A Saturday in Cape Town city centre

Just across from the Castle Pub and Harley Club.

Downtown market

My new pals, the Cape Town Harley Davidson Club

I have this feeling this is a famous theatre ...

Gorgeous kids singing and dancing in the downtown mall.

Cape Town Castle of Good Hope, built in the late 1600s

With the Table Mountains in the back ground.

Castle, city, and mountains.

For more on the Castle of Good Hope:  http://www.castleofgoodhope.co.za/

We're not looking like Wellington, New Zealand, anymore.

Introduction to Cape Town

My first day in Cape Town got off to a misty grey start –which isn’t always a bad thing; Mists of Avalon and all that— so I pulled up my big-girl panties and made the best of it.

First good thing was Claire from Budget Africa Travel emailed and said she was so excited to meet me, so between her, my delightful AirBNB host, Paul, and google (which was actually the least helpful of the 3), I figured out how to take the train – yes, that same train that a certain self-appointed Cape Town guru told me was too dangerous—well, he’s not here now is he!?!—into the centre, where I could catch a bus to Hout Bay.

I’d already been through the local train station, Rosebank.  The area seemed a mix of working and middle class with some dodgy bits last night—the thing that bothered me the most was that every single drive is gated and most of the fences/walls have high voltage wires over them:  Doesn’t bode well for a safe neighbourhood.

Nothing really alleviated those worries this morning, as the station looked half abandoned and in the midst of construction.  I asked a traveler on the platform where to buy the ticket, and she pointed to a door in the middle of the construction.  Inside, I had trouble communicating my need to get into the centre to the man behind the window; never did work out the name of the station but I got a ticket.

Back on the platform, two women approached me.

“How is your day?” the one with close-cropped black hair asked me.  She was black; her companion Asian.  They introduced themselves.  I (sadly and to my chagrin) have forgotten their names.

“It is going well so far,” I prevaricated just a bit.  “But can you tell me which station is the centre, where I will get off and take the MyCity bus?”

“Oh yes,” her companion spoke up, “the train stops there.  Everyone will get off.”

“And there will be a kiosk for the MyCity bus,” the first one said.

Then they handed me a Jehovah’s Witness pamphlet.

Fair enough.

The train itself was not impressive—muddy grey interior, torn grey naugahyde (or whatever great synthetic beast they skin for seating here)—but I sat and looked around me.  There were only 3 or 4 other people in the car.

On the walls were an assortment of white-with-black-writing stickers, advertising various services.  I was a little bit horrified. (Sorry about the focus-- I guess I was shaking a bit.  Some advertised abortions and "womb cleaning" up to 8 months.  I can't even imagine what those women go through):

 


But the journey was uneventful.  At the railway information desk, I asked where the MyCity bus kiosk was, and, after wandering a bit, I found it.  Bought a pass (the least economical one, I think—still a bit confused) but I didn’t want to make a nuisance of myself and hold up the substantial line. I went where the ticket agent told me but couldn’t figure out the right platform.  After asking around a bit, I got to it and, having just missed the correct bus, had to wait a half hour.

It didn’t seem so long.  Then I got on Bus 108 to Hout Bay (interesting that the name is so similar to Houghton Bay in Wellington, NZ—more on that later) and settled in.  It’s a clean, well-appointed bus and I felt perfectly comfortable.

At one stop, a young woman in a school uniform—I could tell by the insignia on her jacket—was studying for a test.  Over her shoulder I read her notes about the history of Apartheid, then, to my surprise, a whole two pages of the history of the US Civil Rights movement, including the Greensboro sit in.  I smiled, glad my home state is known all the way on the other side of the world.
After some nerve-wracking inner city traffic close calls—it’s a city just like many others I’ve been to, modern and mostly utilitarian, not particularly beautiful—the bus turned onto a coast road that looked incredibly familiar:  Much like the coastal road around Wellington, including high mountains just behind the city itself, and shrouded in a mist that hides the highest peaks.  It seems to me that West Coasts all have that similar rocky landscape, with boulders right down to the edge of the sea.

And the water is that same gorgeous aqua-blue as the waters around NZ.  I began to relax.

After an hour of travel, during which I was rather anxious about getting off at the right stop, the student beside me stopped the bus (you have to signal) at the stop right before mine, so I confidently pressed the button and got off.  Here is what I saw:

SO reminiscent of Wellington, NZ (there's a Wellington here too, of course).

