With my month of volunteering in Muizenberg drawing to a close, it was time to look forward. Bree would be flying home the following Tuesday and so we had a little over a week to fill. George would also be finishing his volunteer stint on Friday and so too would Lucy. They each had somewhere between a week and ten days to kill before their respective flights back home, so the five of us planned to go to Jeffrey’s Bay together. Before I go into detail about that though, I must mention Friday night.
Over a month ago, back when I was in Kampala, I went onto my last.fm account to change my location to Cape Town. Last.fm is a website that keeps track of your music listening habits and recommends bands or songs based on your taste. You can also list a home city so that if any shows by artists that you have in your library are announced, last.fm will tell you. For the past three months I had my location set to Nairobi and, predictably, there was nothing announced. Back home, I go to as many concerts as my budget will allow and, living in Vancouver, there are lots to choose from. I had been going through somewhat of a withdrawal during my Africa trip and I even considered flying down to South Africa a month earlier than intended so that I could join some friends to see Lil Wayne in Durban (don’t judge; I was desperate) and then maybe catch Deadmau5’s Johannesburg show. I wisely decided against that rash decision, but as a result, I was missing my constant show-attending lifestyle of Vancouver pretty badly. Imagine my utter joy then when, one day in Kampala, I switched my location on last.fm from Nairobi to Cape Town and was immediately recommended a concert. The Tallest Man on Earth was going to be playing Cape Town on Friday, February the 10th! I was absolutely overcome with happiness and booked tickets right away. The Tallest Man on Earth is the alias of Swedish singer/songwriter Kristian Matsson and for those not in the know, he is amazing. He hasn’t had a huge amount of mainstream success, but for his style of music he is quite a big name. His two full-length LPs both made huge waves in the indie music scene and his most recent release, 2010’s The Wild Hunt, received numerous unofficial awards and was widely considered to be one of the best albums of 2010. The Tallest Man on Earth is an act that I had wanted to see for a long time, but I missed out. At Sasquatch 2010 (a music festival in Washington state, about a 4 hour drive for me to attend, I have gone two straight years and hope to continue that trend when I get home; I sadly will miss the 2012 edition) he was included in the lineup. At that time, I had heard of him but had never given his music a proper listen. Combine that with his very early timeslot, and I decided to give his set a miss. Months later, when I started to listen to his music and watch his live videos on youtube, I realized what a terrible mistake I had made. I’m sure we’ve all had situation like this and there’s not much that can be done about it, but I was kicking myself for missing his set at Sasquatch 2010, which was apparently legendary. Since then, I had been waiting for a chance to see him play and, as luck would have it, I would get my chance as he would be playing Cape Town within my one-month window of being in the city.
The venue was the Cape Town International Conference Centre (CTICC), right near the famous V&A Waterfront in downtown Cape Town. The venue had prearranged seating, which is always annoying unless you’re seeing a sit-down concert like an orchestra or something, but in the end it worked out alright. While I definitely would have liked to have put my concert elbows to work (I get front-row centre in general seating, every time; I’m ruthless), and while I would have liked to have danced a bit, sitting was a nice way to take the show in, if not perfectly ideal. As Hillary, Aedrea-Anne (a friend that I sold my extra ticket to), and myself found our seats, the excitement set in. There was a drum-kit on stage though, so I knew that there would be an opener (Matsson uses nothing but his voice and an acoustic guitar on his songs, sometimes a keyboard). They were a local three-piece who were obviously very nervous to be setting the stage for such a critically-acclaimed international act, but they filled the spot well with nine or ten soothing alternative rock jams. Their sound reminded me of a less guitar-focussed John Mayer (minus the hordes of screaming girls of course). They finished their set to some half-enthusiastic applause from an impatient audience, and a voice announced that the main act would start after a twenty-minute intermission.
