The torture of pre-trip planning
Two nights before began the packing.
I threw a bunch of stuff together that I thought would be good for a 16-day trip. A bunch of shorts, a bunch of T-shirts and a bunch of collared shirts. I figured we’d sift through them when it got to “go time”. We also spent half the night looking for my Magellan fishing shirt from Academy Sports. In the back of my mind I kinda thought I may had seen it, but couldn’t be sure. I never open anything when it comes in the mail, especially clothes because I hate trying on clothes. I finally told Jean that they hadn’t delivered it, even though I had an email confirmation stating that it had been left in the fucking mailbox, or around it. I denied ever seeing it. I even called Academy to see if they had really sent it. They said they did, but gave me a credit for it since I had claimed it never came. I turned the house upside down looking for it, in the process uncovering a bunch of shirts I had ordered from King Size months ago in addition to empty carcasses of mailing pouches that had contained God-knows-what. It was nowhere to be found. Meanwhile, Jean had a mile high pile of clothes, medicines, home remedies and various comfort accessories for travel spread all over the futon in the “office”. I kept seeing a grey shirt with a rolled up cuff sticking out of the bunch that looked a little familiar, but ignored it every time I looked there. And I went back to that pile to search again and again.
It all came to a head when I discovered a packing list on the dining room table. (Yes, the same dining room table that houses Jean’s NextHome office, the vast array of special holistic dog medicines and remedies, and thousands of sheets of spent paper from the printer/scanner by Epson. When company is imminent, it is all frantically swept away and located in places unknown until it is uncovered in another fiscal year.) The packing list indicated that the shirt had not only been delivered, it had been opened. Uh oh. Another cruise through the bowels of our stuff was in the offing. I ended up in the office again and stared at the massive pile on the futon. There was that grey sleeve sticking out from all the stuff that triggered a faint recollection in my addled brain. I extracted it from the pile. AHA! It was my shirt! It slid out silkily, because it was 110% polyester or some other fabric not known to man. After all, it was a fishing shirt designed to repel anything that got near it, including water, fish guts and old sunscreen. I noticed that one of the sleeves had been rolled up to demonstrate the versatility of the shirt. “I think I may remember doing that,” I thought, as I clutched the completion of my safari wardrobe to my chest. I had also ordered two pairs of shorts and a pair of long pants that also zipped away into shorts—all made of the same unearthly material. It took a lot of convincing to persuade Jean to let me claim the shirt. She swore it was hers.
A couple of weeks before the trip, we had gone to one of those trip doctors that give you all your shots and advise you on any medical calamities that may befall you at your destination. We spent over 400 bucks on shots, medicine, diarrhea-emergency kits, malaria pills, and any other medications that could possibly be needed in the darkest of Africa. A lot of the countries there require that you show proof of your inoculations. As IF! Who’s afraid of whom, disease-wise?
We also got some lethal spray for our safari clothes that would combat mosquitoes and other flying insects of any kind. No critters were gonna pierce OUR delicate skin with their lethal germs. Spraying the clothes was pretty funny. The process is supposed to be done on a windless day, but being as I stalled as long as I could before spraying the clothes, it had to be done in a peppy, windy atmosphere. The instructions indicated that the spray was under no circumstances to touch your skin, eyes, mouth, etc. If it did, flushing with gallons of water followed by hour-long showers and 24 hours quarantine were required. Of course the spray got on my bare legs. I threw some water on them and wiped it off with a paper towel. I was counting on the fact that the directions were riddled with needless hyperbole. They were.
To get to Hell you have to go through Atlanta first
It was time for the actual packing! A couple of years back, we had bought a sherbet-green hard shell suitcase at TJ Maxx while on a California trip. Sharon and Randy had bought the other one. They are the easiest things to pick out on a luggage carousel, because NOBODY else has luggage of that color. An added bonus: they’re made by Delsey – they’re French. And the fact that the company also used to make quality toilet paper only added to their cachet.
We had the Delseys laid out on the bed and began to roll clothes and stuff them neatly into the cases. Everything was going smoothly, and I began to think that we were being really judicious and packing “light” for 18 days in Africa. And then Jean brought out the hundreds of Ziploc bags filled with every remedy known to man and things for any emergency or circumstance that we may encounter. Oy! And they were heavy once they were put in the suitcases. I began to worry about overweight luggage.
Meanwhile, the Gines (Lucy and Lily) were worriedly pacing and dancing around us, their antennae buzzing with the fact that something was wrong. Gines? Yes, it’s short for “dogines” (pronounced like ‘magazine’). I started using that term when Zoey and Spike were puppies, and the term easily transferred to Lucy and Lily. We were starting to feel guilty in advance for leaving the little nippers, but we had arranged for Bobo and her dog Tiffy to stay at the house with them while we were gone. At least they’d be home, but it still didn’t totally assuage the guilt we felt for leaving them — that small ache in your chest that wafts through your consciousness intermittently.
Once everything and the kitchen sink had been crammed into the Delseys and they had been zipped up, it was time to weigh them. Jean had bought a hand-held scale a few years ago that worked by hooking it to the suitcase handle and lifting the luggage up by a handle on the scale, then pressing a button on the front of the scale to lock in the weight. Accurate!! Easy!! I was sweating profusely after lifting the suitcases up multiple times and getting readings that ranged from 42 to 60 pounds. Different every time! The limit on all our airlines was 50 lbs, and I had no desire to be bent over swapping shit around at an airline counter. We also tried bathroom scales, but couldn’t read the number on them because the suitcases covered it up. We finally gave up and opted to gamble that we were underweight. As if.
Time was nigh to put the gines in “Home Alone” (their daytime playpen followed by treats) and drive to Atlanta for our first airline leg. They were so sad, it made us sad. But we were excited about the trip, and were soon driving the magic car to meet Louisa and Whanger at the parking spot. A colleague of Louisa’s had volunteered her driveway for us to park our cars while gone. From there we were going to Uber to the airport.
Jean had meanwhile discovered a special from Delta/AirFrance allowing upgrades to business class for 300 bucks apiece. It was an internet deal, and she was trying frantically to make it all happen on her phone as we were driving down 31. Instead of just pulling over for her to accomplish it, I stopped for gas at the Chevron. When I got back in the car after gassing up, she was curtly trying to bridge the language gap with the Delta salesperson. Our credit card had to be verified since we had put the travel notice on it a day earlier, and Jean was freaking out about losing the deal. She called the credit card company, got that taken care of, and called Delta back. The deal was still on. . . .but it wouldn’t go through for some reason! Turns out that Gate One had gotten the tickets for a special price, and this upgrade didn’t apply to discounted tickets. We were bummed. But I had a feeling Jean wasn’t going to let this one go.
We stopped in Anniston at a Wendy’s for some food. We could have stopped a million other places, but NO, we thought this would be fast. Yeah. Sure. We were met with sloth-like service followed by a kerfuffle between a Hispanic lady and the server at the counter. She was lambasting the server about being impertinent and slow and a million other things and demanding her money back. The server shot back, “I’m a grown up. I can do whatever I want. You can’t talk to me like that!” Finally the manager shuffled up and gave the woman her money back then reluctantly took her tray full of food back to the kitchen. I was wondering who was going to eat it. It took the impertinent server another ten minutes to take the orders of two young ladies. The second one stayed there forever ruminating on what to get. When the server had finally pinned her down, punched in the order and asked her name (a new Wendy’s feature), the girl told her: “Felicia. But it’s spelled FEH-LEIGH-TCHA (or something like that).” The server gamely tried to put this in the register, and the girl kept correcting her on the spelling, adding “It really doesn’t matter, It’s just pronounced ‘Felicia,’ but you’ve got it wrong. It’s FEH-LEIGH-TCHA.” The server attacked it again, the name was finally entered to Fehleightcha’s satisfaction and it was my turn to order. Jean missed all this hilarity because she was in the bathroom.
Got to Atlanta almost simultaneously with Louisa and Whanger, though we had expected our Wendy’s delay to make us 15 minutes late. Arranged for the magic car to direct us to the parking spot, which was achieved with no hitch. It was a nice neighborhood of new houses cheek to jowl on a narrow access road. We were directed to park on the road since there was no room in the driveway. I was kinda freaked out, because it was a narrow road with a high concrete curb that led only to the homes in the neighborhood. There were signs warning of cars being towed if parked illegally. Louisa told us that the homeowner had assured her that it would be fine to park there – that people did it all the time. She was going to move our car when she got home two days later. There was nothing to do but leave it there, say a prayer and wait for the Uber driver, who had already been dispatched.
