Hand Knitted Hippo Stories

This is a story by a Scot, a good friend of mine, about his squash journey to South Africa.

I have given a piece of music to accompany each chapter to enhance and add to the overall experience.
I apologise in advance for what may appear to be a more sedate experience this time and put this down to the impact of age on the squash punks, however there are still a few unusual pearls to be shucked out the following paragraphs.

Getting to South Africa

Song: ‘Blues From An Airplane’ by Jefferson Airplane.

The flights from Edinburgh to Paris, and then from Paris to Jo’burg were uneventful, however whilst approaching CDG airport I experienced a weird translation to another dimension…at least for the short time of the plane in its descent to the runway. All around the little villages that lead up to and are around that airport were lit up by mainly Sodium street lights that defined the shape and form of the village boundaries to the extent that they appeared to be outlines of battle space ships flying together but not yet in formation as if preparing for an attack….perhaps on the airport itself. They glowed peripherally in orange with an occasional splash of white here, red there on elevated structures, and even an occasional green band sashaying across the ‘body’ of the habitation. As we got closer to the ground the galactic craft metaphor disappeared with shape shifting alterations as perception was constrained by the shortening distances, so that I now saw them as they were, then bump and landing.

The airport was not that busy and before I knew it I had inadvertently gatecrashed a tasting of Moet and Chandon champagne, Cognac, and chocolates for what looked like a French national sports team but the host accepted my apology for the misunderstanding and let me enjoy the tasting anyway. Nice.

The flight to Jo’Burg was packed, but being a late night flight I settled on a glass of champagne, a little white wine, and a cognac to calm me to sleep with my head under a blanket. After all no point in changing from the drinks I had tasted earlier although those on the plane did not compare with those on the ground, and my taste buds had nothing to do with that.

No difficulty on arrival, transfer via the Gautang train to Sandton and to the Park Inn for the one day before the long train journey from Jo’Burg to Cape Town the next day.

Train Journeys

Song: ‘Long Train Running’ by The Doobie Brothers.

An easy trip to the train station, and in good time to check in for the 12 o’clock train. The opening of the gates to the platform was announced by an official wearing a high-vis vest in a tone mid way between a call to prayer by an Imam and an English town crier ……’ hear yea, hear yea all, it is time to enter the platform to access your train to Cape Town and all stops in between. Please go through now. please note the platform is now number 16, and not 14. Please go through now.’

Hello, he missed out the usual address, ‘dear customers’ but we all lined up to enter via controlled metal gates that only allowed one person at a time to push through.

Down to the platform, no train and a delay of ninety minutes before it finally pushed in and we could get on board.

After several mis-directions from different staff I settled down only to be told by the train supervisor that the toilets in the carriage were not working and to move to yet another berth.

At first I was still the sole inhabitant of the four berth sleeping cabin until just before we left, late of course, another passenger entered also re-directed from yet another not fully functioning carriage to share my journey. Charles, my companion for most of the journey, who is from Moorreesburg and is due to leave the train at about four in the morning. There goes my beauty sleep.

Yes this is the special tourist train that runs daily from Jo’Burg to Cape Town, and I estimate that there are less than fifty people on board and only half of these are ‘sleeping’ with the others labelled as sitting.

I think they have to offer a definition of the word ‘special’ to define their service. I would hate to experience an ordinary journey, but at least they provided bedding for a small fee of sixty Rand, handy if you don't want to carry a sleeping bag.

Charles was a talker and as we chatted he recounted his experiences and some tales of, and from the Karoo.

Charles came from Kent. He is a Buddhist and moved to South Africa from the USA about 35 years ago. He worked in the film industry in California but he did not elaborate on his role or roles there.

His conversation revealed a man of interest, who had some unique experience in his travels and interests, and one happy with his ongoing life which he related as we slowly moved across a fairly boring countryside.

He was returning from a large annual gathering of Buddhists that had assembled at Jo’Burg to explore their affiliations and support for the advancement of their prescription for the world. Now many people naively perceive Buddhism as a mild, peaceful religion and are quite ignorant of the many strifes, struggles and battles to take control of the focus and direction for the religion. Indeed within their realms they even have warrior elements who fight against other’s views of the world and even towards those within the faith who do not agree with a particular interpretation, or who propose alternative views and directions from the current leading voices.