We got up, stood in one of many drink queues for nearly the entire intermission, downed our overpriced drinks, and went back in for the show. The stage was now set up with one microphone, one chair, and a rack of eight or so acoustic guitars. Hell yes, it was time. Matsson came on stage and was greeted with thunderous applause from the South-African audience. He acknowledged us sheepishly, picked up his first guitar, and began playing. Mere seconds into opener “I Won’t Be Found” I knew that I was in for a treat. His energy on stage was incredible; I doubt that there are a dozen people on the planet who can fill an auditorium with that much pure power and energy armed with only their voice and an acoustic guitar. His guitar lines are often very complicated, but his playing was flawless, never missing a note or a chord change. His voice changed from a gentle whisper to a booming roar (as each song dictated) in an uncannily natural fashion, and the passion that he clearly has for his music bled through the entire performance. Between songs, he kept us entertained with some excellent banter in 95% perfect English, and the occasional slip-up only added to his charm. He was funny, modest, and always knew exactly when to shut up and start playing. Overall, he has one of the best stage personalities I have ever seen, and that adds so much to a show. His stage setup was incredibly simple but very, very effective. Other than his chair, mic stand, and guitar rack, the only things on stage were two gigantic floodlights that changed colour from red, to green, to yellow throughout the show. They were pointed at such an angle that they cast 30 ft. shadows on the walls of the auditorium, doing justice to his stage name.
As far as the set goes, it was nearly perfect. The audience was somewhat bothersome as they would use the quiet moments in between songs to shout out which songs he should play, which was annoying for two reasons. 1. Shut the fuck up and let him play what he wants, he already knows what he’s going to play and what he’s not and 2. The only things that they were shouting were his two most popular songs; obviously he’s going to play “King of Spain” you mongrels. While clearly as annoyed with this as I was, possibly more so, he took it in stride and at one point even jokingly put his guitar down and walked into the audience, mocking that he was heading towards the exit. He unfortunately elected not to play his song “The Wild Hunt” which was a bit of an upset for me. While I was planning my year away, I had a handful of songs that got me amped to leave, and “The Wild Hunt” was probably the biggest one (“I left my heart to the wild hunt a comin’, I live until the call, and I plan to be forgotten when I’m gone, yes I’ll be leavin’ in the fall). Other than that slight hiccup though, the set was perfect. He had come straight from Sweden to Cape Town and had apparently been locked up in his studio recording. First of all, this excites me because it means that we have new material from him to look forward to in the near future. Another bonus was that he played a new song for us, brand new. He had just finished a stint of doing no shows for over three months, just writing and recording, so we were the first crowd in the world to hear this new song, called “Little Brother” and it was moving beyond words. I have a feeling that his next record is going to be very personal and will confront a lot of gloomy issues that he has been struggling with. Anyway, the setlist is as follows, perfectly accurate, as reported by me:
The Tallest Man on Earth @ Cape Town International Convention Centre, February 10, 2012
-I Won’t Be Found
-The Gardener
-Troubles Will Be Gone
-Where Do My Bluebirds Fly
-You’re Going Back
-Little Brother
-Love is All
-The Dreamer
-King of Spain
-Wind and Walls
-Pistol Dreams
-Thrown Right at Me (duet with some woman, not sure who. Girlfriend maybe?)
Encore:
-The Drying of the Lawns
-These Days (Jackson Browne cover)
In the end, the night was absolutely marvellous. It was everything that I was hoping for and satisfied the craving that I had for a good show. It will be at least until the middle or end of the summer before I get another chance to see a concert, but I am pacified for now.
That weekend, the kids had a surfing competition, so we spent our Saturday helping out with that. On Sunday, Bree and Hillary went on a one-day safari and I hung out with George and James at the Surf Shack, helping with the kids and getting in one more surf before I was to leave the program. We had convinced James to take the next week off and come with us to Jeffrey’s Bay, so we also organized the busses for the five of us (Lucy had left on Friday and would be meeting us there). The surf gods must have known that my time in Muizenberg was at its end, because that weekend brought in the best surf that I saw during my month-long stint. The waves were perfectly spaced out into manageable sets, and it was as clean as one could hope for, meaning that getting to the back was not a struggle at all. The waves were predictable, building up and breaking and the same spot every time, and broke nice and slowly to one side, offering long, uninterrupted rides down a beautiful four-foot wall of unbroken water. Saturday was one of those days where it was so good that I couldn’t help but smile from ear-to-ear, the sort of day that keeps you coming back day after day. I had one ride that was absolutely perfect. Because the surf was so nice, and because it was the weekend, Muizenberg beach was very crowded, so claiming a nice wave to yourself was nearly impossible. Once though, about half way through the session, a beautiful set rolled in and I wisely left the first one for everyone at the back to paddle and fight each other for. The next wave of the set came right after. It was bigger than the first and it was all mine. I paddled my ass off for it (I wasn’t going to miss this one) and had one of the best rides of my life. With no one in the way, I enjoyed a nice long ride as I turned to the right and rode it on my frontside. I probably should have jumped off after ten seconds or so to avoid another ten minute paddle out to the back, but I was zoned in or something and rode it all the way to the foot-deep water near the beach. It was probably close to thirty seconds of solid surfing. Only those who surf will know what I’m talking about, but it was one of those rides. It was one I will remember.
