It was the early nineties, the interregnum. The old had passed and the new was not yet born.
Nelson Mandela had been freed from prison. But the shackles of the former system were still in place. Despite this, one could say the dove cot had been opened. And the winged beasts of the heart were set free, dappling the autumn sky.
I was working for a parastatal on an ad hoc basis on a project called “The State of Prostitution in South Africa,” specifically the section “Prostitutes and Female Clients.” None of the field workers wanted this section because it was not in vogue to think such a thing was taking place.
And how the word “prostitution” would later strike me as ill-fitting for the care and imaginative planning that went into some of these adventures.
So, I volunteered for the shunne