Got to the Atlanta airport, which looked even bigger and more impressive than it ever had. Construction was everywhere. “Bustling” is a weak word to describe it. Our great Uber guy pulled right up to curbside check-in and got all our stuff out. Bag after bag after bag after bag after bag. The check-in guy was also great. Upon weighing our two Delsey suitcases, he announced that one of them was overweight. Well, DUH. He told us to open that one, get out a pair of flip flops or something similar, put them into the other suitcase and he would pass the bags. I think he was looking for lip service effort on our part, which we gladly performed, though bending over those bags after a Wendy’s meal of chicken fingers was not fun. Gave him a nice tip and schlepped the carry-on luggage into the airport: a big backpack and Jean’s gigantic red Baggalini were our “personal items.” We also had regulation-size official carry-ons for the overhead bins. Aieeeee!!! In contrast, Whanger and Louisa were carrying two demure purple suitcases and a couple of meager backpacks. Sigh.
The leg to New York and dinner with Meg in Brooklyn
The flight to NYC was uneventful. Jean had checked me in early enough to be in boarding group A so I was able to save her a seat. We mainly wanted to get me aboard early enough to stuff all our carry on luggage in the overhead bins before the hordes boarded. Good ole reliable Southwest! I had previously loaded my iPad with the maximum of Netflix offerings: The Magicians, Parks and Recreation and The Office. I figured I’d have plenty of time to watch all the stuff during the long hours in the air. On this leg I watched the first episode of The Magicians. The airplane noise made it difficult to hear through my ear buds. They’re good ear buds, but not good enough to mask all the ambient roaring. Note to self: get real headphones.
Our flight was landing at Laguardia. The famous Laguardia Airport I had heard of all my life. WHOA! What a shock! It was teeming with huddled masses of pitiful looking people. The facility was cramped, old and depressing. Dirty cracked terrazzo flooring from the fifties was a real outstanding feature. I understand that they’re in the midst of renovations. They’d better hurry.
Our luggage pickup at the carousel was accomplished pretty easily, and once
again the sherbet-green Delseys stood out like sore thumbs. The reflection of all the luggage in the stainless steel post over the carousel was trippy and cool. I had a few fun exchanges with other passengers that also helped ease the pain. Wheeling the Delseys and the four carry ons through the tangled gauntlet to the taxi pickup point was a real fun ordeal.
We managed to get a large taxi van to take us and our masses of luggage to Meg’s apartment in Brooklyn for dinner. During the trip there, the driver and I discussed the impact of Uber on cabbies in NYC. He was appalled at the suicides of several drivers due to drastically cut income, but he also agreed that it was impossible and unfair to keep Uber and Lyft out of the equation.
There was apparently no easy solution to the problem of technology and modernity eroding the security of an antiquated profession.
Arrived at Meg’s apartment in Greenpoint, Brooklyn in a jiffy. What a nice place! It was in a row of brownstone type buildings like the ones that flash by during the opening credits of All in the Family. She was in the upstairs apartment, and it spanned the whole top of the two-story building. A lotta room! We schlepped our suitcases up the front steps and rolled them into the downstairs hall. Meg assured us they would be safe since the main door was always locked. We tried not to block the passage to the downstairs apartment, which was difficult considering the mass of luggage we had.
When we got upstairs into Meg’s apartment she presented me with a little half pint of Maker’s Mark. What a hostess!! She had prepared black bean lasagna and a salad. Both delicious! She was wearing one of Louisa’s old dresses — black with white zebra graphic. How apropos! How cute she looked in it! We heard about her latest successes in the art world — exhibitions and patrons. She also showed us her massive collection of ceramic medallions made by Beriah Wall, a Brooklyn artist who has been creating thousands of the little jewels since the 70s. They all feature different
sayings, random wordplay, musings and other graphic information in relief on the colorful medallions. The artist and his friends leave them in random places all over Brooklyn, NYC and throughout the world. So very cool! Meg was helping the man in his studio and indicated that he was an exacting taskmaster. She also gave Louisa a bag of them to distribute on our trip to Africa. According to one of the articles in the following links, they are already there!
https://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/17/nyregion/17coins.html
http://www.star-revue.com/red-hook-coin-man-beriah-wall-exhibit-paintings-emily-kluver/
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kmfTPeIkCAI
After the delicious dinner and great vist, we Ubered to the Fairfield Inn next to JFK. Our overseas flights were originating there. The room was nice, spacious and very clean. Before we went down to their nice breakfast buffet the following day, Jean and I struggled to equalize our luggage weight. Such fun! Such paranoia!
To France and beyond!
DAYS ONE and TWO 9/3/18 – 9/4/18 – Travel to Cape Town
Louisa and Whanger were connecting in Amsterdam and were taking a different flight from us (duh). We reluctantly separated from them after our shuttle to JFK, and were dumped into the terminal that housed AirFrance and other foreign carriers for Delta. We had paid extra for Sky Priority – easier check in and more leg room for the seats. There were tons of counters and numerous Sky Priority signs for every flight to every country imaginable. We finally found AirFrance after mistakenly standing in line for a Saudi flight and realizing that there were other counters on the other side of the wall. The Arabic on the signage should have been a clue.
We asked a lady fiddling around with the queue ropes where we would line up for Sky Priority on Air France. She came off as a real bitch and told us in a haughty French accent that check in didn’t begin till 1. We sheepishly found seats and waited around in the rows of chairs with our mound of luggage bending the wheels of our cart in front of us. I gawked at all the other travelers, most who spoke anything but English.
It was finally time to check in! We got in the Sky Priority line and watched the hoi polloi get in the queue for the commoner seats. I was totally paranoid about our luggage weight. We became a little fearful when we approached the counter and saw that the bitch was the one checking us in! Unfazed, Jean asked her about possible upgrades to first class. The lady quoted us the same price as phone deal! We excitedly told her we’d take it. As she was trying to complete the transaction, her computer slowed to a crawl, then produced information that made her frown and quickly push a bunch of keys. Then more keys. Then frown some more. We were afraid the upgrade wasn’t going to go through because of the Gate One deal on the fare. But she was not to be defeated. She went to another counter and asked one of her colleagues to help her. She was bending over backwards for us, and was ultimately successful! She was all smiles and very sweet to us, speaking English in her heavy French accent. We immediately felt guilty for mistaking her for a bitch.
Time for the luggage. I casually tried to sneak it on the conveyor belt. One suitcase was fine, provided I understood the metric weight displayed. The second was over by a couple of pounds, but she took it anyway. I thought she was just being nice, but she informed us that first class passengers get to have heavier luggage. There were no seats together but she told us that they would try to arrange it for us. Everybody we encountered down the line was aware of our request and did their best to accommodate us. What service! The myriad markings on my boarding pass attest to the love and care taken by AirFrance.
We were also invited to use the AirFrance lounge! Down the hall to the right, she told us. Not really. We had to go through security first, which was stressful and frustrating, seeing as we had those four carry on pieces of luggage and had to show passports, be frisked and Xrayed, strip, and do a little dance. We finally made it through and were directed to AirFrance’s lounge. When we got to the front desk there, they knew we were coming and they also knew that we wanted to try to be seated together. What communication skills they demonstrated!
The lounge was fantastic! There were bright pop-style paintings of French stamps depicting all types of movie stars and other pop culture images. Huge windows overlooked a section of runway and truck parking. There was a buffet of all types of cheese, salad fixings, cold cuts, some hot items, soups, breads, desserts, candy and nuts — something for everybody! There was also a tub filled with ice, certain wines, several beers, and two bottles of Laurent Perrier! All for us! We immediately poured a glass and found us a seat by the window. When I went back for more champagne there wasn’t any. I found an attendant and asked for more. She immediately brought two more bottles out! I felt like severe shit on a stick!
Some nice man took our picture, and then we settled back to snack and drink. I made good use of the Laurent Perrier for sure. I also started taking blog notes on my iPad. The two and a half hour wait was over in a trice. We reluctantly said goodbye to the pampering and headed for Gate 1, where our flight was boarding.