On Sunday, after another very good surfing session, I packed my entire life into my backpack once more, and Geroge, James, and I got a lift from Tim into Cape Town. Our bus for Jeffrey’s Bay was going to be leaving at 8:00 AM the next day, and we didn’t want to have to take the train that early on a Monday morning, so we instead booked a hostel on Long Street for the night. We met Hillary and Bree in downtown after their safari and enjoyed our hostel’s plunge pool with some cold beers for a couple of hours. Once the sun went down, it was time to party. We were staying on Long Street, the place to be in downtown Cape Town, and even though we had to wake up at 6:30 the next day and spend 13 hours on a bus, we knew we had to do our location justice. Five of the other volunteers came into town to meet us, and we had an outrageously huge night. Hillary and Bree were “tired” from their safari or some shit like that, so they elected instead to have a solid eight hours of rest while the rest of us drank the night away. Great fun and socialization were abundant, and while I was very friendly for 90% of the night, James and I took a good solid hour to sit by the TV and ignore everyone. It was Sunday night and the African Cup of Nations was on, which is Africa’s biggest soccer tournament. The final was between the Ivory Coast, easily one of the best teams in Africa, and Zambia, huge outsiders. This was an interesting final for me for a number of reasons. Firstly, I enjoy a good underdog run to the finals in any sport, and Zambia even making it out of the group stages was a surprise. Furthermore, they were up against the Ivory Coast, decreasing their chances to a number slightly higher than zero. Secondly, I’m planning on heading to Zambia soon and so had some personal reason for wanting them to win, whereas the Ivory Coast is miles away and I definitely won’t be going there, at least not on this trip. Thirdly, the tournament was being played in Ghana where, in 1993, the flight carrying the Zambian national team to the final crashed and killed everyone on board. It was a tragedy for the country of Zambia for the obvious reasons, but they were also to be playing for the chance to lift the Cup of Nations for the first time in their nation’s history and were given a good chance by odds-makers to do just that. Zambia has not since produced a team even close to the calibre of their 1993 squad, and they have never come close to hoisting the cup. It was fate then that in 2012, with the tournament again being played In Ghana, that Zambia made an unlikely run to the final with a chance to close the book on a sad chapter of their soccer playing history.
To the match: it was an exciting affair, with both sides exchanging decent chances throughout both halves, but neither team took their chances and it was a 0-0 deadlock after 75 minutes. Then, as the Ivory Coast charged forward into the penalty box, a forward was lightly tapped in a clean challenge from a Zambian defender so, of course, the attacker went down like a sack of bricks. The entire world groaned, and a penalty was awarded. What an abysmal way for the cup to be won. Didier Drogba, international superstar, top striker of the prestigious London football club Chelsea, stepped up to the ball. He would surely seize this moment and put the match away. But he fired it high and I erupted with joy (as did 90% of the continent). Drogba had pulled a Beckham! What a loser! The match was still on, and I spent the rest of it being completely anti-social, not even making an effort to continue my conversation with the girl that was way out of my league and was for some reason hitting on me. The match went to penalty kicks and I adopted the elbows-on-knees, hands-on-face sitting position. My admirer relentlessly kept trying to engage me in conversation, but it was only when she asked me to explain what was happening in the game that I responded. Rude, yeah probably, but this was an intense final. All five kickers from each team converted their spot-kicks, and it went to sudden death. Ivory Coast missed their 6th kick, opening the door for Zambia to take it all, but the 6th Zambian kicker also messed it up. An opportunity was missed, but another came right away when the Ivory Coast missed on their 7th kick, their second miss in a row. I sat on the edge of my seat and waited for the Zambian to convert, surely he would. He stood at the 18-yard line, calmly eyeing the ball, and the referee blew his whistle. The Zambian kicker trotted up to the ball and fired. The net rippled. It was a goal, and Zambia had defeated the mighty Ivory Coast in what will surely be seen as one of the biggest upsets in international football history, and the bar exploded with jubilation, myself included. Zambia had won their first ever Cup of Nations and had given their fallen comrades of 1993 justice. It was the realization of one of the most amazing football stories of the past 50 years. I. Was. Pumped.
