Cape Town – South Africa

The last time I was in South Africa I was leaving Cape Town heartbroken, the smartphone was years away, although that’s a reference to time, not the reason I was heartbroken. It pissed it down with rain the whole time I was there, Table Mountain was a mystery. I remember clear as day, 17 years earlier heading to the airport with my tent buddy Ed who had been replaced with a new tent buddy, Meg, halfway through a ten-week overland tour from Nairobi to Cape Town. The idea of a safari in Africa had been ignited by my great aunt growing up as a child, David Attenborough most likely also had a part to play. Now, it’s no surprise, but back when I had hardly travelled at all, deciding on a ten-week trip through east and southern Africa was apparently a sign of things to come, even that I still remember clearly, seeing an advert in the back of the Big Issuemagazine while on a breakfast break on a dairy farm in Cheshire. Meg is long gone, a red-headed beauty, a farmer’s daughter from Australia who will forever torment me as to whether it was a holiday romance or the real thing, but be it Meg, Ed, Olly with a Y, Ollie with an E, Kristy, or the rest of that incredible group of people, it was that tour that has never been bettered since, that tour stole my heart for numerous reasons but only Africa has remained in my life. That original trip has been written about, and I don’t think it will ever be beaten but that doesn’t take away from any time I get to visit sub–Saharan Africa and I was more than excited to find myself returning to South Africa for two weeks. I was finally going to see some of the famous Garden Route, what’s more it was work, and all because of cows. I struggle to get over the past, I certainly struggle to get over women, my extreme pragmatism leads people to grossly underestimate how much emotional energy I put into them, how much I loved growing up on the family farm, how much I loved my dad, how much I love farming. It’s easy to say I’m lucky, that I have less to worry about, but that’s only because my dad died, what would you prefer? It’s not even a question, only the extremely unfortunate don’t want their parents in their lives. Where I am truly lucky is my passion for cows currently merging with my passion for Africa and travel, this year I’ve really had to pinch myself.

Cape Town hadn’t changed, it was tipping it down with rain when I arrived on an early Saturday evening, however my accommodation had changed since my last visit with a hostel dormitory replaced with a colonial style guest house complete with incredibly comfy bed, shower, free-standing bath, fresh milk, and a million pillows. The number of pillows was insane, and I would have to mine my way through them all to find the bed. I have three pillows back at home to share between my bedroom and the guest bedroom and is a state of affairs that needs drastically improving, that is to obtain a fourth pillow and replace the other three that are ready to walk out the door on their own accord. It turns out that the pillow issue was not limited to this one establishment, it is apparently a thing in South Africa, they love their pillows, so much so that I believe if a scientific study was conducted it would reveal that the country takes a 10% hit on productivity due to the time taken for the population having to arrange or remove pillows from their beds every day. The following day, after spending 20 minutes finding my way out of bed, I headed down for breakfast and treated myself to a walk outside in the gardens. The rain had cleared, blue sky reigned, and a face of sheer rock dominated the view, I had finally come face-to-face with Table Mountain, almost literally, and it didn’t disappoint. Being a Sunday, I chose to take lunch out in the garden mesmerised by my surroundings and amused by the giant tortoises roaming the gardens, the odd brave one wondering into the lounge from time to time. It shouldn’t be a surprise, but as with anywhere at the southern reaches of the southern hemisphere, South Africa, Australia, New Zealand, Argentina, Chile, they are just such wonderful places to be. Fantastic summers, beautiful environments, incredible food – usually cheap and none more so than South Africa, and copious amounts of quality wine. 

