Andrew Currie Online

Okay, so I’m two days behind on postings, as Saturday night I had to get to bed early for my early morning Sunday safari. More on that tomorrow…

This is the European spec Nissan Micra, the closest thing to a Beetle that I could rent. The manager of the rental place brought it right to the front door of my hotel, which is good, but I stalled it before even leaving the driveway, with him in the car directly behind me, which is bad. Though I’ve successfully piloted a scooter on the left side of many a Bermudian road, I’ve never actually driven a right hand-drive car, let alone one with a manual transmission. From the waist down all is as it should be, with the clutch, brake and gas pedal in proper order from left to right. Same for the gearbox, except that you use it with the opposite hand, so everything from the waist-up is semi-backwards.

At any rate, I did way better than the runaway truck that barreled past me down a hill and took out the front end of a car at the bottom a few seconds later. I would have stayed on the scene but there were plenty of other witnesses present. And to tell the truth, I really didn’t see anything — I was too busy trying to figure out the radio!

And so I ventured down to the Cape of Good Hope, first to visit the Boulders Beach Penguin sanctuary. I had actually seen the first penguin of my trip to Robben Island but this place was crawling with them. The actual sanctuary had about as many tourists, but the pathway to the actual beach made for more intimate human/penguin interactions — that is, them looking up at me sideways while I took pictures like the one above.

Half an hour down the highway was the fabled Cape Point, the spiritual (if not geographically accurate) spot where the Atlantic and Indian Oceans meet. To get there I had to first climb up the side of a mountain crawling with baboons. Actually, most of them stayed near the parking lot, where the garbage was.

At the top of it I came face to face with another sign. For the record, I made it there and back in forty minutes — hah!

Indian Ocean on the left, Atlantic on the right…

… And back in the parking lot, a baboon on my car! Possibly attracted by the burning smell of my clutch plate, it took off after sucking on my antenna for a few minutes.

Okay, so I’m an idiot. That tomango I was talking about in my last post turns out to be nothing more than your standard, delicious guava. However, I don’t feel quite so stupid having spent my last two days in the company of fellow tourists…

The Victoria & Alfred Waterfront has been made-over into a haven for visitors, and prices are matched accordingly. I knew better than to pick up any tchotchkies here, and instead took in a vocal performance by these talented African buskers.

I was dismayed by the amount of people capturing entire musical numbers on video, then walking away without so much as a donation. Even worse was a trio of locals in a meetup directly in front of the performers, loudly discussing their restaurant options for lunch. I did my part to make sure that the singers were adequately reimbursed for both their talents and this photo.

Just around the corner lay the gateway to Robben Island, the offshore prison which kept Nelson Mandela from his people for some twenty years. I had missed the last ferry, so I spent the rest of the afternoon in the small Apartheid exhibit, watching a BBC documentary from the ’70s on the subject. Think blacks are lazy? You’d be amazed to see a white ex-pat auto mechanic from Sheffield, England and his family accept a segregated society without question — even defend it!

The sun was already going down as I left the building, so I found myself an authentic (by tourist standards) African restaurant.

This, my appetizer of beans and corn, is apparently one of Nelson Mandela’s favourite dishes… Not too shabby for prison food!

Bobotie (buh-BOH-tee) is the name given to my entree; the almond powder, chutney and raisins are mixed in with the meat casserole, which in turn is mixed with the veggies and rice. Way better than the Wimpy burger I had the night before!

This morning I returned to the V&A Waterfront, to book my tour of Robben Island. I boarded this catamaran with about a hundred other tourists, and had to endure the hacking coughs from someone’s self-admitted viral infection for the entire 30-minute ride.

A not-so warm welcome…

Once on the island we were mercifully split into two smaller groups, and boarded buses for a tour of the island’s perimeter.

This is the island’s limestone quarry where Nelson Mandela himself cut up rocks to be used on South African roads. That cave is actually a mere seven metre-deep hole, where convicts would have to relieve themselves. Funny thing is, hardships like these only increased the resolve of those imprisoned, and in hidden-away places like these many important political discussions took place. The inmates’ motto “each one, teach one” meant that prisoners who arrived here illiterate and otherwise ignorant left well-armed with the doctrine of equality.

How did I learn stuff like this? Thanks to the passionate commentary by our guide, on the left; that’s our bus driver beside him.

Another gentleman who brought the island to life for us was a former prisoner, seen here shaking hands with each and every one of us as we left for the boat ride home. After walking through the compound and seeing memorials to so many who suffered here, I felt guilty that only Nelson Mandela’s story had been my original reason for coming. So it was with mixed feelings that I documented Mandela’s cell, once the rest of the crowd had gotten their own “money shots”.