I met Claire as she was coming with pizza and she took me up into her simple but attractively appointed office.  We ate lunch and she gave me lots of advice about where to go, what’s safe, and what to do when I come back to Cape Town.  Just as we were finishing up, she mentioned “horsey” places.  Well, I’ve been carrying my riding pants, chaps and boots with me across several continents and planned to do some riding here, so now I know where to go.

Afterwards, I walked down to the waterfront where, quite unlike Wellington beaches, the sand is fine and powdery.  Having spent the summer in Prague and not even gotten down to my beloved NC beaches, this incredibly welcome to my eyes and feet.  Along the walkway about 300 metres, I found the wharves.

If there’s any structure in the world that makes me feel at home, it’s wharves with fishing boats.  I could’ve gone and sat on a balcony and watched, but instead I walked down the pier—or jetty they would call it in Oz and NZ—where a young black man entreated two huge sea lions over to the edge.  One of them hauled his considerable frame up onto the concrete and the man began feeding him bits of fish.  The man had a tiny dog of the Chihuahua variety, which didn’t seem at all pleased at the closeness of the marine mammal, easily 100 times its size.

A dog, a sea lion, and their man.

“Here, you can pet him,” the man entreated me.  “Can you make a donation please?”  I fished into my wallet for some of the coins I’d gotten back—on hindsight, I think the amount I gave him probably was insulting, but I haven’t figured out the currency yet—gave them to him, and reached out to scratch the wet, sleek animal behind his ears.  The sea lion paid me absolutely no attention, his eyes on the bits of frozen fish the man broke off from a frozen lump; behind them, in the harbour, two more sea lions circled gracefully.

Large fishing boats in various states of repair lined the jetty—I walked down to the end.  Men working on the boats called out greetings, waved and smiled.  A few other people—all white—walked up and down; a young boy and his father (or grandfather) rode bikes down the jetty.

Harbour at the Wharf, Hout Bay.

I absorbed the clean, salty air (wish the waters themselves were as clean—lots of rubbish in the harbour but then that’s usually the case  :-/ ) and thought, like one of the Pevensies at the beginning of Prince Caspian, I’m in for a lovely time.

Back at Dario’s Café I found wifi, a gorgeous latte, and a piece of cheesecake big enough for three.  Also ordered supper to bring home and went out to meet the bus.

Cheesecake at Dario's (sadly, not Daario of the Tyroshi blue beard).

Only a couple of stops in, a rounded black woman with her hair tied in a scarf (not a hajib) sat next to me on the bus.  She smiled at me, so I asked, pointing to a row of children down splashing in the surf, “Are they swimming?” She nodded.  “Isn’t it cold?”

She shrugged.  “They don’t feel the cold.”

I shivered—the air was chill rather than actually cold, much like in Wellington, but I know that water.

“I feel it,” I confided to her.

She giggled.  “Yes, I do too.”

Shortly a whole group of students in their neat uniforms—some of them carrying musical instruments, some of them sporting equipment, got on the bus.  It was fairly crowded so they were right up next to us.  Although they were animated, they were well-behaved and quite adorable.  Once more my love of other-people’s-children rose up and smiled benevolently at them.  Relaxed now, I observed the beautiful coastline and rolling sea, again so similar to the beaches around Wellington, and the clearly expensive housing built right into the cliffs and rocks on either side of the road.  Car parks on the ocean always seemed such a waste to me, but at least these are on top of the houses.  Again, all are heavily gated and walled, and almost all of the people I saw coming in and out were white.

Almost all of the people in working clothes and riding the bus were black and coloured (Asian and other ethnicities).

I felt completely comfortable surrounded by dark-skinned people.  Nearly everyone I passed on the street, beach, and bus greeted me with smiles and a generosity of spirit that I have felt among African Americans back home.

The train back to Rosebank was crowded and I couldn’t find a seat.  A tall skinny man who smelt of alcohol shouted words unintelligible to me.  Many, like me, ignored him.  A few looked at him with pity, a few with disgust, especially after a stream of liquid flowed down his pants leg onto the floor of the train.  The man on my other side looked at me, and made room for me to move away from the puddle.

I was one of only 3 white people in the car.  Yet in some ways I felt more comfortable and accepted than I do in Prague.

I think I like Cape Town a lot.

Outside of my AirBNB flat, with misty mountain in background; note the rooftop garden.