Charles had been, still was, an apostate from the leading guru of the Buddhist flow that he was aligned with and this had led to attacks on him and his views from many sides and from which he found that many of his former colleagues were now people quite antagonistic not only to his interpretations, but also to him personally.

This issue had been ongoing for quite a number of years and despite Charles’s attempt to differentiate the nuances between the opposing views for me I could only applaud his persistence. I suggested, as a bit of support, that all change and improvement always flowed from a questioning of accepted wisdom rather than from constant acceptance of such. I did not really understand the differences between the interpretations outlined by Charles but he did seem to accept that I at least appreciated his quest and his ongoing efforts in putting it forward.

Throughout our discussion I was impressed by the calm diligent, occasionally digressive, discussion that passed between us, and do believe that the understanding was reciprocated. I was distracted by a clumsy bloodied bandage on one finger of his right hand which was the result of him being bitten by his long term pet dog just before he got the train to Jo’Burg for the conference he had attended.

He had the dog, I think he said it was an Husky cross, for over fifteen years and they were very close, inseparable whilst together. Just before he left he had been reversing his car out of the drive, and had not seen the dog, and ran it over. The yelps and howls stopped him in his tracks and he leapt from the car and pulled it out from under the wheels. The pained distracted dog did not acknowledge a rescuer and before it died in his arms it sunk its teeth with full venom into the only part of his body it could reach from this position…the second finger on his right hand…before it died.

He accepted it all, including the ongoing pain despite the medication that he had picked up in Jo’Burg for the injury, as all good Buddhists do as part of the dharma of their actions.

I must admit; the constant rubbing on the poorly applied bandage and the regular comments on its impact increasingly became a little annoying which I relieved by paying a visit to the dining car and having some food and drink to relieve the sight across our shared cabin. Neither the food nor the very mediocre wine deserve any comment.

The most interesting parts of his conversation were the aspects of Buddhism he related which I did link to thoughts from Psychology in general, and from Positive Deviance in particular which seemed to accord with his understanding of his faith. He was particularly taken by the Hierarchy of Need promulgated by Maslov and wrote down references to this and on the Positive Deviance approach on the edge of the local newspaper that he had with him. I also of course gave him details of my novel, Toasted Snow in which I explained that I explored other ways of experiencing the world from poor position that many people
experience in life.

I wonder if he followed any of these up. He did seem enthusiastic at the time, however as I often experience, the longer the gap between enthusiasm and action the lower the chance of ever actually doing it. This is one of my basic psychological rules of human behaviour. Indeed I could go further and state that the more enthusiastic the initial response, the less likelihood of any action on that enthusiasm.

I particularly enjoyed the few stories he related of life in the Karoo, where he lived. The running repair of his outside wall where locals were in the habit of removing large stones to sit upon whilst waiting, just waiting. The attack from the semi-feral goats on the perimeter and contents of his garden, his long-term wish and plan for a swimming pool to raise their quality of life and then his stories of the ongoing constant rustling of lambs and sheep across the province.

Sheep are the main animal ‘crop’ in the Karoo and as such the main cash provider for the farmers there. The Karoo is a large desert to the south and east of Jo’Burg before you get to the Western Cape. There, large numbers of people live without regular or sufficient income so sheep are often rustled just to feed a family or small community or to raise some cash, resulting in an ongoing war between both the farmer and the locals. Karoo lamb is a local delicacy across S Africa.

One recent story, well reported in the local press according to Charles, concerned a farmer transporting some of his livestock who stopped and gave a lift to several hitchhikers who went into the back of his pick-up along with the sheep. It is usual in S Africa for people who are hitching rides to hold up a reasonable Rand banknote, as their contribution for any lift given, and true to form this was the case. however on arriving at their destination and leaving the pick-up they offered as payment, not the cash, but one of the farmer’s sheep which they had dressed up in women’s clothing. The farmer was so taken aback and
astonished that he seized his sheep and placed it in the passenger seat next to himself and sped away from the jokers.

