Cagers in the Cape - Ready to Leave - 10 Oct 2002
Stuck in Cape Town
How to win the lottery
Fi had a birthday
New surroundings, new characters
Back on 4-wheels
And they're off
A budding Sidmouth
Back to nature
Perfect Day
Perfect Town
Mission 'Penguin'
Mad Bib
Finally Cape Point
Eating in Style
Apprehension
In the last week we seemed to have done very little, trying to sort out the shippage of the bike, has meant a lot of to-ing and fro-ing from one place to another apparently getting nowhere fast. On top of it all, the bike seems to be cultivating electrical faults. It now has a reconditioned rotor, a new voltage regulator, new battery and still it isnít charging properly. The latest advice is that it is a short in the wiring. So Pat has spent the last 2 days checking each possible source of the short and failed to find it. Needless to say, heís a little frustrated and Iíve spent my time, mending everything in our limited wardrobe that could be mended, and reading.
We have had some respite from the tedium. It appears that we are residing in the gay areas of town, which has the bonus that there are a lot of nice eateries, and bars, not to mention a plethora of camp people to entertain us.
Some folk we last saw for about 5 minutes in Fish River Canyon emailed us and invited us to a party. Surprisingly, there was a disappointing lack of limp wrists and an unsurprising lack of black faces. The party was in aid of finishing student exams, and a birthday. This should suggest the age group; we did feel a little old. Graydon and Michael had plans to travel up through Africa in the reverse of our route and quizzed on the pros and cons of different bikey things. They appeared to be in awe of us and the bike by repeating in a drunken slur ëI canít believe this bike/you have come through Sudaní and then 5 minutes later ëI canít believeÖ.í.
Due to the recent spate of problems with the bike, I find it hard to believe, too. Let us hope that Bertha is simply yearning for a new continent.
For the most part people in SA seem to assume that we have shipped the bike down here, and are disbelieving when they realize that we have arrived by land. This does I have to confess makes me feel a warm glow of achievement, even more so when I peruse a world map and remind myself of just how big this continent is.
The thing that I find strange is that the first question after the truth has sunk in is ëIsnít it dangerous?í or ëWerenít you attacked?í Now I had been under the impression that Cape Town, Nairobi and Joíberg are listed as some of the most dangerous cities in the world. The fact that 2 of these are in SA, it seems strange that South Africans think the rest of Africa is dangerous! Thatís the media for you.
At our hostel, there was a man with an interesting sense of reality. He has a mission to preach to the world, and on our first meeting was quizzing Dave about the prospect of using the Hot Rock truck as a literal vehicle for his calling. The Hot Rockers are lovely people, but missionaries they are not. Dave tried to remain as polite as possible, whilst trying to convince him that it may be not his kind of thing. Since he had diligently sat through all of Melís videos of their adventures, it should have been clear to him that they are probably not the converting types. At one stage he asked ëdo you have a schedule of the fun times, so that I know when to join the truck?í
The reply was simply that all the times are mad fun times. He looked a little perplexed and backed off his intended joining of the truck. He made friends with one and all with his forthcoming lottery win. So sure was he of his good luck (he has had SMS messages from the big fella upstairs giving him advice on the choice of numbers) he bought beers for one and all. For once in my life I declined the offer of a beer. I simply could not bring myself to fleece this poor soul out his money.
After the draw of the lottery, there was clearly a serious mistake. He had not won. Ah, there was obviously a conspiracy at the TV Company and they had broadcast a spurious set of numbers in an attempt to stop him winning. His response was to plan the engagement of a lawyer to pursue his rightful claim. After all, God was on his side. I doubt if he would have turned up to give evidence though.
As the days wore on it became clear that he was 'not quite with us'. Eventually he was seen disappearing for a consultation with his doctor who one can only assume was of the white coated variety.
I felt for the poor chap. It must be hard, wanting to save the world and truly believe that God has provided the means to you, only for the TV Company to con you out of it. The man must live a stressful life always on call to the frequent text messages for God (his sister in reality).
Not unsurprising, that. Most of us do - until we don't. As the Hot Rockers were departing to points north, south?, east and west, it seemed appropriate to have a last supper. Whisked away in huge taxis, we decamped to Camps Bay to take in a sun downer meal.
We were forewarned that it may be a little pricey, but we had to accept that Fi has been a great help to us and so we took a deep breath and a fat wallet. I am not sure that this swanky restaurant knew what they were letting themselves in for and as the generally scruffy party of misfits (slings, plaster casts, spiky hair, well travelled clothes mixed with some rather presentable sorts) turned up it was obvious that they expected us to have a soup and a beer and make them last all night.
