The woman from my balcony is just a story I see from my window. A woman, like so many here, living on the street, keeping your belongings in a culvert and waiting for her life consumed. Took a year looking at what makes "women from my balcony".

Cape Town is a city created the world remains, lives arrivals from afar, opposing cultures, Goodie, meaningless laughter, desires. It is the history of Angolan driver who wants to be millionaire, the synagogue, the Muslim Quarter and the smell of species.

Back to walk down the street with guys who follow your trail asking you to give them something to justify their steps (are often hungry types, others with faces and, almost always, with serious alcohol problems); up to a new, empty bus because whites continue to use their cars and their minibus blacks ...

Back to Africa. Maybe back to Africa unless all imaginable Africas. In my Africa, on your skin, There are bars in which fuses look, linen napkin restaurants and painted lines on roads. All that awaits me back in Cape Town: European complexion, however, observed a black soul.