A little way down the road he spotted a traffic check by the local police and still a bit flustered began driving a little erratically looking to avoid stopping, unsuccessfully. At first the police treated his passenger as a women but when the bleat exposed his passenger he was charged with dangerous driving likely to cause an accident, if not embarrassment.

I laughed so much that I missed the trial outcome and punishment for the farmer but am sure that he had quite a bit of explanation to make to his wife for travelling with a sheep….a favourite …. perhaps….dressed in women’s clothing….. as his passenger up front.

I still wonder what the charge is for transporting a sheep in women’s clothing in his pickup? Also whether it is a common charge in that part of the country….who knows?

One other anecdote Charles told me about Karoo sheep. A farmer spotted a known rustler at his sheep and phoned the police to intercept. The police arrived and spotted the miscreant on the road. He had a sheep tied upright on his bicycle which he was pushing. His defence that he was merely teaching the sheep to ride a bike was not accepted by the police, or in the ensuing court case. Full marks for imagination, but a low score on the plausibility.

My attempts to sleep later that night were frustrated by Charles constantly trying to charge his Blackberry phone with a dodgy generic unit, as well as re-assembling the poorly applied bandage on his finger whilst ensuring that he remain ready for his stop in the middle of the night. He finally left the train about five o’clock, at first light, with the train running late and with a low charge on his phone.

Charles deserves a song and I suggest, ‘Go No More A-Roamin’ by Leonard Cohen from his ‘Dear Heather’ album. Later that week when I noted at breakfast on my tablet that Leonard Cohen had died, back came the quick reply from the others…..everybody knows, John!

I managed to get an hour or so rest before my peace was shattered by the train manager showing an older gentleman into my cabin. There went the rest of my repose as he also wanted to interact. He began with a longish introduction in Afrikaans which of course was a foreign language to me. I did not know whether to take it as a complement that he had assumed my understanding or not? His name was Jack, and as he went on to tell me was on his way to stay with his daughter who lived just north of Cape Town. He was recently divorced after barely twenty years or so of marriage…and as he said “at my age too”, whilst shaking his head. He was, I estimated, in his mid seventies.

I think it is worth while now to tell you about the return trip at this point so as to ensure that the Shosholoza Meyl train company get full appreciation of their quality services.

I left Cape Town on the Friday week, on time, at ten in the morning with expected arrival at just over 26 hours into Jo’Burg. It was slow, even slower than the first journey and had an engine change about six hours or so into the journey, which led to a four hour delay. Despite the many opportunities to try and make up that loss it continued to crawl up the line, with extended stops at all other stations we called at to increase the delay by a further hour. Unlike in the UK there was no ‘delay-repay’ in action so we all had to thole it.

The food and drink in the restaurant car had not improved by any manner and on this trip. I had a sleeping cabin to myself and indeed for the final half of the journey a whole carriage to myself. The non-express Shosholoza Meyl said it all. After the down journey I had tried to change to either the Shosholoza Meyl Premier train, or onto the exclusive Blue Train but unfortunately neither ran on my travel date so I was stuck with the ‘tourist class’, classified as sleeping, and not seating as most of the other passengers preferred. It would have been a joy to be sleeping throughout such a journey but that just did not happen. It might have been probably much more entertaining in seating class and definitely much cheaper but I was boringly stuck on my own for most of the journey. I did however start and finish the Great Gatsby on the train….a worthwhile read.

Cape Town

Song: ‘Under African Skies’ by Paul Simon.

It was a little difficult to find the Airb’n’b house as it was up a small lane, but at least it made the taxi driver earn his fare as he tried his phone, local shops and security guards to finally locate it at Park Lane. He was totally confused by the notepad I used to show him the full address as the note I showed him was headlined Park Inn from the hotel I stayed at in Jo’Burg.

The accommodation was excellent and comfortably suited all seven of us in a mix of rooms. Breakfasts fully met everyones expectations thanks to our host Martin, from Zimbabwe, and two lounges and a first floor balcony underneath Table Mountain lent a relaxing vibe enhanced by our constantly fully stocked fridge on the first floor lounge. In fact it was so fully stocked that when Alex, Eddie, Lud, Maroon and Dennis left on the Sunday back to Jo’Burg it required no supplements from myself, and when Quin dropped me back there he could pick up a few Savannah ciders to keep him fuelled.