We did indeed make our menu choices quite carefully but managed two courses and a scattering of the lesser wines from their menu. My steak (
The waiters were most attentive all night as if we might take a mile given an inch. They seemed relieved that all went swimmingly. I feel a little for the other clients who had clearly played the game and dressed accordingly only to see this strange bunch being so well looked after. Another diplomatic coup for the Hot Rockers, though!
When we entered the restaurant, it reminded of the way that assistants in designer clothes shops (you know the ones with no prices) look at you, when you walk in - in clearly non-designer wear. I have always had an urge to wave a load of cash at them approx. enough to buy the entire shop and demand to see the manager and complain about their snooty behaviour and then watch them run around trying to please me - kind of Pretty woman ñish
New surroundings, new characters
We moved back to a cheaper lodge when the bulk of the Rockers had gone and treated ourselves to a bit of privacy in a double room. I donít mean to be hurtful to the Hot Rockers, but sharing a very cramped dorm with them and their year old climbing shoes was something of a pungent experience. Hardly renowned for my own sweet smell, this may come as something of a pot black kettle comment.
The major advantage of moving on all the time is a new set of characters. This time we met up with Sam, a volunteer worker from Ghana. We still canít quite work out how his volunteering in South Africa was funded. He had to pay for his own flight and support himself in South Africa and intended to travel on to Kenya on his way home. Clearly his situation is rather better than the majority of Ghanaians by his description of general life there.
Still, if he has managed to raise the funds to do all of this by himself, it seems that VSO is really something of a soft option! His post did seem a bit casual, though, with a commitment of only three day a week.
As with every hostel, there was the compulsory odd-ball this time in the shape of an American. He spend his whole time bemoaning the fact that he was penniless, and pleading for his family to send him money whilst getting off his face every night. Somehow he did not elicit as much sympathy as our would-be world preacher. Spoilt brat comes to mind.
The truth is that we are both itching to get to South America. South Africa has just been a series of complications and nothing has really jelled. The bike has at least made it to the dockside in Cape Town, but the sophistications of South Africa tend to delude you into forgetting that this is still Africa. Put it this way Iím not counting my chickens until the bike is actually on a boat and sailing to Buenos Aires. Unfortunately the weather is bad here at the moment, which could mean that even if the ship arrives on time it may have to sit off-shore until safer seas and even if it docks it may then not be able to leave.
We plan to take up a Spanish course in Buenos Aires to kill time as much as anything while we argue with the inevitable paperwork of customs. It may seem pricey but it has to be worth it!
Now that we are bike-less we have hired a car to do a week's circuit back to CT before we fly to BA. It was one of those days that just didn't seem to work out. We, and all our stuff, were picked up in our vehicle to be for the week and taken to the office to fill in the necessary forms and hand over the dosh. I sat in the car, whilst Pat dealt with the necessary. (Now you may say, here's your chance to drive Hippy, why is he hiring it? Well, I love to drive, but I hate back seat drivers if you know what I mean).
I heard Pat's angry un-dulcet tones coming from above, although annoyingly for me I couldn't quite make out the words.
I'd gone into the office all happy like only to get into a battle with the geyser on the counter. Over the phone we'd been quoted 126 Rand per day and this guy was insisting that it should be 169. He would not shift his position even when I explained that this was a special rate offered by the manager because of our lodge manager calling in a favour.
In the end we got to a bit of arguing until the manager emerged from her office to tell me to stop being so rude to her employee. I took a certain amount of umbrage and it was not until her boss emerged from the back of the building that everything was sorted out and apologies bounded about the place.
Meanwhile to add to the confusion a chap from the company, moved the car with me in it, and double parked it on the road to allow another car out for hiring, then left me there. This would have been fine, except that there was no real reason why he didn't park it neatly at the curb. As other traffic honked and looked incredulously at me in the car, I was embarrassed and frustrated. I could easily have shuffled into the driver's seat and parked the car more appropriately, but since there was clearly some aggravation going off upstairs, I didn't want to compound the issue.
Pat arrived all smiles and without any explanation we were de-camping our gear into another car. By now I was seriously agitated by the fact that I had no idea of what was going on.
I was getting a bit confused, too. As we came down to inspect and take over the car that had been indicated to us - the one that Hippy was sat in, an oppo took our gear out of the boot and took it over to a larger fancier looking car. Eventually it transpired that we had been upgraded from our Fiat Tiny Thing to a Mazda Middle Sized Thing. I was a bit miffed as we would have had much better economy out of the former. Sour grapes or what?
