All that jazz around Cape Town

Reminiscing and Remembering

I returned from a short holiday in Cape Town just over five weeks ago, where Brian and I had a wonderful seaside apartment in Bloubergstrand with amazing views of Table Mountain and Robben Island.

The last time we were in this area was probably about six years ago, when we boarded a tour bus to visit wine estates in Paarl and Franschhoek. Bloubergstrand presents one of the best views of Table Mountain; you see the table as it is, which is why an area of Bloubergstrand is called Table View.

On one of the beautiful long walks on the beach, I did get sunburnt on my lips, the front edges of my hands on the side of my thumbs and forefingers, and the tips of my big toes. I could not believe that at barely 19° Celsius, as winter was coming to an end, I could be that susceptible, but there I was.

All That Jazz

Cape Town city centre is about 15 kilometres from Bloubergstrand. We could have ventured onto the MyCiTi buses but stuck with Uber rides. For church, we found a multicultural, international Pentecostal church that was both welcoming and exciting. The coffee makers exhibited skills on a par with, or even better than, Starbucks quality.

One of the many highlights of our time together was discovering that Chicago, the musical, was playing at ArtScape. We booked tickets and attended, where we were feted for our dressing and some patrons asked to take pictures either of us or with us.

During the performance, a gay couple behind us were the better part of a nuisance, singing along to the songs to the point of irritation. We did not complain, but at the end, they both came to say hello, apologised for being noisy, and then gave us their programmes on noticing we had not bought one. You never know what comes from keeping your cool.

George: Beach the sheep

Uber not about

For our second day in George, we were unsure of what to do apart from being able to get anywhere from our hotel which in its somewhat bucolic setting backing onto a golf course is hardly in the centre of town as the indicator from my hotel booking suggested.

We were excited about going to Victoria Bay Beach and then the Map of Africa viewpoint and as we were informed that Uber had reached George, we presumed the ease of getting about to a fault for even when we tried for an Uber there was no indication that cars that were about 12 minutes away would ever become available for our use.

In the end, we got the hotel reception to call us a taxicab and the driver that doubled as a tour guide availed us of his services for every place we chose to visit. The weather had taken a turn for the worse by the time we left the hotel that we arrived at Victoria Bay Beach with no enthusiasm to get into the water or relax on the beach.

More hype than type

Victoria Bay Beach is essentially a private beach with a security checkpoint and chalets held in families from long ago lined down the beach mostly up for rented accommodation or short stays than as homes. Much as there is a public right of access, there is nothing special about the place and even if we chose to stay there, after two nights with its isolated setting, we’ll probably seek the greater security of proximity to civilisation. If you are a surfer, you might find this place a treat indeed.

Our cab driver then took us to the Map of Africa viewpoint in the aptly named Wilderness, down a long nondescript dirt road to where the confluence of rivers appeared to map out from our observation point the depiction of Southern Africa, it was a hard-sell to suggest this was the map of Africa even at the most extreme stretch of the imagination. I could not find online any aerial view of this to confirm that Africa was mapped out on that terrain. How anyone has for any time gotten away with that scam escapes me, but we now know better.

Sheep may safely graze

Further up the road from this viewpoint was a paragliding site but the white horses (white foamy sea waves) ridden by high winds meant there was no paragliding activity. A sign on the field however caught my attention, “Please Do Not! Chase or Hassle the Sheep.”

We saw no sheep, but that was my highlight of the day as I was left wondering, how do you hassle sheep? Yet, when I think of it as I suggested in my Instagram post on the matter, sheep are intelligent, and for one, Shaun the Sheep is nobody’s fool.

Returning to our hotel, we decided to go for a wander to get a feel of George only to find out that there were no pavements on certain roads suggesting the town is best suited for vehicles. New developments on our way back had roads named after English golf courses. We would return and hire a car to get around. Dinner with Malaka at a restaurant closed an evening of pleasant and warm friendship.

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Sun Getting in Europe

Sun’s out

We come out and we laid down in the sun for burning. It is the reptilian nature of Northern Europeans to sun bathe, every appearance of the glowing sun with its warmth and heat is a welcome sign to strip off and soak it in.

Now, those of us of darker skin are usually not persuade of the sun worshipping ritual all by reason of the fact that we have come from sunnier climes where we probably always sought the shade and when we did not, we had our houses and offices fitted with air-conditioners that brought tundra to the tropics.

Sun health

I did remember one office I visited in Lagos that required we all wore jumpers for the artificially manufactured cold – no one considered the cost of and the energy it took to freeze the building.

The fact is we also need the sun because essential Vitamin D is produced by our exposure to the sun which we do not get enough of in Europe that we have to take supplements in the winter months.

Humidity is sometimes a curse, it is usually so high as to be suffocating, we need the sun, we need hydration and we need cooling down. One other problem that we have encountered is after about 8 years of living in Europe we become so susceptible to hay fever – the feeling could be so nasty, those of us spare the ravages of that ailment can only be thankful.

Sun getting

By and large, we should take in the sun with moderation and there isn’t much we can do with sun screen lotions since the pigmentation that is literally invisible on Caucasian skin shows up as if we have been face painting.

The sun is out, we should make the best of summer, my shorts, my bicycle and off to the man-made beach I used to scoff at.

Thought Picnic: Awake and asleep

Awake to my inner voice

It is not a too distant memory the holiday I had over a week ago in the sun. There was more strength in my legs that the 60 minute walk to the beach from my hotel in July was now done in just about 30.