It was on the Sunday that Alex discovered why his case was so heavy. He and Quin had set off from Jo’Burg to drive to Cape Town through the Klein Karoo to Knysna before arriving in time on the Wednesday to register. Unfortunately the engine of Alex’s beloved BMW, in which they were travelling, blew up just outside Kimberley which led to a a major hiatus and arrangements to have the car transported back to Jo’Burg, at considerable cost, whilst this intrepid pair switched to an airline to fly from there to Jo’Burg. Ah, the lengths, and heights, that some people go to just for a game of squash.

On repacking his case for a return flight to Jo’Burg Alex discovered a complete Lederhosen set of clothes in the base of his case. Perhaps, just what you might expect from someone of solid German stock, but completely useless for any purpose in Cape Town, in November, unless you could link into some Teutonic bondage parlour. As far as I know none of us came across such an establishment in Cape Town. One may well exist, and Alex as a non-playing team member did have some time on his own while we were all on court.

I feel that for such Alex deserves his own song, and I suggest either ‘Sub-Mission’ by the Sex Pistols, or ‘Come As You Are’ by Nirvana.

It was also in Cape Town that I managed to raise a few eyebrows about my safety when I told people about my use of public transport. I had no qualms or worries about using the local buses into town or even on one occasion the popular dolmus-style bus which were very cheap, but if in town at night used a reliable taxi service I called up on my phone to get me back to my accommodation.

The only time that I felt a little apprehensive was in using the local train service down the coast of Cape Town as the train was certainly not in the first flush of use and appeared to be attracting quite a number of people that I did not feel that I would be comfortable on my own with. However a number of ‘tourist-like’ people arrived and we all entered the same carriage just before departure time.

There was absolutely no hassle or problems whatsoever on this train, and we were thoroughly entertained by the constant stream of Mamas walking up the train offering every possible drink and snack for those embarking on the journey.

For those in a similar position the ticket to buy is a tourist one that allows you to leave and re-join trains up and down the line from the centre to Simon’s Town via such interesting stops at Kalk Bay and Fish Hoek, which of course I visited, but more of this later.

As you can see from the photograph below this part of Cape Town is particularly safe, even in the local schools such as this Girls High School, but I emphasise that in all my travels, and walking around I never really had any problem at all.

The Tournament

Song: ‘Lazurus’ by David Bowie.

Thursday arrived bright and sunny and I got delivered to the Camp’s Bay Sports Club to play in the mixed doubles. My partner in the Mens’ Doubles was due to play but I replaced him as he felt his knee (replaced just over a year ago) might not stand up for both competitions.

We played five games in seven or so hours and despite valiant efforts did not manage to win any of our games but should have won at least two and even three with a little luck but as we had never played together it was a learning curve throughout.

In between the games we sat in the elevated lounge area and watched the wind whip up surf white witches across the beach, road and palm trees whilst below you could see a pair of Canada geese fussily guarding their dozen or so chicks on the cricket ground between the the club house and the sea… with the palm trees resembling Trump’s hair in a light breeze…all over the place.

The official reception on the first night was at Kenilworth horse race track, one that even gets broadcast into the UK so it was nice to see a fuller side of it. The constant stream of snacks from the kitchen there kept us all well fed. The other receptions were at the Western Cape Cricket Club and then at the upmarket Kelvinbridge Club. I do not need to underline the UK connections in the names but neither of the other two provided free food.

Dennis and I did much better in the mens competition, where we finished third, thrashed the team in second place three-nil but none of us could touch the youngish KZN team who not only won all their matches but were complete gentlemen in doing so unlike the Western Cape team who managed to get every other player to consider them as total arseholes. They deservedly finished last which bonded the rest of us very well. They only managed to ‘steal’ a game of us with some very dubious play at 16-14 but we still beat them 2-1 overall in games.

Quin and Lud were on top form, won all their games and their section, whilst Maroun and Eddie had a mixed experience like Dennis and I and finished a little down the order. We all survived and prospered, and it will be Durban in 2017.

