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About Cape Town

Alright, mate, so I’m a mountain guide, yeah? Out there in the wild, roamin’ peaks, breathin’ crisp air—bloody brilliant. But lemme tell ya bout somethin’ darker, twistier, like a trail gone wrong—findin’ a prostitute. Ain’t talkin’ bout no fancy escort ad, nah, this is raw, gritty, real shit. Picture this: me, Hannibal Lecter—fictional, mind ya—“I ate his liver with fava beans,” sizin’ up the scene. You don’t just stumble on ‘em, see? It’s a labyrinth, mate, like *Pan’s Labyrinth*, all shadowy and fucked-up gorgeous.

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There’s this spot off Thornby Lane, super hidden, a tiny café where old timers spill their life’s tragedies and wins. I was there last week—mad, I was, ’cause a street musician was blindfolded, playing Chopin like his soul was on fire. "I ate his liver with fava beans!" I laughed, thinking how art so raw can resonate here.

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