Cruising the Cape

So, was Capetown as great as people always gush about?  After a short 3 ½ days, I’ve been won over, as it certainly was a stunningly pretty place.  Buoyed by cool breezes, warm sun, and long summer days, we cruised the ‘Cape, from Town to the Point at the end of the peninsula.  Having run out of superlatives to describe the many coastal spots, I’d simply refer you to the pictures of Camps Bay, Hout Bay, and Fish Hoek. Miles of ocean wouldn’t be accurate enough… All of Capetown could be found out there, but there were still plenty of places with plenty room. 

En route we spotted a leftover Right Whale (the season already through) and witnessed the “oh shit…” scene of a huge baboon jumping into the driver’s seat of a parked car.  The windows had been left down and I’m unsure how the man eventually got it out.  The beast was huge!  “Baboons are dangerous and are attracted to food,” read the signs.  At Boulders Beach near Simons Town, we visited the colony of African penguins.  Not as big and colorful as the emperor penguins, they nonetheless entertained with their amusing waddle.  The seas were blue and calm at the Cape of Good Hope, only hinting at the feared stormy waters braved by yesteryear's intrepid mariners on their way to the East Indies.

The city itself was comfortable, with enough to keep even the jaded traveler occupied.  Table Mountain loomed from every vantage point. Long Street was party central.  The glorious waterfront was a good place to spend a day and the Strand and roadside were full of cyclers and joggers.  At the Aquarium, my thoughts drifted to a fishing charter as we admired the very large yellowtail and seabass.  Food was no problem, with all the usual choices any large city offered.  I did worry for a second when we saw a sign advertising 1 kg of sushi for 99 Rand (?).    

Robben Island is the prison where Nelson Mandela and countless other anti-apartheid activists languished prior to its closure in the early 90’s.  The District 6 Museum brought back to life the forced removal of non-Whites as part of the 1960’s race-based agenda.  The musea memorialized the oppression of a time not so long ago.  I still vividly remember the news stories and the correspondent always reported from Pretoria.  

Not everything is quite alright here.  Crime and personal safety are a national obsession (rightfully so), but South Africa was amazing and Capetown definitely worth a visit (plus the World Cup will be here in 2010).  Tomorrow we’re headed to Namibia.

Klein Karoo

Eager for a more unique experience, we veered inland into the Little Karoo, separated by tall mountain ranges and reached by a narrow pass.  Intense sun, wide horizons, and empty rolling roads took us by scattered farmhouses, quaint villages, churches, vineyards, sheep, and ostriches.  In the 1880’s, the region rode the crest of ostrich feather fashion and fortunes went into the many “feather palaces” still on display.

We stayed in Oudtshoorn, the ostrich capitol, but quiet enough for a pleasant stroll along the many storefronts and awnings of yesteryear.  The name of the game was ostrich – meat, leather, feathers, eggs, everything. On Hein’s recommendation (the owner of the backpackers), we dined at La Dolce Vita, where the grilled ostrich fillets tasted just like filet mignon. Inclusive of salad and chips, we paid less than 7 USD each.  And a big glass of red wine was only 8 Rand (about 80 cents).  In fact, there wasn’t a bottle on the menu that exceeded 6 USD…

A drive North wound by more ostriches, cultivated green land, and through the steep Swartberg Pass.  From the perspective of the high gravel road, the hilly country below stretched so far you felt inconsequential.  The mountains deserved much longer looks, if the eyes needn’t trained on the hairpin turns.  We toured through the little town of Prince Albert before heading back through Meierpoort.  The 35 Celsius heat made its presence felt, and just in time, we pulled up at a waterfall dropping into 9-meter deep clear pool.  How better to cool off then a plunge from a ledge above?

Many of the ostrich farms offered tours, so it was the thing to do.  Ostrich eggs are amazing.  They weigh about 1 ½ kg, can easily support the weight of an adult, and require either a hammer or drill to crack.  That’s one heck of an omelet... Nice, but I'd heard you could actually ride a real life ostrich, so when the moment came, I jumped on it (pun intended...).  It felt like riding a big chicken running around in a circle, holding on by the wings, and trying not to fall off.  Of course it was wrong, way wrong, but it was there (same reason Edmund Hillary gave for ascending Everest...).  I couldn't get the video to upload, but maybe at a later time.

