It would be easy, and perhaps insipid, to write about South Africa for what it is on the surface. Seemingly, South Africa is beautiful and exotic- the landscape is unmatched and the culture diverse. But to unveil South Africa for what it’s worth requires a certain amount of backbone- I’m cutting into a layer cake here. The greatest anomaly being I’ve had time to process all that I’ve witnessed, and South Africa still doesn’t make sense. There’s icing, and then there’s filling. Even more so- as a writer with an innate desire to document everything-I’m too baffled by my South African experience to write about it. That said, this is the smaller version, the cupcake.
We celebrated our summit of Table Mountain on Long Street in the City Bowl of Cape Town. I window-shopped the boutiques that were once theaters housing anti-apartheid demonstrations.
We ate at Café Royal, a newfangled restaurant/lounge analogous of the famous Piccadilly establishment. I sampled the world’s greatest milkshake. Seven of us ordered a pitcher of vodka lemonade for $7 USD. I needed a reality check. I consulted my map and placed myself geographically. “There,” I pointed at the Cape of Good Hope. “That’s where I am.” The actuality of my location will never fully sink in.
At Royal, we befriend Matt, a “freelance contributor for GQ.” I double-checked the validity of this via Goggle. (I’ve become such a skeptic, unfortunately.) “YOU. SOUND. LIKE. YOU’RE. FROM. LONDON,” I screamed from across the table. As it turns out, I’m right. Matt of London Town relocated to Cape Town to work as a “strategist” for a company dubbed Luxury Branding-how vague and post-structural! We’re intrigued at this point. Matt presents himself as the archetypal Albion, a Pete Doherty aspirant. He hands me his business card, and I examine it à la Patrick Bateman. No water mark but still nice. Actually, I haven’t the clue what qualifies a reputable business card. I purely appreciate minimalism, simplicity and plane Jane vanilla milkshakes. The point being, my stack of business cards will one day fill the sea.
We ended up at an Irish pub of all places. (It was hard to resist the karaoke.) Everyone was wasted, and soon enough, Long Street transformed into Bourbon. We American Eagles of Death Metal captured the watering hole. I watched as people galloped between clubs, scraped knees on concrete jungle, and avoided the little Oliver Twists who pulled at sleeves and purses. I had to stop. One kid told me his parents were dead, and he wanted to go home to India. I sobered up immediately. It wasn’t fun anymore; I had endured my share of shooters and squalor.
The next morning, after a cup of coffee, I remembered plans to surf. The pay phone, my only mode of communication, also happens to be the single most unreliable mode of communication I can think of. Sometimes calls work, sometimes they don’t. There’s no rhythm or rhyme. I might as well put pen to paper, shove my messages into beer bottles and chuck them at waves at this point. I cursed my sailor mouth off. Now what?
We all agreed on rugby. Cape Town’s Stormers, as I’m informed, play for Western Province Rugby Union, while the national team, the Springboks, is the current holder of the Rugby world Cup. Needless to say, rugby is popular in Cape Town. I’m sure my rugby ignorance bothered a lot of natives. It’s not a touch down, I learn. I like rugby a lot more than American football. Actually, I like most everything more than I like American football. Through the luck of the draw, we somehow ended up with terrific third row seats and I somehow ended up on the Newlands stadium screen, blowing my nose.
We followed the rugby crowd to techno night at the Springbok Bar. The word Springbok is ubiquitous in South Africa: a mint- Kahlua shot, a rugby team, a barbequed gazelle. “Get me a springbok” could mean a number of things, so I avoid the word entirely.
The Springbok Bar turns out to be some rockabilly dive. A guy stole a mop out of the hands of the janitor and humped it.
“Do you want to boogie?”
“No.”
Whilst avoiding the dance floor, I watched a street brawl from the safety of the bar deck. The police managed to tackle the instigator (a Hugh Grant look-alike), but not without a struggle. He continued to kick and scream at the black cabbie until he was tasered and dragged into the ass of the drunk-tank.
I asked around and soon realize this fight scene is, on average, a bi-weekly occurrence for the Springbok: a belligerent white man leaves the bar and gets into it with a black man on the street. “Just another day at the office,” a bouncer tells me. “You should’ve seen the shit last night.”
Crime rates are soaring in South Africa. The private security force is the highest grossing workforce in the nation. Cape Town, within the past few years, has become the murder capital of the world.
I slept for three hours that night with one eye open, woke up in a daze, and took a 2 hour drive to the renowned South African wine lands. I was exhausted, but the thrill of getting out of the city and drinking wine all day kept me going. And the ethereal, almost eerie, countryside took my breath away.
Ladies and gentleman, South African wine made my list of favorite things ever- I want to bathe in viognier everyday. It’s like drinkable, delicious Aveda Conditioner. I want to send the Dutch a thank you letter in a bottle for “discovering” such fertile soil and planting those grapes of wonder. I also want to spit my seeds into the sea.
We arrived at a park on the banks of the Eerste River. Is this one of my lucid dreams? Hey, you wanna pet a cheetah? Heck yes. Curl up in the sun like a cat and take a nap next to a lagoon? Go for it. Right when I was craving a muffin- BAM- a bakery appeared like an oasis. I pinched myself black and blue. I went on a solo excursion around the park, a solitary traveler for once! I discovered pony rides and cute little yuppie couples buzzed off Pinotage. For real? Is this Michael Jackson’s wayward ranch? I stumbled upon a craft fair. Of course, I can’t really justify buying a cheetah pelt but I understand why tipsy tourists have fetishized the spots. We had an African buffet of game (not really sure what I ate) at an outdoor restaurant with face paint and tree houses!
Our tour guide bragged about the nostalgic Dutch architecture, the Cypress trees that line the Dutch cemetery, the general store with antique bottles of sassafras. That’s neat; Colonial Good Hope is way more exciting than Williamsburg.
“Hey look! Dutch Reform Church!” My tour guide pressed his fat finger against the car window. I’ve become an expert in discerning churches by this point.
“What’s going on over there?” I asked.
“Oh just a township- AND ON YOUR RIGHT, the famous University! Have you visited the Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens? Just lovely! Oh Watch out, zebra crossing! Ho ho ho. ”
This bothers me, like the dust under the carpet.
Don’t mind the traffic accident, the dead bodies on the stretcher.
Don’t mind the eight foot walls and the electric fences blocking the faultless views of the beachfront flats.
When I got back to the ship that night, I couldn’t sleep. I was too haunted by the beauty of the valley, the faces of street children, the barbed wire, the blatant denial, and most of all, the illusory reality I’m living.
"The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much. What redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretence but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea -- something you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to. . . ."
-Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
In a deeper sense, even after the centuries of discrimination and retribution, anyone who wants to explore a land of paradoxes can do no better than South Africa, which keeps up in dichotomy just as easily as it keeps up in appearances and sugar-based coatings.
No comments:
Post a Comment