Yesterday was our last full day in Cape Town. We went to a winery for a cellar tour and a tasting. I am sold on South African wine. I had had some previous to this trip and liked it but obviously have had plenty while here and I am a believer.
Recommendations include: 2011 Neil Ellis Sauvignon Blanc, 2010 Newton Johnson Sauvignon Blanc, 2011 Fleur du Cap Sauvignon Blanc, and 2010 Groot Constantia Semillon-Sauvignon Blanc (the last being of the winery we went to yesterday).
No, they don't make only sauvignon blancs here, that just happens to be something Mom and I agree on. All those bottles are between $8-$12. I can't imagine they're much more at home.
In the afternoon after the winery we went to the World of Birds, a large and impressively stocked bird sanctuary (and not just of birds, also emu, alpacas, monkeys, and various other small creatures). I took lots of pictures that will have to wait with all the others to get uploaded.
My goal for the flights today and tomorrow is to go through all the pictures, get rid of the hundreds of bad ones, and organize the small amount that remains so that I can upload them quickly when I get home. Then I will begin posting links to albums of specific things, so there will be a safari album, a Dakar album, a food album, etc.
This is my last post before getting on the plane so the next update will be stateside. (Hopefully, anyway -- who can say for sure that we won't spend a bonus 48 hours in Dakar again?)
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Swimming with the fishes
When we went to the aquarium the other day we passed by an exhibit about microscopes. There was a girl behind a table showing passersby how this super-duper microscope works. She would point it at one of the tiny pieces of coral or whatever she had on the table and a huge hi-def live image would show up on the connected TV screen. When we walked up she was talking about some squiggly thing writhing across the screen, some sort of predatory plant.
When she finished, she held up a very small beaker in between her thumb and forefinger, no bigger than a shot glass, filled with what appeared to be water. "Now," she said. "Who is going to stick their finger in this beaker and have a taste?" She looked me dead in the eye.
"What is it?" I asked.
"I'll tell you afterwards."
Never one to turn down a snack, I stuck my finger in the beaker. Room temperature water. I slurped down the mystery drink. Salty water. Boo-ooring.
"So?" she asked. "Not so bad, right?"
"Saltwater?" I hoped.
She stuck the beaker under the microscope. Hundreds and hundreds of tiny fish were swimming furiously in all directions.
"Zooplankton!"
I considered all the teeny tiny bones and teeny tiny shells and teeny tiny bodies I had just ingested without any physical effort.
I felt like a zooplankton the following day as I sat on the floor of the predator tank, watching a shark swim toward me.
I've watched plenty of documentaries on sharks and I've seen them in aquariums but it wasn't until they were within arm's length, with no glass between us, that I realized why they are so menacing, perhaps more than many other predators. If you've ever seen a cat you know what sort of mood a lion is in. Same thing with dogs and hyenas. When elephants stick their ears out and make noise you know they're upset. Horses stomp around. Birds puff up their feathers. And so on.
Sharks are not so obliging. They look angry all the time. They don't growl (at least not in a way that humans can hear). Their teeth are always visible. They stare at you with unblinking, soul-penetrating eyes. They barely even move when they swim, so you can't even fool yourself into thinking they're having a good time swimming around, the way you can with some other fish. They just glide and stare, glide and stare.
Unless you accidentally kick one with your fin.
Four of us went down on the dive into the tank. The other three were a guy from Johannesburg and two random kids. Before we went down, the divemaster told us that if we were lucky we might stumble upon a shark tooth, which we were welcome to take with us as a souvenir. This lead to my three dive mates spending nearly their entire time in the tank with their heads down to the floor, looking for teeth. Guys -- there plenty of shark teeth right above you...still in the sharks' mouths!
Anyway, I was kneeling on the floor looking up at two passing sharks. The guy from Johannesburg came swimming towards me with his head down, looking for teeth. He glanced up at me and I thought he'd like to know he was getting awfully close to a deadly predator, so I waved my hand in a downward motion. It was not a standard motion you use in diving communication, so he ignored me. He stuck his head down a bit further which meant his fins went up.
I could see he was going to kick the shark right in the side. There was nothing I could do. Grabbing him (the guy, not the shark) would have just startled him and possibly made the whole thing worse, and I couldn't exactly yell at him. My best option was to try to look like a piece of coral and see what happened.
So he kicked the shark.
What happened next took what felt like a tenth of a second. The shark whipped around to see what happened and whacked the shark next to it, which took off like a bullet and slammed into the side of the tank. The sound that made was incredible. I've never heard anything so loud under water. I've never seen anything move so quickly, either. I don't understand how they can propel themselves so quickly.
The guy from Johannesburg looked up, confused, having no idea what happened. When we surfaced I told him. "Oh," he said. "That could have been bad!"
I also swam with a couple turtles, several rays, and some very large, very ugly fish, among others.
There's something a little artificial about seeing all these fish in an aquarium tank, sure. It's a middle ground between being on the outside of the tank and being in the ocean. You're close enough to the wildlife to interact with them but it's more controlled than being truly out in the wild. It's sort of like being on safari in a national park like Kruger, which is a middle ground between a zoo and walking in the jungle.
Sort of like how Cape Town is a middle ground between Europe and what I've described in this blog as my perception of "real" Africa.
If you're a diver and have the opportunity to dive in an aquarium tank, I say it's worth it. I know one can dive at the Baltimore Aquarium...
When she finished, she held up a very small beaker in between her thumb and forefinger, no bigger than a shot glass, filled with what appeared to be water. "Now," she said. "Who is going to stick their finger in this beaker and have a taste?" She looked me dead in the eye.
"What is it?" I asked.
"I'll tell you afterwards."
Never one to turn down a snack, I stuck my finger in the beaker. Room temperature water. I slurped down the mystery drink. Salty water. Boo-ooring.
"So?" she asked. "Not so bad, right?"
"Saltwater?" I hoped.
She stuck the beaker under the microscope. Hundreds and hundreds of tiny fish were swimming furiously in all directions.
"Zooplankton!"
I considered all the teeny tiny bones and teeny tiny shells and teeny tiny bodies I had just ingested without any physical effort.
I felt like a zooplankton the following day as I sat on the floor of the predator tank, watching a shark swim toward me.
