I Love S.A.

Days 136 - 158: Cape Town to Johannesburg, South Africa

Back in the driver's seat, baby. Except the steering wheel's on the right, the stick shift's on the left, and, oh yeah, South Africans happen to be the WORST drivers in the world. Luckily, our rental is a 2-door, 200-pound Fiat hatchback (model name: "GO!"; yes, with the exclamation mark on it), and that is exactly what we were up to here in the natural splendor of South Africa. Free to roam where we want, back on an independent path . . .

We've already well documented our reactions to Africa: stunning natural beauty of all varieties; social and political contradictions; adventurous days on the road; wild, boozy nights with our crew on the big yellow truck. Perhaps even more than elsewhere, South Africa presented more of Africa's beauty and mystery; it is a remarkable land of seaside cliffs, dramatic peaks, rolling vineyards, massive gorges, beautiful forests, on and on.

We began in Cape Town; a naturally stunning city (wondering, should we move here?), surrounded by mountains and ocean, much like San Francisco, but even prettier. With small, narrow streets running up to the base of near vertical cliff-walled mountains jutting out towards the Cape of Good Hope, with that end of the world feeling (after all, the next land mass is Antarctica!).

And then there is Table Mountain, Cape Town's most distinctive landmark and a spectacular backdrop towering over the city - just awesome. Clouds roll over it in the evening, which, for obvious reasons, is referred to as "Table Cloth." Just incredible; as though a majestic peak from Glacier NP was dropped in the middle of San Francisco. (Again, should we move here?!?) We (brilliantly) decided to climb Table Mountain on one of the hottest days of the season, and, of course, we opted to take "the long route." But the views from the top were well worth the effort, although a bit gratuitous when a pod of Italian male models in weenie bikinis joined us at the summit (they took the short, cable car-aided route; so typical). Descending through the "fynbos" (that's Afrikaans for "really cool, small-leaved shrubby guys"), we returned to the stylish world below of cafes and Mini Coopers, wondering if we were still in Africa.

Fortunately, Adam, as in Forste, an old friend from Dartmouth, had already moved here, working for the past year on issues of black enterprise and micro-finance; just what the post-Aparthied country needs most. Forste, bless him, picked us up in a buuuurly Defender 90 like a bat out of Desert Storm, except with a surf rack on top. For those that know him, we were not at all surprised to learn that he had the town dialed: from rooftop bars, to hidden beaches where topless models sunbathe (Al loved it), to an art exhibition/local booze fest in a renovated flour mill, to our first ever cricket match (what a silly sport!), and, of course, the always scrumptious South African braai (that's 'cook-out' for the folks back home), on his sea-side patio. Forste had even taken to drinking Campari limes . . . Yes, it was a quick transition, from game parks to models and martinis. Naturally, we made the adjustment, and the three of us had a blast.

We were sad to say goodbye to Adam (and his arse-kicking Defender 90) and hop (or, really, squeeze) into our Go! and hit the road. From Cape Town, we explored the Cape of Good Hope, checking out the colony of penguins along the way, and hiked along the continent's most southern point. Once again, stunning, desolate . . . hiking alone on hidden beaches to one of many shipwrecks ravaged by the Cape's infamous storms, to be joined by a herd of steenboks (type of antelope), checking out the surf. Next, we cruised through gorgeous wine country, reminding us of Napa and Sonoma valleys back home. A few free tastings and a roadside river-dip later, we pulled into a super-quaint village of white-washed Cape Dutch homesteads, more vineyards and shrubby canyons.

