| They Say
Cape Town Is Friendly |
| In South
Africa |
| Before travelling
to South Africa, I sought the advice of one of my Australian relatives,
who frequently visits there on business. “You’re going to Cape Town?
That’s good. I went to Johannesburg and didn’t like it. Everyone says that
Cape Town is much more friendly, what they mean is that it’s safe.”
In keeping
with this advice, my stay in Johannesburg was limited to changing ‘planes
in the airport. Because of the cloud cover, I didn’t even see much
of the city from the air. As I waited in line for immigration, I had plenty
of time to read the signs warning us to use only authorized porters, recognizable
by their distinctive orange uniforms, and to pay them only in South African
rands. Tipping a porter in a foreign currency was, we were warned a Criminal
Offence. |
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By the time
I emerged from customs, weary with jet-lag, I had about ten minutes to
find my connecting flight. I was lost, panicky, and I looked it. So when
a nice man offered to direct me in the right direction, what was I to do?
I certainly didn’t have time to change my currency (in the airport at
São Paulo, where I embarked, the bank had no rands).
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So, I gave
him $5. I can testify then that crime is rife in Johannesburg: within a
couple of hours of arriving, without even leaving the airport, I had become
not the victim but the perpetrator of a criminal act. |
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| After this
audacious public confession on my part, I have no doubt that whenever I
return to South Africa, I will be arrested upon arrival, which will at
least solve the problem of finding the connecting flight. Nor do I doubt
that the airport authorities have good reason for regulating the porters.
But I doubt that any regulations imposed by the airport authorities will
solve the underlying problem of poverty.
Once on the
‘plane, we soon left Johannesburg and the clouds behind. I remember when
I was a boy, my headmaster reminisced about the sight of Table Top Mountain
as he sailed past the Cape of Good Hope. The picture he drew on the blackboard
was hardly inspiring, but he did manage to convey a sense of the wonder
of distant lands, and the lesson stuck in my mind. The reality lived
up to the dream: the only experience I have had that I can compare
to the beauty of landing in Cape Town on a clear day is that of landing
in Rio de Janeiro wreathed in mist. |
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Offshore
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| The primary
purpose of my trip was to attend a philosophy conference in the University
of Cape Town, which can boast one of the most spectacular campuses in the
world: of course, many institutions have a show-piece building that is
the equal of Jameson Hall, but all the money in the world will not buy
you Devil’s Peak as a backdrop. After the conference (which was excellent)
I had an extra day and a half to look around the city. Like most tourists,
I took the cable-car up Table-Top and did my shopping for souvenirs on
this historic waterfront, as recommended by all the best guide-books. As
promised by the guide-books, the floor of the cable-car rotated, the view
from the top was terrific, the hand-crafted goods at the water-front were
irresistible, the food at the Jelly Roll Morton’s Restaurant was mouth-watering
and who can blame the sharks in the aquarium for grinning because it all
really was as wonderful as the guide-books say. So, if you’re thinking
of visiting Cape Town, by all means, read the guide-books for yourself
and you’ll see that I only scratched the surface of the delights available
in Cape Town. Follow the advice in the guidebooks and I’m sure you’ll have
a wonderful time.
But often,
the best times come when you don’t follow the best advice. |
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| Not many guide-books
will advise you to leave your hotel and wander round a strange city as
dark falls without a guide, nor any clear idea of where you are going.
It
isn’t just a question of personal safety: if people were to wander
around strange cities without any clear idea of where they were going,
who would buy the guidebooks? Still, I didn’t feel like eating in the hotel
and I wanted to see something of the city, so I set off on my way. Like
any modern city, Cape Town has its huge glass skyscrapers and concrete
office-blocks, but the older buildings are a testament to its colonial
past. As I approached what seemed to be the older part of the city, some
of the houses looked as though they had come on vacation from Amsterdam
for a few weeks and then decided to stay. Not that you would ever think
that you really were in Amsterdam – if ever you did, a huge palm tree would
quickly remind you that you were in another part of the world completely. |
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| Over the years,
I have picked up an instinct for sniffing out second-hand bookshops. It
comes from trying to spend as much time as possible studying and as little
money as possible on anything. Sure enough, I soon found myself in the
bohemian part of town, where every other shop seemed to be selling second-hand
books, or old clothes, or antiques. These were not the flashy souvenir
shops that I had found in the Victoria and Albert Docks that morning, selling
traditional tribal artefacts such as carved wooden masks and hand-painted
mouse-mats. These were shops selling whatever was in fashion ten or fifteen
years ago. Unfortunately, I didn’t have much opportunity to look around,
because the few shops that were still open were obviously making preparations
to close. So, I bought a couple of books for the flight back, and then
decided it was about time to look for somewhere to eat.