After that, I went back to being my regular social self, and the night carried on. Many beers were had, much wooing took place (George, you dog), and Rand was chucked like it wasn’t no thang. The night ended with goodbyes to Chris (who was leaving South Africa for Canada the next day) and temporary goodbyes to Nichole, Sam, Jacky, and Nicole as they caught a cab back to Muizenberg. James, George and I finished off another couple of rounds before last call and then stumbled back to our hostel at 2:30AM, waking Bree and Hillary up with some light homoeroticism. We woke up disgustingly early the next day and, still drunk, I packed and dragged my ass to the Baz Bus main office a couple of blocks down Long Street. That day was one of the worst of my life as far as hangovers go. The bus was not luxurious like I had hoped, so sleeping was out of the question. There was no bathroom, so sitting on the toilet with my head hung in shame (every hungover person’s favourite pastime) was too out of the question. I instead spent the first four hours on the bus with a massive headache, still drunk, hating life. Some time after noon, I shook it off with a powerade and greasy slice of “pizza” from a gas station and began recovering. The bus was slow moving as it was a hop-on/hop-off kind of deal and so stopped in nearly every town on the way to Jeffrey’s Bay so that people could get off and more could get on. We met some pretty interesting characters on the journey, including an American girl named Melissa who was very clever and was great to have a conversation with. In the end though, we decided that the Baz Bus was a crock of shit. (It cost us R550 to get from Cape Town to J-Bay. We did some research and, on the way back, got an overnight luxury double-decker greyhound bus with 130-degree reclining chairs for R330.) After the longest day of my life, we rolled up to our hostel at J-Bay at 10:00PM, and it was the place to be. We were all too tired to hit their bar that night, but it was clearly a party hostel to put others to shame. We wisely told ourselves to save it for tomorrow and we crashed almost immediately.
When we got up the next day, we spent the first part of it getting acquainted with the town and its beaches. Why, you ask, did we decide to come all this way if we only had a week to play with? Why not somewhere closer? Well dear reader, I’ll tell you why. Jeffrey’s Bay is the pride and joy of South Africa’s surfing community, and is renowned world-wide as being one of the absolute best surf spots on the planet. The bay itself has a number of surfable spots, but the most noteworthy is definitely the world-famous Supertubes. The spot is ranked as one of the best waves in the world, second only to the famous Pipeline on the north shore of Oahu in international acclaim. Many pros have described Supertubes as “the most perfect wave in the world” and the thought of being at such a spot made (some of) us weak in the knees. Now, of course, we were there in the summer, meaning that the surf was not as good as it could be. During our five days there, Supertubes was unfortunately never firing, meaning I never got to see the wave in all its tremendous glory. But just being at the spot and observing the culture that this natural phenomenon has attracted was quite awesome in itself. The wave was apparently firing on the Sunday before we got there, but during the summer, it goes maybe once or twice a month. There was no chance I would even try to surf it if it was going because this wave is not for anyone without some serious talent and confidence in the surf. It is an 8-foot tall wall of water that absolutely smashes anyone who either gets caught inside the break or takes off in the wrong spot, and it will toss you in two-foot deep water for minutes if you don’t know what you’re doing. As its name implies, it is a barrelling wave. It breaks to the right and, if you’re skilled enough, and if you take off properly, you can tuck inside the massive tunnel of water that it creates and run your hand along the rapid-moving torrent or water. (That’s one of my dreams in life: to tuck inside a barrel and run my hand along a wall of water. One day.) Anyway, the wave wasn’t firing, but I still got to see the spot, pretty cool.
