one and the photos will resume as we get up to date. Since we have no photographic evidence of Durban, I'll throw in some random photos of the trip so far, and we can all pretend they're relevant.

In Cape Town, in the Castle of Good Hope Prison. All the wooden beams in the cells were covered with delightfully typographic carvings, and were often not without a sense of humour.

In Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens, Cape Town. A botanist with some family issues?

We both knew little about Durban before embarking on our trip, but over the course of our journey it has earned itself a mediocre reputation, and looks to be hot on Joburg's heels as the least safe place in the country – the big wall-map at our hostel had suggestions of where not to go. Much of the tourism literature markets the city as a beach-time summer-fun city, less for backpackers and more for those with a vehicle and a family and an eye on resort accommodation. The city sports an urban beachfront in the tradition of Waikiki and Miami Beach, and dolphin imagery abounds.

Ostrich eggs at the supermarket in Outshoorn, the 'Ostrich Capital of the World.' R29 is about $4.

In Cango Caves, Outshoorn. Crawling through tiny holes very far underground, lots of fun!

Behind the beach, the downtown core is a dense grid of drab apartheid-era office towers, dusty Victorian architecture, and a significant (so we're told) number of Art Deco buildings, in all stages of repair and lack thereof. Like every South African hub, Durban is in the midst of a comprehensive facelift prior to the World Cup – most noticeably in the renaming of streets to reflect a more historically representative nation. Bid adieu to the anglo comforts of Alice Street and Point Road, say hello to Masabalala Yengwa Avenue. The marathon-long blocks are crammed with tiny businesses, and, as is common in these parts, those unable to afford retail space simply set up shop in the gutter. Opposite the supermarket a man had established his own, and on a shanty plywood table was milk, cheese and other perishables laid out in the 28-degree urban swelter. Cell-phone faceplates seem to be big business, and often we passed young guys on the sidewalk holding a single leather belt or polo shirt, ready for barter.

In Storm's River, among the drab general stores and tourism facilities there was a storefront dedicated solely to some guy's Cadillac collection.

A bathtub at the edge of a cliff at our hostel in Hogsback, a strange Tolkien-themed town way up in the forest. There was a drought and we'd have felt bad filling it up.

For those less keen on sandcastles, Durban's claim to fame is its Indian population, the largest outside of India. The city's novelty dish is 'bunny chow,' basically curry in a bread-bowl (which we didn't eat), and there are a few beautiful mosques around (which we didn't see). We spent most of our tourist hours trudging through areas we ought not to be, grappling with an info-booth clerk's incorrect directions to the pick-up point for a city tour (which we didn't find). The only real worthwhile thing we had time for was the Victoria Street Market, a two-storey curio mecca in a bland pinkish building. Apparently, the original market had a little more historical pizzazz, but became too unsafe for tourists, though the new one is still rather close to one of our hostel's no-go areas. Inside we browsed dunes of souvenirs: an endless maze of Big Five carvings and salad spoons. One can only hope whoever makes all this stuff is earning a fair wage. The rules of African retail apply, and if the stall owners were any more coercive they'd have lassos. We explored the less foreigner-centric fish and meat market next door, but the four-dozen-too-many severed sheep-heads on display (skin on, skin off, your choice!) made our visit somewhat brief.

At Bulungula we met Evan from Hamilton, Ont. who was in the process of fashioning a cribbage board with scrap wood and a hand-drill.

Stoney Ginger Beer is our carbonated beverage of choice in Africa. Spicy ginger bite, beats Canada Dry tenfold! They often come in reusable silkscreened glass bottles like the old days.

So that was Durban. I feel we didn't completely give it a fair chance, but even if we did, my guess is that the city's most appealing sides would reveal themselves only in the company of an experienced local. For us it was the place that stole our cameras away, the place that overcharged for minibus rides, the place where not even the tourist-centre staff seemed to understand the bewildering city grid.