I had ordered a pair of prescription sunglasses while we had been staying out at Sea Point; SA being relatively cheap for such things and we are moving into summer in the Southern hemisphere. My glasses were indeed ready, but were distinctly un-shaded. All apologetic the chap reckoned he can get a correct pair for the p.m. The thought of hanging around CT another day, did not thrill me so I told him we were leaving town. Anyway he promised faithfully he would courier them to Hermanus, our next port of call, and I promised 'I'll be back' if they weren't there. We will see.
Even our route to Hermanus did not manage to run smoothly. I'd chosen a route down the coast on the west of the Cape and cutting across the South of CT, to avoid city traffic. The coast road indicated on the map came to an abrupt end at a road block. We peered around the obstructions to see a beautiful, dramatic road hugging the cliffside that is now out of bounds. Now disappointed we had to head back into CT traffic. It just felt like the God's were not with us today.
This was whale week in Hermanus, which means that for one week of the year hoards of people invade the town to, of course, watch whales but also to see bands, watch jugglers and browse round market stalls in a Sidmouth Folk Festival kind of fashion.
I confess I was a bit disappointed. Rather than the huge crowds that I had expected, there were only a hundred or so folk out looking at the whales when we made it down to the waterfront. The whales made a reasonable show for one and all and we settled back to take in the oohs and aahs for a while.
Seemingly most of the extraordinary entertainers had left earlier in the week and so only a couple of bands and a smattering of face-painters remained. So, we took in a movie at the supermarket cinema. Not quite as exotic as your modern mall style multiscreen, this was in fact a 50 seater wedged into the roof space of the local Spar.
The film was pretty good, though.
The next night we opted for a little jazz and blues. It was not with a little irony that we watched the all white Afrikaans band, playing to an almost all white audience (one coloured guy near the back) singing in a style developed by blacks in America. The band itself was not bad, and as they moved onto more inde-type numbers they improved in confidence.
After a number of days stuck vegging in CT with bad weather, we both had an urge for the outdoors and some activity. So from there we headed over to a lesser none nature reserve of De Hoop. Lovely little place, with a new antelope to tick off the list a bontebok, kind of a hartebeest with white bits.
(this will be the description to be used in the forthcoming Pat and Helen's guide to animals of the world) By far the prettiest of the deery things (another particular piece of technical terminology) that we have seen. Apparently a bit of a rare beast - only inhabiting the Western Cape of SA. Also a bunch of Cape mountain zebra which differ in their stripy-ness from the common version. I'll be honest they all look like stripy donkeys to me, but who am I to say. With a tortoise, and a rare Robertson chameleon and a few ostriches into the bargain, we notched up enough animals to account for an alternative small five.This area is supposedly some twitchersí paradise but all we saw to substantiate this was a small non-descript bird with two ridiculously long tail feathers apparently stuck up it's posterior. They look so out of place, that it was more like the bird found the tail feathers lying around from some more appropriately sized bird and decided to use them as a poor taste fashion item.
We moved on to the rather nice campsite at Montague, to a) use it as a base for the the next days walking and to b) nip to the Hot springs again.
The day was bright the wind had not produced the 85kmph speeds that the weather forecast had promised. It was a perfect day; not too hot, not too cold, not too strenuous but enough to make you feel a little achy the next day, the flowers that we first saw back in August, were still blooming, gorgeous views across the surrounding valleys, more baby tortoises, a few springbok, a splattering of ostrich and a chorus of chirpy florescent orange weaver birds clinging to reeds at the waterís edge. Followed by a late afternoon trip to the hot springs, a bottle of wine and a good meal. We were even treated to the convivial company of a local bank security guard. Life doesn't get much better than this! We snuggled up that night in our little tent feeling the warm glow of contentment.
Since our arrival in the Cape we had been in search of the consummate Cape Dutch architecture. We had been assured that Tulbagh was it. Having been disappointed by the claims of other towns we approached with scepticism only to find a whole street of Cape Dutch houses that had been preserved and renovated. With blooming cottage gardens in front with their thatched roofs and curvy gables - they oozed with quaintness. It reminded us of Koprovista in Bulgaria, where almost every house had character.
Obviously, this is also somewhat of a tourist trap and we were made up to find a lovely picturesque riverside campsite that could accommodate us. It was too much of an opportunity to be missed; this was definitely the place to have our romantic meal before we leave for South America. The meal was lovely, the setting romantic. But the dinner conversation of the table behind us, was too interesting to ignore, and somewhat distracted us from the mission of romance.
