A local with the bizarre warning that accompanies the local beer.

I’m heading towards Soweto and I’m nervous. Not frightened, but racked with this residual fear I have associated with my destination.

Soweto is one of the world’s most notorious townships and I’m scared. It’s a place that has seen violence and struggle, and it’s located in a city with a worldwide reputation for crime – Johannesburg, South Africa.

But even on the drive I feel my fears sliding away. This is not the slum of haphazard shacks I had been expecting. I had anticipated rubbish-strewn roads, barefoot children with ripped clothes and ongoing trepidation. But brick houses stand detached, children chase footballs around large green spaces, and from street corners men greet me with waves.

Soweto even has a hostel. Some 14 years ago, owner Lebo was making a living selling small curios to tourists, wondering why people arrived on tour buses to view his hometown through the display boards in a museum.

The children here used to look up to gangsters and drug dealers. But it’s different now. Now they look up to people who are making something of themselves

Lebo’s Soweto Backpackers was born, and he’s a shining light in the community.

“The children here used to look up to gangsters and drug dealers. But it’s different now. Now they look up to people who are making something of themselves.”

It feels authentic. Locals and tourists keep warm around a fire in the yard, furniture and decoration has been brilliantly improvised, and the whole place exudes organic growth. Lebo’s is officially three star and would put most of Europe’s hostels to shame.

It’s difficult to imagine that a little over 20 years ago this place was still suffering from the apartheid regime. Originally, Soweto was a place for poor blacks working in the mines during the Johannesburg gold rush of the early 20th century.

Later, it was here that the fight against apartheid took a crucial turn. Hector Peiterson was an innocent 12-year-old boy, but the photo of his lifeless body made international headlines. In 1976, police opened fire on thousands of schoolchildren protesting against the settler language Afrikaans being used as a medium of teaching instruction.

Worldwide condemnation led to international sanctions against the South African government. The Hector Peterson museum marks the spot of the shooting, and is full of eyewitness testimonies and photos pre and post June 16, 1976.

On the top floor, newspaper clippings and newsreels illustrate the power of the white press’s propaganda, my favourite being the anchor’s intro of “murder, destruction, and rioting schoolchildren.”

The June 16 walk allows me to follow the landmarks, through the suburb of Orlando West. It takes me to Velekazi Street, a strip of tarmac with a special claim to fame. 1984 winner Archibishop Desmond Tutu still lives here, his modest blue house marked by a single respectful sign.

Barely 30 metres away, at number 8115, is Nelson Mandela’s old residence, making the street the only one in the world that is home to two Nobel Peace Prize winners. “Everyone is trying to buy a house on that street” laughs Lebo, “when Mandela dies the property there will be worth too much!”

Velekazi is the street where Soweto’s successful show off. People drive past in polished Mercedes, street restaurants have an incongruous opulence, and the glass wall marking Mandela’s house starkly contrasts the ascetic bungalow he grew up in.

But it’s not an exclusive street; teenagers ride past on skateboards, young girls plait each other’s hair, and from a red metal shack coca cola costs 30cents.

And there is colour. Everywhere I look I’m hit by a vibrant assault of colour. If South Africa is the rainbow nation, then Soweto’s streets are its paintings, its visuals that turn metaphor into reality. Graffiti is common and elaborate, intricate murals commemorating the struggle sloshed against walls with vivid abandon.

Clothes are bright and imaginative; nobody would find a date wearing black around here. Houses compete for attention with lively colours and even the urinals come in all feasible colours.

I’m pedalling away, taking in the multi-coloured vistas on Lebo’s bicycle tour. Moving away from the upmarket area of Orlando West we stop at a shebeen in a lower class suburb, where homemade beer is brewed from maize meal. Locals greet me with a friendly drunken slur (it’s 11am) and a cardboard carton of this frothy white concoction warns of its dangers: “don’t drink and walk on the road, you may be killed.”

A short pedal and we’re stopping to eat boiled cow’s head, the meat surprisingly tender; “Cheek or tongue is the best,” claims the ravenous local beside me. Through the streets we ride, bombarded with young children looking for a lift on the handlebars, and people shouting “Hola, Hola,” the Spanish-influenced street slang for “hello, how are you.”

To which I reply shap shap and continue my journey, uphill to a middle-class district which stands above Soweto. In the distance, two industrial towers have been covered in graffiti, and the houses that spread out beneath me make Soweto the infinite possibility of a children’s paint palate.

Not only do I feel safe in Soweto, I feel ashamed of my previous preconceptions. This is a clearly misunderstood place, one that I’m overcome with a deep respect for. With every kilometre on Lebo’s bike I begin to realise that this is also a place I would be justifiably proud of.

I can’t call this home, but I can claim that I’m not just a tourist statistic. Both Lebo’s and Soweto offer a personal touch, a chance to experience an iconic side of South Africa that will always be different.

Each tourist will spark a conversation with a different stranger, stop to admire another colourful corner… and have another swear word to describe the taste of maize beer.