It was a distinct pleasure to be able to stop at the front of the plane. The business class seats had changed in recent years. They weren’t seats at all, per se. They were individual pods that featured all the creature comforts at close hand. The seat reclined to various
positions, ending up horizontally. There was a padded foot rest that completed the comfort scheme. A plush bag containing slippers, a blanket, sleep mask, headphones, toiletries and other goodies was conveniently placed in a cozy position amongst all the luxury. A pull out video screen was replete with hundreds of movies, TV shows and other types of entertainment. And they had indeed put us together, though “together” is really a stretch. We were in adjoining pods, but could wave across the partition to each other.
The flight safety video featured sassy French girls with pony tails pantomiming all the instructions with great choreography. It was very retro, but modern at the same time. Those French! Trés artistiqe! We were immediately set upon by a steward offering us a hot towel, some water, and inquiring what else we would like to drink. It was followed by a menu featuring three different gourmet entrees and a four course spread of luxury. The airline had a sommelier on staff that recommended four different wines from which to choose along with gourmet beers and liquors. Jean and I both enjoyed a really great meal capped off with a fluffy chocolate dessert that would rival that at any first class pâtisserie. The steward kept coming by and I kept getting more of the delicious red wine and water. Can’t quite remember what I watched on my personal video equipment, but I do know that it wasn’t as noisy as the flight on Southwest was. That was the last time I watched anything on the iPad. Instead I finished Bonfire of the Vanities and read a bunch of Patricia Highsmith short stories.
It’s amazing how easy it was to sleep well with that setup, because before we knew it they were bringing breakfast and we were preparing to land at de Gaulle. What luxury.
Now to be ejected into the real world of schlepping luggage, showing passports and being examined for explosives. I must say that throughout the trip nobody seemed alarmed that I set off the buzzer with my fake knees every time I went through security. The agents didn’t freak out in the least. They just patted me down and called it real.
It was surprising how empty and un-busy de Gaulle was. Of course it was like 5 in the morning, and our flight wasn’t due to leave till about 8 or so. But I was expecting some major bustling. Nothing. Just a few people doing light cleanup and maintenance and a few passengers straggling in.
When it started to pick up, it really picked up fast. We were set for a flight on Joon, the hip economy version of AirFrance. Once again we had booked the priority extra seats right at the front with extra leg room and a better reclining angle – about 5 degrees more. Whoop ti do.
When we finally began boarding, we encountered a serious case of hurry up and wait, as we had bustled through an inefficient boarding pass check thinking we were hot stuff due to our priority boarding status. After that we were stuck in a glass tube for about 15 minutes waiting to actually board. We met a nice couple on their honeymoon who were going to Cape Town to connect to several camping safaris. Ah, the exuberance and resilience of youth.
Passing through Joon’s first class section wasn’t nearly as painful as I had thought. It only featured big seats and an old-school first class setup. There were about 6 flight attendants buzzing about the passengers, however. I had no idea how that was going to affect the rest of OUR flight.
We found our seats on the front row of the next section. They were okay, except the tray and TV were designed to come out of the arm. Whoa! WAY less room for the tray, which was narrow as shit and forced us to sit ramrod straight in order to get it folded out. Meal trays hung off the front precariously, and once a drink had been added, it was a juggling act that guaranteed maximum eating pleasure. Joon likewise had a full complement of movies and TV shows. Once again, I can’t recall what I watched except Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Like AirFrance, Joon had a very cool flight safety video that was hip and artistic and modern. Instead of the French girls, the characters were multicultural hipsters, also choreographed to the nines. The most entertaining thing on the plane for sure.
Jean had bought a complete array of airline comfort items after an exhaustive internet search of same. This consisted of: seat inserts that were designed to make an airline seat bearable (unusable due the fact that the seats were so narrow that the insert would have made it impossible to fit in the seats); blow-up ottomans (which were actually great); butt pillows; back pillows and neck pillows. These various items were conveniently located in one of the overhead bin suitcases. When I first pulled one out, they all came flying out and had to be stuffed back in while the other passengers looked on with disdain and judgement. Yes, the only items we used on the entire trip were the ottomans and the butt pillows.
This was a 12 hour flight to Cape Town. Amazingly enough it’s in the same time zone as Paris. We had lost our 6 hours on the leg from New York to Paris. Right after we had boarded, the stewardess came through with the obligatory hot towel dispensed with tongs. I was immediately suspicious, because those hot towels are ostensibly luxury items, but I cracked the code years ago on a KLM flight to France. Those towels are a red herring that are supposed to indicate pampering and service. They’re not. They’re supposed to placate the passengers and lull them into thinking they’re being served. When followed by a glass of water, the whole procedure is designed to mask the fact that the flight attendants don’t give a shit about anybody that isn’t in first class. I think we had four attendants for the whole back of the plane while first class had about six for their tiny area. Let the seething begin!
After an hour or so, they began the “lunch service”. I guess it was supposed to be French-inspired, because it contained a couple of crackers, some cheese, some “fruit” and a block of a paté-like substance. There was one other item that I can’t recall, I think some kind of cake thing, but I do know that it was unidentifiable. Jean offered me everything on her tray except the cheese and crackers. I had taken a few bites of the paté, and though I usually love it, this was something else altogether. I ate the cheese and crackers and the “fruit” after an unsatisfying chunk of the paté. And bear in mind that I was wrestling to keep this stuff on top of the sliver of a lap tray that was cutting into my abdomen. It was after this unsuccessful repast that Jean decided she wanted to get some of the comfort items down from the overhead bin. One joyous event followed by another!
The blowing up of the ottoman was left to me. I tried to use the hand pump that Jean had bought. It was a ridiculous effort as the valves on the ottoman were very wide and no seal of any kind could be achieved. The pump fell out of my clumsy grasp and rolled under the seat. I then began blowing the ottoman up manually. While blowing and hyperventilating, I actually got it pretty full. I then tried to close the valve cover with fumbling fingers and was dismayed to see all the air rush out and the ottoman become flaccid and useless. After two other tries and identification and naming of all the stars I was seeing, I got the thing blown up and sealed. Jean reported that it worked great, so I immediately set to blowing up my own.
This was a 12 hour flight – and we only saw the stewardesses 3 or four times the whole trip. The time was spent wriggling around trying to get comfortable and batting the ottoman around with my feet to get it in position. We had all our stuff piled in front of the seats and against the cabin wall since we didn’t have under-seat storage. It was like a gigantic spend the night party with blankets, pillows and stuff strewed all around — only lacking the fun. We got another substandard meal for supper, one more cruise through with water and lots of radio silence from those “serving” us. Watched several movies but can’t remember what. We were ready to land in Cape Town.
The deflating of our ottomans and the repacking of the comfort items into the overhead bin was like humiliation in reverse. We were preparing for our landing! Whee!!
Cape Town! Just like I pictured it!
DAY 2 – 9/4/18 – Arrival in Cape Town
Got off the plane in a daze and emptied out into a nice, modern airport that wasn’t too big. There was a guy waiting for us with a Gate One sign. He was there for US! Nobody else. He helped get the stuff off the carousel and put it on a cart for us to wheel over to customs and immigration. That went smoothly and quickly. Jean began asking about exchanging dollars for Rands. The driver told us that airport exchanges were pretty expensive and that we’d do better at the hotel or elsewhere. Before we knew it, he had loaded his van and seated us in the back. He even handed us a tray of rolled up damp washcloths! Their signature pampering device! He asked what music we’d like to hear. I told him Hugh Masakela and he obliged. We drove through a rainy Cape Town to our hotel, the Radisson Blu.
He had our luggage out and on a hotel cart before we knew it. We went inside to check in. I had intended to tip him before the hotel porter took over, but he disappeared before I could do it. We were crushed. He was so nice. The hotel porter got our stuff upstairs and got a nice tip. I think 10 bucks. That was before we realized that there were 15 Rands to a dollar, and we had given him an outrageous amount of money. Oh well. We were still stinging with guilt for stiffing the van driver. After we got our stuff arranged in the room (read: suitcases laid out on the floor everywhere and open) we discovered that the adaptor Jean had bought for African power was not going to work. The one required was like a gigantic three-prong phone jack. Ours was three prong, but they were tiny and wouldn’t work at all. We called the desk and they said they would lend us one, so we headed back down to the lobby to get it since it was too early for bed.