Of course, South Africa does come with a bit of a reputation born out of a turbulent history, and the Western Cape is generally considered all round a comfier place to be compared to the rest of the country. Yet even here, people live behind walls and plenty of security. Just over the border in Port Elizabeth I found myself in a nice suburb for the weekend but there were no pavements, houses sat behind walls and electric fencing that could have stopped Blitzkrieg, cameras watched everything, and signs were plastered on the walls advertising the armed fast response security firms that would attend anyone or anything that attempted to breach the defences. Me and my colleague walked to a local bar through all these streets and strolled back in the dark with no worries at all, but ironically, it was all the security that made me feel a little unsafe, not anyone that was out on the streets. Going back to the bar, I was sat there basking in the feeling of a successful week at work when I came to realise how much I’ve come to love Australian, US, and apparently South African style bars. I’ve always loved the British pub, and they’ve always been something I miss whenever away from home for extended periods of time. British pubs are a little like drinking in someone’s living room, and as with people’s living room’s they can range from being rather grand and cosy to something described simply as having character and charm despite the suspicious sticky stain on the floor, having to peel your pint glass off a bar with so much grime it’s become an adhesive, and staring at the word ‘wanker’ painted onto the wall with the urinals. The bar I was sat at in Port Elizabeth was large and open, effortlessly both indoors and outdoors, they served huge bowels of wings, sport was on the telly, everything was made of timber, and there was always the concern John Dutton would walk through the door any minute. The stools and benches of these places make them feel a bit soulless, I think ultimately, they just lack that cosiness that actually you don’t need in countries with hot summers but conversely, they must be miserable in the winter. Needless to say, they are growing on me, I suppose out of necessity as I have probably spent as much of my life in these types of bars as the pubs of home. They have an energy about them; they tend to be full of younger people – but then that pool is growing rapidly relative to me – and I suppose I always relate them to being away on adventures of some kind or another, just as the British pub has come to represent one of the joys of coming home.

When I did return home from South Africa someone asked me when I was moving there, a remark that I took great offence to considering the person asking was a non-British resident. I retorted that unlike them, I love my country to which I had to listen to all the reasons why my country has gone to shit, ironically immigration, followed by tax. The day I flew out of Cape Town, I was back at the guest house with all the pillows sat in one of the lounges, working – believe it or not – passing the time before my trip to the airport when I got talking to one of the waiters. He was a young chap by the name of Sia – oh yeah, I’m getting personal and remembering names – and he was passionately telling me about his plan to save enough money to buy one fifth of a hectare where he could grow cabbages for market. He had it all laid out, talking about capital requirements, costs, agronomy, etc. I’ve heard these stories many times during my travels on the continent and they always move me; the passion, the motivation, the intelligence, all over something we wouldn’t batter an eyelid at back in Europe. My point is, Sia will have to work hard for that fifth of an acre, if he or his family get sick it could set him back years, and I have no doubt he won’t be being paid fairly. And what about the cost of the security we talked about, and the cost of not having it? South Africa is great, but honestly, for the majority of people, that is those who can’t afford health care and private security, is it better than the UK? 

It’s been a while since I’ve had chance to abuse a tourist and since my South Africa trip was largely cow focused, I’d very much like to end on an amusing rant. I just don’t understand how some people survive when travelling, maybe I was witnessing this certain couple at a weak moment in time when they were particularly exhausted, tired of being on the road for so long, maybe luggage had gone missing or they had been scammed, maybe an elephant had charged them, or maybe they are just a bit dumb. As I sat for my flight from Johannesburg to Cape Town I could see this couple a mile off and how things may play out and they didn’t disappoint. Firstly, the guy tried to put a case in the overhead locker which clearly wasn’t going to fit, but he tried to close the locker anyway and then looked at the cabin crew in a mixture of desperation, forlorn hope and pathetic resignation. He then sat in front of me and cranked back the seat as soon as we were airborne, resting with his stupid neck pillow which I’m sure doesn’t work, for what was less than a two-hour internal flight. His girlfriend than followed suit but went further by pulling her coat over her head to block out the afternoon light. Throughout, they would kiss and cuddle, not in any romantic way, but of a young couple that have just survived the sinking of the Titanic. I don’t know these people, but they seemed the type who were travelling the world but couldn’t actually cope with it; no one ever believes me but it’s actually quite demanding. Not for me of course – unless someone reclines their seat into my limited leg space on an internal flight – I am was tough, now I’m truly lucky.