I've watched plenty of documentaries on sharks and I've seen them in aquariums but it wasn't until they were within arm's length, with no glass between us, that I realized why they are so menacing, perhaps more than many other predators. If you've ever seen a cat you know what sort of mood a lion is in. Same thing with dogs and hyenas. When elephants stick their ears out and make noise you know they're upset. Horses stomp around. Birds puff up their feathers. And so on.
Sharks are not so obliging. They look angry all the time. They don't growl (at least not in a way that humans can hear). Their teeth are always visible. They stare at you with unblinking, soul-penetrating eyes. They barely even move when they swim, so you can't even fool yourself into thinking they're having a good time swimming around, the way you can with some other fish. They just glide and stare, glide and stare.
Unless you accidentally kick one with your fin.
Four of us went down on the dive into the tank. The other three were a guy from Johannesburg and two random kids. Before we went down, the divemaster told us that if we were lucky we might stumble upon a shark tooth, which we were welcome to take with us as a souvenir. This lead to my three dive mates spending nearly their entire time in the tank with their heads down to the floor, looking for teeth. Guys -- there plenty of shark teeth right above you...still in the sharks' mouths!
Anyway, I was kneeling on the floor looking up at two passing sharks. The guy from Johannesburg came swimming towards me with his head down, looking for teeth. He glanced up at me and I thought he'd like to know he was getting awfully close to a deadly predator, so I waved my hand in a downward motion. It was not a standard motion you use in diving communication, so he ignored me. He stuck his head down a bit further which meant his fins went up.
I could see he was going to kick the shark right in the side. There was nothing I could do. Grabbing him (the guy, not the shark) would have just startled him and possibly made the whole thing worse, and I couldn't exactly yell at him. My best option was to try to look like a piece of coral and see what happened.
So he kicked the shark.
What happened next took what felt like a tenth of a second. The shark whipped around to see what happened and whacked the shark next to it, which took off like a bullet and slammed into the side of the tank. The sound that made was incredible. I've never heard anything so loud under water. I've never seen anything move so quickly, either. I don't understand how they can propel themselves so quickly.
The guy from Johannesburg looked up, confused, having no idea what happened. When we surfaced I told him. "Oh," he said. "That could have been bad!"
I also swam with a couple turtles, several rays, and some very large, very ugly fish, among others.
There's something a little artificial about seeing all these fish in an aquarium tank, sure. It's a middle ground between being on the outside of the tank and being in the ocean. You're close enough to the wildlife to interact with them but it's more controlled than being truly out in the wild. It's sort of like being on safari in a national park like Kruger, which is a middle ground between a zoo and walking in the jungle.
Sort of like how Cape Town is a middle ground between Europe and what I've described in this blog as my perception of "real" Africa.
If you're a diver and have the opportunity to dive in an aquarium tank, I say it's worth it. I know one can dive at the Baltimore Aquarium...
Monday, December 26, 2011
Aquarium and Table Mountain
Currently we are sitting outside at a cafe near our hotel, killing time before heading to back to the aquarium. We went to the aquarium yesterday because it was one of the very few things open on Christmas. We caught a penguin feeding and a shark feeding...sort of.
The penguins eagerly ate the fish tossed at them. Penguins look a little less cute and cuddly when they've splashed fish blood and guts on their chest.
The sharks are in the Predator Tank. The Predator Tank also is home to some large turtles, some huge fish I can't remember the name of, some rays, and a billion little fish. It's a big tank.
Two divers, dressed in a santa suit and an elf suit, descended in to the tank with boxes full of fish. They have to hand-feed the turtles because the turtles are too slow to naturally compete for food with the lightning-quick fish in the tank, and they need to hand-feed the the sharks to ensure the sharks know that they get their food from people and not by eating every other fish in the tank.
After gently tossing pieces of fish into the chomping mouths of the turtles, the divers tried to feed the sharks by shoving fish pierced on Titan-esque pitchforks into the sharks' mouth. The sharks weren't having it. Apparently they weren't hungry for their weekly feeding. The aquarium employee doing the presentation for the feeding apologized. There's nothing we can do, he said. I know you all came to see the sharks eat but if they don't eat they don't eat. Maybe they'll eat on Wednesday since they didn't eat today, so come back then. Oh but if you're a certified scuba diver, you can dive in the tank with the sharks if you want. See Guest Services.
Pretty much everything else in the city is closed today, we had no plans, and I don't think I use all of my fingers regularly anyway, so this afternoon I am diving in the Predator Tank. I will report on that later.
Table Mountain towers over Cape Town. It was recently voted onto the latest edition of the Natural Seven Wonders of the World list (or it made the final cut or it's being considered or something like that). They have signs all over the place urging people to vote. Anyway, it's a big mountain. Its flat top is about a kilometer above sea level. It's shaped like a table because when it was formed the rock rose straight up from the earth, as opposed to most mountains which splinter and spike and, well, look more like mountains.
On Friday I hiked up Table Mountain with four other people: two attorneys from LA (I traveled thousands of miles to hike a mountain with four people and half of them are attorneys? How far do I need to go to get away??) and two French girls. Our guide was a small Irish woman named Margaret. Margaret has been hiking Table Mountain every day for about 15 years. She is not to be messed with.
I asked her how she ended up a mountain climber. What does one do in a previous life that leads to climbing this mountain every day?
She tells me she was a speech therapist. Natural career progression, speech therapist to mountain climber.
Anyway, Margaret lead me, the two attorneys, and the French girls up and down the mountain in a little over 6 hours. (Pictures will come along later with the rest.) When we got to the top to the cableway station, where people who have taken the cable car are deposited, we found ourselves more or less alone on an empty mountain. The cableway had closed due to the wind so the only other people around were a few who had also hiked up. It was nice with no crowds.
I think I've found a new hobby. I hiked Masada in Israel and enjoyed that though it was a far different hike than Table Mountain. Masada was simply a dirt trail. Table Mountain was climbing over rocks and up ladders and jumping puddles. I'm going to check out the Appalachian and Shenandoah hiking scene when I get back. Maybe my thighs will have completely recovered by then.
Time to go meet the predators. And teach Mom how to use the camera.
The penguins eagerly ate the fish tossed at them. Penguins look a little less cute and cuddly when they've splashed fish blood and guts on their chest.
The sharks are in the Predator Tank. The Predator Tank also is home to some large turtles, some huge fish I can't remember the name of, some rays, and a billion little fish. It's a big tank.
