The sun sets over the distant horizon as I make my way through the narrow, busy streets of Khayelitsha’s Site C in my Uno Fiat. Smoke fills the air and the smell of braai meat is everywhere. Fruit stands abound; people cross the street without warning; minibus taxis zoom about, impervious to stop signs.

It must be close to 19:00 by now. I’ve been driving for nearly 30 minutes, on my way to Vicky’s Bed and Breakfast in one of Cape Town’s biggest informal settlements, where I am to spend the night. My crumpled page of directions flutters in the wind that’s blowing through my open window. I clutch onto it and the steering wheel for dear life – lose my way here, and I’m dead, I think to myself. I glance down at my lengthy sheet of instructions: ‘At stop street, turn right. Take the next left. Just before the Caltex, turn right. Take the fourth exit to the left. Pass the fire station, then take your third right. Go around the crescent. Vicky’s B&B is the big, double-story red shack on the right.’ No street names. Just plenty of left and right turns, and several chances to end up lost in a maze of the unknown. I swallow hard, trying desperately to concentrate on where I’m going and avoid killing any pedestrians along the way.

Sheep's heads: R36 a piece

And then, something inexplicable happens. I look around me, and time stands still. The sky is a brilliant pink and I am enveloped in a chaos so poetic, it’s almost unreal. To my right, the sun lights up a turquoise shack. In front of it, children are playing and two adults are selling what looks like sheep’s heads. To my left, a fruit seller is sitting on an empty blue crate. Everywhere, people walk about, talking loudly to each other. In the distance, music is playing; the base vibrates through my car seat. It seems like the most natural scene in the world. This is one of those moments, I think, that stays with you for life. It’s also a photographer’s dream, I realise. Suddenly and without warning, an unstoppable rush of adrenaline comes over me. I know I have only two or three minutes before the sun disappears, and this incredible light is wasted. I pull over to the side of the road, fumble for my camera and notebook, and jog towards the turquoise shack, my heart racing. People stare at me. I do a quick recon: I’m the only white person in sight. What the hell am I doing? I beg of myself.

*

Sheep's heads are dipped into barrels of boiling water and then laid out to dry.

My thoughts drift involuntarily back to the previous day, when I had interviewed Jenny ‘Nomvuyo’ Housdon, a white female guide who takes tourists into Khayelitsha. For seven years she had been showing visitors around the township. For seven years nothing had happened to her… Until, only two days prior to our meeting, she and her two Dutch tourists were held up at gun point outside a school in Khayelitsha.

“All I can remember is staring down the barrel of that gun, saying ‘Shoot me. Just shoot me.’ The tourists each had guns pressed to the back of their necks, their faces white as sheets.” The words left her mouth and I immediately wished that they wouldn’t have.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. How was I supposed to, knowing that I was going to spend the following night in the very township in which Jenny and her tourists had nearly been killed?

*

Sheep's heads laid out to dry

I shake off the feeling of having put myself in an incredible reckless position, and walk over to the people on the other side of the street. They eye me out, suspicious. And then, the woman behind the meat stand smiles at me and I am flooded with relief.

“Hi,” I say. “What are you selling?”

“Sheep’s heads,” she answers. “R36 a piece. Do you want one?” I giggle nervously and tell her “No, thanks. But I’d love to take some photos. How do you cook these?”

“Come, I’ll show you,” she answers and beckons me inside the turquoise shack. It’s empty inside, apart from the rows upon rows of dried-out sheep’s heads. I let out a small shriek and she laughs. It’s contagious. This was going to be an interesting evening.

Part 2 to follow.

Hannah Moore is a freelance journalist based in Cape Town, South Africa.

All photography is author’s own. Permission to re-use must be granted.