Jean was checking things out in the lobby – there was a Gate One bulletin board that she scoured. She learned that the dining room was on the second floor. The next day’s events started with a 6:30 wake-up call, breakfast at 7, and an orientation meeting at 7:45. “And so it begins,” I said to Jean. She replied with a pre-exhausted smile.
We sat in the lobby chairs and soaked it all in. At that moment a couple a little older than us came in and headed straight for the bulletin board. We figured they were on our trip. Jean asked “Are y’all with the Gate One tour?” They obviously didn’t hear us since we got not answer. Or were they ignoring us on purpose?
I wandered into the empty bar. The bartender was really nice and helpful. I asked what kind of dark rum they had. He said “We’ve got all kinds” and waved his hand to a loaded shelf. “Is that Ron Zacapa I see there?” I asked excitedly. “Yes,” he said. “All righty then! I’ll have a double with soda and lime.” He quickly obliged me. The only difference was he handed me a can of seltzer to put in myself. The bill noted liquor and seltzer separately. I wondered just how much this high end rum was gonna cost, but was pleasantly shocked when I saw that the whole bill was only 7 bucks American. I left him a good tip and went back into the lobby to sit with Jean.
By the time I was ready for another bargain Ron Zacapa, there was a couple sitting at the bar: a bearded guy and an aggressive, loud-talking girl. She was explaining to the guy how she wasn’t scared for shit to be going to bars in Cape Town. “I know it’s supposed to be so dangerous out there, but I don’t give a shit. I just act like I belong there and keep my eyes open. Nobody is gonna fuck with me. My girlfriend and me went to a bunch of places without a hitch. As long as you act like you know what you’re doing and don’t act like you give a shit, they won’t bother you. Now if you pull out a lot of money or wear a bunch of jewelry it’s a different matter. They’ll fuck you up in a minute for that shit. I do it everywhere – I go into the worst neighborhoods and just holler out to whoever I see stuff like ‘Hey man. What the fuck’s going on?!’ They always think I’m one of them and don’t give me any shit ever. Vicki isn’t so brave, but she tolerates it and I do all the talking.”
The guy she was sitting with did a good job of acting impressed. It turns out they were on the same Gate One tour we were on, but theirs started a day earlier. So there were two tours with staggered schedules. These two had just completed their first day. She began to regale me with information about seeing the penguins. “Don’t stay in the fucking line to see the penguins. Just take a detour and go down these stairs to the right and you’ll get right to ‘em.” I had no idea what she was talking about, but made a mental note of it. She talked a good bit more and her bravado expanded with each sentence. The guy with her didn’t say much of anything. It turns out she didn’t really know him, but had waylaid him in the bar. I politely acknowledged all the stories of her bravery and not giving a shit. She then said something like “Of course these people know I’m not from around here. I’m Irish as shit. What do you expect from somebody named Shannon?”
“I’m quite fond of the Irish,” I offered. “Y’all don’t take shit off of anybody.”
“Damn straight!” she replied. Meanwhile the bartender had fixed me another Ron and handed it to me. We all three toasted to a good time and I wandered back into the lobby, wondering if we were going to have similar colorful characters on our tour.
We headed back to our room (323) and began getting ready for bed. For me that meant setting up the CPAPs. The only plug that would work was across the room. I ran an extension cord across the floor with the proper adapter to the outlet. Then I plugged in our power box that had 6 plugs and 6 USB outlets. CPAPs plugged into the box. I made a mental note not to trip over the cord when I got up for the bathroom any one of my three times a night. Jean had selected a new alarm tune for her phone as a backup to the phone wake-up and we were set and ready for the rack.
Cruising the Cape, part one
DAY 3 – Wednesday – 9/5/18 – Cape Peninsula Tour
Slept okay, though kind of fitfully — not quite sure what the trip was gonna be like or what it was gonna require of us. The room was very comfortable, though it was chock full of our luggage spread out everywhere. Got the wakeup call from the desk, followed quickly by Jean’s new phone alarm. It sounded like a chimey electronic version of “Smoke on the Water”. The hilarity of the music made getting up a mildly jolly experience.
The shower was fine, though there was no door on it, and no lip of any kind to keep the water off of the bathroom floor. It worked somehow. There was a waterproof hang tag with a little minute timer attached. It was challenging the bather to shower in less than three minutes due to the water crisis in Cape Town. (Though it was looking kind of out of date due to the rain they had experienced lately). I didn’t even try it. I knew I would be under two minutes. And I was.
Got to the restaurant on the second floor on time. Jean had discovered a custom egg station where they made anything from omelettes and fried eggs to Eggs Benedict and Eggs Florentine. WHOA!! It became a morning tradition for the four breakfasts we had there. The coffee was great, but it was dispensed individually from a machine that made all styles. One person at a time could use it, and though it went pretty fast, it often created a log jam of people trying to get their caffeine fix. As a matter of fact, it was kind of a factor in us almost being late to the orientation meeting. I was waiting on some pokey lady to finish up so I could get my last cup. I ended up carrying it to the meeting.
There was a youngish guy in the hall outside the meeting room that greeted us with a smile and “You were almost late. You’re the last ones to get here.” I was slightly chagrined at that. We slunk into the room and found chairs Louisa and Whanger had saved for us. It was already almost full, but there were about six other stragglers after us. We had been hoodwinked by the guy who then came in to introduce himself. I drank my coffee surreptitiously and put it under my chair after each sip. The guy introduced himself as our guide for the trip. His name was Laurence Marks, from Johannesburg. He had a great accent that sounded Australian or New Zealander, but I’m sure it was strictly South African. It was charming, of course. He told us he was married to an Afrikaans woman and had two children. Then he went through his resume.
Hoo boy! Was this guy qualified! He assured us that we had gotten the best guide there was to get. He had certifications for every travel guide specialty, had been in the army, trained safari guides and had many other occupations that made him the best choice. He had worked for Gate One for several years and done beaucoup trips for them. He then whittled all this information down to the fact that there were only fifteen guides in all of South Africa that were nearly similarly qualified. But they either lacked some specialty or were dead. That left two guides that fit the bill for super guide, and he was one of them. In retrospect, he wasn’t kidding in the least. He was everything he said and more. His knowledge about every place we went, the history involved and any other information was massive and he dispensed it entertainingly and frequently.
He gave us a list of dos and don’ts about everything we were going to encounter that made all kinds of sense. One that I liked the best was “Do not get out of your safari vehicles for any reason.” Well, DUH. He also extolled the virtues of the hosted family dinner and the optional wineland tour that was available on our free day in Cape Town. He then dissed the shark cage diving as something only an idiot would participate in. I don’t think he meant it was unsafe, but it wasn’t the golden winelands tour that he touted and was the best in the world. Louisa and I looked at each other with a small amount of alarm. I was becoming kind of flustered to be in the presence of somebody who was such a massive expert on everything we were going to encounter. My foot then strayed under my chair and I knocked over my coffee and it spread all over the carpet. I was afraid he was gonna see it and call me out but he didn’t. I made a mental note to tell somebody at the front desk about my faux pas (but eventually didn’t since nobody else had seen it).
Laurence then dismissed us to go get ready for our first tour. It was raining outside and he recommended raincoats, jackets and warm clothes since it was slightly chilly. Chilly for MOST, but not for me. Of course I put on shorts. He had given us a time to be out front for the bus, and we were the last to get on. Seats had been assigned, so Jean and I climbed in and drank in the stares of the others on the tour. We found our seats. They were uncomfortable as hell and set at a weird angle that aggravated Jean’s hip and back. Hooray. Our first experience on the tour: a rainy bus ride through winding mountainous roads that featured limited visibility due to the rain on the bus windows and the constant shifting positions to avoid cramps. The first hour or so we wound our way through Cape Town, passing the toniest real estate with stunning views of the mountains and ocean. The views were great, though Jean was in the window seat and I had to crane my neck to see anything. I was slightly bummed, wondering if the whole trip was going to be like that.
And then it quit raining. Laurence said, “We’re coming into Hout Bay – a nice little fishing village. We’ll get off the bus and you can use the restrooms. They’re very clean, though I’ve never been in the women’s. You can get a coffee or soft drink in the cafe, and there are souvenirs. You can’t get any of the items any cheaper, but there are also vendors outside lining the bay. You can haggle with them if you like. I wouldn’t advise getting that six-foot carved giraffe, though, because you don’t want to be carrying it around the whole trip. We’ll be here for 45 minutes, then back to the bus.” And he wasn’t kidding. This was the first of our timed stops, and they were always accurate to the minute.
