Discover the Western Cape of South Africa! Beach combing, wine tasting, artifact shopping, hip shaking, four wheeling, kayak paddling, shark cage diving, landscape photographing, and oh my god! the fine dining!!!!
Your private tour leaders, guides Mimi and Bo, can make your holiday a dream getaway, an adventure for a lifetime, and, we ship anywhere!
Well, such is the imaginary brochure that lured the Lunsford family down to our corner of the country and led to a road trip to rival the Griswolds on their way to Wally World. Read on.
Auberge du Cap: Our first accommodation was in the Cape Town upscale beach suburb of Camp’s Bay. We arrived in the late afternoon, anticipating the Lunsfords’ arrival at the airport later in the night. Betty, our trusty GPS, performed like the patient genius she is, with just a slight error (shhhh, don’t let her hear me) just at the end there. We found the address of the guest house, the Auberge, but all we could see was the numbers on a brick pillar, no house in sight. In order to see the actual house, one had to open the sunroof and peak out, crane the neck back at an impossible angle and look up, as if trying to spot the orbiting space shuttle. There above you is the Auberge du Cap, more like the Auberge du Incapable!
The XTrail’s macho 4x4 was finally put to the test and up, up, up it climbed. The location was phenomenal, at the very highest buildable point of the curving back side of Table Mountain, with views forever across the roofs and gardens of Cape Town’s elite.
I love the honor bar concept, don’t you? You know, take what you want from the fridge, just mark it on the form and we can deal with it later. Like a mortgage with a balloon payment.
Cape Town JazzFest:
Your private tour leaders, guides Mimi and Bo, can make your holiday a dream getaway, an adventure for a lifetime, and, we ship anywhere!
Well, such is the imaginary brochure that lured the Lunsford family down to our corner of the country and led to a road trip to rival the Griswolds on their way to Wally World. Read on.
Auberge du Cap: Our first accommodation was in the Cape Town upscale beach suburb of Camp’s Bay. We arrived in the late afternoon, anticipating the Lunsfords’ arrival at the airport later in the night. Betty, our trusty GPS, performed like the patient genius she is, with just a slight error (shhhh, don’t let her hear me) just at the end there. We found the address of the guest house, the Auberge, but all we could see was the numbers on a brick pillar, no house in sight. In order to see the actual house, one had to open the sunroof and peak out, crane the neck back at an impossible angle and look up, as if trying to spot the orbiting space shuttle. There above you is the Auberge du Cap, more like the Auberge du Incapable!
The XTrail’s macho 4x4 was finally put to the test and up, up, up it climbed. The location was phenomenal, at the very highest buildable point of the curving back side of Table Mountain, with views forever across the roofs and gardens of Cape Town’s elite.
I love the honor bar concept, don’t you? You know, take what you want from the fridge, just mark it on the form and we can deal with it later. Like a mortgage with a balloon payment.Cape Town JazzFest:
We weren’t sure about this. All four of us are very veteran New Orleans Jazz Fest aficionados and our loyalty to this event is unquestioned. Nobody can touch it. I am pleased to report that NO is safe, but CT did a heckuva job. Organized. Loads of food and drink at each of the five venues, some outdoors, some in. And, most importantly, of course, great, great music.
On Friday night, we dug the sound of The Soul Brothers, who kicked off the night’s fun. They played an African influenced music and dressed and danced like the Temptations, just add several tablespoons more of afro spice. They were amazing and one could not watch them without smiling and catching their groove.
Saturday night’s biggest thrill for us was Oliver Mtukudzi , or Tuku, as he is nicknamed. He is Zimbabwean and has established himself as an international star, playing with the likes of Bonnie Raitt and others. Oliver was wonderful and packed the place. We managed to homestead a little area about 15 meters from the stage (the only seats were at the back of the room, allowing us and thousands of others squeezed into the room to sway). He didn’t disappoint. The mostly black audience knew the words to every tune and heaved in delirium as each favorite began. Oliver has a magical stage presence, good moves, a smile that stretches from stage right to stage left, and can pick and play with the best, in his distinctive style.
