I too remember the hot box. Albeit vaguely. The first time I entered it...Well I can't remember. I do remember Krist was the one who told me about it. We used to smoke weed down at "Do not use this area as a toilet - no rain falls here" but it stank of urine, and we were glad to find a new spot to toke.

The next thing I remember is putting my hand through a huge glass window...watching as it shattered and splintered around my hand, leaving me unscathed. Those were the days of invulnerability for all of us; none of us were arrested, beaten or thrown in jail, no matter how hard we tried.

As did trembling I lost two years of my life for that goddamn place. And it was wonderful.

We made 2 metre long dope pipes with cardboard and broken bottles, bongs out of traditional African gourds, played soccer with a big ball of fluff, composed industrial music with sticks and rubbish bins and developed intricate plans to steal biltong from the shops downstairs.

There seemed to be no end to it all, until the SRC moved the Rockery to the D.J Duplussis building, far away from the campus with all the girls, and the dealers with cake tins full of swaz. Only a few Boxers remained. The rest had gone on to get jobs in local supermarkets or gone back to high school to regain their short-term memory. Some of us had even become full-time law students.

The Hot box is no more. In its place is a branch of Standard Bank, ever permeated by the smell of dope, the taste of biltong and half forgotten good memories.