Cape Town and Table Top Mountain w/photos

OK, I think we've all learned a lesson from my last post: Do not drink and blog. My apologies for that stroke of genius. Another piece of business before I tell you about yesterday: If you're in The D, make sure you go down and visit THE DIRTY SHOW (http://www.dirtyshow.org/) - hope it's a great one Robin!

We had another great day yesterday. In the morning, we walked downtown, to the scene of the previous night's crimes to get some cash from the ATM. You have to be careful around here about taking cash out from the ATM because they say there's a lot fraud (or so we've been told). There are police officers all over the place who guard the ATMs and also, oddly, there are "parking marshalls," whose necessity we can't quite understand. They just stand along the sides of the road and tell people how to park (like they can't figure it out themselves?); it's like those people in bar bathrooms who expect a tip for handing you the napkin you could have pulled down yourself. In defense of the parking marshall, they do make it easier to pay your parking tickets: you can do it right there on the side of the road.

But I digress. Once we had cash in hand, we hopped on the the Hop On/Hop Off bus (which only costs $90R, which is about $15 - we think, and D points out that, and I think this goes without saying, that NEITHER of us are a math whiz). Anyway, this double-decker bus with an open-air top goes in a loop around the city, up the mountain and out along the coast while a guide narrates the key points along the journey. It's a really good value and yesterday's guide made me a lot less angry than the first day's Eurocentric, sweaty, make-up running-down-her face, sausage-fingered guide. An example.

Sausage fingers: And, to our left, you'll see the first tree ever planted in Africa! The Dutch planted it in 1688!

New guide: And, to our left, you'll see the first tree the Dutch planted here, in 1688.

The Hop On/Hop Off is a favorite of what D affectionately calls the "Khaki Patrol" (he is so jealous of their style): The older crowd, mostly Europeans, who come in what appears to be a uniform that they've agreed upon before traveling to this country. It's pretty standard, but there are a few variations because some of them like to get a little flashy. You MUST wear khakis (preferably pleated) and if you're feeling saucy, you can wear khaki shorts. You will either wear sensible orthopedic-looking shoes or Teva sandals with socks underneath. You will either sport gigantic wrap-around sunglasses or a huge wicker or khaki fabric hat (D describes as the "Indiana Jones" hat) with a little drawstring pulled up all the way to your chin. You will wear either a neutral-colored shirt (light blue is popular) or a T-shirt that says "Cape Town." A camera will dangle around your neck OR a fanny pack will adorn your fanny. FYI: Some British people in our hostel were mocking a Canadian they met for using the term "fanny pack," but I didn't catch the word they thought you should use instead. (One more style note: It seems like the bra is not too poplar with people who live here. We've seen all kinds of dangly jubblies bouncing and swinging around and I have seen more women's nipples/aeriolas through their shirts than I'd see if I leafed through Playboy. And, we're not just talking about young, attractive women here. But, I must admit, I'm coming to understand them and fantasize about letting the girls loose. It's hot man!)

