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Published: October 29th 2014
Winnie’s guesthouse provided a comfortable night of rest, and an early start got me en route to Windhoek airport the next day.
The pre-arranged transfer for 6am Marcelino made was deemed a tad late for the new driver that turned up, and this mighty stature of a man got me there in breakneck speed, breaching red lights, shooing off salespeople drifting the way of our window at intersections, and having a stand-off with a young African driver at a toll gate.
The air was thick with expletives. Asked by the driver of my car to confirm the other driver’s driving as errant, I tentatively said “yes”, cowering in the car and willing them to settle down, followed closely by “Let’s go, now!” . Albeit late arriving, I got my aisle seat, flittered away my final 7NZD equivalent in Namibian rand at the café, and settled down next to some chatty Swedes.
Within 2 hours, we had arrived in the magnificent city of the Western Cape, and true to form and description, I was amazed. The ‘table cloth’ had been torn in half and the sun shone.
“Welcome, and where
are you from?”, said the customs man. “Australia?”
Bearing in mind I had handed him my passport and wore my now stained and dirt ridden NZ tee shirt, I found this bewildering. He genuinely thought we were part of Australia and under heavy control of the Queen. I put him straight about Commonwealth matters, told him in jest to wash his mouth out assuming I was Australian, and I was let in, jar of Namibian purchased olives included.
Picking up the rental care took a good hour thereafter, queues out the door and plenty frustrated murmurs being muttered, in Afrikaans. I collected my lifeline, the GPS, along with car keys, signed off the maximum insurance and theft waivers, and headed out into the great big wine bottle that was to be Cape town and the wine lands.
Paarl was the first stop and guided by the Avis representative, I took the R300 road across the flats to meet up with the N1, turning into a north-west direction against streams of accident related traffic. Once in Paarl around midday, I had a few hours to kill and so had a swim at
the local pool, stocked up on water and snacks and, realising I would only be another 2.5 hours to my destination, opted to back track after lunch and see Stellenbosch and Franschoek to make a decent day of it.
Glued to the TomTom, Stellenbosch drivers honked and tailgated, overtook on the inside, then I got a bit lost, and feeling frayed, pulled into the local shops for a cold smoothie and to recalibrate the agenda.
Wine purchasing was elected as option one, followed by olive oil tastings, scenery and photos. Taking absolutely no advice I pulled into one winery just before Franschoek which turned out a treat. Anthonij Rupert, sounding as pretentious as its façade looked, was on the inside counting as down to earth in many respects.
The cherry African entrance security guard logged me in on his clipboard, and asked me to state the reason for coming there. “Is the wine any good?” An expectant question was met with an affirmative and I held great hopes for the sangiovese blend and cabernet sauvignon, as I continued to wonder if anyone writes other than ‘wine’?
After tasting
(and rinsing, spitting!) 5 types, the earthy undertones of the heavy petit verdot got my taste buds humming, and at 10 years aged, I parted with about 40NZD for two bottles and some peppery extra virgin olive oil to make my backpack that bit fatter and heavier, and possibly me.
Continuing on to Franschoek, I climbed over the Pass, amazed by the rocky hills and winding road vista. Descending down into Villiersdorp, I could easily have been in Scotland. Hanging a left at the fork by Theewaterskloof dam, I turned towards the northern town of Robertson and eventually Ashton and Montagu by nightfall. The streets filled with supermarket shoppers, workers returning from the farm, young males on bikes, and confused navigators in rental cars trying to use a TomTom.
Ursula at Montagu Vines had nearly given up on me when I rolled in to the guest house just after 7pm, thinking the tour transfer debacle had reared its head which I had emailed her about. Instead I was met with a kind welcome and settled into a beautiful room and porch overlooking their olive orchard whilst the crickets and ripple of the river soothed
me to sleep.
Nearly resolved of my sleep debt, I rose to a stunner day, took on a breakfast to rival any boutique hotel, and headed on foot to the craft market, occurring once a week on a Saturday morning. I had struck the poets festival as well, and some authentic old folk at the park pushing a sales pitch for their home made relishes. Never one to not spend money at such places, I spread my value around, hoping to use these edible souvenirs before I left the country, come hell or NZ customs officers!
Bidding farewell to the South African family and stall holder I’d met that emigrated to NZ then returned, I hit the road bound for Swellendam, a historic town known for its especially Dutch heritage. Hill by hill I was blown away by the magnificent scenery, metaphorically and literally. It was 60 to 70 knot winds!
Leading onwards to Hermanus, I made a last minute decision to take a secondary unsealed road being worked by an all-African women gang of ‘stop/ go’ signs. This road became a blessing again with the scenery turning into that of
the name of the near town, Caledon (as in Caledonian). The Scots had laid their mark here too architecturally, excepting the up market iron roofed slums at the towns rear.
Driving west out of Hermanus, it suddenly became rugged coastal vistas, with the Botriver Vlei lagoon setting the start of the scenic roller coaster to come; the rocky Betty’s Bay, Hangklip, sunny Pringle Bay and turning north west, heavily swelled Rooiels and Gordon’s Bay. My baboon friends tried to hitch a ride with me, like the many human thumbs being held at onramps and intersections, but I continued alone, mesmerised by the view, and continuingly baffled with how to link my iTunes to the speakers.
Backtracking through the wine country of Stellenbosch and cutting into the Paarl Checkers market again for some supplies, I drove to Cape town in the setting sun, arriving at my oasis of an apartment, with washing machine, by nightfall. Tinashe the dreadlocked African concierge and Ma’a Nonu lookalike, acted quickly to arrange the next few days, and after abusing the washing machine, I fell into bedded bliss late, dreaming of jumping from Signal Hill the next day.