Two divers, dressed in a santa suit and an elf suit, descended in to the tank with boxes full of fish. They have to hand-feed the turtles because the turtles are too slow to naturally compete for food with the lightning-quick fish in the tank, and they need to hand-feed the the sharks to ensure the sharks know that they get their food from people and not by eating every other fish in the tank.
After gently tossing pieces of fish into the chomping mouths of the turtles, the divers tried to feed the sharks by shoving fish pierced on Titan-esque pitchforks into the sharks' mouth. The sharks weren't having it. Apparently they weren't hungry for their weekly feeding. The aquarium employee doing the presentation for the feeding apologized. There's nothing we can do, he said. I know you all came to see the sharks eat but if they don't eat they don't eat. Maybe they'll eat on Wednesday since they didn't eat today, so come back then. Oh but if you're a certified scuba diver, you can dive in the tank with the sharks if you want. See Guest Services.
Pretty much everything else in the city is closed today, we had no plans, and I don't think I use all of my fingers regularly anyway, so this afternoon I am diving in the Predator Tank. I will report on that later.
Table Mountain towers over Cape Town. It was recently voted onto the latest edition of the Natural Seven Wonders of the World list (or it made the final cut or it's being considered or something like that). They have signs all over the place urging people to vote. Anyway, it's a big mountain. Its flat top is about a kilometer above sea level. It's shaped like a table because when it was formed the rock rose straight up from the earth, as opposed to most mountains which splinter and spike and, well, look more like mountains.
On Friday I hiked up Table Mountain with four other people: two attorneys from LA (I traveled thousands of miles to hike a mountain with four people and half of them are attorneys? How far do I need to go to get away??) and two French girls. Our guide was a small Irish woman named Margaret. Margaret has been hiking Table Mountain every day for about 15 years. She is not to be messed with.
I asked her how she ended up a mountain climber. What does one do in a previous life that leads to climbing this mountain every day?
She tells me she was a speech therapist. Natural career progression, speech therapist to mountain climber.
Anyway, Margaret lead me, the two attorneys, and the French girls up and down the mountain in a little over 6 hours. (Pictures will come along later with the rest.) When we got to the top to the cableway station, where people who have taken the cable car are deposited, we found ourselves more or less alone on an empty mountain. The cableway had closed due to the wind so the only other people around were a few who had also hiked up. It was nice with no crowds.
I think I've found a new hobby. I hiked Masada in Israel and enjoyed that though it was a far different hike than Table Mountain. Masada was simply a dirt trail. Table Mountain was climbing over rocks and up ladders and jumping puddles. I'm going to check out the Appalachian and Shenandoah hiking scene when I get back. Maybe my thighs will have completely recovered by then.
Time to go meet the predators. And teach Mom how to use the camera.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Where Am I?
(Note: this is today's second post. Scroll down to see the first.)
Although it had changed significantly since we were last there and I experienced the inner battle between my childhood memories and my active senses, Dakar was very familiar. The dirt hadn't changed, the vendors hadn't changed, the food hadn't changed. I was unsurprised when I turned a corner and the street was closed because there was a big hole in it, I was undisturbed by the goats wandering on the sidewalk, I was able to wave off vendors, I expected nothing to work or be on time. Basically, I expected Africa. And Africa is what I got.
South Africa is not the Africa I know. It does not feel the same here. Cape Town in particular feels like a European city. For one thing, there are white people everywhere, both tourists and residents. Everyone speaks English. There is reliable hot water. We haven't had a single power outage. The streets are largely devoid of trash. No wandering goats or cows. I haven't smelled any burning trash. No street vendors selling food. Wifi is everywhere. There is a huge waterfront mall and a Ritz and multimillion-dollar beach bungalows and Ferraris.
And it's not hot.
I'm not complaining. It just feels like I've been in Europe, that's all. On the drive between Joburg and Kruger I think I saw some real Africa, but not in the two cities we've been in. Maybe this impression is a reflection of the places we've been within the two cities but I don't think that's the whole story. Obviously the history of this country, particularly the big cities, has a huge impact on the culture and since the influence is European it makes sense that the feel is European. It's not a big mystery, it's just far more noticeable than I was expecting.
I suspect there is some real Africa in the townships. The townships are where the non-whites were displaced to after being ripped from their homes by Apartheid legislation, like the people from District Six.
From what I have seen from driving past, there is a spectrum of townships but they are essentially all the same: settlements created by the government consisting of little shacks with corrugated roofs clustered into depressed neighborhoods separated by tiny alleys passing as streets. Basically, slums for people who were forced from their real houses and real apartments in the city because of their skin color.
As a tourist you have the opportunity to go on a township tour where you are taken into a theoretically typical township house and meet a theoretically typical resident. You can talk to them and hear their story and see the squalor in which they live and tell them how awful and unfair it is (as if they don't know) and if you want to feel a little better about yourself you can give them some money (on top of their cut from your ticket). Some specialized tours focus on the music or food or sport of particular communities so that you can experience those aspects of township life for an evening before you return to the comfort of your hotel.
I was skeptical of the whole idea from the beginning and I am glad we've decided to skip it. You can make the argument that motivation for skipping it is simply a desire to avoid some sort of guilt or the inevitable awkwardness; that, in fact, visiting is a way of helping them, of putting money in their pocket, and by avoiding it entirely I am doing the worst thing possible which is ignoring it wholesale. I understand that argument.
But that is not my motivation. It just doesn't seem right to turn their actual lives into my discrete touristy outing. What can these people possibly be thinking when a tour bus pulls up and bunch of tourists pour out with their jewelry gleaming, sunglasses shining, and cameras clicking away?
I don't know if that image is necessarily the deal-breaker for me (though it does me of my trip to Morocco a couple years back when I was on that bus and cursed myself every day for it). I don't know if I would feel differently if instead of an organized tour I were simply going to meet a friend of a friend. Possibly. Lonely Planet claims some of the tours are tastefully done so I'm probably exaggerating an image I have no basis for painting in the first place.
You could also easily argue that any sort of traveling is experiencing someone else's life for your...something. Enjoyment, enlightenment, palette, photo album. Your new experience is someone else's reality. Nothing wrong with that, generally. That's traveling, without exception. Without exception.
But clearly I struggle with this. I honestly don't know why I have this line drawn in my mind, but it's there.