So, we took the Hop On to the District Six museum, which was at the same time heartbreaking and inspiring. Apartheid has definitely left a scar on "The Rainbow Nation." Driving in from the airport, we passed an area coming into the city that looked like a war zone or (and I apologize to Detroit for this, but I'm trying to give you a visual) a decimated part of Detroit. Land full of rubble, falling-down apartment buildings with no cars parked outside, barbed wire. It was eerie (sp?). Our first day on the Hop On we found out it was District Six, a once-vibrant neighborhood where residents of mixed-race or who were black lived and worked. In 1966, the goverment decided to reconfigure the city in a modern, geometric grid and set about relocating the District Six residents to the outskirts of the city (called townships). Then, they razed most of the houses and busineses, destroying an entire community (not just houses, understand, but a community: jazz groups, beauty shops, etc.). Yesterday, when we went to the museum was the 40th anniversary of the relocation effort. There was a man touring the exhibits alongside us with what appeared to be his daughter, taking her past every picture, telling her about the people in them and his personal knowledge of the district. His family had lived there and their house had been destroyed. One of the displays talked about a maternity hospital that was one of the very few buildings spared the wrecking ball. A nurse testified that after the demolition of the district, there were no longer any buildings or plants to prevent erosion and terrible winds would whip up sand storms that forced them to stay inside, even as the sand crept in under doors and through cracks (and remember, this country is HOT, the sun in burning, blinding, blazing and the only way to keep cool is to have the breeze blowing through open doors and windows). The most twisted thing about it all is that the government eventually decided to give the district back to the original residents or pay them restitution. So in the end, all these people's lives were ripped apart to accomplish nothing. But, I said the museum was also inspiring too: At a certain point, the people had finally had enough. They weren't going to take any more. They were going to risk their lives to reclaim their autonomy and dignity. There were restrictive pass laws that required them to carry ID books at all times. If they didn't have their ID book on them, they'd be taken away and thrown in the slammed. One of the resistance leaders came up with the idea for everyone to show up on one day at police stations across the land without their pass books and demand to be arrested, in an effort to clog up the jails. During a sister act of protest in Sharpeville, chaos broke out and police shot and killed 69 protesters. But, by then, the resistance movement's momentum was unstoppable. It would be many years before the fall of apartheid, but the ball was in motion.

Next, we took a cable car up to the tippy top of Table Mountain. This is the part of the day where I started to become delirious (remember, we'd been out at the bar until 4:00 and woke up around 7:00, it was very hot and I may still have been drunk when we started out). For example: I pointed at a cloud shadow on the mountain in front of us and excitedly exclaimed to D, "Look at the dog!" The ride up was magnificent and a little scary. The cable cars were really cool because the floor rotated so everyone got a chance to see all the views. Up at the top, we took some great pictures - you can see forever, all the way out across the plains ... one woman said, quite authoritatively, to her boyfriend, "You can see for millions of miles."

At this point, I'd developed quite the case of the verbal diarrhea. I COULD NOT STOP TALKING. Without even thinking, I heard myself say, "You know what?!" as though I had a story to tell, only, there was no story. I had nothing. While we were waiting for the Hop On, D put me on a talking timeout, which I was forced to break in order to share a brilliant Baskin&Robbins rap I wrote in my head to the tune of 50 Cent's Candy Shop. A couple choice bits:

"burn a little greenery" = come on down to the ice creamery

"50's in the house, bounce" = 32 flavors in the house, bounce

We took the Hop On to the waterfront, had lunch/dinner, missed the last bus and walked through the city back to our hostel. The walk, even though long and while we were exhausted, was nice. We went through the marina and saw sailboats heading out to sea and through a craft mall (like Gibraltar Trade Center but without the rednecks and gun and knife show; don't worry, the astrologers and tarot card readers - some things never change), and of course, the weather is always brilliant, so it feels good just to be outside and alive. When we got home, we laid down in a little alcove outside our room and read some magazines while we intermittently watched clouds creep in over the mountain and napped. Finally, we went inside and passed out early.

Today's a new day! Can't wait to see what it will bring!

Love you!

A little vocab:

Katsup = Tomato sauce (a side note: I kept ordering katsup and every time, they kept saying, "Oh, you mean tomato sauce?" So, finally, yesterday, I decided to aks for tomato sauce, and the guy responded, "What? You want Schmirnoff?" What?! When did I say anthing about Schmirnoff? I mean, I did drink a Mojito at 11 a.m. the first day we were here, but I just don't want a Bloody Mary right now, man. I replied, "Tomato sauce" (pointing at my fries). He retorts, "Where are you from? Oh ... the U.S.? You know, we know what katsup is. You can just order katsup."

Bacon-and-egg roll = Egg sandwich with (Canadian) bacon

Coloured = South Africans of mixed race