Before we had gotten off the bus Laurence told us about a guy who has a trained seal that lives on the dock in the harbor. “He doesn’t mind if you take pictures of him with the seal, but if you do, I recommend you give him a few rand. He can become unfriendly if you don’t.” I heard him say all this, but obviously didn’t pay any attention, because as I was taking pictures of the harbor, all these poeple were marveling at this seal just sitting there. I got two good shots of him, and as I turned away, I saw this guy coming over to extract a tip from another tourist taking pictures. Missed me!
The souvenir shop had the cafe inside, and though the bathrooms were purportedly for customers only, every one of us lined up to use them. The stuff in the souvenir store was fine – standard souvenirs, but the African designs were striking. I wasn’t the slightest bit interested in getting anything, though, and after a few minutes began to get kind of anxious about how they were gonna sell it all, and where it was gonna go when somebody bought it. A hoarder’s daymare.
The vendors along the waterfront brought similar emotions, only worse. I then empathized with them all having too much stuff and a distinct need to sell it. Trying to sell art at Magic City Art Connection came to mind and brought on an involutary shudder. This feeling was present throughout the whole trip.
We got back on the bus on time – our group had no stragglers, and we were never again the last on the bus. The driver, Jacob, did a fantastic job piloting us on these narrow, winding mountain roads, and as we wound our way up to Chapman’s Peak, we realized it even more. How two vehicles could be on the road at any time was an amazement to me. Views from Chapman’s Peak (named for John Chapman, an English sailor, who in 1607 was sent ashore to find provisions for his ship that was stuck in Hout Bay) were stunning. The drive was hacked out of the face of the mountain between 1915 and 1922, and I believe I recall Laurence saying they used Italian engineers for the job because of their immense expertise in such things.
The descent from Chapman’s Peak led to Noordhoek (not to be confused with Ren Hoek), a small shoreline community of houses, many with sea views and several horse farms to supply the mounts for riding on the long sandy beach. Many artists live there, and it appeared idyllic.
Our next stop was at Boulders Beach in Simon’s Town to see the African penguin colony. The penguins (also known as Jackass Penguins because of their donkey-like bray) settled there in 1982 and grew a large colony from only two breeding pairs. There are now about 2200 penguins spread along the coast.
The bus parked in a cul de sac that overlooked the beach. We had to walk down some stairs to get to a sandy path of about 100 yards that led to a gaggle of vendors and people dressed in traditional African attire and singing traditional African songs. Laurence advised us to ignore the vendors so we could get right to the penguins. All well and good, but by this time Jean’s back had seized up on her and the trip to the penguins was slow and torturous for her. I wondered where that shortcut was that Shannon had told us about the night before.
There was a throng of people gawking at the penguins when we finally got down the boardwalk stairs that appeared after the sandy path. They were cute as hell, I’ll say that! After the trudge back, we were going to go straight to our included lunch at Seaforth Restaurant. Our menu was already picked out – sea bass – and we were allowed one drink: water, soft drink or beer (a tradition that became the standard with all of our included meals). The restaurant was very cool, overlooking the water and the sea bass was spectacular. This was probably the best meal we had on the whole trip.
When I went to the restroom, I took a photo that I call “Homage to Duchamp”. I also noticed that there was no running water in the sinks due to the drought. There was hand sanitizer instead, which was commonplace in all the bathrooms we visited.
Back on the bus! Next stop: The Cape of Good Hope.
The Cape was booming with good times, part two
Back on the bus! Next stop: The Cape of Good Hope.
A short drive through more beautiful South African terrain brought us to the entrance to the Cape of Good Hope Nature Reserve. Laurence told us that the park was part of the Cape Floristic Kingdom, the smallest but richest of the world’s six floral kingdoms. There are over 1100 species of indigenous plants, many of which only exist there. The fynbos (fine bush) were gorgeous and proliferated throughout the landscape.
Other information provided by Laurence: It is a misconception that the Cape of Good Hope is the southernmost tip of Africa and divides the Atlantic and Indian Oceans. That isn’t true. The actual southernmost point is at Cape Agulhas, about 90 miles east-southeast, where the warm water and cold water currents meet. When following the western side of the African coastline from the equator, however, the Cape of Good Hope marks the point where a ship begins to travel more eastward than southward. Thus, the first modern rounding of the cape in 1488 by Portuguese explorer Bartolomeu Dias was a milestone in the attempts by the Portuguese to establish direct trade relations with the Far East.
There are two reproductions of the crosses erected by the Portuguese govenment honoring Bartholomeu Dias and Vasco da Gama, who are the first “modern” explorers to reach the cape. But not all sailors were so lucky. The Cape is also home to The Flying Dutchman legend: the notorious ghost ship that can never make port and is doomed to sail the oceans forever. It comes from the story of a 17th century sea captain for the Dutch East India Company who was hell bent on getting around the Cape on a stormy night. His crew were supposed to have been guilty of dreadful crimes. He failed miserably as his ship sank in the storm and all aboard perished. As penance, they must sail the seas where they died for all eternity. Ocean lore indicates that the sight of the phantom ship is a portent of doom.
In addition to the monumental floral displays, the Cape is also home to many species of animals. One of them is the Cape mountain zebra, which have become a rarity. Imagine our surprise when Linda spotted one. I thought Laurence was gonna freak out. He had never seen one there, and congratulated Linda on her keen eye. Jacob pulled the bus over and let us all gawk at the zebra (pronounced ZEBB-ra by Laurence. As he said, “There are no ZEE-bras in Africa. Only ZEBB-ras.”). Immediately after that, we passed the cross of Gama.
As we neared the actual Cape point, we spotted a baboon. Actually, I think Linda was the one who spotted him. According to Laurence, they’re pretty common around the peninsula. He also warned us not to harass any of them, as they could be touchy. They’re a real problem in that they are always trying to get food from people, get into their cars and also their hotel rooms. He told us a story about a guy who had problems with baboons jumping on his car and trying to get in it while he was surfing. A friend of his told him that baboons hate snakes (who blames them?) and suggested he use that information to repel them. The surfer got several rubber snakes and put them on his car and headed off to surf. However, instead of repelling the baboons, it riled them up to no end. They got rocks and started throwing them at the “snakes,” breaking his car windows and crushing his roof and hood. Ha!
Once we pulled up at the tip, we were given 45 minutes to look around, with a firm time to be back at the bus. It was absolutely beautiful. The other Linda took this shot of Jean and me at the commemorative sign.
After boarding the bus and heading out of the park, somebody (I think it was Linda the first again!) spotted three eland grazing in the fynbos. Laurence heaped praise on her for her excellent spotting.
Our next destination was Cape Point and the old lighthouse. There are two lighthouses at Cape Point: the old and the new. The old one was in use from 1860 to 1919, but was replaced by a new one atop Dias Point in 1919. The reasons the old lighthouse was replaced were: its higher elevation could be seen too early by ships rounding the point toward the east, causing them to approach too closely. Secondly, foggy conditions were frequently present at the higher elevation and made the older lighthouse invisible to ships. The new lighthouse cannot be seen from the West until ships are at a safe distance to the South.
After driving up to the park at the base of the lighthouse hill, we alighted after receiving our return time. There was a souvenir shop, bathrooms and a cafe. “The restrooms are very good here,” Laurence told us. “Although I’ve never been in the ladies.” Methinks he doth protest too much, I thought.
Access to the lighthouse was achieved by either walking up the mountain (uh, no) or riding The Flying Dutchman funicular to the base of lighthouse hill. A short flight of steps from the base of lighthouse hill led to a viewing platform around the base of the lighthouse. Funiculars are the coolest things ever. They’ve also become a common sight at some of the more elevated lake home sites.
I went to the restroom while Jean and Louisa got tickets for The Dutchman. When I got out, Jean reported that some girl had brazenly tried to break in the ticket line and was put in her place by one of the ladies in our group. We were gleeful and gloated about the whole thing. I also took a picture of this neat bird and his poop streaming down the rocks.