Although it had changed significantly since we were last there and I experienced the inner battle between my childhood memories and my active senses, Dakar was very familiar. The dirt hadn't changed, the vendors hadn't changed, the food hadn't changed. I was unsurprised when I turned a corner and the street was closed because there was a big hole in it, I was undisturbed by the goats wandering on the sidewalk, I was able to wave off vendors, I expected nothing to work or be on time. Basically, I expected Africa. And Africa is what I got.
South Africa is not the Africa I know. It does not feel the same here. Cape Town in particular feels like a European city. For one thing, there are white people everywhere, both tourists and residents. Everyone speaks English. There is reliable hot water. We haven't had a single power outage. The streets are largely devoid of trash. No wandering goats or cows. I haven't smelled any burning trash. No street vendors selling food. Wifi is everywhere. There is a huge waterfront mall and a Ritz and multimillion-dollar beach bungalows and Ferraris.
And it's not hot.
I'm not complaining. It just feels like I've been in Europe, that's all. On the drive between Joburg and Kruger I think I saw some real Africa, but not in the two cities we've been in. Maybe this impression is a reflection of the places we've been within the two cities but I don't think that's the whole story. Obviously the history of this country, particularly the big cities, has a huge impact on the culture and since the influence is European it makes sense that the feel is European. It's not a big mystery, it's just far more noticeable than I was expecting.
I suspect there is some real Africa in the townships. The townships are where the non-whites were displaced to after being ripped from their homes by Apartheid legislation, like the people from District Six.
From what I have seen from driving past, there is a spectrum of townships but they are essentially all the same: settlements created by the government consisting of little shacks with corrugated roofs clustered into depressed neighborhoods separated by tiny alleys passing as streets. Basically, slums for people who were forced from their real houses and real apartments in the city because of their skin color.
As a tourist you have the opportunity to go on a township tour where you are taken into a theoretically typical township house and meet a theoretically typical resident. You can talk to them and hear their story and see the squalor in which they live and tell them how awful and unfair it is (as if they don't know) and if you want to feel a little better about yourself you can give them some money (on top of their cut from your ticket). Some specialized tours focus on the music or food or sport of particular communities so that you can experience those aspects of township life for an evening before you return to the comfort of your hotel.
I was skeptical of the whole idea from the beginning and I am glad we've decided to skip it. You can make the argument that motivation for skipping it is simply a desire to avoid some sort of guilt or the inevitable awkwardness; that, in fact, visiting is a way of helping them, of putting money in their pocket, and by avoiding it entirely I am doing the worst thing possible which is ignoring it wholesale. I understand that argument.
But that is not my motivation. It just doesn't seem right to turn their actual lives into my discrete touristy outing. What can these people possibly be thinking when a tour bus pulls up and bunch of tourists pour out with their jewelry gleaming, sunglasses shining, and cameras clicking away?
I don't know if that image is necessarily the deal-breaker for me (though it does me of my trip to Morocco a couple years back when I was on that bus and cursed myself every day for it). I don't know if I would feel differently if instead of an organized tour I were simply going to meet a friend of a friend. Possibly. Lonely Planet claims some of the tours are tastefully done so I'm probably exaggerating an image I have no basis for painting in the first place.
You could also easily argue that any sort of traveling is experiencing someone else's life for your...something. Enjoyment, enlightenment, palette, photo album. Your new experience is someone else's reality. Nothing wrong with that, generally. That's traveling, without exception. Without exception.
But clearly I struggle with this. I honestly don't know why I have this line drawn in my mind, but it's there.
District Six
This morning I was scheduled to be attached to a paraglide so I could hurl myself off of Table Mountain. Bad weather was the forecast and thick gray clouds were sitting on the mountain when I woke up. (Cloud cover on Table Mountain is called the Table Cloth. Clever South Africans.) I called my paraglide guy to see what he thought. He assured me that a little overcast skies wouldn't hurt anyone.
"I'm not at the mountain yet but, you know, you never know, it could be fine."
Yeah, okay.
I decided that when I go I want the weather to be amazing, sort of like every other day we've had here. What's the point of soaring over the city when it's call gray and mopey? I told him I was going to postpone. He said he didn't blame me.
So that was that. How's that for anti-climactic.
I have heard a saying several times since we've been here: if you don't like the weather, wait five minutes. Well, when we ventured out this morning it began to rain and many five minute segments later it had not stopped, as it rained most of the day. Luckily Cape Town has indoors among its mountains and beaches. We took cover in the District Six Museum.
District Six is a section of Cape Town that used to be a vibrant neighborhood, a melting pot of race and religion. By all accounts (that I have seen) it was full of hard-working people who had been there for generations, a true community in the shadow of "their" Table Mountain. It was the most cosmopolitan part of Cape Town and full of life, fueled by jazz musicians and traders.
Then Apartheid happened. District Six, targeted by the government because of its melting pot nature, was designated a White area in 1966. As a result, over a short period of time each of the approximately 70,000 residents of District Six were summarily kicked out of their homes and displaced to government-built shantytowns. In an attempt to erase all memory of the illegal racial mixing and peaceful cohabitation that had been happening there the government razed every last building to oblivion. The only building they left was a single church, which is still there.
The idea was that whites would move in to the vacated space that had been cleared for them. But they never did. Except for a few houses built within the last fifteen years, District Six is still a huge, empty, eerie lot in the middle of the city. The government has plans to rebuild it and move its former residents of 45 years ago back in but has been terribly lagging in its effort.
Anyway, there's a museum about it and it is outstanding. It's everything Robben Island is not. It's filled with photographs, interview excerpts, and narratives of and by the former residents. You learn about what life was like there before Apartheid, what the removal itself was like, and how life changed post-District Six both for the former residents and the city as a whole. One of the museum founders and a former resident acts as a curator. He gave a group of us a mini-tour and introduction. He was engaging and passionate, his talk was interesting, and his cell phone rang not once the whole time. I talked to him afterward and he answered all my questions. The District Six Museum is a superb experience.
After the museum we found lunch and took a little break. The rain also took a break and we went to the Gold of Africa museum, which is exactly what it sounds like: a history of goldsmithing in Africa. The gimmick is all the old gold stuff they have on display: gold tribal headdresses, gold jewelry, gold sword handles, gold figurines, gold shoes, gold mirrors, etc. Okay, okay, you can make stuff from gold, I get it. So that was that.