Jeffrey’s Bay is also home to a handful of different spots and our hostel, Island Vibe, was a two-minute walk from one of the more popular ones. It’s a spot called “Kitchen Windows”, and while it’s no Supertubes, it is quite a cool surf spot. On two separate days I took the hit and paid for a full day surfboard and wetsuit hire so that I could surf the wave. This spot is no Muizenberg though. Kitchen Windows is a reef break. What that means is that the wave forms and breaks over a bed of rock and if you’re not careful, you could end up trapped where the big sets pound the rocks by crashing in a foot and a half of water. While surfing at Muizenberg, we would have fun by doing swan-dives or other manoeuvres off of our boards at the end of the ride. At this spot though, there was none of that. When our ride was finished, we would carefully step of our boards and paddle like hell to get out of the way of the next wave because if you got caught inside the break at the spot, you were fucked. Getting battered against the sharp rocks was a legitimate concern here, and board damage was something to try very hard to avoid. The size and quality of the surf varied greatly during our few days at Kitchen Windows, but we managed to be out there for some awesome sets. The spot was actually quite misleading because you could be sitting out there for a full hour without a decent set, which would tempt you to paddle in closer to the rocks to get what few waves were coming. Then, completely unannounced and catching you off-guard, a massive swell would come in and the waves would start breaking where they were supposed to, i.e.: 100 metres further from the beach to where you were currently. What this meant was that if you jumped the gun and settled for a smaller wave because you were being impatient, you ran the risk of getting caught inside the break of six or seven monstrous waves that would pummel you into the jagged reef. If you didn’t paddle like hell, and if you didn’t know how to duck-dive properly, you were fucked. This spot really illustrated how one must never underestimate the sea and always understand what you’re getting yourself into. Paddling up through the middle of a big set when you’re in waist-deep water is not fun and is one of the most tiring things I have ever experienced. I smashed my foot against a sharp rock twice while surfing there and I’m lucky something serious didn’t happen (to either my body or the board that I was renting). Again, it was no Supertubes, but this was not a beginner surf spot. Besides the handful of times I got caught inside the break and had to paddle for my life, surfing at Windows was really fun. The waves were hard to anticipate and catch, especially right when we got there, but near the end of our time at J-Bay, we were understanding how the waves worked much better and were enjoying nice long rides on beautiful waves. I believe it was Thursday that I caught the single best wave I ever have in my illustrious surfing career and it was a memory I will never forget. Looking back towards the shore, the sun was dipping down below the horizon, lighting the clouds and sky in a blaze of glorious orange, and the water glistened. The set we had been patiently waiting for finally came and James and George both took off for the first wave. James pulled off at the last second to let George take the wave, but he had paddled far enough that I knew the next one would be all mine and I went for it. I was in perfect positioning and caught the wave at the perfect time. As I stood up, a rush of water came from behind and shot me down the five-foot face. I turned to the right as the wind whizzed through my hair; this was easily the fastest I had ever gone on a surf board. I reached out with my right hand and I dragged my fingertips through the unbroken water. After a good five-second ride, the wave closed out, and I decided that I was probably getting too close to the reef, so I cautiously stepped off into the water. It was marvellous, and I powered my way to the back immediately, fuelled by the desire to catch another just like that one. I’m not much of a surfer, but you don’t need any talent to be able to enjoy what surfing can offer you. Even while frustrated at paddling for waves that never broke, sitting out there like a fool with not a wave in sight, just the act of being out in the ocean is calming. I know this sounds cheesy, but it’s true: when you surf, whether you’re catching anything or not, you feel at one with the ocean, like you’re where you’re meant to be on this earth. I don’t think I’m alone when I say that that’s not a feeling I experience often on dry land. Surfing is less a sport and more a ritual or relaxation and self-awareness; there’s nothing like it. The best times I had out there, it was as flat as a fifth-grader. But rather than bitch about the lack of surf, James, George, and I had great conversations and just enjoyed each other’s company. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
James and George are both pretty good surfers and both decided to buy themselves a little treat each while in J-Bay. James bought himself a sexy 6’ 4” board from a shop, but George went a little bit crazier. He managed to track down a custom board maker and, for a very reasonable price, got a board custom shaped and designed for him. It took a few days but when it was done, it was a sight to behold. It was a 6’ 4” fishtail (better for catching the messy waves he will be surfing back in England) with a gorgeous blue and white stripe design. The designer is named Emile and he is maybe the single coolest person I have ever met in my life. He runs this company on his own and has made a bit of a name for himself. He spends his days making and repairing surfboard (George’s is #113, he numbers them at the tail) and surfing the epic swells of J-Bay. We spent an afternoon with him after George went up to pick up the finished product as he drove us around to the various surf stores, working his discount to save George some money on accessories (leash, pad, carrying bag). George was thrilled with the final product, and rightly so. Needless to say, both he and James were 50 times more careful surfing Windows with their new boards. They were so paranoid. Meanwhile, I fucked around on my 7’ 2” rental.
