DAY 146: So I was sitting in the kitchen with my roll and Marmite for breakfast. At the table was one of my dormmates, Farhad, a fortysomething South African from Ladismith in town to do the famous Cape Argus bike race the next day. Farhad, a second-generation South African of Indian descent -- one of the bigger ethnic groups in South Africa -- was a teacher and taught me a few things about the days of apartheid.

"In 1987, I worked in an Indian school. There was the Indian school and the African school and they were always separated," he said. The Indian professor continued by telling me that although apartheid is officially over, the mentality is still the same; the Indians have been conditioned to hate the blacks, the blacks to hate the whites, and the white to hate them all. But it wasn't like they chose to think this way; it was all because of the legal system before 1990.

"It was the same thing in the States," I started, feeling all historian-like. "It really won't change until the next generation is born. It will happen over time."

As Jason the traveller in my hostel said, "Some people don't Afrikaans. Hmm... could it be because it's the language of the oppressors?"

It was interesting being an American in South Africa because both countries have a similar history of racial segregation -- the U.S.A. was just thirty years ahead of the game, and even now, things aren't totally perfect in racial equality. It's a slow process of mentality change that can only happen as the younger generations get older and weed out the old ideas.

AFTER READING A BOOK AT POOLSIDE, I managed to take a nap in the daytime by wrapping my fleece around my head. Refreshed, I got myself ready to go out that night, the first stop being the bar at the hostel, the perfect place to see those of the young generation. Ingmar the Dutchman was tending bar, chatting with me and his off-duty co-worker Eve, from France, and Anna, a local girl born and raised in Cape Town. As soon as she told me where she was from, I had one thing to say to her:

"I have a friend who's unemployed in New York, and he wants to buy you a drink," I said to Anna at the request and expense of Blogreader matto.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, he sent me money to buy drinks for local African girls."

"I'll have an Amstel then," she requested. Ingmar served it up.

"His name is Matt O'Grady," I said. "He's Irish, but he doesn't drink beer."

Anna told me that she too had roots in Ireland -- she even had an Irish passport so that she could travel more freely than a South African. With this Irish connection, she toasted her beer up to matto. "Tell him that I will fondle him telepathically."

"Fondle him telepathically?"

"Yeah."

Anna finished her Amstel and went off with her African friend -- it was great to see the two races of the next generation go off together -- whether she was busy fondling matto in her mind through telepathy or not.

SPEAKING OF PEOPLE NAMED "MATT," I rememberd that another Matt, Matt from Hout Bay, invited me to his band's gig at a bar called Rafiki's that night. I ventured off to the Park Inn Hotel to tell Steph that they would be playing she should come out with the Rutgers crew. Steph was on her way out to the try and get rugby tickets when I got there. I gave her the directions.

JASON, THE TEXAS EX-PATRIATE that now lived in Rhode Island, U.S.A. and worked for British Airways, had made reservations at Mama Africa, a fancy restaurant that required reservations for their famous traditional African cuisine. I joined him, English paleontologist Richard and DJ Verne that did weddings and bar mitzahs. As an African reggae band played (picture above), we dined on fine cape wines and African fare -- I stuck to seafood being in a seafood-kind of town, with snoek pate and linefish with coconut sauce.

At the table next to us, there were about a dozen Irish nurses of different age groups. I chatted up one of my generation, Claire, who complimented me on my teeth of all things before telling me to sit in her lap for a photo -- meanwhile, my all-guys table had already finished dinner and were about to head out. It was only about eleven and I was about two hours late from Matt's gig at Rafiki's.

"Come and meet me at Rafiki's," I told Claire.

"Spell that?"

"Rafiki. Like the baboon in The Lion King."

"Oh, 'no need to worry about it, it's in the past' Rafiki?"

"Yeah."

I dashed off to the bar with the name of an animated baboon, hoping to see her later. Richard, Verne and Jason weren't too keen on seeing the band and went their own ways.

RAFIKI'S WAS ABOUT EIGHT BLOCKS AWAY and when I got there there was not much going on but people drinking and shooting pool. There was no live music -- or even a trace of it -- and the bartender even told me that they had no bands perform that night. I didn't know what the reason was for Matt's absence, but I ran off to tell the others not to go there anymore.

Claire and The Irish Nurses were still at Mama Africa drinking wine. I told them that Rafiki's was off and that I'd be right back to hang out -- I just had to walk over to the Park Inn Hotel and leave a message for Steph not to go to see the band. As I was writing the note to her at the front desk, I bumped into her professor, Dr. Banerjee, coincidentally another teacher of Indian descent like Farhad. "Hey Erik, can I buy you a drink?"

My brain automatically responds to this question with "Yes," like a reflex. Never turn down a free beer.

I sat at the hotel bar for a quick drink with Dr. Banerjee, or Dr. B as they all called him. I figured Claire and The Irish Nurses would still be drinking at Mama Africa and could contact them right after a quickie.

Dr. B and I got to talking about politics and race relations in America and South Africa. One by one, the Rutgers students came back to the hotel and found us. They were all gathering together to go out dancing again -- this time, they even asked Dr. B to come along. After they told me where the club was located, I ran back to Mama Africa to ask out Claire. But alas, The Irish Nurses were gone.

NO MATTER, I went back to hanging out with the Rutgers cast at a club called Baseline, a club that locals raved about, away from the backpacker district. The dance floors were full of locals of the young generation, and for the most part, the groups of races were integrated on the two floors of the club with the bass of the music uniting them all. There were still little groups of one particular race, and so the Rutgers cast set the example for integration on the dance floor -- Rutgers is the state university of New Jersey, one of the real melting pots of different races in the United States, and it is seen very much so in its younger generation. (Plus, who else but New Jersey would set the example to grinding and spanking and the exposure of nipples?)

The night went on and we danced and hung out on the terrace amidst the next generation of Cape Town. I paid back Dr. B for his beer with a round of shots for him and the gang. I also offered three local African girls drinks courtesy of a certain unemployed dude in New York City, but all three declined it.

In the end, it was a pretty good night out, although it was a shame I couldn't find Claire or any of The Irish Nurses.

I suppose I'll just have to fondle them telepathically.

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