Then I had the first good cup of drip coffee I've had the entire time we've been in Africa. We've had plenty of good espresso but only drip coffee that could be mistaken for a) mud or b) dirty bath water.
Tomorrow we change hotels in the afternoon, moving us closer to the city center (or "centre" as they say in the metric system). In the morning I am hiking the mountain. Saturday we return to the food mecca of the Old Biscuit Mill, Sunday we are doing Christmas at the aquarium, Monday is up for grabs, Tuesday is diving with sharks, and Wednesday is run around and do all the last minute stuff before heading to the airport in the evening and buckling in for the 20-hour or so trip back. I can't believe the end is near.
"I'm not at the mountain yet but, you know, you never know, it could be fine."
Yeah, okay.
I decided that when I go I want the weather to be amazing, sort of like every other day we've had here. What's the point of soaring over the city when it's call gray and mopey? I told him I was going to postpone. He said he didn't blame me.
So that was that. How's that for anti-climactic.
I have heard a saying several times since we've been here: if you don't like the weather, wait five minutes. Well, when we ventured out this morning it began to rain and many five minute segments later it had not stopped, as it rained most of the day. Luckily Cape Town has indoors among its mountains and beaches. We took cover in the District Six Museum.
District Six is a section of Cape Town that used to be a vibrant neighborhood, a melting pot of race and religion. By all accounts (that I have seen) it was full of hard-working people who had been there for generations, a true community in the shadow of "their" Table Mountain. It was the most cosmopolitan part of Cape Town and full of life, fueled by jazz musicians and traders.
Then Apartheid happened. District Six, targeted by the government because of its melting pot nature, was designated a White area in 1966. As a result, over a short period of time each of the approximately 70,000 residents of District Six were summarily kicked out of their homes and displaced to government-built shantytowns. In an attempt to erase all memory of the illegal racial mixing and peaceful cohabitation that had been happening there the government razed every last building to oblivion. The only building they left was a single church, which is still there.
The idea was that whites would move in to the vacated space that had been cleared for them. But they never did. Except for a few houses built within the last fifteen years, District Six is still a huge, empty, eerie lot in the middle of the city. The government has plans to rebuild it and move its former residents of 45 years ago back in but has been terribly lagging in its effort.
Anyway, there's a museum about it and it is outstanding. It's everything Robben Island is not. It's filled with photographs, interview excerpts, and narratives of and by the former residents. You learn about what life was like there before Apartheid, what the removal itself was like, and how life changed post-District Six both for the former residents and the city as a whole. One of the museum founders and a former resident acts as a curator. He gave a group of us a mini-tour and introduction. He was engaging and passionate, his talk was interesting, and his cell phone rang not once the whole time. I talked to him afterward and he answered all my questions. The District Six Museum is a superb experience.
After the museum we found lunch and took a little break. The rain also took a break and we went to the Gold of Africa museum, which is exactly what it sounds like: a history of goldsmithing in Africa. The gimmick is all the old gold stuff they have on display: gold tribal headdresses, gold jewelry, gold sword handles, gold figurines, gold shoes, gold mirrors, etc. Okay, okay, you can make stuff from gold, I get it. So that was that.
Then I had the first good cup of drip coffee I've had the entire time we've been in Africa. We've had plenty of good espresso but only drip coffee that could be mistaken for a) mud or b) dirty bath water.
Tomorrow we change hotels in the afternoon, moving us closer to the city center (or "centre" as they say in the metric system). In the morning I am hiking the mountain. Saturday we return to the food mecca of the Old Biscuit Mill, Sunday we are doing Christmas at the aquarium, Monday is up for grabs, Tuesday is diving with sharks, and Wednesday is run around and do all the last minute stuff before heading to the airport in the evening and buckling in for the 20-hour or so trip back. I can't believe the end is near.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Robben Island
I started today with a smoked crocodile tail sandwich. Number of times I have been able to say that previous to today: zero. Even better? The sandwich was called a "Croc monsieur."
Today we went to Robben Island. It was one of the worst experiences I have ever had as a tourist.
Robben Island is where the prison is that held the political prisoners of Apartheid, including Nelson Mandela. Especially Nelson Mandela.
Side-note: Mandela is a deity here. Pictures of him and quotes of his and celebrations of his forthcoming birthday are everywhere. He's on posters and T-shirts and coffee mugs and shot glasses and table clothes and postcards and rugs and window clings and rugby balls. Based on what I've seen he's inaugurated every building in the city.
Look, I understand the history. It's just that there comes a point when it begins to seem like propaganda. I don't think propaganda discriminates based on whether you agree with the message or not; propaganda is an overwhelming one-sided sensory overload celebrating a particular point of view. That is what Mandela is.
This is relevant to the story.
The dock at which you catch the ferry to Robben Island is at the Waterfront, a beautiful modern display of shops and restaurants. There is a visitors center where you go to line up to get on the ferry, etc. The visitors center has a gift shop. The gift shop was the first sign of trouble.
Robben Island is not a happy place and it does not have a happy history. It was the home of thousands of enemies of Apartheid who sacrificed their freedom in an effort to combat injustice. It has become a symbol of (as the gift shop's own merchandise states) the "triumph of the human spirit", or something like that.
I am not completely sure of the wording of the phrase. I would be completely sure if I had bought a calendar, magnet, bookmark, water bottle, necklace pendant, or picture frame with it inscribed, however. Luckily the gift shop sold them all!
In my view, the best item was a chess set. The Robben Island Political Chess Set. You got it: the whites against the blacks. Mandela as king, fist raised. Nothing like teaching the kids to appreciate history, right?
Downstairs as you wait to board the ferry you stand next to a large display explaining to you how horrible life at Robben Island was. This is a quote: "Prison conditions were hard. Treatment of prisoners inhumane....Political prisoners embarked on hunger strikes that pressured the prison authorities to introduce changes."
Hey Ma, can I get that on a T-shirt?!
Professional baseball teams use ridiculous gimmicks to bring fans to the park: T-shirt tosses, mascot races, stupid games, loud obnoxious music, the Dance Cam, etc. Though I hate these gimmicks with a passion, I understand from a business standpoint that teams need to make money (theoretically to sign good players to make the team successful, but that is for another time). Despite its status as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, a designation for which I would guess it receives funding, I am sure whoever runs Robben Island needs to make money to pay the guides and maintenance and whatnot, sure.
