Nobody thought there would be a spectacle. But there must be limited entertainment options on a chilly Sunday afternoon in Cape Town. I had an a Media Pass but no directions. I was still google-mapping via non-3G Blackberry as we pulled into the Mowbray Golf Course and we were again reassured by the security that this was definitely, no definitely the place to park for Media. A brisk 20 minutes walk through 8 holes, and politely declining the complimentary Castle Light’s served cold at 11am on Hole 9, par 5. And now the only thing separating us from that elusive white-picketed media arena was a 6-foot Razor-wire perimeter fence. Some very friendly and well juiced Afrikaans gentleman, who parked their Toyota Hilux on the banks of the Canal, help me pass the girlfriend over the Razor fencing. This done with incredible dexterity, not once losing their left-hand grip on the camping mugs steaming with Ricoffy (read, Klippies).

The Cops were having a field day. All the toys were out. White SAPS choppers, railway ladder operation trucks, polished 9mm’s, flashing blue lights. Very eager to protect us, The Public. While scouting the previous day, I had a traffic cop chasing me down the N2 screaming and waving his wad of pink love slips like a Father screaming at that bratty child who opened the Christmas presents early. “A thousands Rands Fine, a thousands Rands fine… maaan! It’s Daaaangerrris”, in that flat Skottle-Vlei accent which is particularly Western Cape.

There’s a tented VIP area, with a fat gold PEPPER 1 Bentley park in front. The Media are hushed around to their side pen through the crowds. So many people and so many cameras. The Media are an interesting bunch. There’s a hierarchy. There’s are street rules. Actually, one main rule. The More SH*T you have, the more respect you get. It’s the same at the Fashion shows. Film and TV guys are at the top. Reels, generators, cabling, DOP’s, Focus-Pullers and Producers get you two things: 1. The Best Shot. 2. Respect. One step down the ladder are the magazine and newspaper photographers, who arrive early and squeeze their heavy Manfrotto tripods in between the Film crews, staking out their 3 square feet of Holy Land. It’s against the rules to talk or be friendly, unless it’s to your own production team. Then there are the amateur photographers, with enough clips, padded lens pockets, ring locked ND filter thingy’s and spare polarizers to start a home-based eBay. You just know this shot is going to be mandatory dinner table conversation for the rest of the school week. Last on the list are the bloggers, the YouTubers and the New Media freelancers, some dressed in wizard outfits. The old school media crowd know nothing about this new generation of weird and wonderful new media journos and generally give them little regard, letting them do what they want. We line along a long grassy wet bank, an inconvenient angle to the Towers. Some half-lost blond assist commits that horrible act of walking (with a Point and Shoot! the arrogance!) in front of the Camera line-up and a mass of burly bearded men roar and wave her down. There we stood, the crowds of Cape Town behind, huge outdoor speakers booming prison stories and quips about explosives and gangstas. Robbie “On Time, Every Time” Ross tells us how the towers would crumble gently helped by a few hundred kilos of explosives. Local residents clamber onto tin roofs.

4 minutes to go. The rain starts beating, I wrap a scarf around my camera to stop the streaming downpour, indecisively switching between 200 / 320 / and 400 shutter speeds and tweeting furiously. The Sun drifts in and out of the clouds, messing with my exposures.  And suddenly those towers come falling. A few cheers, waving arms. A swamp of shutters clicking.

A side Note: The power of twitter technology amazing. The original twitpic I shared 2 hours after the blast has now close to 4000 views and was retweeted over 230 times.