You’ll notice the absence of a bed; they weren’t available for prisoners until the late ’70s, and even then only to increase the sleeping capacity of already overcrowded dorms.

Back at the Waterfront I toured the Two Oceans Aquarium, but my heart wasn’t in it. There were too many braying kids spoiling the quiet majesty of undersea life. And outside there were more homeless kids and adults, all asking for handouts. But I can forgive this. We all know there are panhandlers back home, but here you have to realize that South Africa is just beginning their second decade of democratic rule, and it’ll probably take some time yet before opportunity is truly equal for blacks and whites. Maybe at home too.

Shortly after my last entry I boarded this Lufthansa jumbo for my overnight flight across the dark continent. My luxurious first class seat, upstairs, in the bubble of the aircraft, put me beside a native Afrikaner, a sweet 91 year-old lady travelling by herself!

My book of African folktales was put on hold once again as I kept her company, but when she confided in me that “blacks are very lazy”, I decided it was time for bed.

Though my huge seat folded perfectly flat for sleeping, it was almost 3 am before our midnight dinner was over, and the cabin lights were turned back on for breakfast at 6 am sharp. The service was fantastic — I had a South African wine with dinner, some Rooibos tea before bed, and an exotic new fruit with breakfast. It looked like a pink slice of tomato but had the consistency of mango, so I’m calling it tomango! Unfortunately, Lufthansa lost points on their zero tolerance for mobile phone use, even during a one-hour stopover in Johannesburg.

Here’s my first-ever view of the mountain range near Cape Town, taken during our descent. I couldn’t figure out where the famous Table Mountain was, but I needn’t have worried — I’m looking right at it from my hotel room window!

A gun shop in a nearby mall…

I got all sorts of warnings about crime, both from my racist seat mate and the cab driver who brought me in from the airport. Don’t keep your wallet in your back pocket. Keep your camera hidden. Don’t be out after dark. Don’t use ATMs outside. All of this filled my head as I stepped off hotel property for a stroll around the neighbourhood. Not ten paces from the front door I was flanked by two teenagers, friendly at first, then asking me if I would buy them a sandwich. I politely declined, with the excuse of needing change from an ATM. They offered to accompany me but disappeared as I passed a couple of cops. A few blocks later a gentleman offered to sell me some weed, but didn’t force the issue.

I refuse to live my first South African experience in fear, and even with years of Apartheid stacking the deck against me I have vowed to give indigenous South Africans the benefit of the doubt. And I would have stayed out after dark last night, but I really, really needed a good night’s sleep.

Twelve hours of much-needed rest later, I’m ready for more exploring, ready to find more of this… I think.

I’m posting this from the Lufthansa Executive Lounge, tucked away on the third floor of Frankfurt’s International Airport. Here’s what’s happened on my trip so far…

African fiction is pissing me off! I guessed right that the first edition of Time Out’s Guide to Cape Town wouldn’t make publication before my departure, so I got a highly-regarded collection of African Folktales to read on the long flights instead. So far the thing has been nothing but trouble – it’s just too damn big!

I left it at the check-in counter on my way in, and had to run back out past the security check and retrace my steps to find it, then run all the way back to catch my flight. Its pictured here stowed safely in Frankfurt Airport; I’m looking forward to reading it, but dreading having to pick it up again.

A clandestine shot of the business class seats to Frankfurt, directly in front of my bulkhead economy digs. I think it’s entirely fitting that they look like oversized baby car seats… “Waah, waah! Me want more peanuts!”

Upon landing in Frankfurt this morning I stowed my bags and grabbed a quick shower, then took a train downtown, following a hunch and ending up being at the centre of everything Frankfurt has to offer. And after an hour or so I got bored, and caught a matinéé of Periode 1, a wacky German sci-fi comedy that I can best describe as Star Wars meets Back to the Future meets a flamboyantly gay Star Trek. The first twenty minutes was a riveting tour-de-force of broad parody. Then I fell asleep.

When it came time to return to the airport, I mistakenly took the S1 Train instead of the S9 — an honest mistake, considering that only the front cars have any useful markings on them. No worries; I had lots of time to correct, and Switzerland was very nice…

And finally, who wouldn’t want a souvenir photo of this peep show kiosk? It’s located on the Departure Level of Terminal B, if you’re ever in town and so inclined…

Here are some of my new friends, who’ll be travelling with me to South Africa today. They are, from left to right, faces on the 50, 100 and 200 ZAR Bills. Unless there’s something I don’t know, I think someone’s got their food chain mixed up!