capetown

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Island Blog – The Silvermine

We went there today, early, for a picnic and swim. In 1665 someone reckoned there might be silver to be mined here. There wasn’t, but the river was dammed in order to check for it, and the dam is a big and glorious lake now. Many, very many, come here to swim and to enjoy a day by water in what is now a Natural Reserve. There can be baboons, there can be snakes, but with the shouts of delight and the ebullience of human voices, an encounter is a rare thing, thankfully.

We arrived with swim kit, dogs, food, a rug, a few towels and we found a space. The space was small and spiky grassed, but it was good enough. We had walked by many larger spots, already taken, even though we came early. We settled. Just behind us, on the slatted walkway, we heard others walk by, also looking for a place to land. You always hope for good neighbours, at this point if you come with two dogs, one a puppy. We found them, or they found us. They also had a pup, a curious but beautiful mix between a terrier and a something else with long legs. She barrelled into our midst, soaking and shaking, eyes bright and we laughed and said hallo. Then our resident pup did the same, only he has a much fluffier coat. I heard, through the big ass grasses, children squeal and chuckle as they cuddled him. That’s the thing about the Silvermine. Although we are all on the same shoreline, we are naturally divided, with these big ass grasses and they are so big ass, a total view block, some even taking out sky. And, yet, we can still, if we want, connect.

We swam, we played table tennis in the water, we watched the dogs swim, catch ball, and all the while the afternoon moved on, tick, tock, as more people came and as others left. I wondered how this place will be when the gates are locked, when the sun is gone and the night falls dark on the Fynbos.

Silver or not, we found it on this very happy day.

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Island Blog – A Mordant Flexibility

Any journey can be a pain in the ass, or a wonderful thing. It can also be an ok thing, which is not much, really, and not a time that will be remembered, just a ‘meh’ journey, like a crosspatch trip to the food shop, all those drivers who don’t indicate or stick to their lane, or the bus that shoots past your stop, etcetera, etcetera. I like the full word. Thing is, you never know at the outset. All you know is that you are driving from here to there, but the in between is an unknown, even if, un-trafficked up, you know it like you know your own name. There was rain, Hallelujah, and a traffic overdose. As we realised that the speedometer was not going to rise far beyond stop, and for flipping ages, we began to share thoughts. Issues arose, thoughts tumbled like cats over us, ideas butterfly-ed around the car, a Wimbledon of play and respond, as we sat facing the same way, the way of the snake of cars. You could feel the grumps from others, gringe-worthy green, puffing through slit windows, see it on the faces of those who absolutely did not want to be stuck beside the besider.

And we talked on, about thoughts on things which, very possibly, have never been thought about before, or not for a long time, at which they all woke up in delight and joined us. We discussed concepts and precepts and pets and how to break into change and what to order for dinner. In short, we flew. Subjects listed, elevated, flew, curved and landed with a stasis and a depth they didn’t have before. T’ween two like-minded humans, a journey that should take 40 minutes, but instead stretches out into double that, in that precious catch of time, of (if you like) enforced sharing, a new new can begin. It happens in the waiting, inhabiting the waiting until it eases fright muscles and begins to flex. Ok, we are late. We can do this fraught, or we can engage with where we are, and make it a new thing. And that new thing can couture a map for the next journey, define it with a fineliner. We find our way like five year old kids on their first day. Every single time.

We drove all the way there, and turned back, without achieving our goal and on a different route. Capetown traffic is, basically, a test of character, for sure. Attitude is good. We laughed at the push of humanity, the aggression, the arrogance, the fast pace we know is alive and kicking, but not one we want, nor value. You could say we achieved nothing. We would say we defined a new map.

Not bad for a Friday all subsumed with ‘deals’ and ‘offers’ and consumer beckoning and the biggest advertising push of all. That if you buy this, own this, everything around you will turn into a perfect life.

Such a lie.

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Island Blog – Sun, Rain and I will Tomorrow

It may appear that, now I’m in Africa, I have less to say. Of course, it isn’t that, not at all, but more something to do with the sun, the beckoning, the light that opens up a day into a ‘let’s go’. It’s the same back home when the sun finds it in himself to show up at all, and we all respond, leaping into shorts despite the freezeback wind and the threaten of clouding somewhere over by. Kids want the beach, a picnic, play and more play, and thus everyone and anyone heads for the sea, or the river, or the pool if there is one in the vicinity. So, my musing will have it, sunshine and water are strongly linked. Very few will choose a cinema matinee or a visit to Great Aunt Granola in the nursing home. Not on a sunshine day. The film will show again, and she can wait a day or two as it is sure to rain tomorrow or the next, as it always does.

In Africa, rain is a blessing, and a challenge to drivers. I imagine it is also a challenge to those who live in townships, all those roofs fashioned from sheets of tin if you’re lucky, bits of tarp or bin bags if you’re not. But rain brings instant life to soil, fills water tanks, cools broiling bodies, eases tension. The drivers, as aforementioned, however, panic. Slippy roads stultify and confuse, it seems. Capetown, and other places, go slow, and I mean very slow, so that traffic convergence becomes traffic hesitation. Windscreen wipers swing like crazy and every other vehicle flashes emergency lights at any opportunity. It’s hilarious, unless you’re in a hurry, and a bizarre to me who knows rain in every state from slightly slippy road, through compromised vision to roadside puddles deep enough to sink my mini.

I walked again today down to the Indian Ocean. Sounds so majestic. She is warm and wild, her waves no hawking spit but rising above the horizon, backlit by sun, clutching kelp and shells in her grasp, to boom, and I mean BOOM onto the wide arc of white sand. She has a lot to say, and loudly. I felt it today as I read my book, the sonar wave shooting up the beach through me and knew I was connected, as we all are to all things, all the wild things we have, unfortunately forgotten in our rush for worldly gain. I watch dogs scuttle and dash in and out of the waves, their humans wandering besides. I see kite surfers fly above the crests, and canoeists paddle out to investigate rock formations. I hear children laughing as they tumble and shriek through the shallows.

My walk here takes me through an underpass, meaty with kelp-throw, a rush of freshwater strictured after big moon tides and very gloopy to navigate. Then I meet the ocean, flooding like she has a load of tongues, no two with the same sweep. One ankle deep, the next losing most of my legs to the swirl. I chuckle. My feet are safe, sand locked, my frock hem-soaked. I read a while, watch a train chortle by just above my head, wish I had brought my swimsuit. (is that what it’s called these days?)

I will tomorrow.