Once we got to the top, the views were stunning, and I took advantage of the panorama feature on the iPhone to capture it. What an amazing thing that feature is! Although I took 1375 photos with my Canon, I could see the definite appeal of the iPhone as the source of photography. Louisa used hers exclusively and took some phenomenal shots. The new image stabilization is a boon to somebody as shaky as I am. But the iPhone can’t shoot in the raw format, and the raw format is what makes using Lightroom such an amazing joy.
We rode The Dutchman back down, perused the gift shop (more hoarder’s daymares) and began to head toward the bus. I saw this sign and thought it was cool and funny and took a shot of it. I didn’t quite get it. Was the cobra referring to something poisonous in the area? (Ther
e were some structures behind it). I asked Laurence about it. “Are there snakes up here? Surely not, are they?”
“Oh yes there are,” he assured me. “I was up here not long ago and nearly stepped on a puff adder.”
“Yoiks!” I exclaimed, as I hurried onto the bus.
On the way out of Cape Point, we passed the Dias cross, which is a duplicate of the Gama cross. When lined up, the crosses point to Whittle Rock (34°21’24.63”S 18°28’26.36”E), a large, permanently submerged shipping hazard in False Bay. Cool! We also passed Lion’s Head, another mountain in the area. This picture doesn’t do it justice, but it really did look like a lion’s head. Laurence told us that the Africans were a threat to name their mountains.
Our next stop was Kirstenbosch National Botanical Gardens, at the eastern foot of Table Mountain. Its history begins in 1660 as the site of a hedge of Wild Almond and brambles designed to protect the perimeter of the Dutch colony. After that it went through several hands until it was purchased by Cecil John Rhodes of De Beers Diamond Company and the Rhodes Scholarship. He bequeathed the land to the Nation in 1902.
Laurence advised that we do the Tree Canopy Walkway to maximize enjoyment and do it in the time he had allotted us to be there: an hour and a half. Since the gardens were on a slope below Table Mountain, this walk was accomplished in a counter-clockwise circle up the hill and then down. Jean walked with us at the beginning, but opted to go back to the garden center for the rest of the trip. Her back was misbehaving again.
In the middle of the walk we encountered The Boomslang, a curved steel and timber bridge that winds and dips its way through and over the trees of the Arboretum. It was graceful, beautiful and cool. And it did indeed look like the skeleton of a boomslang – tree snake.
On the walk we also encountered these cool dinosaurs that were positioned among the folliage. It was absolutely beautiful. We had accumulated several of the other folks on the trip on our journey through the gardens. It was fun, and a good initial bonding situation. With 26 people on a trip together, it takes a little time to break the ice and get to know them. After a couple of missed paths and a little indecision, we found our way back to the garden center. I started looking for Jean but couldn’t find her anywhere. It turns out she had been hollering at me and I hadn’t heard her. We finallly hooked back up and all loaded up on the bus to head back to the hotel.
The night’s meal was our “welcome dinner.” It was a buffet (natch) and Laurence assured us that it would include a water, a soft drink, a beer or a glass of wine. The food was buffet (nuff said). We sat at a huge table with Louisa and Whanger, Gayle and Bob and 4 of the Chinese couples on the tour. Toward the end of the meal they slid a small bowl of some kind of appetizery thing down to us and told us to eat it. It was a meaty dried thing that was pretty vile, but I ate my piece and smiled back at them. It would have been better if I had had some of it in my teeth. Then they asked us if we wanted the rest of the wine they had bought. We said sure. It was a cloying, sickeningly sweet, syrupy red that even Bob and I couldn’t get down. The thought was nice, though.
Afterward, down to the bar for a Ron, then up to the rack for an early morning call. We were set to go to Table Mountain, which is an iffy propostion any time. If it’s too cloudy, you can’t see anything, if it’s too windy they don’t run the cable cars to the top. We were gambling on a good weather window. Plus, Laurence wanted us to be there first in order to beat the crowds. Good plan.
From Table Mountain to the dinner table of an African family
DAY 4 – Thursday – 9/6/18 – Table Mountain, Cape Town City Tour and Local Family-Hosted Dinner
“Smoke on the Water” blasted us out of bed at 6:00 to ready ourselves for breakfast at 6:30 and be on the bus by 7:00. Eggs Benedict? You betcha! Chicken, beef and pork sausages? Uh huh! Standing in line for coffee? Hell yeah! Breakfast was becoming as comfortable and predictable as a pair of fuzzy slippers.
We all dutifully boarded the bus like the bots we had become. Laurence had changed up the seating chart, but it was merely a serving suggestion. Chaos reigned in a very orderly fashion as far as seating went. Jean and I had alternated sitting in the back to allow for more stretch out room in our assigned seats. The Chinese people did the same thing, and there were several of the seats populated by a single man or woman. It became a sort of encampment.
Laurence had advised us to bring plenty of warm clothes, since Cape Town was a little chilly itself and Table Mountain was gonna be downright cold. He always tended to err on the side of “too many clothes is better than not enough clothes.” I always downgraded his suggestions by a built-in factor and came out perfect every time.
On the way to Table Mountain we passed several landmarks in Cape Town that Laurence told us about. We saw Parliament, the Bridge to Nowhere and several other sites as we whizzed by in the bus. The bridge to nowhere (Foreshore Freeway Bridge) was started and never finished years ago. Why? Several urban legends have surfaced over the years. One is that the design team had made a calculation error resulting in the two ends failing to link up. Another was that construction was halted due to a disgruntled shop owner who refused to sell his property that stood where the flyover would pass. However, the official explanation to date is that the city had run out of money with traffic numbers at the time not justifying its continuation and the project had to be abandoned. Laurence told us that they had recently held an engineering design competition for either completion or alternate use. He said that a winner had been selected, but the design had not been announced.
As we neared Table Mountain, we got several good views of Lion’s Head from a great angle. The steep, winding road up to the base of Table Mountain opened up into parking full of a bunch of buses — but not as many as it would eventually hold. We were actually there at the beginning of the tour day. It appeared that we were going to be able to go up, though there was a biting wind. It was going to be two times worse once we were at the top. And Jean had forgotten her jacket. She only had on a sweater. I assured her she could have mine if she needed it.
We snaked our way through the line until we were at the cable car station. I got some great shots of the cars going up and down through the fog while we waited. Laurence had told us that the engingeering was done by a Swiss company (natch), and that the bottoms of the cars rotated 360 degrees while ascending and descending. There was an involuntary shiver of acrophobia running through my body, but I squelched it pretty fast. But those cables looked mighty flimsy. While we were waiting, we also noticed tiny figures ascending the mountain on a trail. It turns out that people do it all the time. It’s actually on several tours. The path up is made of all rocks. Not exactly steps. It looked treacherous to me. I could imagine falling over backwards. It seemed like it would be easy to do. Jean talked to some guy that ran up and down the trail for sport. Suddenly the cable cars looked even more sensible, flimsy cable or not.
When our car landed in the loading pod, the previous occupants exited to the right and our group poured in like a bunch of wild kindergarteners. Everybody was trying to get to the unobstructed window spaces. There was a sign warning against sitting on the ledge by the operator since the bottom was going to rotate, and the ledge seat rotated as well. I tried to get some shots out of the car but was unsuccessful because of the hogs that blocked every possible avenue and stayed there taking picture after picture. We encountered this type of rudeness throughout the trip, whether it was on the cable car or when trying to take shots from some of the safari cruises we took.
Once we reached the top, we carefully exited the car so as not to fall through the crack between it and the landing platform and plunge to our deaths. I don’t think there was any danger of that, of course, but caution seemed appropriate nevertheless.
The wind hit us instantly, but it really wasn’t unbearable at all. Jean didn’t need my jacket, and I wouldn’t have died if I had had to give it up. The terrain was all rock – beautiful rock – with a smattering of plants growing here and there. And also some animals that I thought were some kind of squirrel darting about and nestling in the crevices of rock. I later found out that they were rock rabbits. Officially called the Rock Hyrax, they are locally known as the Dassie (from Old Dutch “dasje,” meaning “badger”). Table Mountain is the perfect habitat for these little guys, because they are able to hide in the various nooks and crannies from their worst predator – the Black Eagle.
The views from Table Mountain were breathtaking to say the least, with panoramas from all sides. I took several shots with the Canon and a 
couple of groovy panoramas with the iPhone. The weather was gorgeous, sunny and clear, and the photography reflected it. Louisa and I wandered around taking a bunch of pictures while Jean and Whanger enjoyed a bench seat.