Sergio Mendes, Lee Ritenour, Gerald Albright, Najee, and Candy Dulfer were other better-known musicians that we caught over the two nights. Wonderful.
West Coast—Just as July is winter, the West Coast is the Atlantic. Is there any doubt as to why we are still in a bit of an acculturation daze here?
We packed up the XTrail with all of our bags,
some relegated to the roof rack along with The Spear. Gary had bought his “sacred spear” somewhere up in Kruger during their safari the previous week and it had to be handled with special care at all times. All five of us jammed in and we headed up the coast.
Well, first we headed down the coast to Bloubergstrand, home to Jacques and Tracy, our good buddies from Saudi, South Africans who have feet in both places. Tracy holds the franchise to Gymboree South Africa and is intent on making the business a success here, while Jacques stays on at Aramco, intent on making them think he is a valuable member of the workforce (just kidding, Jacques!!). Jacques is an incredible triathlete and not one to be messed with. They took us to their old favorite hangout on the beach, the Blue Peter (also an anatomical condition that may accompany shark cage diving, see section later).
A few beers for the road and hugs and we were off to Langebaan. Golden dunes forever, turquoise sea, waves curling to the shore, wetsuited surfers making like seals frolicking. A gorgeous little town just 45 min from CT. Would love to stop, but we have made reservations further north, in Paternoster (Latin for “Our Father”, supposedly uttered by Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama when he discovered a good fish and chips restaurant there that served ice cold Castle Ale). Mimi and I had spent a couple romantic nights (imagine!) at the Oystercatcher B and B there last time here, and looked forward to the coziness of their fireplace and the familiar setting just above the beached boulders, resembling the behinds of so many elephants all facing, like us, the sunset.
We rolled right up to the guest house, just as we remembered it and were greeted by a handwritten note that said, “I’m at the pub, make yourself at home.” Love that kind of relaxed welcome. In the time it takes to stroll up and down the cove and snap 387 photos, our host arrived.
“Hi, Luke?” Mimi said, since she had made the reservation by phone and had spoken to him.
“No. Wayne.” he replied quizzically. “I though there were six of you, four adults, two children.”
“No, just one child.”
“OK, fine, let’s get you sorted,” Wayne said in his Aussie accented, pub-enhanced lilt.
The rooms were outstanding, each with a view to the sea, each decorated in cool African memorabilia. The Lunsford Room had the distinction of also being the quarters for one Mr. Nelson Mandela just a few months ago! Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Gary searched in vain for anything Mandiba had left behind…use your grossest imagination.
Morning came and a breakfast was served on the sea deck. Wayne’s wife, Sandi, took our orders for poached eggs and bacon and casually mentioned that, ‘You’ll be staying two days, yes?”
“No, just the one night, like I told your daughter on the phone.”
“I don’t have a daughter.”
“What? Then who did I speak to when I made the reservation yesterday afternoon?”
“I don’t know. You ARE the Millers, Sabine Miller?”
“No, we’re the Wixteds and Lunsfords.”
“Then where are the Millers?,” Sandi’s voice rising in undeniable anger.
“Never heard of them. Then who was Luke that I spoke with when I made the reservation?”
“Was it the Oystercatcher Lodge or Oystercatcher Haven that you phoned?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t know there were two. This must happen all the time, with the confusion of two names so similar and so near to one another.”
“No, it has NEVER happened before. The Oystercatcher LODGE is across the bay…and where are the Millers???”
So, the Millers were apparently a no-show for Wayne and Sandi. The Wixted/Lunsfords were there right on time, albeit at the wrong place, since Sandi made a quick call to the Other Oystercatcher, and verified that, sure enough, we were booked there, but never showed up, pissing off Luke and Christy and their daughter, who apparently answers the phone. Weird.
It all ended amicably, and the Millers…I mean, Wixted/Lunsfords, piled back into the XTrail in search of pottery and more photo ops.
