HOME AGAIN - THE CAPE 1995

We  returned to South Africa from Australia towards the end of 1995 for a number of reasons, but mainly to be with our friends who we missed. And also to recover from what had been a difficult five year period. We moved into our new residence in January 1996 but spent six weeks before that in a small cottage at Kommetjie, on the Western side of the Cape Peninsula. When I wrote this we were waiting for our miniature schnauzer dogs, Tolkien and Pushkin, to complete the 36 hour transit from Melbourne.

AN EARLY DAY IN THE CAPE

High tide is at 4.15. There is a gentle breeze coming through the window above my head and I can hear the huge breakers crashing onto the rocks in The Outer. I doze, worrying about the usual suspects - how is Matt doing: will the dogs be OK (for dogs read Tolkien - Pushkin has proved his mettle): will I make enough/any money here. Awake again at 5.20 I decide to get up and have a cup of steaming joe, as Matt calls it, although he would not regard the dog's pooh Nescafe as coffee in anything but name. It is light now and sitting on the stoep of the cottage in the early light, I dunk a rusk and get as close as I ever do to meditation. Anthea stirs and I get her started with an  eye opener of coffee and a rusk.

The sun is surprisingly high now, although hidden sporadically in the morning sea mists as we walk hand in hand along the cat walk surrounding Die Kom. The tide is in retreat, but in any event it is only at the height of the winter storms that the inner haven is disturbed. The gentle swells move the beds of kelp and every now and then one breaks the surface, its black outline giving the impression of a seal coming up for a breather. The mirror surface of the tidal pool reflects the misty mountains to the north for the benefit of the flocks of gulls standing in their morning groups, raucously discussing the prospects for the day ahead. As we move around the inlet, we get downwind of the drying kelp with its sewage farm smell and wonder how the locals can live with it. Presumably they get used to it as the citizens of Rotorua get used to their noisome geysers. The tarred walkway peters out and we are amongst the smooth grey boulders and fine sand now, with walking more difficult - and slower as little pockets of bright shells are discovered. We think Danni would be enchanted by them when she and Matt come over for a holiday.

Die Kom at Kommetjie - Table Mountain in the background

The swimming is not so good on this side of the Peninsula - two or three degrees colder for a start. So I head across to Fish Hoek for my morning dip. The traffic is beginning to build up a bit now, but unlike yesterday, when all the commuters were headed for the pass over Silvermine for the city, most are now headed down the coast, towing a variety of craft behind their four wheel drive bakkies. I pull up at a red light and listen to two old chums sitting in the back of one of the vehicles chatting about their chances of fish today. There has been plenty of snoek around and they hope to get into some.

Down on the beach, sun streams into the warm corner where the old folks congregate, for all the world like the seagulls I saw earlier. Word is that the congenial climate here, combined with a daily swim all through the year, creates a kind of immortality. It is said that only a humane culling program stops the place from being overrun with nonagenarians. The crystalline green water is distinctly chilly at 16°C. Getting in is a fairly slow process, but well worthwhile. I swim a hundred meters or so and then get a small wave back to the beach, wandering down to watch the fishermen in their bright yellow oilskins hauling in today's catch.

'Trek' fishermen haul in their nets

They take what they want and leave the rest behind - jellyfish as big as soup tureen, small squid, inedible blaasoppies, which in the water puff themselves up to twice their size at the first sign of danger but which have run out of puff now. There is a fairly large sand shark which a young boy rescues, towing it tail first into deeper water before letting it go. It rockets off without any sign of the stress it must have undergone.

Back down the road to Kommetje I negotiate the four way stop at the Cross Roads. Vendors are beginning to assemble their stalls directly under a large sign which proclaims that hawking is forbidden. But the informal sector is a significant part of the new South Africa and such signs belong to the past. I keep an eye out for the police who, we have been warned, lurk along this stretch of the road waiting to catch speeding motorists. "They are all black," says Lorna, "and pick on the whites. I suppose it is their turn now." To date we have spotted eight or nine of these demons - all have been white. There are no signs of life from the bush pubs which line the road. We used to call them shebeens in the old days. Places where booze could be bought on the cheap. Apparently they are the place to go for adventurous young people who like the atmosphere of drinking under the stars. Braai wood is stacked along the road - good rooikranz, enough to cook for a family at R 5 per bag. The gum trees which line the road remind me of Australia, but somehow they do not look the same here. Maybe it is the wind which has made them grow into different shapes.

I pull in to what used to be the T-Room but is now the Superette to get a morning paper. Out rockets a chubby copper coloured kid pursued by the oaths and imprecations of the white owner. "Bloody black bastards," he mutters for anyone who cares to listen, "Playing the bloody video games so early in the morning. Sticking matchsticks in the machines. Bloody kaffirs, what can you do with them?" Some things haven't changed in the new South Africa.