As we were preparing to leave, we noticed a lot of cloud cover moving in. We were fortunate to miss it, because the groups that came after us were et up with it. As Laurence said, the conditions can change in the blink of an eye.
As we were roaming around the base waiting to board the bus, Louisa came up and told us of meeting a couple from Birmingham! He was an IT guru and was in South Africa for some sort of meet-up with like minded people. He and his wife came walking up right about then and we all had a jolly introduction. We got his card, called it a meeting and fantasized about deducting the trip as a business expense.
It was time to load the bus in our newly-minted haphazard fashion. Jacob welcomed all of us warmly as we boarded. We were headed to the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront, preceded by a visit to Shimansky Jewelers & Diamond Museum. A light rain had begun to fall, and as we looked up at Table Mountain, it was obscured by a gigantic cloud. We had truly lucked out with our timing.
Jean’s back was angry. We were first going to Shimansky to learn about diamonds and their other centerpiece stone, tanzanite. On the way there, Laurence told us all about Cecil Rhodes and how he came to Africa at 19 and launched himself in the diamond trade. By the time we got to Shimansky, we were pretty well versed in all things diamond. Laurence told us tales of the gigantic uncut gems that had been discovered in Africa. All the famous ones were from there. Some of the crown jewels, even.
We got out of the bus in a light rain and made it over to Shimansky – Jean lagging behind from pain. There, Laurence told us the schedule. We were going to do the diamond tour, then were left to our own devices. We could either go back to the hotel on the bus, or hang around the Victoria and Alfred waterfront. It seemed that it was a gigantic mall, though it was 
atmospheric. We lined up outside Shimansky and filed in to take the guided tour of a bunch of displays and graphics that illustrated the history of the diamond industry in South Africa. It was quite interesting and enlightening. The tour dumped out into the Shimansky showroom, where they plied us with wine and encouraged us to belly up to the display counters and buy something. No dice. We found chairs and waited on the rest of the folks.
We decided to explore the waterfront on a limited basis with Louisa and Whanger, but first wanted to get some food. The Cape Town Fish Market located right next to the cool clock tower looked like a likely place. We got several kinds of prawns and other assorted delights. I got an Ono Poke bowl that was spectacular. Our waiter was solicitous and fantastic. All the servers were. And we had a view of the clock tower from our table.
After lunch we headed toward the shops and traversed the waterfront. Got several shots of the beauty there with a darkening sky for dramatic effect. It was gorgeous. Instead of heading to the mall part of the waterfront, we passed a display of four bronze statues of South African notables: Desmond Tutu and Nelson Mandela included in the group. We saw a large 
structure like an airplane hangar that featured local artworks and handicrafts. We figured it would be far superior to seeing stores that we already knew and couldn’t afford, so we headed in there. I wasn’t really expecting much, being as places such as that were usually kinda lame, but I was immediately blown away by the beautiful stuff that was in there. The first things we encountered that I loved were stuffed African animals made from a myriad of brilliant fabrics.
They ended up being about 30 bucks American, and though they were a little more than I would have liked to pay, they seemed almost affordable. We walked on down further and saw other stuff – beautiful handmade purses of all types, and a display of about six local artists. The work was spectacular, and I had a good exchange with one of the artists lamenting the arduous task of selling work to the public like that. We went through the whole litany of annoying comments such as: “I really like the frame,” or “My kid could do that,” or “Will you take less?” It was an international bonding experience and it brought the Magic City Art Connection days back in kaleidoscopic focus.
Meanwhile, I couldn’t get the stuffed animals out of my mind, and told Jean I was going back to get a couple of them for Charlie and Evie. I got Charlie an elephant (natch) and a hippo for Evie.
When it was time to leave the place, we had the option of going to the mall part of V&A or going to the Two Oceans Aquarium. Being a sucker for such things, we opted for the aquarium.
It was beautiful and enlightening, with great displays and a couple of huge tanks that featured several sharks. They were looming reminders of Louisa’s and my impending dive with the sharks the following morning. I wasn’t apprehensive about the actual diving. I was more pent up about having to get up at 4 to be on the bus at 5, the unknown aspect of the whole thing, and having to find a way to wriggle my big ass into a wet suit.
When it was time to leave, we at first tried to find the bus to the hotel, which Laurence had told us loaded up at a certain location on the quarter hour. The trek to this unknown place was going to be long, and Jean’s back wasn’t having any of it. 
Louisa and Whanger had gotten far ahead of us on the journey to the bus, and we kept getting farther and farther behind because of the pace Jean was
forced to take. We also didn’t need to be late and miss the bus because the evening’s meal was the optional home-hosted event that we had all signed up for. We wisely decided to get a cab. It wasn’t going to be expensive, seeing as the hotel wasn’t far, and the rand was so weak. It turned out to be the very best idea.
Our cab driver was really nice, and got us to the hotel quickly. Once we got to the lobby, Jean discovered a tangled knot of real estate awaiting her. She was uncertain as to whether she could attend the home-hosted dinner. I agreed with her that business took precedence in this case. We were just going to be one short at the dinner. The high school friends contingent of the group was sitting around having drinks, and heard that Jean wasn’t going to go. Louisa asked if one of them wanted to take Jean’s place, and Linda I piped up enthusiastically. It was all set! I had a different date for dinner.
Meanwhile, we had discovered that our shark dive was going to be later the next day. We weren’t going to leave the hotel until 9:30 instead of 5. That sounded better, but it also put a crimp in our lunch plans. Jean and Whanger were going whale watching while we shark dove, and Jean had booked a reservation at world-famous Bientang’s Cave in Hermanus. https://www.bientangscave.com/?utm_source=tripadvisor&utm_medium=referral We were gonna all meet up there after our excursions. There was no way Louisa and I could make it, so Jean and Whanger were gonna go anyway and meet us at the shark dive with their hired driver.
Went back up to the room and made a drink from the bottle of Meyers’s I had brought from home. Jean meanwhile began to untangle the knot she was presented with. It was a real joy for her to deal with the 8 hour time difference, hotel wi-fi and every other assorted thorn in the side of the deal. I hated to leave her, but she would have been a wreck if she weren’t able to work on the problem.
They had a small bus waiting for us out front. Gayle and Bob were going to be coming late due to some other activity. Linda I and I got acquainted quickly on the way to the dinner. She told me about selling their home in the Outer Banks of North
Carolina and moving to the family farm. It turns out they had sold just in the nick of time. Hurricane Florence was looming and wasn’t going to be pretty.
I didn’t know what to expect regarding the dinner. What would the family be like? Would they eat with us? What would we have? We finally pulled into a driveway in a modest neighborhood and all jumped out to be greeted by Bevan and Glynis, our hosts, and their two children. I loved the names. Very English! They were affable and welcoming. A long table for 14 spanning dining room and living room had been set for us and we immediately sat down. Glynis brought out several delicious dishes of chicken and vegetables. Bevan plopped several bottles of wine down at his end and
began to pass it around. Nice African wine! Meanwhile, Gayle and Bob appeared just in time. We all chatted animatedly during the dinner, and the company warmed up with the copious amount of wine being passed out.
The bathroom was a necessary stop for me. I’m old. But I got a great shot of the anthropomorphic flush button on the toilet. When I returned, Glynis was serving her dessert. I can’t remember the name of it, but it was incredible. She promised to give out the recipe. I don’t know if that ever happened.
We said our goodbyes to this lovely family and piled back into the bus. Linda and I continued our conversation about real estate and God on the way home. A great bonding experience.
When I got to the room, Jean was still embroiled in the real estate kerfuffle. We finally got to bed, later than normal, which made me even more glad our shark excursion was scheduled for later than originally planned.
A whale of a time jumping the shark
DAY 5 – Friday – 9/7/16 – Free day in Cape Town – Shark Diving and Whale Watching
Jean and Whanger’s driver came for them before ours, so Louisa and I hung around the hotel anticipating our excursion. Our driver was right on time in a small 8-10 seat van. There were already six people aboard. Nobody really said anything to anybody else, except a girl up front with the driver, who chatted with him the whole way. It was going to be a 2-1/2 hour drive at least, but we went through some interesting and beautiful surroundings.