Tulbagh- This beyond quaint village, sporting its finest Cape Dutch architecture and lying in the valley between vineyard covered hills, was our next stop. Having learned a lesson, we made our accommodation bookings in person this time and spent a great night in a farm cottage that adjoined the Manley Winery.
Barb, in her natural habitat, took advantage of the front porch, (“stoep”) and caught up on her book with glasses of the host’s finest cabernet sauvignon. She wasn’t alone. It was a gorgeous location.
Paarl-The fabled Winelands of South Africa are bounded by the three towns of Stellenbosch, Paarl and Franshoek. There are literally over 150 wineries in this small region, about the size of a typical Irish county. We were aiming for Franshoek, but Paarl held us back with its beauty and its Tourist Information bureau and the fact that it was lunchtime and 37degrees C. Thumbing through the guest house book we found one that was ideal, five stars, please, but they didn’t answer the phone. Hello, is this the Millers? So, we drove out to it, down a gravel farm road through vineyards freshly harvested (remember, it’s Fall here) to find the big wrought iron gates locked and no one home. Damn.
Driving out, we spot the Palmiet Vineyard and Guest House just next door. Hell, why not? Five stars plus. Incredibly lush grounds, awesome traditional architecture, and views to the craggy gray granite mountains to the east. We’ll take it. Sundowners at 6 on the deck over the garage. Perfect.
We spent the rest of the hot afternoon lounging beside the pool, in the shade of large oaks and lemon trees. The Mediterranean climate here supports flora from palm trees to pine trees and any vegetation in between. Sure enough, as the sun descended, we climbed the staircase up to the astro-turfed deck, and a table was spread with bottles and bottles of Palmiet vineyard’s flagship best wines, reds and whites, and a young woman brought around trays of hors d’oeuvres (I can spell that without spellcheck, can you?). There was only one other group of guests, Germans, so we gained most of the attention of our young hosts, Angelo, from Sardinia, and his wife, Tina, from Germany. I know that I am aging when I think of a guy who is 42 as “a young man.” Ouch.
They told us all about themselves and this farm and vineyard, The Palmiet. The owner was a German named Fred, who also collected vintage Mercedes, which were housed below us as we sipped the juice of grapes grown in the vineyards below, and overlooked the apricots and guavas in the darkening groves.
“It takes twenty years to fuck up a country.” So said Fred at breakfast. Fred should know. He worked for thirty years as the consultant to international banks on all matters African. Knowing when Country X was about to fuck up would have been quite valuable information to the financial wizards in Stuttgart. He reassured us that South Africa, having been structured so well over the past century would take thirty years.
Winetasting-Angelo had given us the names of a few wineries that he recommended, off the beaten path, “no tour busses.” Oh my god. All three were sensual treats for the eyes and the tongue. Our favorite was GlenWood which lay 3 km down a gravel track and nestled into the foothills. This being our third stop of the day, we were obviously relaxed to the point of jellyfish as we plunked down at the picnic table under the trees.
On Friday night, we dug the sound of The Soul Brothers, who kicked off the night’s fun. They played an African influenced music and dressed and danced like the Temptations, just add several tablespoons more of afro spice. They were amazing and one could not watch them without smiling and catching their groove.
Saturday night’s biggest thrill for us was Oliver Mtukudzi , or Tuku, as he is nicknamed. He is Zimbabwean and has established himself as an international star, playing with the likes of Bonnie Raitt and others. Oliver was wonderful and packed the place. We managed to homestead a little area about 15 meters from the stage (the only seats were at the back of the room, allowing us and thousands of others squeezed into the room to sway). He didn’t disappoint. The mostly black audience knew the words to every tune and heaved in delirium as each favorite began. Oliver has a magical stage presence, good moves, a smile that stretches from stage right to stage left, and can pick and play with the best, in his distinctive style.
Sergio Mendes, Lee Ritenour, Gerald Albright, Najee, and Candy Dulfer were other better-known musicians that we caught over the two nights. Wonderful.
West Coast—Just as July is winter, the West Coast is the Atlantic. Is there any doubt as to why we are still in a bit of an acculturation daze here?
