Neighborgoods Market Cape Town - a look from the inside
The Biscuit mill, Woodstock. My goodness...How many times haven't I stood here, selling - or trying to sell - leather bags to preppy tourists- I'm surrounded by posers, hipsters, freaks and rich bankers and lawyers from Europe and Britain, by students from America swooping and "whoop whooping" through the isles like they're the coolest kids in the Mother City, but trying to pick up a cheap deal as if they were at a church fair or a rummage sale. You'd think they could support local people. Nope. They're all out for themselves, and what they can get, for free if possible. And they'll only buy stuff if it really makes them looks edgy
The Old Biscuit Mill is a pretentious affair. A food court full of expensive wares is on one end, like organic Kale and Mushroom Burgers for ten times the acceptable price. But the joint I always have to go to is burger place. I do so simply out of desperation because my mornings are fraught, I'm tired and not getting paid much for the company I work for, called Dark Horse *now no longer there (11/07/2021) as they overcharge people. Even though I'm a loyal customer who goes there weekly,.The Revolution Burger Stand still charges me an exorbitant fee. They will not drop the price of the breakfast burger for me - only for someone who can earn them some sort of street cred or furnish a connection for them internationally - but they claim it's because it attracts more people asking for discounts. As I say, everyone's out for themselves.
Fucking hell.
How cold these streets are, how cold the people... South Africans, despite what you may have heard are Xenophilic, almost to a fault. They hate their own people in favor of Americans who are considered cooler. I am among the haters number. And as for me? A local? Heh I show up with two tubs of bags for the company I work for which just about risk injuring me, for dark horse- some so-and-so company hoping to crack into the international bag market - how useless am attempt, I realise, putting up the flags bearing their brand on the stands, tired, depressed, and surrounded by rich, showy university kids, also trying to be the Creme-de-le-karem of Cape Town's hip and happening fraternity.
Ben who runs the show the, a role bequeathed to him by some queer couple from the Cape Quarters who started the market in 2011 comes out of the woodwork to greet me, his curly, seemingly permed hair wobbling and flopping on top of his mustachioed face. "How's it going Dude?" "Well and you Ben?" I reply guardedly. I feel like the guy hates me. Although he did buy me a beer that one time. I saw him at a preppy venue called Assembly * now also nonexistent - and his friends, even though I'm as straight as an arrow, were shouting homophobic slurs at me, jealous because I was with a girl who they thought was more pretty than anyone they could get that night. They had no other way of putting me down other than shouting to the girl: "Hey! So you're with these faggots" referring to me and the people I was with. I don't trust Ben. I never have, since that evening. How can you take a clown like this seriously? Ben the stoner cum Mushroom eater, as mellow asf, runs the mill on a Saturday. You'll find him there any given morning, once a week. He runs the Neighborgoods market. That's when he's not gallavanting to the US so he can brag about what hip people he's met when he gets back and play the top hits of Portland on the pair of speakers that adorn the balcony above the neighborgoods fashion section.
I know this place like the back of my hand now. The only reason I work there is because I thought it was authentic. But I've learned a brutal lesson now. Effortless cool does not mean authentic. I don't want to be left out in the cold. No one does. But so far, I've learned that being a straight up genuine person is being a turd in the punch bowl here.
Fucking hell! There must be some meaning to this place, or is it just that? The veneer of good healthy creative lifestyles. A veneer perfected. The girls are worth going for though. The beautiful people always hang out here. I always try my luck at the stand. Sometimes I'll manage a date with someone who thinks I'm cool because I work at the Biscuit Mill. Get just one of these girls and you're made for the summer. One Italian guy thought I was trying to steal his wife this morning. Social dynamics. You know the world is a fucked up place when a rich man feels he has to grab his wife by the arm to get her away from you. I couldn't care less. What does it matter anyway? Let him think what he wants.
Fucking hell. I didn't sell a thing and it's already 12:00. What do I do? I march over to the beer tent of course. And I get a beer, and I get tipsy and free. Now I'm like these people. Fake and trouble-free. I take that beer and I go back and I laugh and joke with all the preppy kids at the stands. I get a bunch of them laughing. Of course it's still not enough to be considered part of the "in-crowd". As far as the customers go, they buy from me because they actually trust me this time. Most times people don't trust a guy who wants to uncover their superficiality. I'm too drunk to care right now.
Fucking hell.
How cold these streets are, how cold the people... South Africans, despite what you may have heard are Xenophilic, almost to a fault. They hate their own people in favor of Americans who are considered cooler. I am among the haters number. And as for me? A local? Heh I show up with two tubs of bags for the company I work for which just about risk injuring me, for dark horse- some so-and-so company hoping to crack into the international bag market - how useless am attempt, I realise, putting up the flags bearing their brand on the stands, tired, depressed, and surrounded by rich, showy university kids, also trying to be the Creme-de-le-karem of Cape Town's hip and happening fraternity.
Ben who runs the show the, a role bequeathed to him by some queer couple from the Cape Quarters who started the market in 2011 comes out of the woodwork to greet me, his curly, seemingly permed hair wobbling and flopping on top of his mustachioed face. "How's it going Dude?" "Well and you Ben?" I reply guardedly. I feel like the guy hates me. Although he did buy me a beer that one time. I saw him at a preppy venue called Assembly * now also nonexistent - and his friends, even though I'm as straight as an arrow, were shouting homophobic slurs at me, jealous because I was with a girl who they thought was more pretty than anyone they could get that night. They had no other way of putting me down other than shouting to the girl: "Hey! So you're with these faggots" referring to me and the people I was with. I don't trust Ben. I never have, since that evening. How can you take a clown like this seriously? Ben the stoner cum Mushroom eater, as mellow asf, runs the mill on a Saturday. You'll find him there any given morning, once a week. He runs the Neighborgoods market. That's when he's not gallavanting to the US so he can brag about what hip people he's met when he gets back and play the top hits of Portland on the pair of speakers that adorn the balcony above the neighborgoods fashion section.
I know this place like the back of my hand now. The only reason I work there is because I thought it was authentic. But I've learned a brutal lesson now. Effortless cool does not mean authentic. I don't want to be left out in the cold. No one does. But so far, I've learned that being a straight up genuine person is being a turd in the punch bowl here.
Fucking hell! There must be some meaning to this place, or is it just that? The veneer of good healthy creative lifestyles. A veneer perfected. The girls are worth going for though. The beautiful people always hang out here. I always try my luck at the stand. Sometimes I'll manage a date with someone who thinks I'm cool because I work at the Biscuit Mill. Get just one of these girls and you're made for the summer. One Italian guy thought I was trying to steal his wife this morning. Social dynamics. You know the world is a fucked up place when a rich man feels he has to grab his wife by the arm to get her away from you. I couldn't care less. What does it matter anyway? Let him think what he wants.
Fucking hell. I didn't sell a thing and it's already 12:00. What do I do? I march over to the beer tent of course. And I get a beer, and I get tipsy and free. Now I'm like these people. Fake and trouble-free. I take that beer and I go back and I laugh and joke with all the preppy kids at the stands. I get a bunch of them laughing. Of course it's still not enough to be considered part of the "in-crowd". As far as the customers go, they buy from me because they actually trust me this time. Most times people don't trust a guy who wants to uncover their superficiality. I'm too drunk to care right now.
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