More on our trip to the Arts Fesival.
Grahamstown is a small place, its the sort of small that makes you believe you'll always know where you are, and that maps are for sissies.
In the same way that Grahamstown's dimensions are comforting, Pete's choice of car turned out to be a bit misleading too. Once I realised that I was infact disorientated, I decided to follow-that-Polo to the next venue. We were pleased to see that Pete et al had waited for us a short way down the road, en route the next show.
This appreciation vanished like the puff of a leather goods salesman's pipe in a strong wind, when the Polo pulled over and an old man climbed out. It seems this old man and his equally advanced travel-mates had lead us astray. Literally.
We then confidently set off in a general direction, in search of the Victoria Theatre.
Finding your way around a foreign town involves an element of voodoo, and in our case feelings and hunches were the only tools we had at our disposal. I think someone even said "im sure its down here, it makes sense". Hows that for precision navigation.
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