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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. 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.
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. .
‘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
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Panorama from on top of Table Top Mountain ...
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Memories
Of Cuapa - 