We packed up the XTrail with all of our bags,
some relegated to the roof rack along with The Spear. Gary had bought his “sacred spear” somewhere up in Kruger during their safari the previous week and it had to be handled with special care at all times. All five of us jammed in and we headed up the coast.Well, first we headed down the coast to Bloubergstrand, home to Jacques and Tracy, our good buddies from Saudi, South Africans who have feet in both places. Tracy holds the franchise to Gymboree South Africa and is intent on making the business a success here, while Jacques stays on at Aramco, intent on making them think he is a valuable member of the workforce (just kidding, Jacques!!). Jacques is an incredible triathlete and not one to be messed with. They took us to their old favorite hangout on the beach, the Blue Peter (also an anatomical condition that may accompany shark cage diving, see section later).
A few beers for the road and hugs and we were off to Langebaan. Golden dunes forever, turquoise sea, waves curling to the shore, wetsuited surfers making like seals frolicking. A gorgeous little town just 45 min from CT. Would love to stop, but we have made reservations further north, in Paternoster (Latin for “Our Father”, supposedly uttered by Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama when he discovered a good fish and chips restaurant there that served ice cold Castle Ale). Mimi and I had spent a couple romantic nights (imagine!) at the Oystercatcher B and B there last time here, and looked forward to the coziness of their fireplace and the familiar setting just above the beached boulders, resembling the behinds of so many elephants all facing, like us, the sunset.
We rolled right up to the guest house, just as we remembered it and were greeted by a handwritten note that said, “I’m at the pub, make yourself at home.” Love that kind of relaxed welcome. In the time it takes to stroll up and down the cove and snap 387 photos, our host arrived.
“Hi, Luke?” Mimi said, since she had made the reservation by phone and had spoken to him.
“No. Wayne.” he replied quizzically. “I though there were six of you, four adults, two children.”
“No, just one child.”
“OK, fine, let’s get you sorted,” Wayne said in his Aussie accented, pub-enhanced lilt.
The rooms were outstanding, each with a view to the sea, each decorated in cool African memorabilia. The Lunsford Room had the distinction of also being the quarters for one Mr. Nelson Mandela just a few months ago! Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Gary searched in vain for anything Mandiba had left behind…use your grossest imagination.
Morning came and a breakfast was served on the sea deck. Wayne’s wife, Sandi, took our orders for poached eggs and bacon and casually mentioned that, ‘You’ll be staying two days, yes?”
“No, just the one night, like I told your daughter on the phone.”
“I don’t have a daughter.”
“What? Then who did I speak to when I made the reservation yesterday afternoon?”
“I don’t know. You ARE the Millers, Sabine Miller?”
“No, we’re the Wixteds and Lunsfords.”
“Then where are the Millers?,” Sandi’s voice rising in undeniable anger.
“Never heard of them. Then who was Luke that I spoke with when I made the reservation?”
“Was it the Oystercatcher Lodge or Oystercatcher Haven that you phoned?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t know there were two. This must happen all the time, with the confusion of two names so similar and so near to one another.”
“No, it has NEVER happened before. The Oystercatcher LODGE is across the bay…and where are the Millers???”
So, the Millers were apparently a no-show for Wayne and Sandi. The Wixted/Lunsfords were there right on time, albeit at the wrong place, since Sandi made a quick call to the Other Oystercatcher, and verified that, sure enough, we were booked there, but never showed up, pissing off Luke and Christy and their daughter, who apparently answers the phone. Weird.
It all ended amicably, and the Millers…I mean, Wixted/Lunsfords, piled back into the XTrail in search of pottery and more photo ops.
Tulbagh- This beyond quaint village, sporting its finest Cape Dutch architecture and lying in the valley between vineyard covered hills, was our next stop. Having learned a lesson, we made our accommodation bookings in person this time and spent a great night in a farm cottage that adjoined the Manley Winery.
