"Stragglers and strandloopers, carrying eons of cumulative Durban tan on their leathery backs, hid from the storm, mollusc-like, in the cracks and fissures that scarred the Art Deco masterpieces of yesteryear. Hard-shelled membranes, earned over countless hungry days in the Durban sun, buried these coastal-homeless in the night. Their living was paid in skin and the detritus of once used ice-cream wrappers, which the rain swept over the promenade into gurgling drains, giving them a unique camouflage amid the lazy half-darkness of the morning, concealing all but their eyes from the storm that raged around them. There’s heat there, oh there’s heat, but it’s a different kind. Heat that oozes out of the sand like a burp, infusing inauspiciously with the sea air as if it thought no one was watching. Heat that makes you sweat the kind of sweat you only smell here at the end of North Beach, Durban." 

-  A Place Where Nothing Ever Happens