The look was still the same, my feet well shod, enough of my body exposed to the sun whilst maintaining a modicum of decency, my cane, still comes in helpful and my Creative Zen Mosaic MP3 player in ghetto-blaster mode playing out in shuffle-mode my collection of classical music from Bach to Telemann and the almost 700 in between.

I cannot say why but when I read up on it is realised why, I start off with Johann Sebastian Bach Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme (Wake up, the voice calls to us), it is also my ring tone, it has an awakening for me, an uplifting and readiness for the journey I am about to embark on.

It is peaceful; it brings calm, the beginning of meditation as you enter the caverns of deep thought and introspection.

Asleep to the world around

The world is quiet in spite of the ambient noise, I am not wearing headphones but I hear nothing else, as I walk, my arms begin to conduct an imaginary orchestra anticipating the next chord ready to wield my baton towards the violinists, the roar of the percussionist is quelled and the wind instruments bring the cooling breeze to my face, I am in dreamland, a somnambulist with intent, mesmerised and oblivious, at one with myself.

The look out to sea is a look of wonder, the waves lapping the beach, a coast is a far as your imagination will allow and in the horizon is a speck brought to life by a pair of binoculars, a freighter of goods and supplies, part of what makes the world so small.

The sun bakes each side for minutes before the refuge of the shade is more pleasant, you are in a crowd of sun worshippers and yet one and you, beside none else.

Hours pass, the roar of the waves and the sound of the music have become too familiar to be noticed anymore, they are all in the background when it is time to walk back to my hotel.

The voyage on the sands

The undulating dunes of troughs and crests test each unsure stride that lands in shifting sands it is laborious and energy-sapping but all to the good, you have strength you never knew you had, in reserve and to expend, the longing for a journey’s end does not weary you as you catch the glimpse of shadows so long cast from the light of the setting sun.

We all return like from a wilderness to a land flowing with milk and honey, never a walk to be taken without flagons of refreshment, the voyage ends at the ports of concrete, respite is close and a shower to relieve.

Many a day took this rhythm; it was my comfort and my refreshment.

Thought Picnic: The sands of light

A longer walk than most

On my walk to the beach which took probably twice the time it takes for people to cover the distance, I decided to do it in silence, in contemplation with deep reflection.

Thinking about how fortunate I have been in my life and experiences even when things have seemed so seriously out of control and beyond me, there has always been some hope, some inspiration, some angling for change and possibilities that in the depth of those situations is far from view.

The grains of sand that make up the living dunes of Maspalomas revealed a part to them that I had never before noticed. Innumerable as they are and brown as they seemed, in the high sunlight of the day grains glistened and reflected back the sunlight in thousands or more of mirrors.

Each had a light for me

All those evident from my moving through the dunes, as I looked in every direction there was a flicker of light and I could imagine there could be millions of reflectors reflecting heat and light at my body from all angles just because I was there.

The grains were self-existent and mutually supportive creating this amazing landscape constantly sculpted by winds and other weather conditions the dunes experience.

In general the grains would remain unmoved and untouched except when affected by external stimuli which includes the many feet that walk those sands creating tracks some well tread and some very new soon to disappear as if no one was ever there – a clean slate every few days that would make a novice of an expert bush tracker after a while.

Dunes of memory

And so, I wondered about how we live our lives sometimes not affecting or affected but there for circumstances and situations to give meaning to our existence as each grain of sand became a reflector to me even though without my noticing this before, the grains were reflecting regardless of what I thought about the composition, the refractive index and all other optical components of sand and silica.

Each significant bit becomes part of the whole and so does the memories of the many who have come and gone, who have touched my life in many ways innumerable to mention, they will not be forgotten but each reflection and thought is replayed over and over again forming the dunes of my own personal experiences and more.

The verge of pleasurable disgust

No care for the body

Overheard as I wended my way to the beach through the Maspalomas dunes, he said, “Is that a man or a woman?”, “Maybe a man,” came the response and then the conclusion, “He looks like a very fat woman.”

This is not to be disparaging, but in general men and women are not taking any care of themselves anymore, it is not a case of if you’ve got it, flaunt it; but one of whatever you have just let it droop.

It is more than an eyesore, the possible David of Michelangelo that walked the dunes is now cloaked in layers and layers of lipidinous (An adjective of lipid, if I could be excused this licence) excess, bloated and drooping almost to the ground.

Sharing the unwanted

The dunes are some sort of nudist reserve where ones reserve is taunted to the unacceptable that one is on the verge of being sick.

Halfway down, there was one man who appeared to take some care of himself and was in full view spanking the macaque; monkey would be have been overly generous, as one resisted the tendency to be indecent he beckoned as it were for one to offer a service to his lady.

Just as a wave of charitable concern was about to engulf me to allow for becoming a eunuch so that I could be castrated to help this man, I realised that even if I were Tarzan I would never be a swinger if I could help it – the revulsion of the thought allowed me to close my eyes 5 metres to the scene and close my ears to the giggling as I paced 5 metres after.

Give me oxygen

The thought crossed my mind of protuberances cosmetically enhanced by donations from Africa but what would the pleasured do with an amalgam of ebony and ivory all for the sake of the climax they once knew.

Suffer me no more the decadence of men but what people get up to on holiday leaves one completely astonished.

Back hand to the brow of a head tilted backwards, I sigh and beckon for a dose of pure oxygen.