But people would come anyway even if you doubled the price of admission. That would obviate the need to sell all the crap.
When you board the ferry there is a guy standing there urging families to walk the ramp together and pause long enough so that he can take your picture to sell to you when you get back. 95% of the people stopped and beamed at the camera for the shot. Fun family vacation! Okay kids, let's go learn about oppression! Hooray!
Once we got to the island we rode on a rushed bus tour and dropped at the prison building. About a hundred of us (way too large) were lead around by a former prisoner who seemed to have little interest in his own incredibly scripted presentation. His phone rang three times while he himself was speaking; he even answered it once! During his own tour. I cannot emphasize this enough.
This is a bit chicken or the egg, I admit, but the audience couldn't care less about what the guy said. Here we have an actual former prisoner telling us about his time spent on the island and the priority was getting a picture of your buddy flashing a peace sign in front of Mandela's cell?
It took about five minutes for me to want to leave as soon as possible. Fortunately the MO of the tour guide was to rush us through as quickly as he was able. We ended up spending more time on the ferry (an hour and a half) than on the tour (less than an hour).
The bit about Mandela was relevant because I am convinced that if Mandela's name were not able to be associated with the prison nobody would visit. The guide mentioned Mandela dozens of times. The phrase "Mandela and others" was stuck into every possible context. It's clear he is the moneymaker. Hardly any other names were mentioned.
With the incredible history at that island and the world-changing events that occurred there, the potential for education is obviously boundless. The fact that the events in question are so recent relative to "other history" increases its potential by a huge factor. The people who were imprisoned there are still living! Giving tours! This country is still dealing with the consequences of the actions that occurred here and there are important lessons to be learned. Stop screwing it up, already!
A couple years ago Mom and I went on a tour of Eastern State Penitentiary in Philadelphia. More respect was paid on that tour to the perpetrators of actual crimes like murder and rape than was paid to the political prisoners of Robben Island. The Robben Island Museum and tour is a complete joke and a disservice.
Tomorrow, if the weather holds up, I will paraglide off of Table Mountain. Then the next day I will hike back up.
Today we went to Robben Island. It was one of the worst experiences I have ever had as a tourist.
Robben Island is where the prison is that held the political prisoners of Apartheid, including Nelson Mandela. Especially Nelson Mandela.
Side-note: Mandela is a deity here. Pictures of him and quotes of his and celebrations of his forthcoming birthday are everywhere. He's on posters and T-shirts and coffee mugs and shot glasses and table clothes and postcards and rugs and window clings and rugby balls. Based on what I've seen he's inaugurated every building in the city.
Look, I understand the history. It's just that there comes a point when it begins to seem like propaganda. I don't think propaganda discriminates based on whether you agree with the message or not; propaganda is an overwhelming one-sided sensory overload celebrating a particular point of view. That is what Mandela is.
This is relevant to the story.
The dock at which you catch the ferry to Robben Island is at the Waterfront, a beautiful modern display of shops and restaurants. There is a visitors center where you go to line up to get on the ferry, etc. The visitors center has a gift shop. The gift shop was the first sign of trouble.
Robben Island is not a happy place and it does not have a happy history. It was the home of thousands of enemies of Apartheid who sacrificed their freedom in an effort to combat injustice. It has become a symbol of (as the gift shop's own merchandise states) the "triumph of the human spirit", or something like that.
I am not completely sure of the wording of the phrase. I would be completely sure if I had bought a calendar, magnet, bookmark, water bottle, necklace pendant, or picture frame with it inscribed, however. Luckily the gift shop sold them all!
In my view, the best item was a chess set. The Robben Island Political Chess Set. You got it: the whites against the blacks. Mandela as king, fist raised. Nothing like teaching the kids to appreciate history, right?
Downstairs as you wait to board the ferry you stand next to a large display explaining to you how horrible life at Robben Island was. This is a quote: "Prison conditions were hard. Treatment of prisoners inhumane....Political prisoners embarked on hunger strikes that pressured the prison authorities to introduce changes."
Hey Ma, can I get that on a T-shirt?!
Professional baseball teams use ridiculous gimmicks to bring fans to the park: T-shirt tosses, mascot races, stupid games, loud obnoxious music, the Dance Cam, etc. Though I hate these gimmicks with a passion, I understand from a business standpoint that teams need to make money (theoretically to sign good players to make the team successful, but that is for another time). Despite its status as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, a designation for which I would guess it receives funding, I am sure whoever runs Robben Island needs to make money to pay the guides and maintenance and whatnot, sure.
But people would come anyway even if you doubled the price of admission. That would obviate the need to sell all the crap.
When you board the ferry there is a guy standing there urging families to walk the ramp together and pause long enough so that he can take your picture to sell to you when you get back. 95% of the people stopped and beamed at the camera for the shot. Fun family vacation! Okay kids, let's go learn about oppression! Hooray!
Once we got to the island we rode on a rushed bus tour and dropped at the prison building. About a hundred of us (way too large) were lead around by a former prisoner who seemed to have little interest in his own incredibly scripted presentation. His phone rang three times while he himself was speaking; he even answered it once! During his own tour. I cannot emphasize this enough.
This is a bit chicken or the egg, I admit, but the audience couldn't care less about what the guy said. Here we have an actual former prisoner telling us about his time spent on the island and the priority was getting a picture of your buddy flashing a peace sign in front of Mandela's cell?
It took about five minutes for me to want to leave as soon as possible. Fortunately the MO of the tour guide was to rush us through as quickly as he was able. We ended up spending more time on the ferry (an hour and a half) than on the tour (less than an hour).
The bit about Mandela was relevant because I am convinced that if Mandela's name were not able to be associated with the prison nobody would visit. The guide mentioned Mandela dozens of times. The phrase "Mandela and others" was stuck into every possible context. It's clear he is the moneymaker. Hardly any other names were mentioned.
With the incredible history at that island and the world-changing events that occurred there, the potential for education is obviously boundless. The fact that the events in question are so recent relative to "other history" increases its potential by a huge factor. The people who were imprisoned there are still living! Giving tours! This country is still dealing with the consequences of the actions that occurred here and there are important lessons to be learned. Stop screwing it up, already!
