South African postcard 3
I’m on the busy main street of the city, watching the endless parade of people come by me. It is probably the first main drag that I’ve been on that has white tourists as well as (many more) black locals, in town to cash their monthly paycheck (the line at the back stretches around the block) and have some fun. It feels refreshingly safe and normal, although I’m sure when the sun sets I will return to my (somewhat irrational) fear for my safety.
After my last postcard, we spent one last morning in Cape Town. We had our usual breakfast at St. Paul’s B+B, a normal English breakfast, reinforcing the whole Anglican vibe of the place. We then sped across to the Waterfront, barely managing to make it to the clock tower, the entry point for our ferry to Robben Island. The tour of Nelson Mandela’s former place of imprisonment was moving, not least because the guides had both been imprisoned there themselves. The younger of our two guides spoke in the exact cadences of Malcolm X or the Black Panthers, which I thought linguistically interesting because his bas language was entirely different, Sotho. The guards spoke openly about how amazing it was the South Africa did not descend into chaos as the apartheid government fell in 1994. They traced the South African miracle to, paradoxically, the solid grounding of the major players in English education, particularly Locke’s checks-and-balances idea and the concept of tolerance within a liberal democracy. All of the above somehow was in alliance with more radical, Black Power elements that wanted to redistribute wealth (although apparently there has been some bloodshed between the two groups). Much is also traced to what might be called the sainthood of Nelson Mandela, and the way Robben Island made him and others more humble rather than angrier.
We slept that night in Montagu, at a little farm. It was a rather forgettable night. We made ourselves a curried pasta (not nearly as good as the one we had had in Port Elizabeth), went for a short little walk the next morning, and then had a great fresh scone at a café. Scones here are big affairs, covered with jam and whipped cream, although we would usually turn the later down.
We then drove the short drive over to Oudtshorn, checking into the very genial Backpacker’s Paradise. Before the sun set, we attempted to walk at De Hoek Nature Reserve, only to have the guard tell us that we needed a permit which he couldn’t sell us and which could only be bought back in Oudtshorn. So instead we drove up to the top of the Swartsburg Pass, our little maroon Citi Gulf barely making it. Once back in town, we shopped at the Pick and Pay, and then made ourselves a stellar dinner at the hostel of ostrich steak, salad, potatoes, carrots, and a delightful white whine we’d picked up from L’Avenir. We lingered by the warm fireplace, and marveled at how this particular hostel was a well-oiled machine, full of guests and yet with everything always functioning as it should.
This morning we headed over to the caves, thoroughly enjoying our adventure tour, which took us through meters-long passages where we had to crawl on our belly. We then drove the N12 down towards George, stopping on the mountain pass for a lunch at a picnic site with a phenomenal view. Then we landed in Knysna, checked into a Backpackers, and attempted to go for a walk and failed to find a trailhead. Instead, my wife went shopping in the city center, while I waited for her at the chain “Vida e café”, like Starbucks but with a red color scheme.
Which brings me up to the present, at least for this postcard. Now freed from the tyranny of chronology, I don’t really know what to write about. Perhaps I’ll end with a comment about the main news radio station, which we can pick up anywhere in the country. The commentators seem very long-winded, composing overly complex sentences that tend to resolve any disagreement by agreeing that of course more discussion of the issue is needed. It’s quite a highbrow style, even compared to America’s NPR, perhaps its closest equivalent. Maybe that’s how one tries to deal with disagreements in a democratic, fractious country.
After my last postcard, we spent one last morning in Cape Town. We had our usual breakfast at St. Paul’s B+B, a normal English breakfast, reinforcing the whole Anglican vibe of the place. We then sped across to the Waterfront, barely managing to make it to the clock tower, the entry point for our ferry to Robben Island. The tour of Nelson Mandela’s former place of imprisonment was moving, not least because the guides had both been imprisoned there themselves. The younger of our two guides spoke in the exact cadences of Malcolm X or the Black Panthers, which I thought linguistically interesting because his bas language was entirely different, Sotho. The guards spoke openly about how amazing it was the South Africa did not descend into chaos as the apartheid government fell in 1994. They traced the South African miracle to, paradoxically, the solid grounding of the major players in English education, particularly Locke’s checks-and-balances idea and the concept of tolerance within a liberal democracy. All of the above somehow was in alliance with more radical, Black Power elements that wanted to redistribute wealth (although apparently there has been some bloodshed between the two groups). Much is also traced to what might be called the sainthood of Nelson Mandela, and the way Robben Island made him and others more humble rather than angrier.
We slept that night in Montagu, at a little farm. It was a rather forgettable night. We made ourselves a curried pasta (not nearly as good as the one we had had in Port Elizabeth), went for a short little walk the next morning, and then had a great fresh scone at a café. Scones here are big affairs, covered with jam and whipped cream, although we would usually turn the later down.
We then drove the short drive over to Oudtshorn, checking into the very genial Backpacker’s Paradise. Before the sun set, we attempted to walk at De Hoek Nature Reserve, only to have the guard tell us that we needed a permit which he couldn’t sell us and which could only be bought back in Oudtshorn. So instead we drove up to the top of the Swartsburg Pass, our little maroon Citi Gulf barely making it. Once back in town, we shopped at the Pick and Pay, and then made ourselves a stellar dinner at the hostel of ostrich steak, salad, potatoes, carrots, and a delightful white whine we’d picked up from L’Avenir. We lingered by the warm fireplace, and marveled at how this particular hostel was a well-oiled machine, full of guests and yet with everything always functioning as it should.
This morning we headed over to the caves, thoroughly enjoying our adventure tour, which took us through meters-long passages where we had to crawl on our belly. We then drove the N12 down towards George, stopping on the mountain pass for a lunch at a picnic site with a phenomenal view. Then we landed in Knysna, checked into a Backpackers, and attempted to go for a walk and failed to find a trailhead. Instead, my wife went shopping in the city center, while I waited for her at the chain “Vida e café”, like Starbucks but with a red color scheme.
Which brings me up to the present, at least for this postcard. Now freed from the tyranny of chronology, I don’t really know what to write about. Perhaps I’ll end with a comment about the main news radio station, which we can pick up anywhere in the country. The commentators seem very long-winded, composing overly complex sentences that tend to resolve any disagreement by agreeing that of course more discussion of the issue is needed. It’s quite a highbrow style, even compared to America’s NPR, perhaps its closest equivalent. Maybe that’s how one tries to deal with disagreements in a democratic, fractious country.