But anyway, enough of surfing. Our hostel was full of like-minded people: backpackers who had come out of their way for a good time and a good wave, and as a result, the bar was always packed. We spent many a drunken night having conversations with all sorts of people from all over the world, playing pool, ping-pong, or King’s Cup. Wednesday night was Hillary’s 20th birthday, and what a place to mark such an occasion. Call me a Grinch, but I hate birthdays back home; they’re never what you expect them to be. One of the best birthdays I have ever had was my 20th. I spent it in Cusco, Peru with people I had just met two days earlier, and I’ll always remember how I spent the beginning of my third decade on Earth in Peru of all places, and I hope Hillary is as pleased with her 20th being at Jeffrey’s Bay in South Africa. We marked the occasion by going to a restaurant that was way too nice for us, what with our wrinkled, straight from the backpack clothing, our flipflops, and our foul language. It was pricey but we splashed out, you only turn 20 once right? Some time into our main course, George and I snuck away from the table to talk to our waiter about getting a special dessert made for Hillary. He talked to the kitchen and we got a nice, off-the-menu strawberry cheesecake arranged. We felt pretty pleased with ourselves. Then, when he offered the table the dessert menu, Hillary went for it immediately. Our waiter exchanged glances with us and we knew we were in trouble. What could we do? We didn’t say anything, but rather just let her order the crème brule. So she’d have two desserts, better than none. It was kind of funny and a little bit awkward when he brought out what we had organized and Hillary realized she shouldn’t have ordered anything. We laughed and carried on. In the end, the bill for seven people was something like R1200. Not exactly pricey compared to back home (that’s about $150) but that was steep for South Africa (we did order two bottles of wine I guess). We bit the bullet and chucked some serious Rand before heading back to our hostel to get wasted.
We had a number of interesting nights at Island Vibe hostel, but the last one definitely took the cake. Hillary and Bree had left to take the bus back to Cape Town (they left a day before us) leaving the three young, sexy studs that were George, James, and yours truly, to work the bar. We somehow ended paired up with these three really weird German girls. One was good-looking, one was borderline, and one was definitely not. We got a game of King’s Cup (Ring of Fire) going and we soon realized just how weird they were. Some of the rules that got picked (8 is “make a rule”) were just bizarre. The first one was “you have to kiss someone when you take a drink” and so much kissing was had. (To be honest, I kissed George more than two of the girls. I made it seem like a joke but honestly, I’d rather kiss him than these weirdos.) In the next game (why did we play two?) the first rule was “guys have to take their pants off.” That’s it, that’s the entire rule. “Drop your pants?” Ok? So we did, and they began squealing and spitting rapid-fire German amongst themselves. It the end, we shouldn’t have been surprised when the two more questionable looking girls essentially jumped George and asked him to CENSORED them both. He made up some excuse and bolted; the next we saw of him he was passed out in his bed. James and I spent the remainder of the night playing pool and avoiding these weirdos. We started the night with some vague aspirations of getting lucky, but by the end were perfectly content with each other’s company (minds out of the gutter your perverts).
J-Bay was great fun and we were sad to leave. George carried on towards Port Elizabeth, aiming to make it to Johannesburg for his flight back to England in a few days while James and I returned to Cape Town, in the opposite direction. Saying goodbye to George was actually really tough. He’s an awesome guy and we became very good friends in a short amount of time. I hope I will see him again one day. Our bus back was glorious: we got the top seats in a double-decker greyhound and rolled in luxury. No annoyances or inconveniences at all (save for the absolutely dreadful movie they played in the morning; it was starring Brendan Fraser, go figure). Talk to Hillary though, she had a much different experience.
We arrived back at the train station in Cape Town on Sunday morning and before heading back to Muizenberg, we went on a hunt for some working bathrooms. This was actually much more difficult than I would have thought, and there was no toilet paper around. Let’s get one thing straight here: I need my morning shit. I need it. If I don’t get it, I don’t function. I hunted for probably thirty minutes but eventually found some napkins and had one of the most glorious poos of my life. No regrets.
Upon arriving back in Muizenberg, I met Hillary and Bree at the hostel they had picked. I then showered and spent the rest of the day sleeping. That night I went out for one last drink with the remaining volunteers and we had our teary goodbyes. Again, some of the people I met were amazing. It was hard to say goodbye to some of them, but I hope I will see them again. (I’m not going to name names at the risk of singling people out, but you select few know who you are. We could have had it allllllllllllll.)