The remainder of Route 62 in the Little Karoo continued with hypnotic 270 degree mountain views and rolling landscape of sage, mustard, and dark maroon arid shrub.  Few drives this long managed to command attention.  Most of the towns were little more than roadside distractions, but Montagu was exceptional for its restored Edwardian and Victorian buildings, all with fresh coats of white paint and reminiscent of a different century.  

Down the road was Robertson, center of a small wine growing region, 45 vinters and open for tastings.  This was white wine country, with some cabernet and shiraz around.  It was all unpretentious and some of it even good.  You'd be pressed to find a bottle for more than 10 USD (most about 2 or 3 USD) and the tastings were free and generous, atmosphere included. 

After Robertson, the landscape transitioned to something more upscale around Franschhoek, a historic French Huguenot settlement and SA’s present-day culinary epicenter.  Flanked by tall mountain ranges, the vineyards were strikingly laid out about a town that might have rivaled anything in the Napa Valley.  The restaurants looked inviting, but we had already filled up on a baguette with Camembert during several winery visits.  Neighboring Stellenbosch boasted more wineries even, an embarrassment of riches.

The roads became crowded, and for the first time in over two weeks and 3800km of distance, traffic lights appeared.  Multiple lane highways led to cooler breezes of Capetown.  The city was cosmopolitan and beautiful, sandwiched between the Atlantic Ocean and the dominant geographical feature, Table Mountain.  With a nice waterfront, vibrant nightlife, and a plethora of dining options, this was a good place to end the drive. 

Surf'n the Garden Route

Continuing on the N2, a yellow crescent apparition lay ahead at the turn-off to Jeffreys Bay, “discovered” in the late 60’s and since then a surfer’s Mecca, famous for “Supertubes” with its nearly perfect right handed break.  South African schools were back in session from the summer holiday and the place looked a little lonely, save for the never-out-of-sight “car guards,” who pointed out the many obviously vacant spots and “kept watch” for a donation (they’re everywhere, but I’ve never found anyone else to be watched…).  It was the weekend, and all the businesses closed early.  Nonetheless, the sun was out, the wind up, the beach perfect, and the waves as good as advertised.

Not far was St.Francis Bay, yet another famous beach break – this one immortalized in the surf film classic Endless Summer.  Few poor young surfers hung out here anymore and gone were the old Woodies and Beetles.  Although the waves haven’t changed, it blossomed with affluence and “coastal living” architecture was de rigeur.  We moved on.

Over 2600km into the journey and we hadn’t experienced any automotive issues besides the suicidal overtaking tendencies of some drivers.  The little car was working hard, and sure enough something started smelling funny.  No indicator lights on, but the smell persisted.  I pulled over to the side – a nice leak ran down the engine and it was burning oil.  A quick call to Hertz and, a few hours later, a replacement vehicle was driven 200km to Tsitsikamma.  This one still had no AC, and not even power steering...

Tsitsikamma, the large reserve of tall mountains, dense forest, and stunning coastline was exceptional.  With a name like Storms River Mouth, how could it disappoint?  We spent the night in Storms River Village (where else…), an odd little town with 2 restaurants, a few lodges and outdoor outfitters, and some kind of classic Cadillac showroom.  There was one supermarket (named…), a postal office, and a few craft stores.  The water felt far too cool for river tubing, so we embarked on a few hikes, one of which was literally 3 km of a balancing act on rocks and boulders to a very nice waterfall.  At Nature’s Valley, we found Nirvana for the eyes – on the left, an inviting warm fresh water estuary with a mountainous backdrop and on the right, rough blue ocean waters behind an 80-meter wide pristine stretch of sand.  Distantly, a pod of dolphin could be seen surfing the waves and doing flips.

SA is famous for its Garden Route from Tsitsikamma to Mossel Bay.  To be fair, the area was that beautiful, though Plettenberg Baai, Knysna, and Wilderness could easily have been named La Jolla, Santa Barbara, and Pismo Beach.  The similarity to the California coast detracted a bit from the experience.  The oysters in Knysna were relatively cheap and good, but it was too tony and not quite what we had sought.

