Capetown peaks and troughs

I had been warned by an ex South African to be wary in Capetown.  Although sleek and tourist oriented there is huge poverty under the surface and on no account must we take taxis. Hire a car.  I bought us all light down jackets with Caiden’s being fluoro orange to give us a sporting chance in case of a kidnap.  Actually we did take taxis and they were very good, thanks to an app not unlike Uber.  You could watch them come on the phone and check the number plate when they did. 

Although my initial fears seemed groundless in the part of Capetown we were staying, I felt an unease. Actually the area wasn’t sleek but quite old, with a lot of the buildings just slightly shabby and repurposed for restaurants and tourist souvenir shops There were some people begging who really looked sick and needing money.  I took to tucking a hundred rand note into my bra so as to be able to discreetly quiet my conscience without attracting attention.  But it didn’t help much. I felt guilty for being what I was, white and looking for nice food and novelty in this place where so much wrong had been done in the not so distant past by people like me.

The trip to Table Mountain was a delicious reprieve from all that anxst.  Caiden was strapped into what we all called “business class”, in his very comfortable stroller and then we got a taxi and made our way to the cable car at the foot of the mountain.  It was a cable car like no other I’d seen – a big glassy chamber that actually rotated as it rose up the rocky mountainside.  We were a mixed but merry group inside.  Residents of Capetown have a special cheap fare and there were locals as well as Americans, Swedes and all sorts.  As we rose the city diminished below and ascent became a light hearted tourist thing to experience. One moment we faced the rock and the next a magnificent vista taking in the town and lands beyond.  I have to say it took me a minute to realize we were rotating and I wasn’t losing my balance in some strange way.  Just before we stopped at the top we were addressed by our cable car captain in a languid voice and told the rules. “You must not feed the animals or they will eat you. You must not smoke crack cocaine and do not make any babies on the mountain”  This laconic humour was lost on a couple of Americans one of whom I heard saying to the other “So it’s OK to have fun as long as you are careful.”

The flattish top of the mountain had the special beauty that places which have been visited over generations often have. The paths were established and the terrain had graciously soaked up the wonder of the thousands who have visited it.  It reminded me a little of the Blue Mountains or the Jenolan Caves for that reason.  Caiden learnt a new word which he pronounced with profundity from business class “Beautiful”  And the views were just that – craggy and vast and eternal with air that was fresh and easy to breathe.  Yet close up the land up there had great interest too.  There were funny little creatures not unlike guinea pigs (but apparently related to elephants) called dassies that nibbled the tough looking vegetation known as fynbos – a Dutch word for fine leaved plants.  There were shiny black birds with delicate beaks.  I was surprised to see wildlife in this rocky and dry terrain.  The human life was surprising too, some people striking attitudes on the strangely shaped rocks so that phone photos could be taken, others just gazing and feeding off the peace.

Coming down was very much coming down to earth with bus fumes and getting back to the town to find some food. 

Mention must be made about Capetown food.  Almost without exception it was very good and not at all expensive.  That day we went to a tapas bar named Fork where I had the very best smoked salmon I have ever eaten.  Everywhere was cheaper than one would expect and South African wine is lovely.  Nevertheless I was aware that the eaters were almost always white and those who served us were not and this awareness would trigger a little cascade of unease which no amount of brisk self talk about the benefits of tourism could quite allay.  I began to long to be ordinary and not privileged and I became hugely grateful for small encounters that indicated friendly acceptance.  One of these sticks in my mind.  We were in a shopping precinct that was once dockland but is now full of upmarket shops and has a ferris wheel and an aquarium.  Ed and Jun were after stuff to replenish their household in Gabon and I drifted along with them.  I always wear an olive coloured akubra hat these days to keep the sun off my face.  My longish silver hair alleviates its rather masculine look and I feel happy in it.  A young black shop assistant with very short hair came up to me laughing “I like your hat. It looks so soft. Can I feel it?”. “Here – try it on” I said and we both went over to the mirror as she did so.  She chortled as we could both see how it didn’t suit her at all.  Without long hair it looked almost military “It’s so big!” she said.  We went our ways but I was uplifted by the little female collaboration.  In Sydney this kind of trivial empathy is the backdrop of daily life but not in Capetown.

Another happy time was when Jun and I took the excellent hop on hop off bus that runs around Capetown every fifteen minutes.  It has a commentary in multiple languages. “Look, I’m listening in Japanese” said Jun with a grin.  Caiden went straight to sleep so he didn’t get the benefit of all we saw which included stately colonial edifices as well as the desolate inner city wasteland which was once the exuberant multicultural District 6. It was evacuated and bulldozed during the apartheid era and its residents relocated on the Cape Flats, 25 kilometres away. Despite its prime position the land remains unused “just grass and weeds” as the commentary put it. “And perhaps that’s how it should be”.

Jun, Caiden and I got off at Clifton because we wanted some beach action for Caiden.  There are lots of beaches in the area, all a bit different and we found one with lots of shady rocks and pools and an exciting tide that swept in and out of gullies.  There were plenty of children there constructing dams and darting about on the edge of the sea.  It was too cold for swimming as the water temperature is affected by the melting ice of the not that distant South Pole.  A group of black kids of about eleven or twelve were larking about and I noticed the girls were quite uninhibited about their developing breasts and played like proper children.   How unlike the little bikinied creatures that we see on our beaches.  How free they were.

We caught a glimpse of the lovely Botanical Gardens donated to the country by Cecil Rhodes who had hoped to turn all Africa into a British colony.  We resolved to go back another day as well as go to the aquarium and visit the District 6 Museum.  We’d also been told not to miss having high tea in the splendid Lord Nelson Hotel.  All these things we did and I’ll blog them next time.  Bye for now. I need to buy some skim milk.