Addendum:  Chill and overcast today, and I have lots of planning to do, so hanging close to flat-- but did go out to get groceries and went the other way, past the University of Cape Town.

Actually a quite nice and attractive part of town, with a little cluster of shops that reminded me, again, of Wellington.

Saw a tiny white girl give a tiny black girl (strangers) a piece of candy and then the two hugged like best friends.  Everyone in Woolies was teary-eyed, including me.

Then on the way home saw two giant what I'm sure must be baobab trees, and again my eyes filled with tears spontaneously.  SO enormous and full of character-- didn't have camera but will be sure to get photos.

Another world is ... here? In the Tchaiovna ;-)

So I try and try to describe Prague—the feeling I get here, the Bohemian-ness of it—I got perhaps closest when trying to describe/define hedonism.

But the other night when the Improv was there: We sat in the back and smoked a joint with our new friend Daragh, and the bartender Jeff (later described as “stoic” by one of the Improv trigger stories) had a hit off of it.

It’s not Starbucks for sure. Sometimes it takes awhile to get your drink. Sometimes it takes 20 minutes to get your sandwich. But you can be sure that Andy and Helen will do their best, that the ingredients are fresh, that the frozen strawberry or raspberry “Mafi-Osi” will fulfill your vitamin C requirement, that the beer is cool and fresh.

Sometimes Narnia is the exact right place for me, and sometimes there are people there with a vibe in which I don’t want to engage. Only once has it been too crowded (the whole place, not just Narnia) and I left soon after arriving.

The gentle tolerance there and desire to do good—to provide a place for the community, to create a community around art and music and pleasure and sustainability and locally sourced materials – gives me hope, as this is something I’ve been looking for since my first trip outside the US, when I saw that other worlds were possible.

                                                     

It seems to me a manifestation of Arundhati Roy’s

Another world is not only possible, 

she is on her way. On a quiet day, 

I can hear her breathing.

For my students who found it too smoky, too chaotic, I’m want to say, life is dirty and chaotic and to engage with it fully, sometimes you get dirty too. I think their complaint about “smoky” is more about the smell of trava, with which they were obviously uncomfortable, and yet at the same time too repressed and hypocritical to mention.

I find it interesting in that zajimovy way that the most sheltered—student A and student B—seemed to be actually the most open, except for, of course, student Y, who was a delight with that sunny personality and willingness to find beauty, pleasure and charm in everything.

All and all, the Prague summer program was an unqualified success: 

I look forward to doing many, many more.

Oh, and a few photos from Narnia, aka Amaze in Tchaiovna, 

my wonderful local in Prague  ;-)

Hedonism and Revolution in Prague

So, I was planning to revive my blog upon my return to Prague, but life got in the way.  Planning for students, sorting out housing and seeing old friends prevented me from having time to write about all the reasons I love being here and all the ways this city and the people just lead to a complete revitalization of life for me.

Students, Trina, Thomas and Sue say good-bye to Praha-ha-ha.

Now that the students are gone (well, sort of—one coming back) and I’ve sent off Trina with many great photos, keepsakes and memories, I can reflect a little.

Trina at Strahov, looking down over the city (see the bridges?).

One element of Prague’s charm is the hedonism, which (apparently) not everyone finds.

That’s almost certainly a good thing, as I don’t know that it would work if everyone who came here discovered it.  We were discussing the other night, what hedonism means.  Then, serendipitously, I found an article about how the Czechs are the most decadent.

I see “decadent” as a pejorative term for hedonistic, one that has a certain “bad boy” appeal, which Trina ascribed to such activities as smoking cigarettes and drinking too much. 

But I do believe that many if not most Czechs achieve hedonism in moderation—of course there are some alcoholics, of course some addicts, some who smoke too much or don’t care enough for themselves.  But the majority achieve a balance between the hard-working, innovative Czech work ethic that made Czechoslovakia one of the G7 between the two World Wars, and such a prize for Hitler’s Nazis, and the beer-drinking, pot-smoking, art-idea-and-absurdism wielding creatives like Václav Havel, David Černý, my dear friend Pavla Jonssonová (was Slabá, née Fediuková) and anarchist-visionary Petr Bergmann, who has cut his hair and retreated to the country but still had the power to electrify my students and friends with his passionate discussion of pre-, during, and post-Velvet Revolution Prague.