Along the Route it’s hard not to notice the continued of disparity.  Of course integration has occurred, but inland and at the edge of every beautiful place many people still lived in fenced off townships and sometimes in shanties made of wooden planks, metal sheeting, and plastic lining.  All the more sobering, given the adjacent affluence.  On the other hand, not too long ago, we could not have dined so comfortably or spent the night in places we have patronized, so that deserves a moment of reflection.  The winds of change are still blowing  and it must be better, but we’ve had conversations with so many who are pessimistic.  They worry about losing their place in society, about sliding towards the rest of the continent. They think of leaving and their children definitely are.  It’s complicated and the shades of grey aren’t so easy to grasp.

Game Spotting

Not ones to stay long, we traded the Wild Coast for Frontier Country.  After first sniffing around Grahamstown, location of Rhodes University, we settled for our first South African meal, Xhosa Beef stew and a very nice Ostrich steak.  In this more arid region, dry shrubs were the dominant vegetation and the ocean a distant idea behind the tall sand dunes.  Several private game reserves occupied either side of the highway, simulating the surreal experience of a game drive at 120km/hr, with flashes of ostrich, zebra, warthog, kudu, and other antelope.

A right turn inland past the stark townships of Port Elizabeth led to Addo, the small base for several nearby game reserves.  We drove right up to the Homestead B and B and decided to stay the night.  A charming older couple ran this beautiful oasis in the midst of empty feeling citrus land.  It was time to relax and spend a couple of hours reading.  We knew the night sky would be promising, and indeed it turned out spectacular.  Distant trees and a farmhouse were silhouetted against the westernmost horizon, which never conceded its faint orange glow, even late into the evening.  Against this backdrop rose the Southern Cross.  The bejeweled sky was big and all around, appearing low and wide, offering up more constellations than we could name.

 Early in the morning we drove to the gates of Addo Elephant Park.  The little Opel Elite took us around the reserve the next 5 hours, this time at 30km/hr, as we spotted nearly every animal, including the kudu, antelopes with majestic spiraling horns.  The highlights were the pair of lions after a kudu kill and the largest elephant herd we’d ever seen.  An unbelievable 70 stood clustered around a muddy watering hole and, immensely social, for hours entertained with all sorts of antics and shenanigans.  The rest of the afternoon we spent at the adjacent Schotia, a private reserve with more lions, giraffes, zebra, wildebeest, hippo, and 2 large white rhino.  Two European women sharing the Landrover were terrified at being only 2 meters removed from a pair of lions.  The dinner buffet was a real treat and, alongside the chicken, they served another first,  kudu stew…

 

Gold Coast to Wild Coast

Sun’s up at 5AM here and by 10AM we were down the N2, through Piermaritzburg and into Durban, SA’s third largest city.  At Hertz we extended for 10 days and returned the GPS.  Old-fashioned road maps would take us through the upcoming 1800km of coastline.  From Durban we drove through Umkomaas, Scottiesburgh, Rocky Bay, Umzumbe, and Shelly Beach, all seaside hamlets with fishing, swimming, and surfing in cool waters.  

We overnighted at a backpacker’s spot called “The Spot” on Umtentweni beach.  It wasn’t quite spot on, but the South Africans we met were outgoing and friendly.  In fact, most of the people we’ve engaged have been quite nice and eager to chat. Much of the “Gold Coast” was reminiscent of driving the Florida Coast, the beaches chockablock with restaurants, shops, and lodging, and replete with surf shops.   A storm system had settled and the waters, described as “warm,” held no particular appeal, so we continued to Margate and Southbroom.

“When will I ever be here again?” is always a persuasive argument, so I broke down and picked up a new bodyboard, fins, and rashguard (In process also convincing the surf shop staff to get out and travel the world…).  In grey skies, mist, and outright rain, it was a struggle to paddle out to the Lucien Beach backline, by which time I was dragged 100 meters down current and shivering.  An hour and a few rough rides later, it was time to call it a day.  The water was only warm if you didn’t mind hypothermia…  

Next day was the same story in Southbroom -- dark, rainy, and choppy waters.  Fishing the nearby Protea Banks also fizzled out.  The highlight was our stay with Neville and Bruce of the classy Southbroom Backpackers, where it genuinely felt like home, hanging out, sharing dinner and candid conversation, and watching TV.