A couple years ago Mom and I went on a tour of Eastern State Penitentiary in Philadelphia. More respect was paid on that tour to the perpetrators of actual crimes like murder and rape than was paid to the political prisoners of Robben Island. The Robben Island Museum and tour is a complete joke and a disservice.
Tomorrow, if the weather holds up, I will paraglide off of Table Mountain. Then the next day I will hike back up.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Cape Town part one
Updating has been a struggle due to time. I guess in a way that's a good thing.
We have now been in Cape Town for 5 days. We've taken a hop-on hop-off bus tour, we've been to the Old Biscuit Mill, we've seen penguins, we've seen ostriches, we've been to the Cape of Good Hope, and I've driven on the left-hand side of the road without incident. We also have plans to go to Robben Island (both of us), paragliding (possibly both of us), hiking Table Mountain (one of us), diving with sharks (one of us), and going to the aquarium (both of us).
But one thing at a time.
The first full day we were here we went to the Old Biscuit Mill, which is like Eastern Market on steroids. It's similar to Eastern Market in the sense that it has arts and crafts-y stores and some clothing for sale and theoretically it's all independent and wholesome and cruelty-free and free-range and cancer-curing and all those other tricks that entice you to buy things. The way that it blows Eastern Market out of the water, not to mention any other farmer's market-type place I've ever seen, is the food.
There are a couple enormous tents devoted solely to food. The pictures I tweeted of a super thin pizza and a mushroom kebab were from this place, this small slice of heaven. There is Italian, Greek, omelets, veggies, barbecue, paella, beer, wine, dried fruits, olives, frozen yogurt, ice cream, baked goods galore, sandwiches of every kind, fresh fish, smoked fish, breads, potstickers, cheese, chocolate, smoothies, mojitos, mushrooms, jams and jellies, a raw bar, and even New York-style bagels. That's just what I can remember without thinking too hard about it. And everything is freshly made. I know this for a fact because a) you can watch most of it being made right in front of you if you're ordering a meal, and b) all the vendors have samples and I have opposable thumbs and a gullet.
The smells were amazing. I walked through in a daze before buying a local beer to help me begin to make decisions. I started with the grilled mushroom kebab, then split an arugula and prosciutto pizza with Mom. And a couple more beers. We are going back there this Saturday so that I can eat my way through the place. I was not properly prepared the first time around (I had eaten a large breakfast).
A quick word on food. Food here is remarkably cheap. I was told this on the front-end but didn't appreciate just how true it is. Cabs from the airport cost $40 but a smoked salmon omelet and a salad with a side of toast and jam and butter and a double espresso runs about $5. A glass of South African wine can be had for as little as $2 or so. Large avocados at the store are a dollar. I don't understand it but it turns out there are some things I simply don't need to understand.
Later that day (Saturday) we checked into our "self-catering" (which is an Afrikaans word for "dumpy") apartment, our home for six nights. It's in an area called Sea Point, which is allegedly the Jewish neighborhood but all we've seen here is halal eateries and Asian massage parlors. No matter. It's lively just enough at night, the cabs know where it is, and our apartment is a block from the water.
Sunday the hop-on hop-off took us around the city; pretty standard stuff. Castle here, World Cup stadium there, history of Apartheid oppression in that neighborhood, the beautiful people hang out at this beach here, etc. Good for getting the lay of the land and a little sunburnt. I'm always a little underwhelmed by these bus tours but also am always glad when I do them. They give you a little insight into how exactly the city you're in is laid out, which neighborhoods are worth returning to and which aren't worth the time. I should go on one in DC to see what a tourist hears from the authoritative bus voiceover.
Yesterday we took care of business: made hotel arrangements for the remainder of our stay after we're out of the current place, set up a car rental for today, and drank a lot of coffee. Productive if nothing else.
Today was the foray into driving. Mom and I agreed right away that I would drive and she would navigate. As a reminder, they drive on the left here in South Africa, which is the side I have never driven on before (intentionally). Also, the turn signal lever and the windshield wiper lever are swapped. Luckily the gas and brake are in the same place.
When we got into the car I made one small request.
"Just, before, you know, we get going here, ah, you know what would be helpful?" I asked cautiously.
"What?"
"Any sort of alarmed noises or frightened sounds coming from the passenger's seat," I suggested. "Those in fact do nothing but cause badness and harm."
"Oh yeah, I know. I'll try. I actually trust you a lot more to stay on the left than I do myself," she said, tightening her seat belt and finding a comfortable position for her hand on the oh-shit bar.
I nodded, flipped on the windshield wiper to indicate I was turning, and off we went.
We drove down to Boulders Beach and Foxy Beach, two beaches in a place called Simon's Town well-known for being places where penguins hang out.
As it turns out, that's pretty much all penguins do. They sit on the beach. They're kind of like the lions I described, only fatter, shinier, and much less graceful. They either sit in the sand camouflaged as globs of fat with beaks or they stand with their beaks pointed up into the air. Sometimes two of them will stand with their beaks pointed up into the air at each other, like swords on a coat of arms. And then they just stand. If the wind blows, they teeter. If they've gotten too hot or too cold or too teeter-tottery, they waddle, often falling flat on their face as they do, to a new spot to restart their activity of choice.
At one point I heard an over-enthusiastic dad tell his kid that penguins are "naturally curious" so don't be surprised if one "comes over to say hello." Nice try, over-enthusiastic dad. I've seen tumbleweeds with more natural curiosity than I saw in any of these penguins. That all being said, their general docility made them great photo subjects. That is until I got a picture of one standing and a picture of another one sitting, more or less exhausting the gamut of penguin activity.
On our way back to Cape Town we passed an ostrich farm, so we pulled over to have a look. The ostriches were separated into their own areas of farm, with quite a bit of room to run or sit or attempt to fly or rub two brain cells together or whatever it is ostriches do. As far as I can tell from the 10 minutes we spent there they spend their time trying to position themselves so they look like question marks and holding very disapproving facial expressions. And we saw one rolling around in the dirt.
In between the visits with flightless birds, we went to Cape Point, which is the southwestern southernmost tip of Africa (follow all that?). It's right around the corner from the Cape of Good Hope, which you've probably heard of. They're in the same huge national park which by the looks of it is at the end of the earth.