On the Sunday everyone left for Jo’Burg except Quin who went to stay with a friend, Philip, and I stayed on for the rest of the week at the same address to see the sights that were on offer.

Later in Cape Town

Song: ‘I Could Be Dreaming’ by Belle and Sebastian.

It was late afternoon on the Sunday when I started to explore what Cape Town had to offer apart from the sports clubs and a squash tournament. Naturally I started off with a beer. In the grounds of of the Gardens of the Chairman of the Dutch East Indies Company. There is a very nice cafe restaurant in the grounds there. I slowly slipped a red ale, ‘Gypsy Mask’ from the Darling Brew Company, a beer named after the roan antelope, an animal with large twisting black horns, black cheeks and nose and pale beige over the rest of its head finished with black tips at the end of its ears…according to the picture on the label….and that is exactly what the beer tasted like, and balanced the calamari and feta salad I ate for lunch.

The pleasant Botanic Gardens were worth a slow wander: some very impressive trees and with a few interesting corners including a small aviary, all in the shelter of Table Mountain. I followed this with a stroll to the V&A Waterfront to purchase some local SA cheeses, cashews and bagels for supper along with a bottle of Mourvedre wine. I restricted myself to a small glass of beer… this time a draught ale called ‘Naked Mexican’ . Other beers on offer here from the Cape Brewing Company include ‘Part Wolf’, ‘Amber Weiss’ and ‘Tiger’s Milk Lager’…..mmmmm quite a mouthful.

It is worth reflecting a moment on how the ever expanding craft beer world is exploding the language as well as the taste buds. The above are only a few I came across in Cape Town, and as they demonstrate the name inspirations can come from any direction. I find that this only adds to the enticement to taste and try, but I am a sucker if the description contains the potent letters I, P and A, for good old India Pale Pale.

For comparison the excellent craft brewery and pub I frequented a few months earlier in Havana, Cuba, served up three different ales, but here the names were on the minimal scale being called called, ‘Light’, ‘Dark’ and ‘Black’. The ‘Light’ was the nearest to an IPA, but all three were well brewed.

Monday was a day for the Galleries and Museums.

The Museums

Song: ‘Inglin is a Bitch’ By Linton Kwesi Johnson.

I visited a number of museums including the National Gallery, and the Slave Lodge. The former had an impressive range of modern art with quite a few exhibits showing powerful representations or ‘metaphorisations’ of the lives of oppressed black people in South Africa in the past; in sculpture, photographs and installations. The later was a museum located in a former slave housing complex which was used to house up to a thousand slaves at a time; slaves from anywhere but mainly from the Indian sub-continent or Indonesia, to serve the Colonial masters. The power expressed in the ground floor dissemination of the lives and experiences of the subject dwellers is marred by a mishmash collection of weapons, kitchen implements. women’s clothing, masonic badges, watches and some furniture on the second floor, bizarrely accompanying relics from the ancient worlds of Egypt, Greece and Rome. Surely these upper exhibits reflect a view of the ‘masters’ rather than of slaves. However the museum did re-gain a little more respect with their final exhibit on the theme of freedom, emancipation and the overthrow of Apartheid as experienced in South Africa.

The National Gallery comprised of large halls exhibiting the natural world and many taxidermy tableaux of birds and animals mainly from the African savannah. I knew or recognised very few of the birdlife and the range, size and feathers of the birds comprised an amazing universe. I recognised almost all the animals but discovered one new to me….the genet… a small cat like carnivore. I wondered if the French writer Jean Genet was so named due to any resemblance to this cat, or whether an ancestor of his was involved in giving it its name. Jean Genet, John Little cat. I reflected on one of his plays, ‘The Maids’, a play about two female servants who develop a conspiracy against their employer, an older woman. If I remember accurately the major theme focuses on a lesbian pact between the maids to the detriment of the mistress and the play moves towards the destiny of the two femmes fatale. A dialectical analysis of bourgeois life, and the desired outcomes from a small pussy…just like Monsieur Genet himself….miaow.