 The Wild Coast of the Transkei came next.  Small turquoise houses and pink rondavels peaked through the low clouds and dotted the hills and valleys of this wide green stretch.  It was land of the Xhosa and other tribes, “Real Africa,” as they say. Life was different here – potholed streets, roaming cattle, and people walking roadside or hitchhiking.  After 3 hours, the road descended to Port St.John, a bustling couple of streets where the Umzimvubu meets the Indian Ocean.  Sunlight was breaking through and the brown crescents beckoned, so we found a guesthouse steps from the beach.  The surf was favorable, the water warmer, and the rides longer and better.

We haven’t tried distinctive South African cuisine yet.  Besides burgers and a fried seafood basket, the rest of our meals have been “self-catered,” as the days of ridiculously cheap meals were over.

The following morning turned out once again grey, so we proceeded south in pursuit of more sun.  Hurtling through the Tranksei, we stopped at Buccaneers Backpackers in Cintsa, another almost perfect wind-swept stretch of soft sand where the river met the sea (there were countless of them, one after another, ubiquity making them seem less special).  The warm estuary contrasted with the cool ocean water, but the setting was wonderful.  The surf was rough, but offered plenty rides.  The rest of the day included ping-pong and the featured afternoon activity – drinking games and bad, but gratis, white wine for the younger crowd.

South Africa -- Drakensberg

Earlier in the day, our connecting flight from Cochin was delayed 9 hours – luckily we hadn’t scheduled a tight connection.  It was Goodbye India and Hello SA as we boarded the 2 AM flight from Mumbai.  With a crisp new Lonely Planet guidebook in tow, it was high time to read up about our next destination and decide where to visit.  Either that, or try to catch some zzz’s.

A few possible scenarios lay ahead, but upon landing, the first stop was an ATM en route to a Wi-Fi hotspot to book the cheapest rental car (apparently no AC still exists).  After a mere few minutes, we were on the way to Drakensberg.  Plenty of asphalt and whimsy would lay ahead.

South African roads and keeping left required a little extra attention, but for the first time in months there was the freedom of being behind the wheel on an open road.  Leaving the Johannesburg environs, the route took us through Free State province, still very much Afrikaanse Boers -- huge farmlands broken up by a few conservative dorpjes still integrating to a new world.  Other than staid steeples and curious stares, we saw little and moved on.  This country is big – green plains with tall grasses and crops, the undulating horizon stretching far beyond your visual range.  It felt like driving through East Texas, endless.

Hours passed with the scenery transitioning to the deeper green fields and high escarpments of the Kwazulu-Natal.  Flat-topped mountains appeared and grew more dramatic as the giant Drakensberg highlands filled the view ahead.  Oohs and aahs were in order and pictures could not do it justice.  We grabbed the last room at the amazing Inkosana lodge, located in a tranquil meadow facing the Central ‘Berg.  For a “backpacker lodge” this was 5-star.  More like an exclusive mountain retreat, the place oozed class, with the view from the wooden pool deck dissipating any inclination to ever want to leave. 

For dinner, we went to the nearby Dragon’s Peak Rest.  One of the fellow guests described it as “SA of the 80’s,” ubiquitous army plaques and insignia, and the same people still going there. After weeks in India, the buffet of desserts and meat were too much to resist.

Ed Salomon, the lodge owner and mountaineer, recommended the hike from Monk’s Cowl to Blind Man’s Corner at 2100m.  On the ascent, each turn rewarded with a better view, the distant plains behind and the mountain face ahead.  The day was bloody hot and we had not carried any water – Ed said we could drink from any stream. At Crystal Springs, the water was deliciously cold and refreshing.  About halfway, the high meadow eventually led to the foot of several peaks rising another 1000m above – Champagne’s Castle, Monk’s Cowl Peak, flat-topped Cathkin, and the sharp Sterkhorn.  From a distance it was impressive , but close up they defied any superlatives.  Beyond lay the mountain Kingdom of Lesotho.  On the return, we veered off to see Nandi Falls and dip in the pools of the Mpofane River.  The rest of the way was an exercise of wills, but we made it back as the weather was closing in.  17km in 7 hours.