It seemed that a largish white SA lady was seeking advice about setting up a hotel near London, from a couple of hoteliers from the UK. Now as the conversation progressed it became clear that the advisors had a B+B somewhere between Brighton and Eastbourne, hardly the cut and thrust of travel destinations. The SA lady wanted a property on tube links to both Heathrow and central London, had no real collateral and thought it would be easy to loan the money for a place from the bank.
As both parties bluffed their way through the discussion it was clear that neither had a real clue, but were happier to give each other misinformation than admit that they were out of their depth. It is the sort of thing that you hear in meetings, when someone is trying to bullshit their way through their own errors. But at least they provided us with entertainment.
Hippy has long expressed a desire to see penguins. I don't know where this fascination comes from, but I figured that I'd probably like to see them, too.
We set off south - for that is where the penguins reside - and passed by Boschendal on the way. As this place seems to be highlighted on just about every map that we've seen of the Cape Peninsular and surrounds, it seemed to be a must do.
We popped in to see if we could get a mid-morning snifter out of the wine tasting department but the miserable buggers were insisting on payment for their tasting sessions. We opted in stead to head for their cafÈ, which was within the old walled Huguenot estate itself. Surrounded by lazing white ducks we drank our coffee and enjoyed the relative tranquillity. It seems that everyone who visits here only really wants to hoon into the wine.
A quick diversion took us over to Franschoek. This was renowned as a major Huguenot settlement (in fact only 270 Huguenots were brought/sent to the Cape province by the Dutch) and these guys were responsible for the development of a half decent wine industry. Fair play to them I say.
At last, as we moved towards the late afternoon, Hippy's day was complete. Down near Simonstown is a set of granite boulders in the sea which have been protected as a penguin colony called, unsurprisingly, 'Boulders'. I was amused that they felt they had to explain the origin of the name of the place in their brochure. The penguins were very amenable and incredibly tame. Lining the sides of the fenced in footpath from the car park down to the sea there were myriad Pingus hiding from the sun and generally doing what penguins do. Waddling mostly.
Down on the rocks they did the whole belly flopping off the rocks into the surf schmeer and again they all seemed totally unfazed by the huge groups of tourists lining the decking to get a look. As we left, a full two hundred tour bus tourists arrived and we pitied them all wedged in to try and get pictures.
As they waddled around there looked like kids who had had their ankles tied together for a laugh and the only way the poor things could go up the smallest step was to make a pathetic little hop. When the lovely things came in from the water they swim gracefully until their feet met the sand then they teetered towards their friends flapping their flipper-like wings in a manner that I last saw when primary school teachers were ushering kiddies back into the classroom.
The downside of being caught in the confines of the Cape Peninsular is that the hostels know that you've got to drive a fair distance to get to a position of choice. We did our best to haggle prices down but ended headed nearly back into Cape Town before arriving at a deserted backpackersí hostel in the primest spot in Muizenberg.
Hippy asked whether the camping option quoted in the guide book was viable and Bib, our genial host regretted that it was not. In stead, he gave us the only double room in the place for the price of camping, 2 pounds 50.
We talked long into the evening about this guy's life, loves and careers. What an extraordinary geezer. Originally an accountant of some standing, he'd jacked it in to open backpackersí places around SA. At one point, he had about six with a kind of franchise arrangement ensuring consistent standards. Blah, blah. But he did have a point. It seems that backpackersí hostels are mostly run by complete amateurs and so can be extremely frustrating. His concept had been proved to be a success but following yet another failed relationship he bailed out and moved on.
For the last three years he's been setting up car guarding schemes on the streets of Cape Town whereby homeless/jobless folk get a bit of money for 'mind your car mista?' Not a bad concept in crime ridden South Africa. We were a bit concerned that a whole lot of this was hot air, but he had a scrap book of all his newspaper appearances and other documentary evidence of his capers. If only he could keep his emotional life on the rails, he would do amazing things, I am sure.
It is ridiculous that we have been going back and forth to CT and have not made it to Cape Point yet. Today is the day. We weave our way along the coast line to the Cape of Good Hope.
The roads were littered with tortoises of different sizes through the reserve on the Cape. Thereís even a few bontebok scattered around, although no sign of the Cape Mountain Zebra. The proteas ñ big flowery bushy things ñ were flowering away in reds and yellows and whites.
