I am in Cape Town now, attending a documentary festival called Encounters. It is not my first time in South Africa. I travelled to Durban once to interview Mangosuthu Buthelezi in the Devil's Advocate hot seat. It was not a politically wise thing to do - his supporters in the audience threatened to kill me after I reeled off the funds given to him and his organisation from the intelligence budget of the apartheid regime. Two days later, a member of his entourage shot up a studio at the national television station, by which time I was back in London.

As part of a showcase of documentaries, the organisers of Encounters chose two of mine, White Tribe, first broadcast on Channel 4, which records my journey around England in search of Englishness, and Trouble in Paradise, which records a journey through the Caribbean islands. I was at first puzzled by the choice. The old South Africa is stone-cold dead, kaput. Colours and creeds, so long separated, are encountering each other closely. Right here in the lobby of my hotel, a white woman and an African man were chatting cheerfully - almost like children who have met for the first time. I asked the man if he could have done that before apartheid. He would not have been allowed in the hotel, he said.

The old barriers that shaped and propped up identities have disappeared. No new identity has yet taken root; all is fluid. White Tribe fits the bill, holds up a mirror, for the most part, to the emerging South Africa. There is serious disengagement from loyalty to the ANC regime. Whereas this process took a long time in other post-independence colonial regimes, South Africans are raising torrid issues as I write.

The Cape Flats, not far from where I am, is one of the most violent places on earth. And the rise of Aids passes all understanding. Trouble in Paradise raises the same matters and strikes at the political leaders responsible. Some South Africans see in it a description of their own reality.

While here, I am tutoring four of the eight finalists who have been competing for a commission for a documentary of the judges' choice. The organisers received 200 treatments after a public call. Each treatment contains four, five, perhaps six stories, which makes me think of that old television programme, The Naked City. Oldies will remember the opening commentary: "There are a million stories in this 'naked city'. This is only one of them."

I felt particularly moved by John-John's story. He lived in Soweto, where a much older man took him under his wing. Thusi was a sangoma, a seer, of sorts, patronised by the middle classes and making loads of money. In time, John-John discovered Thusi was not married to the woman with whom he lived in Soweto. He had a wife back home in Natal. Thusi returned one weekend with John-John, who witnessed the most miserable living conditions. Thusi could have afforded much more, but lavished his money on the big spender with whom he lived in Soweto. John-John scolded him and the roles were reversed. He took Thusi under his wing, taught him to hide money in his shoes and much else. Then Thusi got sick. John-John stole him out of the house in Soweto and returned him to his wife, and then Thusi was "late". John-John meant he was dead. He still weeps.

South Africa's expanding film and television movement is hampered by a lack of investment, but there are major developments to applaud. This is a nation in the making, exciting at times, absolutely infuriating at others. Like Cape Town, it smiles sunnily in the morning, then degenerates into a clouded sulk in the afternoon before the cold and scary night. I will return, before long.

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