Weather plays a big part in Cape town’s activities. Calling on Manu at Cape town Tandem Paragliding early on Sunday morning, he ‘ummed’ and ‘aaaahhhed’ as to whether the jump would take place. Half an hour later, the off shore wind turned slightly onshore and calmed down such that throwing myself off a hill was worth a punt.
Excitedly, I drove up Signal Hill, passing streams of traffic on a brilliantly sunny morning, many clad in lycra straddling a bike or powering up Lions Head by foot, adjacent. After a few malfunctions with fitting my harness safely and correctly, I was declared ship shape and sufficiently signed of a waiver should I die in the descent.
My aptly named jump man, Frikie, and I clipped ourselves together and we began careering down the slope, my legs airborne as he shouted ‘come on, keep running!’. With herculean effort, the grunting and running was soon transferred into flight, the silence and gentle breeze carrying us down within about 4 minutes, all the while captured on Go Pro for posterity. High five Frikie, I’m alive!! He tore up the waiver and we parted, lacking in the
need for any coffee thereafter.
Having some spare time before the car was due back, I trekked up Lions Head, the day heating up and the crowds swelling. By 11am I had knocked off the second highest peak in Cape town and retired to the downtown area to return the car and meander. Ending up at the Green Point Active Gym and Pool, I hung out with the buffed, beautiful and surgically enhanced, of many colours, and pondered when exactly the South African Cricket Team trained there as I my informants had told me.
Pre booking an afternoon Cape tour, I was collected by a friendly guide, Tony, of African Eagle Safaris. Our bus soon became a united nations of girls and guys, and by hook or by crook, the traffic jams were not going to deter our itinerary! Camps Bay was heaving with the same bikini clad demographic who hung out at Green Point, with paddle boarders relishing the smooth seas, and surfers catching waves in a small adjacent cove.
Jealous of such a short time at the beach, our tour weaved all the way to Cape of Good Hope
through Hout Bay, with its military history, and Simons town on the eastern coast. The wind was savage and hair styles soon out of place. We finished with the African penguins at Boulder beach, the time lingering as much as their smell, and with the sun at our left, returned late back to town for tea and bed soon after.
Washing machine contingencies seen to, I met up with Jon and Lyn from the Namibia cycle tour as we had planned to visit Robben island where Mandela was imprisoned, pre booked due to the high demand. The grey day that greeted us was luckily accompanied by smooth seas, the critical factor when leaving the coast for 11km in this, at times, wild and woolly body of water.
Once scanned through an X ray machine, with an accidentally placed picnic knife in my pack, we were all aboard the sea borne ark, circa 1900, with a female pilot at the helm. After a chilling 40 minute crossing, we alighted to a cheery African named Lucas who sent us on to his friend Sipo, the prison guide and ex prisoner himself. Sipo had a wicked sense
of humour and we had a witty and most informative commentary about inmate life in the 1960s to 1990s, even if he did mix his tenses up.
Llewellyn was the next guide, driving with us around Robben island, and sharing the history of Mandela in his simple prison existence, no doubt running his metal cup along the railings, engaging in politically themed meetings throughout, and throwing tennis balls over the walls as message conveyors! Surviving on an unequal and rationed diet of 4 to 8 ounces of mealie meal, a typical day would be under the close eye of a white warden, guns at the ready, whilst Mandela dug a hole in the quarry in relative isolation. At 4:30, they were locked in their cells with a chamber pot and thin fabric to lie on.
By the loose African time of 2:15pm, we returned on the 2 pm sailing equally chilled and relieved of a good wad of tip money. As they said, the boat won’t tip and turn but you can tip the crew!
As conditions prevailed favourably for doing Table mountain, but time precluded a hike, I made a
mad dash for a taxi, the summit clearly in view. A Congolese man took me there in what was becoming heavy city traffic at 4pm, and by 4:15pm, feeling generous by giving him an extra 30 rand, I was queuing for the famous European made rotating gondola.
The magnificent view at over 1000 metres met all my expectations and more. After a short bout of navel gazing and photo swapping, we plummeted by return gondala to ground level, I returned to base with an immigrant Pakistani driver, and got sorted for dinner drinks with Lyn and Jon. Together we mulled over a glass of Fat Bastard shiraz, nibbles and photos before greater hunger lead us to an alcohol free Muslim joint around the corner. Truffles was its name, and although alcohol free and unintentional, it was a great final night feast with enjoyable traveling company.
Fog met the last day in Cape town and the table cloth clearly had been draped extra wide, over Seapoint and the Victoria and Alfred (V and A) waterfront. I took a jog, actually a shuffle (the first in a month!) whilst workers walked to work, ship workers toiled
on their vessels, homeless people relocated for the day, and Jeeps and Mercedes drove past.
Ending at the local shops on what became a failed springbok pate mission, I dunked myself in the plunge pool, packed and had ample time to meet my Pakistani driver for the airport transfer before midday. We talked. He had big ideas for his future having been retrenched to drive taxis and not become a statistic of one of the 31%+ of unemployed South Africans. Sadly, ageism is alive and well here as any other developed country and being that he had the pleasure to meet me (!), his day was made even better with an extra 10 rand and ripening avocados as his tip!
So I'm at the end
A trip to Cambodia soon is planned
Johannesburg I survived
The stations were always manned
Madagascar delivered
On lemur wildlife
Baobabs and a genuinely nice guide
Air travel free of strife
Namibia was vast
Seen from a mountain bike seat
Sand, canvas and an amorous porter
We battled dust and heat
Then onto
wine and civil living
I washed and shopped and saw
This dry continent hits you, chest centre left
As scenic and warm as raw
Until Indochina, Totsiens.....
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