Just say no to bar parties.

I made one and only one Friday night foray onto the Cape Town bar strip. It was the weekend of Halloween and Kloof St was running rampant with pirates, werewolves and zombie hookers. They spilled from pounding purple blacklighted clubs and shouted from deck parties fenced with Edwardian-era wrought-iron railings. Along the length of the strip, neon-clad policemen stood by with semi-automatic weapons.

Accompanied by some fellow folks from my hostel, I ended up at a bar party at an “Irish” pub — The Dubliner. I made a solid attempt at dancing my pants off to mid-90’s fratboy hits, played off-beat and sung off-key by what looked like a father-son team.  The party was just starting to rage when I left at 2am, partially in disgust and mostly out of boredom. Outside, I heard a taser go off repeatedly and booked it without looking back.

So much for my first bar party ever. Fortunately, the day after this miss-spent evening in post-colonial, Fellini-esque hell was the best! Check out my soul-redemption here.

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