Barb, in her natural habitat, took advantage of the front porch, (“stoep”) and caught up on her book with glasses of the host’s finest cabernet sauvignon. She wasn’t alone. It was a gorgeous location.Paarl-The fabled Winelands of South Africa are bounded by the three towns of Stellenbosch, Paarl and Franshoek. There are literally over 150 wineries in this small region, about the size of a typical Irish county. We were aiming for Franshoek, but Paarl held us back with its beauty and its Tourist Information bureau and the fact that it was lunchtime and 37degrees C. Thumbing through the guest house book we found one that was ideal, five stars, please, but they didn’t answer the phone. Hello, is this the Millers? So, we drove out to it, down a gravel farm road through vineyards freshly harvested (remember, it’s Fall here) to find the big wrought iron gates locked and no one home. Damn.
Driving out, we spot the Palmiet Vineyard and Guest House just next door. Hell, why not? Five stars plus. Incredibly lush grounds, awesome traditional architecture, and views to the craggy gray granite mountains to the east. We’ll take it. Sundowners at 6 on the deck over the garage. Perfect.
We spent the rest of the hot afternoon lounging beside the pool, in the shade of large oaks and lemon trees. The Mediterranean climate here supports flora from palm trees to pine trees and any vegetation in between. Sure enough, as the sun descended, we climbed the staircase up to the astro-turfed deck, and a table was spread with bottles and bottles of Palmiet vineyard’s flagship best wines, reds and whites, and a young woman brought around trays of hors d’oeuvres (I can spell that without spellcheck, can you?). There was only one other group of guests, Germans, so we gained most of the attention of our young hosts, Angelo, from Sardinia, and his wife, Tina, from Germany. I know that I am aging when I think of a guy who is 42 as “a young man.” Ouch.
They told us all about themselves and this farm and vineyard, The Palmiet. The owner was a German named Fred, who also collected vintage Mercedes, which were housed below us as we sipped the juice of grapes grown in the vineyards below, and overlooked the apricots and guavas in the darkening groves.
“It takes twenty years to fuck up a country.” So said Fred at breakfast. Fred should know. He worked for thirty years as the consultant to international banks on all matters African. Knowing when Country X was about to fuck up would have been quite valuable information to the financial wizards in Stuttgart. He reassured us that South Africa, having been structured so well over the past century would take thirty years.
Winetasting-Angelo had given us the names of a few wineries that he recommended, off the beaten path, “no tour busses.” Oh my god. All three were sensual treats for the eyes and the tongue. Our favorite was GlenWood which lay 3 km down a gravel track and nestled into the foothills. This being our third stop of the day, we were obviously relaxed to the point of jellyfish as we plunked down at the picnic table under the trees.
Our hostess had lived there all her life and seemed overjoyed to have someone to talk to there back in the hills, off the beaten path. She was a delight and so was the un-oaked Chardonnay that won the day’s blue ribbon and the purchase of half a case of its green bottles. As experiences go, a day of wine tasting with good old friends in the wine country of South Africa takes its place way up there near the top.
Gansbaai- While it may take twenty years to fuck up a country, a great white shark can fuck up your day in a second or two. Regardless of the mesh cage all five of us black human sausages are wetsuited and weighted down and squeezed into, we are doubtlessly in Mr. Shark’s ‘hood, not our own. It’s damn cold.
The swells are swelling. The chum is spreading its pinkness across the surface of the gray waters all around us, snagging the attention of sharks in search of a quick snack or an early brunch. Chum, for those who haven’t had the pleasure, is the innards and outtards of fish, chopped and diced in a barrel and poured into the sea to bait and lure the great white. The expression, “acting chummy” with someone will never have the same meaning for me.
Even before we were lowered into the sea, the first of our shark encounters had begun, and it is definitely up close and personal. The cage is rigged so that it sort of hovers with your head just above the surface, and the crew shouts, “Now, now!” whenever a shark approaches and you are supposed to submerge and check him out through your snorkel mask, white face to gray face. We had two encounters during our twenty or so minutes in the drink. Each of our fellow creatures was about as long as the metal cage that separated us, maybe two meters. Just juveniles, we were told. Holy shit.In some ways, the viewing is actually better from the upper deck of the boat than in the cage. Definitely warmer, drier, and not as apt to induce a case of blue peter (remember?). By this time the heaving of the boat is approaching the point of heaving in the passengers and the shoreline is looking better by the moment. You’ve swum with the sharks, earned the t-shirt, and ready to celebrate…on terra firma.
