Lets start with the strange men. Well, there was only one really who played a central role in my story, though my father was convinced that thousands of others were trying to pick-pocket me at any given moment.
My trip began with the worst flight ever, mostly because my new Maputo adopted family, who works for the US State Department, fed me too much wine, and I was congested (which in Portuguese is Constipado, which sounds like constipated - although I am almost 25 and quite a mature and responsible young woman, this still provokes a giggle every time. I have tried explaining to my students to be careful not to say constipated and then try to explain what it means. They never really understand the concept nor seem to think that backed up poo is very funny. I suppose, compared to explosive diarrhea causing parasites and all around nasty cholera that they have here, constipation might be a welcome bowel state.)
So, hung-over and constipada, I made the short flight from Maputo to Cape Town. Upon arriving in the airport, I was stalked by a man who called himself a taxi driver. He looked normal enough, but had no official taxi company uniform, no sign, nothing. So I promptly assumed, as he was leaning lazily back against a cement pylon, casually sipping his cigarette as if it was the smoothest whisky, that he must be surveying the foreign females just waiting for a sick/drunk little American girl in a frilly purple mini-dress and black tights, to roll her way out of the terminal. So I kept my wits about me.
“Do you need a taxi?”
“NO!” I barked, trying to channel my morning misery into my unwelcoming remark. That’ll take care of Mr. Creeper Cabby.
Then I promptly walked up to an airport attendant and asked him to show me where you catch legit taxis. He walked along with me, and the taxi stalker followed us. He repeated,
“Do you need a taxi?”
And the attendant stupidly foiled my master evasion plan and blurted out, “Yes, she does, here you are ma’am.”
Fuck. Now I’m stuck with Mr. Creeper Cabby.
“Ok, where is your car?” I asked accusingly.
“Over there,” He pointed to the parking lot.
Sign of a Kidnapper Creeper #1: Well, I don’t know about where you live, but every airport I have ever been to has a taxi rank where the taxis wait for car-less travelers. Never have I caught a taxi in the airport parking lot.
But I hesitantly followed him, since the attendant had passed me off to Mr. Creeper Cabby and assured me he was legit. Of course, I reminded myself, they could be in on the scheme together. Take no chances.
Sign of a Kidnapper Creeper #2: We arrived at the so called “cab” which was just a little, old, Toyota. No taxi sign, no meter, no official logo. Just a creeper mobile.
“Why don’t you have a sign?” I asked, again channeling my misery in a most accusatory manner.
“Just bought the car today.”
“No, no, I can’t go with you. You are just a strange man trying to prey on an unknowing little foreign girl.”
“Haha, no no, not true I promise.”
Oh, well since he promised, it surely couldn’t be true. But I asked the parking attendant if he knew Mr. Creeper Cabby, and he assured me that he was, in fact, a taxi driver. The thing is, I really shouldn’t have gotten in. All signs pointed to creeper. But I did. And fortunately, in the end, Mr. Creeper Cabby turned out to be the sweetest man and he even gave me a discount. Note to self: never take that chance again.
So although it got off to a questionable start, my time in Cape Town quickly turned into a walk in a hipster filled, colorful, dream land.
Culturally, there is the most interesting mix of European and African art, architecture, music, food, life. I took advantage and purchased a African print Jeanie pant uni-suit (obviously) and a necklace of colorful pastel beads made from recycled paper.
In terms of its natural landscape, I am just going to go out on a superlative limb here and say that the Western Cape of South Africa is the most beautiful place in the world. Within the city, everywhere you go, Table Mountain watches over you, emanating a powerful yet calm aura. As you head out of the city, you can follow the sudden, awkwardly placed, yet magnificent hills which sprout up, their rocky cliffs meeting the bluest and most luminous (but freezing!) water, separated only by small half moons of picturesque white sand beaches. Just a hop skip and a jump from the city and your are in wine-lands (Stellenbosch, a must do) or whale watching central (Hermanus, a cutesy town with excellent lamb stew, well worth the trip), all marked by the same striking beauty.
As for what to do and where to go, there are beaches, bars, restaurants, live music, everything that your average great city offers, but with a twist of natural outdoorsy-ness right on top of the urban chic vibe.
My family of Oregonians and I took advantage of said outdoorsy-ness, and tried our hand at climbing table mountain. Note to travelers: ‘hiking’ in South Africa is not just walking. It often involves some actual mountain climbing skill. Our attempt at the mountain lasted about 7 minutes, and then the gusting monsoon like winds scared us right back down the 100 meters we had managed to scramble up. I clutched stable boulders with one hand and my $2 J-Lo hat with the other as I weenied out and wormed my way back down the cliff.
Scared off the big dog mountain, but still wanting a burst of exercise and a mountainous experience, we headed over to Lion’s Head, a neighboring, not so windy hill. It started out normal enough. A walk up a slightly steep gravelly path. Well, as you got higher there gradually became less path and more steep rocky-ness, until eventually we were scaling a rock wall and climbing up ladders, shimmying up chains, and gripping hand and foot holds, making our way up to the top. Though I discovered that I have a slight fear of heights (who knew?), being young, spry and stubborn, I wasn’t about to give up. I was, however, slightly worried about my father. For those of you that know my father, can you imagine him shimmying up a chain bolted into a vertical rock face on the side of a mountain? But being just as stubborn as his daughter (the apple doesn’t fall …) he just kept assuring me that he was totally fine and obviously just as agile in his 50’s as he once was as a young roofer in Texas (Didn’t you fall off a roof at some point and break your collar bone dad? Not worth bringing up mid chain I suppose.)
“I’m like a monkey! … Really I’m fine… I told you, I am like a monkey!”
“An old monkey,” my mother so lovingly commented the next day as my no longer very primate-like father hobbled about the hotel in bitter remembrance of the previous day’s extreme physical exertion.
So here is the question of the moment as I reminisce about my time in the land of Table Mountain and ponder my plans for the rapidly approaching future. Is there room for my new love of the Western Cape in said future? Let’s toy with the idea by making a pro and con list, because I love making lists, to find the elusive answer.
Pros to moving to Cape Town
- Most beautiful place in the world
- Fantastic beaches
- African print Jeanie pant uni-suits
- “Hiking”
- I would have more visitors if I lived in Cape Town than I have had living in Mozambique
- The shopping. Exquisite.
- The city looks like a rainbow exploded, and the multitude of bright colors is good for my psyche
- The nearby wine lands
Cons to moving to Cape Town
- Wind
- Cold ocean water – but then again I don’t really like swimming anyway
- Afrikaans language
- Too many hipsters in acid washed skinny jeans
- Black south Africans are few and far between in the city
- Really, really, really far from America
- It ain’t cheap.
- Racial tensions
Answer: TBD.
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