Century City

Century City shopping centre. Food courts and Tommy Hilfiger. A piece of middle America built on a swamp outside Cape Town. A shield as good as any from the reality of 21st century Africa.

Cousin says that here, you can only trust yourself. My new phone number won't send messages to the UK. But it sure takes money off none the less. Can I call anyone to complain about it? I can try, apparently. But I shouldn't hold my breath for a refund.

Last night we went to a party in the southern suburbs. Cousin is driving a spectacularly old red Toyota from the 80s. It's only got one sideview mirror and the radio is locked to this Christian station that preaches abstinence and piety. But the car works, which here is the most important thing.

At the party was this girl, a just-turned-eighteen mother-to-be, half austrian half south african, who was down visiting her sister. She had planned to move back down to South Africa, but the sprog had got in the way. Cape Town was no place to have a baby, she said. Instead she would stay with her parents in Austria and become a kindergarden teacher and read child psychology. With her tiny frame, swollen belly that even at six months still could have passed for puppy fat, long blonde hair and wide blue eyes, she was a nostalgic sight, exuding a sort of effortless optimism for the future.