The scenery was far more picturesque than the real Southern most point and it is no wonder that most tourists plump for the easier prettier option. The reputation of the Cape for windiness did not fail us. The 85kmph winds that had been promised - arrived, and I have to say I was relieved that we had not ventured here by bike. For the non bike riders amongst you, I assure you that riding a bike with strong gusty cross wind that changes direction is trying to steer a straight course swimming with stormy wave motion.
The baboons on the Cape certainly know how to entertain the tourists. Some took it upon themselves to sit preening each other on the footpaths, others did what most male baboons do and sat with their legs akimbo showing all they have to offer, which looked remarkably like pink shiny asparagus. The best of the lot were a more enterprising bunch, which preyed around the open air cafe, waiting for unsuspecting tourists to wave food around and then rush up and steal it off them and watched the children wail. Todayís victims were a quiet family of Japanese. The children wailed while Grandma clearly found it amusing. I can imagine the conversation later in the evening where Grandma says ¥I told you so`.
As we listened to the news an announcement came over the speakers regarding a lady that had gone missing after going for a walk. A ¥full` description of her was given, of her clothes her height and her dark hair. It was not until 10 minutes later, I realised that there had been no comment on what colour she was. Is this political correctness gone mad, or can we assume that they do not bother to report the disappearances of non-whites!
We managed to get back to Cape Town in time to check into a hostel and then get out for the evening to the theatre. Much impressed we were by the Baxter Theatre complex at the university. It houses a large theatre, studio theatre and concert hall along with sufficient bars and restaurants to keep all of the punters happy. More amazing still and very un-African were the ceiling lights of which there were thousands ñ all of which were working. We had been told in Malawi that Africans prefer to look on lighting arrangements from the perspective of the bulbs that are working rather than the ones that are not.
The play itself suffered from a pretty thin story line ñ boy fancies girl ñ girl does not want attention ñ turns out to have been raped and lost husband and children in gang township violence ñ he turns out to have allowed his wife to die at home by not tending to her wounds after she had a drunken accident ñ love conquers all. OK so it sounds quite an interesting plot really but it did not seem to cut the mustard some how. It was a pretty interesting insight into what is somehow seen as common place in townships. Something of an indictment of the social climate. It was not as if this was a play written out of ignorance by a white writer as it was written, directed and performed in by a black artiste.
The audience was at least a good blend of the races and we came away feeling that the theatre is at least less exclusive than other situations we have been in.
Most of the Hot Rockers are now gracing their homelands with their presence, but Wayne and Aine remain, Aine now never leaving the mobiles side as her birth is due in a weekís time.
An unexpected surprise is that it is Wayneís birthday the poor young fella is now 31. The boys decided for some reason to abdicate responsible for decision making and insisted that is was up to us. After a bit of aimless wandering up and down the street we plumped for a unpretentious looking place that was utilising the first class carriage of and old train. I was a little worried when our seat was already occupied by a small fella of the cockroach variety. Calling over the swarthy waiter, who minced down the carriage, took one look at the uninvited guest and rushed off returning with a tissue. Removing the little chap seemed to physically disgust him so much, that he could not bear to look at it, held it at arms length with his pinky cocked in the most effeminate fashion and rushed outside with it. Iím sure the poor sensitive sweety will have nightmares from now on.
The owners had clearly just taken over the place, and were keen for us to comment on possible improvements to the meals, in the way that only thoroughly camp culinary expert can do. The food, I have to say, was excellent, and they were quite charming when Aine returned her tuna, as it was a little too pink in the centre for someone nourishing a future person.
It was a calm relaxed evening that unfortunately deteriorated into one of those arguments that only long term partners can have on our way home. Pat and I seemed to talk about everything and nothing at the same time. Lots of misinterpretations on both sides and itís amazing how a simple comment can descend into a heart wrenching chat till 3 in the morning. OK we had both had a little too much to drink, and in the morning we talked again and made more sense.
For some reason that neither of us can fully explain we are very apprehensive about going to Argentina. Part of it is the bad press the place is getting and unlike Zimbabwe, we are not having that negative image soothed by travellersí comments coming the other way. There are lots of rumours about the currency, and it seems hard to get an accurate idea of the exchange rate. Our worry is that there may be a Zim situation with an official and parallel rate, and with our ignorance on arrival we are likely to get stung.
We canít speak Spanish.
We have no transport when we arrive.
We have no accommodation.
On top of that we have never shipped the bike before; most of our current worldly goods are on that dock side. What if it doesnít get put on the boat? What if it is tampered with? Etc. etc. What the heck, itís booked now and we fly tomorrow, we will just have to hope for the best.