Stanford-Maybe you recall the village of Stanford from our earlier tales. It is just twelve minutes from DeKelders and home to some of our new friends. We had wanted to take Gary and Barb to the local restaurant, Hennie’s, for their renowned steaks. Hennie himself had been out of town the last time we had gone there, and no steaks were being served, so we were all the more ready for the beef.
Slowly down Queen Victoria St. past darkened white plaster homes and crowded eateries to Hennie’s, but wait! The stop light that is mounted by the front door is lit in red, they’re closed. Oh no, damn. Written on the chalkboard that would normally list the day’s specials is the cryptic message: “Good bye, Christine. Memorial Service Friday” Hmm?
We u-turned and headed for the other places for a bite and a drink, disappointed. After dinner, we go to Michael’s Deli to introduce the Lunsfords and have a nightcap. Lena, his wife, pulls us aside immediately with “Have you heard?” “No. Heard what?” “About Hennie’s wife, Christine? She was murdered yesterday morning in the restaurant!” Oh my god.
It seems a disgruntled employee whom she had accused of stealing wine the previous week and from whom she had held back some wages to cover the loss had come in with two friends as she opened for the day, as was her routine. He proceeded to beat her up and then slit her throat. For 65 rand, eight dollars.
She leaves a 13 year old daughter and husband, Hennie. And, yes, the genius murderer was captured on the video camera and later at the squatters’ camp on the edge of town. Gulp. And double gulp.
This kind of thing happens in Jo’burg. Parts of Cape Town.
Not in the pastoral village of Stanford out here in the Overberg. The incident made the national papers with headlines like “Murder Shocks Tranquil Village.” The whole thing has had a pretty profound effect on us in our outlook toward South African living…Cape Town Waterfront-“Africa is not for sissies” read the t-shirt I saw yesterday. We had gone back into the city to see our friend, Roger, his visiting ex-Aramcon friend, Donna, and to wish Gary and Barb farewell as they end their holiday and return to Saudi.
The V&A Waterfront is a touristy, yet classy, development of shops and hotels adjacent to the working harbor of Cape Town. It seems light years away from squatter’s camps, townships and corrugated shacks. It has the Newport Beach vibe. Beer gardens, art galleries, bookshops, sea food. All so very tidy.
But, as I write this, I can’t help but think about Christine, and all the other Christines in South Africa. There are many. The USA has the reputation globally of being a dangerous place, with all those guns everywhere and the gangster movies and a high murder rate. South Africa’s is eight times higher.
Amid the splendor of the wine country, the sea coasts, the golf courses and safari lodges lies the simple statistic that tells you that you are eight times more likely to be murdered here than in the USA, and I find myself not-that-comfortable in lots of neighborhoods in America. This is a land of contrasts that go on and on like fractals. First world/third world. Diamonds on the soles of the shoes/barefoot in the shantytown. And it isn’t something new. I am reading the classic novel, “Cry, the Beloved Country” which was written in 1948 and could just as easily be lifted from today’s newspaper. From the articles about Christine. Striving to make sense of senseless crimes and finding no answer. The web of history is woven so tightly here that untangling it is no easy feat.
What is meant by “native?” There are white people, born and bred on this soil whose roots go back to 1650. There are San and Khoi people whose roots go back to the dawn of mankind. There are immigrants from Germany, Ghana, Zimbabwe, Botswana, and even the USA. This country has 11 recognized national languages. Rainbow Nation. Two Nobel Peace Prize winners lived on the same Soweto street. The next likely president has five wives. The concept of a national park was invented here and the Big Five-elephants, lions, cheetah, rhino, and hippo-can be spotted within them.
I’m rambling here, but maybe you get my point that this is one complex land, both in the human aspect and the natural one. Maybe that is what makes it fascinating. Odd of Africa to be sure. Stay tuned.
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