Of course, we still hadn't really seen much of "black" South Africa; the Cape area is the last true stronghold of Afrikaaner settlement and its legacy of Aparthied. And this was made all the more troubling by the visibility of the "townships": racially-segregated settlements created by the Aparthied regime's forcible relocation of black South Africans. The contrast was shocking - in many areas, particularly in the Cape province, (nearly) all black citizens live in the townships. So, we drove by gorgeous, sprawling white settlements, on the most fertile land with the best views, golf courses and seaside resorts . . . first world by all standards. And then, literally, across the highway, we saw black residents spilling out of densely-packed, fenced-in, decrepid settlements of tin-roofed shacks and dirt roads . . . serious, third world poverty. Of course, the townships are bustling with life and energy; but also obviously suffering from poor infrastructure, insufficient resources, and other social ills, particularly, the rampant spread of AIDS. This made for some strange moments on the road. The divide was so crisp - black and white - that, at times, we could feel the resentment steaming off of black faces we passed by. It certainly offered at least one major explanation for the rising levels of crime in the country. Race permeated many conversations, and many white citizens seemed ill-equipped for coping with post-Aparthied reality. On one occasion, with a satisfied grin, an old crusty Afrikaaner man lectured us (upon hearing that we were American), that the U.S. had employed its own version of aparthied before the civil rights era. But, we just couldn't compare the two situations as they stand today. Nor could we fully understand how a minority of 20% of the population (the white Afrikaaners) could subjugate such a dominant majority. The answer, as we learned later at Johannesburg's Aparthied Museum, was through severe violence and repression. Needless to say, the country has a tough road ahead . . .

Leaving the Cape region, we headed for the Storms River mouth in the Tsitsikama National Park, where the Storms River thunders through a mighty gorge into the Indian Ocean (and site of the world's biggest bungy jump, 220 meters. What!) . Hiking along the coast, we passed caves and waterfalls, all the while being sprayed by huge, explosive waves crashing into the jagged coastal rocks. Walking across the swinging bridge over the river where the river meets the ocean, it was raw ocean power, right in our face. We thought we might be swallowed by the icy waves!

Our next stop was Port St. Johns, a small fishing village where locals sell freshly caught seafood and hippie ex-pats have converted their homes into "lodges." We stayed in a little hippy cabin (lots of bright cloth things and seashell decoraions), drank a healthy dose of South African wine, listened to the rain drum on the tin roof, and treated ourselves to a feast of fresh oysters.

In a country of such astounding natural beauty, it is tough to pick a favorite place. But we both were simply BLOWN AWAY by the Drakensberg Mountains (Afrikaans for "Dragon Mountains") in KwaZulu-Natal, the heart of the Zulu Nation . . . We decided to stay at a place a little off the beaten path, 30 minutes down a rutted-out dirt road--a little slice of heaven called The Homestead, run by Bernice and Phil and their 7 huge dogs. Upon arriving, we realized that all the other guests were octogenarians . . . the vibe was "very early bird." But a nice twist to the usual "backpacker" scene of tattoos and lonely planet guides. Plus, we learned loads about the Margaret Thatcher years, the joy of grandkids and the advantages of being a Scotsman. We spent nearly a week exploring "the Berg"'s craggy spires and deep river gorges: climbing to the top of the 200-kilometer "Berg," shocking some other hikers who caught us skinny dipping a little too near the trail (oops!), scrambling down a series of cliffs via very exposed chain-linked ladders during a hail storm (again, oops!), and ending the day back at the Homestead to a homecooked meal of meat pie, stewed veggies, and mashed potatoes, finished with an aperitif in the lounge decorated with deep, reclining love seats, wood panelling and faded oil landscapes of the Scottish highlands. Even the bathroom was carpeted . . . Genius! With few other tourists, we enjoyed a truly best-kept hiking secret.

We ended our time in South Africa in Johannesburg, which was a little bit of a shock after our peaceful time in the mountains. With discriminatory laws being lifted only after the 1994 elections, the racial divide permeates everything. White South Africans' homes are hidden behind large gates, electrical fences and huge walls, not far from the townships. We visited the Apartheid Museum, as well as Soweto, the largest township in South Africa, which was previously the epicenter of the anti-Aparthied movement. We checked out Nelson Mandela's house, and walked by his neighbor's house, Archbishop Desmon Tutu; the only street in the world with homes of TWO Nobel Prize winners (how cool is that?!). Jo'burg seemed raw, messy and alive, with Africans of all tribes and colors jostling for a brighter future; the "rainbow" city in what Nelson Mandela has dubbed the "Rainbow Nation." We put South Africa on the list as one of the countries we MUST come back to, as it is Africa all balled up into one gorgeous package.

But, just as we were figuring it all out, a whole new can of worms was about to hit us . . . India.