The thing to do at Cape Point is walk up the hill (or take the funicular, which didn't sound very "fun" to me, har har!) to a lighthouse at the highest point of the, uh, Point. Fantastic views.
I will actually do some more reflecting on this part of the journey later as it currently has become dinnertime. Tomorrow is Robben Island.
We have now been in Cape Town for 5 days. We've taken a hop-on hop-off bus tour, we've been to the Old Biscuit Mill, we've seen penguins, we've seen ostriches, we've been to the Cape of Good Hope, and I've driven on the left-hand side of the road without incident. We also have plans to go to Robben Island (both of us), paragliding (possibly both of us), hiking Table Mountain (one of us), diving with sharks (one of us), and going to the aquarium (both of us).
But one thing at a time.
The first full day we were here we went to the Old Biscuit Mill, which is like Eastern Market on steroids. It's similar to Eastern Market in the sense that it has arts and crafts-y stores and some clothing for sale and theoretically it's all independent and wholesome and cruelty-free and free-range and cancer-curing and all those other tricks that entice you to buy things. The way that it blows Eastern Market out of the water, not to mention any other farmer's market-type place I've ever seen, is the food.
There are a couple enormous tents devoted solely to food. The pictures I tweeted of a super thin pizza and a mushroom kebab were from this place, this small slice of heaven. There is Italian, Greek, omelets, veggies, barbecue, paella, beer, wine, dried fruits, olives, frozen yogurt, ice cream, baked goods galore, sandwiches of every kind, fresh fish, smoked fish, breads, potstickers, cheese, chocolate, smoothies, mojitos, mushrooms, jams and jellies, a raw bar, and even New York-style bagels. That's just what I can remember without thinking too hard about it. And everything is freshly made. I know this for a fact because a) you can watch most of it being made right in front of you if you're ordering a meal, and b) all the vendors have samples and I have opposable thumbs and a gullet.
The smells were amazing. I walked through in a daze before buying a local beer to help me begin to make decisions. I started with the grilled mushroom kebab, then split an arugula and prosciutto pizza with Mom. And a couple more beers. We are going back there this Saturday so that I can eat my way through the place. I was not properly prepared the first time around (I had eaten a large breakfast).
A quick word on food. Food here is remarkably cheap. I was told this on the front-end but didn't appreciate just how true it is. Cabs from the airport cost $40 but a smoked salmon omelet and a salad with a side of toast and jam and butter and a double espresso runs about $5. A glass of South African wine can be had for as little as $2 or so. Large avocados at the store are a dollar. I don't understand it but it turns out there are some things I simply don't need to understand.
Later that day (Saturday) we checked into our "self-catering" (which is an Afrikaans word for "dumpy") apartment, our home for six nights. It's in an area called Sea Point, which is allegedly the Jewish neighborhood but all we've seen here is halal eateries and Asian massage parlors. No matter. It's lively just enough at night, the cabs know where it is, and our apartment is a block from the water.
Sunday the hop-on hop-off took us around the city; pretty standard stuff. Castle here, World Cup stadium there, history of Apartheid oppression in that neighborhood, the beautiful people hang out at this beach here, etc. Good for getting the lay of the land and a little sunburnt. I'm always a little underwhelmed by these bus tours but also am always glad when I do them. They give you a little insight into how exactly the city you're in is laid out, which neighborhoods are worth returning to and which aren't worth the time. I should go on one in DC to see what a tourist hears from the authoritative bus voiceover.
Yesterday we took care of business: made hotel arrangements for the remainder of our stay after we're out of the current place, set up a car rental for today, and drank a lot of coffee. Productive if nothing else.
Today was the foray into driving. Mom and I agreed right away that I would drive and she would navigate. As a reminder, they drive on the left here in South Africa, which is the side I have never driven on before (intentionally). Also, the turn signal lever and the windshield wiper lever are swapped. Luckily the gas and brake are in the same place.
When we got into the car I made one small request.
"Just, before, you know, we get going here, ah, you know what would be helpful?" I asked cautiously.
"What?"
"Any sort of alarmed noises or frightened sounds coming from the passenger's seat," I suggested. "Those in fact do nothing but cause badness and harm."
"Oh yeah, I know. I'll try. I actually trust you a lot more to stay on the left than I do myself," she said, tightening her seat belt and finding a comfortable position for her hand on the oh-shit bar.
I nodded, flipped on the windshield wiper to indicate I was turning, and off we went.
We drove down to Boulders Beach and Foxy Beach, two beaches in a place called Simon's Town well-known for being places where penguins hang out.
As it turns out, that's pretty much all penguins do. They sit on the beach. They're kind of like the lions I described, only fatter, shinier, and much less graceful. They either sit in the sand camouflaged as globs of fat with beaks or they stand with their beaks pointed up into the air. Sometimes two of them will stand with their beaks pointed up into the air at each other, like swords on a coat of arms. And then they just stand. If the wind blows, they teeter. If they've gotten too hot or too cold or too teeter-tottery, they waddle, often falling flat on their face as they do, to a new spot to restart their activity of choice.
At one point I heard an over-enthusiastic dad tell his kid that penguins are "naturally curious" so don't be surprised if one "comes over to say hello." Nice try, over-enthusiastic dad. I've seen tumbleweeds with more natural curiosity than I saw in any of these penguins. That all being said, their general docility made them great photo subjects. That is until I got a picture of one standing and a picture of another one sitting, more or less exhausting the gamut of penguin activity.
On our way back to Cape Town we passed an ostrich farm, so we pulled over to have a look. The ostriches were separated into their own areas of farm, with quite a bit of room to run or sit or attempt to fly or rub two brain cells together or whatever it is ostriches do. As far as I can tell from the 10 minutes we spent there they spend their time trying to position themselves so they look like question marks and holding very disapproving facial expressions. And we saw one rolling around in the dirt.
In between the visits with flightless birds, we went to Cape Point, which is the southwestern southernmost tip of Africa (follow all that?). It's right around the corner from the Cape of Good Hope, which you've probably heard of. They're in the same huge national park which by the looks of it is at the end of the earth.
The thing to do at Cape Point is walk up the hill (or take the funicular, which didn't sound very "fun" to me, har har!) to a lighthouse at the highest point of the, uh, Point. Fantastic views.
I will actually do some more reflecting on this part of the journey later as it currently has become dinnertime. Tomorrow is Robben Island.
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