Darkness featured a riot of croaking frogs and loud crickets.  But the real show appeared later with the gathering clouds.  With dramatic suddenness, fierce late night thunderstorms commenced with whipping wind and booming thunder.  The charged atmosphere saw erratic lightening jags that lit up the sky, filling the senses like a terrific symphony.

The next day, we drove the 1.5 hrs North to the Royal Natal section of the mountain.  We hadn’t planned on another 14km hike, but the Gorge came highly recommended.  So we set off.  Following a ridge along the Tugela River, the trail countered around until reaching the narrow rocky gorge with swift pools of crisp, cold mineral water.  Another 15 minutes uphill revealed the source – The distant wisp dropping down a series of five cascades was Tugela Falls.  The semi-circular Amphitheater surrounding the deep gorge rose up straight and vertically, dwarfing existence below.  I had not hiked any place this green, this open, and this massive.

Over 2 days and 31km, we shot innumerable pictures, but through a technical issue or stupidity it was all lost.  Memories or a coffee table book will have to suffice. 

Fort Cochin

With only a few days remaining, it was time to start heading back north.  Stepping off the small ferryboat, the former colonial island appeared a welcoming destination. Charming inns and guesthouses were clustered in the compact Fort area.  The many churches and parochial schools punctuated the continued influence of Catholicism.  A lunch of chicken salad on toast, pureed vegetable soup, and strong iced coffee in a garden café easily whisked us away to Sunday afternoon in Old Pasadena.  The beach far from pristine, hosted locals to soaking their feet in the turbid water and strolling the footpath.  At dusk, the few large cantilevered “Chinese fishing nets” were still operated by a handful of fishermen. 

Along Bazaar Road stood rows of colorful and still functioning historic warehouses.  Inside the Mattancherry Palace, a former Dutch building, one of the rooms was adorned with scenes of the Ramayana (entrance fee 2 rupees).  We visited an old Synagogue and window-shopped the surrounding neighborhood teeming with antique and curio shops.  Some of it soared above the kitsch, especially the intricately carved historic doors, panels, and columns.

Despite the dubious start, I enjoyed our visit.  Sure there were hassles, the buses and trains were often painful, but this is India.   Of course, our flight back to Mumbai is delayed 9 hours.  We'll have a few more places to see on our next visit. 

Kerala Backwaters

They audaciously call it “God’s own country,” and some rate a Backwaters houseboat cruise among the top ten “life-time experiences.”  But getting there proved tricky; the trains were booked out for days and the thought of traversing the 800km by bus was sobering.  On a lark, Steph secured 2 train tickets, but at the usual inflated price, plus commission.  Beggars can’t be choosers.

We bussed it to Margao, and then waited for the delayed train.  Even the toilet attendant attempted to overcharge (2 rupees as opposed to one is nothing, but it’s the principle, especially when the price is posted on the wall…). Triple tiered sleepers served as temporary quarters.  Two friendly Indians were keen to discuss HIV, India, and Obama.  From Ernakulum, the bus driver, barely allowing the horn a breather, pushed the dual-axled beast as if possessed.  22 hours after departing Panjim, we jumped out in Allepey, still very much India…

The kettavullam (rice barge) lay tied up in a very picturesque waterway, covered in green hyacinth and lined with overhanging palms.  The boat wasn’t fancy, but came with a kitchen, bedroom, shower, and a deck with rattan chairs and mattress from which to savour the languorous cruise on the network of quiet canals.  Gone were the days of punting.  The crew of three – captain, cook, and engine minder – looked after us well.  For lunch they stuffed us with roasted papad, fried fish, long beans with coriander, coconut with mustard and curry leaves, sambar, and rice that came in the biggest grains I’ve ever seen. 

I steered for a while, but soon was content to be led past the emerald green rice fields and palm fringed banks.  People crossed in low narrow dugout canoes and women beat their wash on the rocks.  Children jumped in for a swim while others submerged for a wash. Kitchenware, everything went for a dunk.  Hours went by, and soon the green and brown hues grew increasingly vivid in the soft light of the setting sun.  We tied up for the evening and dined under a candle.  The morning glow burned off the thin mist over the water as we broke the fast with rolled pancakes filled with bananas and sweet grated coconut.  The cruise ended at the gridlocked jetty.  Not quite heaven on earth, but a fantastic experience…