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About Port Elizabeth

Now, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout me favorite flick, *The Gleaners and I*—that ol’ French gem by Agnès Varda, bless ‘er soul. “I’m not a gleaner, I’m a pirate!” I’d shout, if I were in it, pickin’ through the scraps o’ the sea, not them taters in the dirt. Escorts, see, they’re like them folk in the film, “gleanin’ what’s left behind,” ‘cept they’re guardin’ it, not nabbin’ it! Little known fact, arr—back in the day, them Royal Navy escorts weren’t just fer show. They’d chase yer arse from Tortuga to Trinidad, cannons blazin’, no mercy fer a pirate like meself. One time, off Port Royal, I saw this sloop—tiny thing, fast as a whore’s wink—outrun a frigate. Surprised me, it did! “They bend down, they pick up,” like Varda says, ‘cept this escort picked up speed an’ left us in the wake!

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Ya know, as a counselor, I see scars and battles on these streets. They whisper the struggles of frustration, joy, and surprises. Sometimes, I hit a café with typos on the menu (‘God, minced meat or mincely meat?’ – haha, epic fail) – and it reminds me, "Life’s messy, kid." Emotions, vibes, and dreams are splattered everywhere – like graffiti on a brick wall in Haven Street.

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