Shaman Ghosts

Song: ‘Burning Down The House’ by Talking Heads

However it was in the South Africa museum that the real treasures were to be found. It was here that the life, customs and philosophies of the indigenous people of S Africa were displayed.and it was here that the power and imagination of the Shamans were revealed.

Shamanism is an important aspect of many, if not every, civilisations from the earliest times and continues to exert an impact today due to the power and influence that accompanies those who are designated or instructed to fulfil this role for the community. In most modern countries the earlier forms whether labelled specifically as Shamanism or not have been refined into specific religious practice and belief but the power and strength within what is considered less modern societies still shows the influence and impact they exert over everyday life. The exhibition in this museum focussed particularly upon the
beliefs of the San people of the Western Cape area of South Africa and displayed wall paintings and interpretations to show how the Shamans operated, and their mind-set of what the other world, outside of everyday reality, consisted of.

For example within the San, sometimes spelled as Xan, comprising people from the !Xun, Khwe and !Khomani clans using a variety of ‘click languages’ utilised the worlds of the Shaman to comprehend and use their environment. Those known as Shamans accessed the other world(s) via some mechanism such as dreaming of linking onto a spiritual animal or insect such as the (preying) mantis to the extent that he…..and it was always a man… became the ‘Mantis Man’.

Other Shamans used the Eland, the largest African antelope, as their passage way into the spirit world and not being an expert I got the impression that it was possible for San Shaman to select an ‘animal’ transporter according to their view of our world and to use such beliefs and experiences to link and communicate to their selected creature be it a Mantis, eland or even a lion that they felt a connection with.

Whatever their choice that animal avatar was their catalyst and if they connected whilst awake and not dreaming it is thought that they did so by creating and returning to the rock art paintings of their transport animal in order to move between and access the other worlds. Creating or meditating on the potent rock art achieved the necessary transformation that the Shaman required in order to travel to, and achieve the healing that they were charged with from those in their community who required the remedies. Apart from the animal avatars the objects shown in the rock art also have symbolic power be they a digging stick, a fly whisk, or a bag. For example if in the painting a Mantis entered a bag this was the equivalent of the Shaman entering and becoming that creature avatar, as the bags symbolise the animal, often made of the hide of that animal, and the Mantis is representative of the Shaman himself…..the ‘Mantis Man’

The fly whisks were made of the hair of creatures such as the wildebeest, giraffe or hyena and were used as props during San shaman healing dances and were the main tool that were used to chase away the ‘arrows of sickness’ that the San believed was the cause of illness and disease. Dancing was another way to enter into the trance state and the ‘arrows of sickness’ were the way that they visualised the causes of ill health.

You can see some photographs of rock painting here from the museum but in the original sites such paintings are never finished but are part of an ongoing story line where the composite whole is a record of time passing with layers of meaning, metaphors and ritual evolving. We may be able to decipher part of the story through dialogue but we can never be sure that we have most or even part of the whole story as interpretation and nuance are often lost in time and translation.

For example today a local Shaman may point to a particular image on a flowing series of paintings and tell us that it is known as say, ’jagg’ in their language and its role is as a mediator between a Shaman and his animal avatar. However does this term define a noun, an action or a mechanism such as eating, or meeting with a real animal it depicts in order to begin the transformation. How do we know that his understanding is the same as the person(s) who painted the image? Who knows, when it is possible to be separated by a common language then how much more is it possible to misunderstand, be mis-directed or simply be wrong when we are involving different languages, different expressions of different experiences from cultures that we are not part of in the same way as they did. And do we ever know how honest any such Shaman may be in revealing his deep secrets to outsiders such as us?

Even today some Xan artist/shamans are still adding to the work of their predecessors and as we know for a language to be alive meanings will change, over time, as nuances of experience become applied to existing words, scripts and pictures, as well as having to accommodate new experiences into existing and newly created forms added.

Despite almost all Shamans being male within the Xan culture, and possibly with other S African cultures it is the queen/mother who has control over the power and Shamanism within the family or clan and this is still deeply engrained in the cultural identities in S Africa where such matriarchal figures are universally called ‘mama’ by all and sundry.