The next day, the three of us headed to Cape Town (Bree, Hillary and myself) and got some touristy stuff done. Bree’s flight was on Tuesday, and we had yet to see the top of Table Mountain, the main attraction of Cape Town. It is a huge plateau in the middle of the city and from the top you can see absolutely gorgeous, unparalleled views of the city and its harbours and beaches. We took the lazy man’s route and went up the gondola (hiking is for hippies) and got up in time to see the sun beginning to duck its way behind the horizon. Bree and Hillary attempted to pass themselves off as 17-year olds to get half price. Bree succeeded, but Hillary stumbled on the crucial test question: what year were you born?
Once one top of the mountain, it was everything I hoped it would be. The views were like nothing I had seen before; absolutely stunning. As I usually do when I’m in a place of such beauty, I fucked off for a while with my iPod to spend some personal time with my music and the striking views. I had just finally tracked down Burial’s new EP, Kindred, and I knew this was the perfect place to listen to it for the first time. Burial is a London producer who is often credited with the invention of dubstep music. But his songs aren’t bass-heavy and aggressive like Skrillex or Zeds Dead of any of the dubstep that has been becoming insanely popular within the North-American scene. Burial’s music focuses more or ambience and texture and can be quite brooding and mysterious. There are no bass-drops or anything, so get that image of me seizure-dancing at the top of Table Mountain out of your head. To cut to the chase, the new EP is absolutely amazing and was the perfect pick for my half-hour of loner time at the top of the mountain. Track it down if you can, it’s seriously incredible.
Bree left the next day and Hillary and I began planning our journey around Southern Africa. We left yesterday for Naimibia (where I am right now). On our last full day in Cape Town though, we chucked R140 at a hop-on/hop-off bus tour. You may have seen these if you’ve been to New York or Paris or London or any sizable city with a decent tourist reputation. They do tours in 17 cities around the world, Cape Town included. It was a really nice way to spend an afternoon, and we got to see the rest of the gigantic city that we previously hadn’t been able to. The tour took us all the way around Table Mountain to the south. The first place we got off at was Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens, one of the (apparently) seven best gardens in the world. It was an extra R40, but it was worth it if only for the fact that we did our late grandmother, the legendary Babum, proud. While walking around the massive plant reserve, taking in the glorious sights at the bottom of Table Mountain, we couldn’t help but think and talk about her and how much she would have enjoyed it (if not for all the black people and asians, she was a teeeeensy bit racist). We spent an hour walking around and pretending to appreciate the incredible variety of plant life on display before heading back to the bus. One cool thing that I did take in was this little factoid: there are seven floral kingdoms in the world (I’m talking geographically here). Most (all?) of North America is contained in one, while another stretches across all of Asia, just as an example. The Cape Town area though is its own kingdom, meaning that a lot of the plant species that we were seeing only existed, could only exist, in that tiny little patch of land. I’m not the sort of guy to sit and stare at a flower for thirty minutes to appreciate its glorious beauty, but I don’t know, I enjoyed that bit of information.
We got back on our bus and it headed for the super-rich areas of Cape Town. We passed the country’s oldest wine farm and also some of the country’s richest estates. Naturally then, we also passed a gigantic township (glorified slum) called Imizamo Yethu. We opted to not get off at this stop and gawk at the residents via an organized walking tour (I don’t understand why people do these; it seems kind of rude if you ask me) but it was a short three-minute drive to Hout Bay: one of the richest areas of Cape Town. South Africa is a strange country. It is easy to forget that you are in a country absolutely overflowing with poverty while in some of the more touristy areas. Cape Town itself barely even feels like Africa. The shopping areas and posh restaurants make it come off as a rich European metropolis, and this is all intentional. The country tries very hard to hide its poverty from the public eye. I definitely understand why they do this, we attempt to hide our poverty in Vancouver via similar measures, but it sometimes angers me. A stone’s throw away from easily the poorest area in Cape Town, Imizamo Yethu, are three-story mansions and high-end shopping areas. It’s bizarre to say the least. Anyway, we carried on through Hout Bay and into the areas of Camps Bay and Clifton, both teeming with wealth and elegance. The drive takes you behind Table Mountain and gives stunning views of the Twelve Apostles (actually more than twelve jagged peaks piercing the sky from the back of the mountain) set against the gorgeous backdrop of the Atlantic Ocean, stretching out to the horizon as far as the eye can see. On this side of the mountain there is some truly stunning and picturesque scenery. We enjoyed gawking at the mutli-million dollar homes set against the churning sea, gigantic waves barrelling and crashing into jagged rocks, while our bus rounded the western side of Cape Town. As we came around the north-western tip of the city, Cape Town Stadium came into view. For those not in the know, this is a beautiful stadium which was built for the 2010 World Cup and it does its country proud. It looks like a massive donut and an up close look at it reveals the magnificent architecture to the naked eye.
