Cape Hope Springs Eternal

Position: 34°21’25″S 18°28’26″E

The nagging feeling that life is too damn short had hung over our heads for weeks. “We have a month before our flight back to the States. What are we going to do?” Carol asked. “I can ask Jan if his camper is available,” I suggested. “Then I could show you Norway,” Carol said, “ Give him a call.”

Jan and I discussed the van. It was available, but it was in Holland and we were in Germany. That made logistics a bit difficult. Ever the pragmatist, Jan pointed out that adding an extra 1,000 kilometres to the trip might be a little daunting. I promised to discuss it with Carol and that I’d let him know in a day or two.

No sooner had I hung up than Carol said, “I have an idea. You’ll probably say no. (When do I ever say no to a good idea?) Let’s go to South Africa. It’s cheap this time of year.”
“Okay”, I said.
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Let’s go.”

Changing Seasons

Five days later we hopped in a cab for Hamburg airport and 18 cramped hours later woke up as we banged down onto the main runway in Cape Town. The pilot earned his pay negotiating the forty-knot crosswinds that morning. Wet and cold, a Force 10 storm raged out at sea and reminded us Africa wasn’t quite done with winter.

That was two days ago. Since then, the sun came out and began warming things up.For context, it takes about as long to fly to South Africa as it does to China. That is about the only relevant comparison between the two trips.

It is too early for informed reporting, so here are a few sweeping generalizations: beautiful beaches, spare, rugged landscapes, gothic weather, good coffee, charming restaurants with great food, good wines, and lots of friendly people. All for about half the cost of the United States. And that’s at full tourist prices.

Field Trip

Heading south, we paused at Simon’s Town to see the penguins. African Penguins are clever. They only hang out where tourists pay to see them. On another beach 500 metres north of the little park, one lonely penguin mooched around looking for his mates. They were all basking in the glow of attention to the south.

Further south, the Cape of Good Hope lies just west of Cape Point. Neither cape is the southernmost point in Africa. That honour belongs to L’Agulhas a further 94 miles east. Accuracy should never spoil a good elementary school geography lesson. After all, most English-speaking eight-year-olds can pronounce ‘Hope’. It is here the Indian and Atlantic oceans meet with a turbid blending of their opposing currents.

As a sailor I am duty bound to tell you that Cape Point has two lighthouses. The original one was built in 1859 at the top of the ridge with a powerful lamp visible for over 60 kilometres in optimal conditions. This being the ‘Cape of Storms’, conditions were rarely optimal and the lighthouse vanished into clouds and fog regularly. It was declared obsolete after the SS Lusitania (not that one, the other one) was wrecked off Cape Point in 1911. A new lighthouse was built closer to the water making it much more reliable. End of nautical trivia and onto the fauna.

The old lighthouse gives visitors a reason to hike uphill and with a bit of luck spot whales. Late August is migration season for Right Whales and we each spotted one feeding in the rip currents east of the point. A long line of white foam stretched eastwards along the rip like drool off a Mastiff’s jowls.

Peak Octopus

At the Cape of Good Hope, sea lions basked on the rocks and kelp root balls bobbed like seals in the swell. That all seemed pretty normal. Ostriches strolling on the beach, however, made us do a double take. Sauntering around they kept a watchful eye out as they pecked the ground and posed for photos. A couple of surfers pulled up in an aging Mercedes 200 and prepared for an evening’s adventure in the rough waters. “It’s cold!” one said with a broad smile.

Between Noordhoek and Hout Bay the M6 road turns into Chapman’s Peak Drive. Perhaps one of the most scenic toll roads in the world, constant work keeps the road from crumbling down the cliffsides. At one of the repair sites an enthusiastic traffic director bore a sign saying it was his birthday. Rolling down our windows we congratulated him, and he shouted a big thank you! in reply.

Six years ago, just over the hills along the western edge of False Bay in the kelp beds and shallows, Craig Foster began filming My Octopus Teacher. I had never seen this Academy award winning documentary, but inspired by the day’s activity, we plopped down on the bed and turned on Netflix. It is charming and just the right length. We fell asleep as soon as the credits rolled.

Photos

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