One other aspect shown in the rock paintings was the power of rain making, one of the critical issues in societies that live in (semi-)desert areas. Here it was cattle that were the gateway to calling down the rain but there was a difference between whom you invoked. The Shaman had to capture a water-bull from a dry well or deep hole but you had to be careful which bull you aroused. Thunder and lightning with torrential downfalls was He- Rain, whilst soft enervating rain was She-Rain so care was needed to ensure that a She- Bull was aroused to not be swept away in a torrent.

Here ends the short discourse on Shamans but their world views are fascinating and a part of the potential perceptions that are available to help understand ourselves and our relationships in the environment but which unfortunately are often dismissed, ignored or considered irrelevant to modern man.

Table Mountain

Song: ‘Push the Sky Away’ by Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds.

A mid afternoon walk up Table Mountain with Quin, Phil and Coco the dog featured most today. It was hard and stiff going for parts of the way but I managed it in just under three hours, well behind Quin and slightly ahead of Phil, but Coco the Jack Russell beat us all, even though advancing and coming back to us at regular occasions. Four legs, four short
legs much better at this than older knobbly two legs. Thoroughly glad I did it the hard way and even more so when on the top discover ed not only a cafe, restaurant and shop but also a bar selling a good Cape Brewing Company Beer. Even though it was a Cape Pilsner Lager it refreshed me down to my toes. We didn’t see much of the ‘Super Moon’ that was
heavily noted across the world around this time as we took the very busy cable car down the mountain rather than walk this time.

Carry out curries and back to Phil’s was our reward whilst Coco conducted her usual night trick of masturbating herself in her dog basket. Ah well , each to their own, and Quin gave me a lift back to Newlands, and Park Lane where I ‘paid’ with a couple of beers and ciders that were left in the fridge.

Down the Coast

Songs: Two this time, ‘Full Force Gale’, and by Van Morrison and ‘Horses’ by Patti Smith.

I had been recommended that a train journey down the coast was worth a day and so it turned out. There is a local stopping train that goes from Central Cape Town all the way to the Naval base at Simon’s Town, with grand views of the ocean and the opportunity to get on and off and explore the local small towns on the way. The day tourist pass is a bargain at only 35 Rand (at the exchange rate then just over £2) and allows five stops although with no barrier gates or staff clicking tickets it is hard to see how they could monitor this. Perhaps they don't want to as the trains are certainly not the most modern and had only a
few passengers. Before the train started we were offered a wide assortment of snacks and drinks from ‘Mamas’ who came up and down the compartments.

The seats are quite primitive and the windows mainly greyish-brown with dirt but the bottom half slides open to allow people to see outside. It took an hour to get to Fish Hoek, the first stop I wanted to explore but the very impressive coast line and sea views made the journey flash past. It was past lunch time so a visit to a seafood restaurant called ‘Barracuda’s’ was in order where a decent plate of calamari rings, fries and salad did the trick.

A good walk along the coast with a bit of a gale howling and then a visit to all the shops and sights, bought a few postage stamps in a quiet post office, and headed back to the station to catch a train to Kalk’s Bay to meet up with Quin at the renowned bar bistro called the Brass Bell.

Now the Brass Bell is reached by an underpass over which the coastal train line goes and is set firmly against the sea at the edge of the land. It is on two levels both at sea level depending on the height and swell of the tide. The recent super moon ensured maximum powerful surges of ocean against the front of the building, which was covered with large heavy reinforced glass. At first we sat close to the glass and then retreated back a little as the waves grew and the surf threatened and then to the back of the restaurant as the waves started to flow over the walls into the restaurant, which led to a quick emergency
closure of the front windows, but not before the floor was dripping wet as well as quite a few naive customers.

The sea surged and pummelled the walls and windows and for once the poetic took me over and I was transported partly by the decent beer on offer, and partly by the splendid oysters I ate to reflect back to the days of Byron in the Mediterranean where he survived on a fateful day by staying ashore when his companions went out at sea in their boat….named the Don Juan….and were overwhelmed by a sudden storm which sunk their boat and they were all drowned and cast up onto the shore. A sad loss for all concerned, and for the world of art, love and poetry.