We got off the bus when we reached the final stop, the famous V&A waterfront. I’ve mentioned before that Cape Town reminds me of Vancouver, and the waterfront is yet another example of that. It is swarming with life and businesses of all sorts. We were ravenously hungry by this point in the day and so set off in search of some cheap food. On our hungry tirade, we passed several groups of people busking and trying to sell their CDs. The most interesting group (in my eyes anyway) were these two people performing a dance of the native people of North America. I’m not sure if they were actually proper native North-Americans, or if they were just pretending because, for some reason, people not from Canada or USA are absolutely fascinated by that stuff. Whatever the reason, everyone was eating it up. After stuffing two slices of possibly the worst pizza I have ever had into our empty guts, we sauntered along the waterfront and tried to soak in our last full day in Cape Town. We walked back to Long Street and up to our hostel. It was a good day and I at last felt like I had properly seen all the major attractions that Cape Town had to offer (within my budget of course). Some of the volunteers from Muizenberg were planning on coming into town for one last epic night of partying and I was definitely game. At about 11:00PM, I arranged to meet them along Long Street but they never showed up. I rang all the numbers I had and got nothing back. So, I hope you guys are OK and just ditched me in a drunken haze rather than got mugged and kidnapped (seriously, I haven’t heard from anyone, you’d better not be dead). As I stood against a streetlamp on busy Long Street and observed the Saturday night mayhem, I was approached several times by dealers asking me if I wanted some drugs. I politely denied as I was still waiting for my friends. When I checked my watch and realized that it was midnight, I gave up on meeting up with James and the rest and decided to call it a night as I had a 27-hour bus journey starting the next morning. On my walk back, I was offered weed once again and, throwing caution to the wind, I went “what the hell” and sketchily bought some drugs on Long Street. There were cops everywhere but they were more concerned with the mayhem spilling out of the clubs than with some sober kid wearing a Barcelona jersey buying a joint, so the whole thing went down without any hassle. Pleased with my last-minute decision, I hit a corner store for some chips and a drink (foresight, gotta have it) and retired to the courtyard of my hostel to smoke street drugs. I was slightly paranoid that there would be something gross in my joint, we’ve all heard horror-stories about joints laced with meth or crack, but I realized that these guys weren’t going to give drugs away for free. I put my mind at ease and said goodbye to Cape Town by getting stoned and listening to Spanish house musician John Talabot; it was glorious.
Oh yeah I forgot to mention this somewhere and I can’t figure out where to put it in (hurr hurr): on Friday night, the German couple that we were sharing a dorm with attempted to have discreet sex without us catching on. It was 2:00AM and we of course noticed and Hillary lost her shit. “Are you guys serious right now? That’s frigging disgusting you’re in a DORM you’re sharing a room with OTHER PEOPLE” she yelled. …silence “Seriously you guys I know what you’re doing” she reiterated. “Vee are doing nathing” came the drunken response from the German guy. “Well it sure doesn’t sound like nothing! Go back to your own bed you gross creep,” and the conversation was over. They avoided eye-contact with us for our remaining day and a half there and rightfully so. I’m sorry, but if you want the luxury of possible sex, then chuck some Rand at a private room. Trying to have sex with strangers in the room is beyond inappropriate, and Hillary was right to lay the smack down.
And on that rather disgusting note, my wordy account of our last two weeks in South Africa comes to an end. (How’s that for a closing two paragraphs? Sketchy drug transactions and disgustingly discreet, but I’m sure very efficient, German sex.) I’m now all up to date (finally) on my bloggage; next up will be Namibia and beyond, wherever that may be. I finished a 27-hour bus journey something like ten hours ago and am currently struggling to stay awake. So goodnight my dear readers and, as always, keep it classy.