On the way out of Cape Town we encountered miles and miles of Langa Township, the closest to Cape Town. These are crudely built homes, cheek to jowl in a concentrated area. Most often, the residents of townships do not own the land on which their houses are built. In effect, these houses are built illegally. Construction is informal and unregulated by the government. This results in a lack of access to basic services such as sewerage, electricity, roads and clean water, which adversely affects residents’ quality of life. It was a sad sight, even though a lot of the structures were very brightly colored and there were satellite dishes on many of the houses – a truly paradoxical sight.
After we had gotten out of Cape Town good, we enountered more beautiful mountainous terrain. We had driven for a little over an hour when our driver told us he was going to make a pit stop at a place that had great bathrooms, a cafe and food/wine shop. If I recall correctly, it was called The Red Tractor something-or-other. There were several red tractors about the place that underscored the name. It was very clean, modern looking in a rustic way, and filled with either tourists or savvy locals. There was a bakery and coffee shop that was doing a booming business. The 
market featured gourmet foods and fine African wines. They also sported an array of patés from Impala to Zebra and Wildebeest to Osctrich Liver, Crocodile and Kudu. It was wild.
We loaded back up into the van and continued our trek toward Hermanus and Van Dyk Bay, where the shark diving was located. On the way through a small town, the driver pulled over to the side of the road and a guy hopped in. It was a seamless move, and was accomplished in about 30 seconds. Good planning on both of their parts. The new rider was in the van for about 30 minutes, then the driver whipped over into a parking lot and he jumped out. As we neared the Bay, the driver stopped at a penguin rescue and rehab center for bathroom break and a quick view of the operation. There were several of the birds in an outdoor enclosure, some in various stages of injury. It was nice, and an indication of how dedicated these people were to the wildlife and balance of nature.
Our shark cage dive was being run by Marine Dynamics, a fantastic company whose top priority was conservation and protection of the sharks. They were housed in a wood frame lodge-like building a couple of blocks from the bay, where our boat awaited us. We all checked in at the desk and they evaulated us for the size our wet suits were going to be. I told them to give me the biggest one they had. The lady at the desk assured me I’d get one.
After initial check-in they told us to go upstairs to the loft room for a light lunch and orientation – live and on video. There was no way I was gonna eat anything before having to squeeze into a wet suit. Besides, I was still a tiny bit apprehensive about the whole thing. Louisa and I were by far the oldest people in the group. The others looked like adventurous, athletic types. Uh oh. During the orientation, the lady in charge told us that there was a chance we wouldn’t see any sharks. The group in the morning hadn’t seen anything. Of course we understood that it wasn’t like Disney World, and that we were at the whim of the sharks themselves. She also told us that the previous season a couple of orcas had entered the bay and eaten a lot of the sharks, and that they were either apprehensive and staying away or simply not there in great enough numbers.
Before long, a couple of the staff came upstairs lugging duffel bags containing our wet suits. The youngsters immediately set to putting theirs on. Some of the girls went downstairs to dress, and some stayed up in the loft with the guys. I was able to get my shoes on and the legs filled easily enough. Then it was time to stretch the thing over my gigantic torso. Hoo boy. That was hard has hell. By the time I finally wriggled into it, I was puffing like a marathon runner. No matter how much I tried and sucked in, I couldn’t get the thing zipped in the front. I didn’t have the strength to operate the zipper properly. I finally asked for help from a young guy, who obliged cheerfully. He didn’t seem at all impressed that he had just clothed a genuine behemoth in an impossible wetsuit. Yeah, it was zipped up, but it felt like it was constricting my lungs, and I had to slowly breathe deeply to get everything working and avoid a panic attack.
I was one of the last to finish dressing, of course, and after gingerly descending the stairs, got in line to get my raincoat. Putting that on was also a hilarious looking process. I never could get it completely on, and Louisa had to help me complete the move. We then set off on the two block trek to the boat. All the movement had somehow made my wet suit more comfortable, and breathing became much easier. Stage one complete.
We boarded the boat near the end of the group, and by the time we got there all the seats were taken. I didn’t really fancy standing up the whole time holding my camera in the light rain on a boat crashing through the waves in the bay. The lead lady mentioned that we could sit anywhere, even on the side or up top. Louisa and I decided to climb a few steps and sit on the side. I was a little nervous about balance on the wildly undulating boat, but we managed to get up there and sit down. The seagulls were going apeshit circling the boat. They made for some great pictures.
Pretty soon it started raining harder, so we headed back down to get under cover. People had begun to move around, so we found a couple of places to sit. There were all kinds of crew members on the boat, and a couple of really
pretty young girls from London who were there just as volunteers. They immediately took Louisa and me under their wings – offering us hot chocolate, hot tea, snacks, towels and anything else we would possibly need. I felt really loved and relaxed. By this time the chum master had begun chumming in earnest off the back of the boat, and they readied the cage for deployment. There had been no sharks in the water at that time, but they decided to get started anyway.
The procedure was simple. The 8 people going into the cage at the time lined up. One of the crew members took goggles out of disinfectant and put them on the divers. They then stepped across the edge of the boat backwards and down into the cage. There were no snorkels, so the only way to view underwater was to get a great big breath and then submerge, using one of the bars to hold yourself under. Each group stayed in the cage about 15 minutes, then they put another group in.
The first group didn’t see anything. The chum-master kept chumming and they continued to throw a line out with a big fish head on it. They also had a line with a brown wood cutout attached to it. It looked kinda like a gingerbread man, but it was supposed to look like a seal sitting on top of the water. It was our turn to get in the cage. The procedure was smoothly accomplished and I was the third one in. Louisa was last, and on the left side of the cage. After several minutes, we heard boisterous excitement coming from the boat. A shark had been sighted around the boat! We continued to go down to see if she would come to the cage, and finally she did. The swam right toward Louisa, then turned left to swim the length of the cage. I saw her just as she turned to swim back out into the bay. It was like we had accomplished the moon landing. Everybody was pumped. She came back around, and I was above the water just in time to see her breach. It was pretty thrilling.
We were like rock stars when we got back on board. Our volunteer girls were more solicitous than ever. Louisa was freezing and got into a ball with a volunteer-provided blanket over her. I was just glad that my wet suit hadn’t split open. My feet were cold, but that’s about it. There wasn’t a lot of room for water to get in the suit.
One more group went into the cage, but they didn’t see a great white. I believe they got a glimpse of a copper shark. The crew was super excited about our spotting, and indicated that it was a huge success. I thought it was, too. They raised the cage and we readied for the trip back to shore.
When we got off the boat, we immediately saw Jean and Whanger’s van and driver. Jean managed to get a couple of really flattering pictures of Louisa and me both as we headed back to headquarters. I was booking it, not wanting to be last. I wasn’t. There was soup and bread
in the orientation loft waiting for us. I shed my wet suit as fast as I could and sat down. Jean and Whanger had joined us up there just in time to see the obligatory video of the excursion that was for sale. We declined and enjoyed a cup of the soup.
We found our van driver waiting for us when we left the place. Jean and Whanger told us about their whale watching adventures and how many whales they saw. It was raining at Bientang’s, so they had to put plastic up to keep the food and diners dry. It hampered their viewing from the restaurant, but Jean reported that they actually saw a bunch of whales on the watch and saw more at Bientang’s before the rains came. They bought lunch for the driver, a really nice fellow who had grown up in a township and made it to college and success in life. He was very knowledgeable about history of the area, the landscape, and the complex social structure and problems in South Africa.
Whanger wanted him to take the scenic route back to the hotel, so we ponied up the extra money and took a beautiful drive through mountainous terrain and seashores galore. When the sun set, we were in a beautiful area overlooking the sea and got several gorgeous shots.
It was full night when we arrived at the hotel and we were hungry. We didn’t really feel like going out anywhere, so we ended up eating at the hotel in the bar. The food was serviceable and filled the bill quite nicely. After sitting around a little in the lobby it was time to retire to the room and assemble our stuff for the flight to Durban the next day. Of course we tried to second guess the luggage weights and shuffled things back and forth until we had no idea what was in which piece of luggage.
By this time, we had enlisted the Baggalini as another carry-on item, giving us four hefty pieces that had to go under the seat or in the overhead bin. Paranoia strikes deep when it involves luggage weight and shifting shit around at the airport.
Our luggage had to be by our hotel door at 6:30 the next morning in order to have it loaded on the bus taking us to the airport for our flight to Durban.