After this we paid a short visit to a relatively new bar in this small town called ‘Cape to Cuba’ and enjoyed a beach bar with sand as its floor and a weird mix of seating, music, and drinks to amuse the clientele,although it resembled nothing I had experienced earlier this year in Cuba itself.

Kalk’s Bay is probably the final resting place for those who survived being ‘hippies’, and it was very evident in the laid back cafes and shops featuring a very interesting range of antiques, arts and crafts, jewellery and clothing to pass the time at….which I did before Quin arrived.

Although the trains do stop at the station of Newlands, near to where I was staying, Quin gave me a lift back on his way to the airport to pick up Dileen.

The Belmond Mount Nelson Hotel versus The Michelangelo Hotel

Song: ‘Hotel California’ by The Eagles.

It is considered the best hotel in Cape Town, but if it is not, then at least it is the highest rated and most expensive and due to Phil’s hospitality all four of us enjoyed a fine meal and drinks there the following evening.

On the way I stopped off at Cafe Mojito in Long Street and slowly sipped a frozen strawberry daiquiri on the way to the hotel on Kloof Street.

The food was good but the staff were quite a bit up themselves and certainly got the orders mixed up a little.

Phil ordered a double expresso with hot milk on the side to start and was completely perplexed to receive a coffee cup filled with curried butternut squash soup. Phil emphasised his preference and Quin drank the soup on his behalf. Dill underlined her
vegan orders, but had to repeat and ensure that that was what was being delivered.

Quin and I were easier to please and we shared the appetisers for us four, of mini carrot and cream cheese roulades, and smoked salmon and seaweed toasts. My starter of sea bass ceviche was fine but would have benefitted by it being simpler,
neglecting the over-many chef embellishments on the plate. The glass of SA Blancs des Blancs Methode Champenoise wine was a good accompaniment, nicely biscuit but a little thin.

While Dill continued on the vegan trail with risotto to follow her vegetable tomato soup, the three of us plumped for Springbok loin. Again the chef was at it. The meat was great with an excellent jus but apart from the layers of different coloured beetroot and sweet potato cake we kept challenging each other with what this accompaniment or white sauce was …..a great mystery we all felt probably from a bored chef under-employed in a quiet restaurant just laying it on, as (s)he could. My glass of Mourvedre complemented the food.

The kitchen could do with a little coaching on the KISS principle and thus, keep it simple, stupid.

Only Dill tried a pudding and after one spoonful offered it to Quin who also abandoned it after one taste. Phil and I declined the pleasure, and we finished off with coffees and chocolates.

A fine civilised evening before my return to Jo’Burg early the next day and then back to Scotland via Paris.

Back in Jo’Burg I had the opportunity to compare the food from the Mount Nelson against dinner at the Michelangelo hotel in Sandton.

At the Michelangelo, my octopus starter was undercooked and far too chewy, so much so that I lost a filling. Not a good way to start dinner on a Saturday night. However they quickly agreed to swop it for what turned out to be an excellent cauliflower and mustard soup and to shoot the sous chef at dawn. Tsk, tsk, undercooking octopus tentacles, luckily they hadn’t served up all eight of them. The smoked salmon appetisers were nice, good bread and three butters…..yes three, natural, with olives, and with basil and vegetables.

The glass of unoaked Chardonnay complemented both the octopus and the soup, as did a glass of Pinotage with the deconstructed Beef Wellington. The beef was huge, enough really to feed four and to which I did scant justice. It was well cooked and presented but most went back to the kitchen, this time with some approbation. The dawn sentence on the chef was lifted. I even enjoyed the guava sorbet that was served between courses to cleanse the palate and finished with a double expresso, sadly with no chocolates.

Between the hotels I gave a score draw on the food with the staff at the Michelangelo ensuring a win in the penalty shoot-out.

These meals deserved two high intensity songs as a digestif after completing the stories and comprise ‘Dirty Ass Rock ’N’ Roll by John Cale, and ‘Willie the Pimp’ by Frank Zappa featuring Captain Beafheart on vocals. The later song of course features the Lido Hotel somewhere I believe in California.

Enjoy!

john boswell 2017