By now, the
light was fading. It soon became clear that I was not the only person in
the area who was hungry – indeed, it became apparent that I myself was
being viewed as a source of food. Not, I hasten to add, that I was threatened
in any way. It was just that, on every street corner, there was someone
waiting to greet me with a warm smile, a friendly hand-shake and a polite
request for a little financial assistance. The first couple of times, I
responded with generosity, but I have to confess that compassion fatigue
set in very quickly. Here I was, obviously a stranger, unsure of where
I was going, and positively advertising the fact that I was not short of
cash. I told myself that nobody had threatened me, not yet at least. Nor
did I want to give anyone a chance to do so. I stared resolutely ahead
and quickened my pace. I hoped that my body-language conveyed the fact
that, although I had no intention of being unfriendly, I really couldn’t
stop to talk because I was in a hurry, I had an appointment with some friends,
I was a little late and I knew exactly where I wanted to be and how I was
going to get there. Except, of course, I didn’t have a clue where I was
going. I seemed to be heading towards the centre of the city, but everywhere
was closed. This evidently wasn’t the part of Cape Town where people came
to relax in the evenings. I came to a busy road, and decided that it would
be best to walk along it – the presence of traffic made me feel safer.
I headed towards some large buildings, but then I came to a point where
the pavement ended. It was not a good place to cross the road, and my only
option was to turn around and go back the way I came. My charade of knowing
exactly where I was headed was starting to wear a bit thin. As I hesitated,
a van pulled up alongside me, and the door opened to reveal a group of
men huddled together.
Hey, where
are you going? Get inside, we can give you a ride.’
In my head,
I could hear my mother’s voice, warning me never to get into cars with
strange men, and I found myself thinking of a friend of a friend who had
a disastrous taxi-ride in Colombia that ended in a knife-fight. But as
I said, the best times often come when you don’t follow the best advice
– and what advice could be better than mother’s?
‘Thanks,’ I
said, ‘I’m just looking for a place to eat. If you know any good restaurants,
that would be great.’ I climbed into the back of the van, but, despite
my protestations, the driver insisted on my sitting next to him in the
comfort of the front seat: I was new in town, and he was going to treat
me like an honoured guest. So it was that I was introduced to Riedwaan
and his taxi-van. As he dropped off a group of regular customers at one
place, and picked up another crowd, we chatted about life in Cape Town.
He assured me that his services are cheaper than the regular taxis, but
the government has decided to banish his kind from Cape Town for the duration
of the World Cup. By that time, he said, he hoped to have a larger vehicle,
capable of seating twenty-four people. For food, he recommended a restaurant
in Camps Bay as being good value for money, and offered to pick me up when
I finished my meal. We took the scenic route which was, in fact, the only
route. The geographical centre of Cape Town is Table Top Mountain, so to
get from one part of the city to another, you have to drive around the
edge of the mountain. In this case, we had the sea on one side, and on
the other houses had been built into the steep rocky slopes. My guess is
that the houses around Camps Bay would cost a fortune and, to anyone who
values natural beauty, the price would be worth paying.
As for the
fare, when we arrived, I asked Riedwaan how much I owed him. ‘I don’t
know,’ he said, ‘how much do you want to pay?’ I’ve had to argue
about taxi-fares plenty of times, but I’ve never before been in such a
difficult position. I had no idea what the going rate in Cape Town was,
indeed, I had only a vague idea how much the rands in my wallet were worth.
I hope I erred on the side of generosity.
So it was we
arrived at Out of Asia, a nice little Thai restaurant overlooking the beach
in Camps Bay. I started with a Thai Salad and followed that with an Ostrich
Casserole since that was, for me, an exotic dish. Ostrich, in case anyone
doesn’t know, tastes pretty much like beef. As for desert, I can’t remember
now what the ingredients were. But, if you’re ever in Camps Bay, be sure
to ask Derick, the waiter, to serve you the speciality of the house, and
you won’t regret it. As I sipped my post-prandial sherry, Reidwaan arrived,
now accompanied by his wife, who had just finished her day’s work at the
supermarket, to give me a lift back home. Cape Town is, indeed, a friendly
place. And I don’t just mean that its safe.
The following
is the first article Ben wrote for the magazine
To contact Ben
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