Finding a new home in Cape Town:
I am feeling every so slightly guilty about my lack of blogging. So, instead of spending hours creating a piece of writing I'm proud of, I'm just going to verbal vomit on this page and tell you all what I've been up to.
I just arrived back on the ship after five days in magical Cape Town. I had a special feeling about this port- the evenings reading through my guidebook actually were actually a serious contribution to my lack of sleep recently; I'd pick it up for a bit of light reading before going to bed, and one night got so excited by all the activities and hikes and natural beauty that I ended up using my precious internet minutes googling 'How much does it cost to study at the University Of Cape Town?' in anticipation that I'd immediately want to move there.
What made it really special, however, was our host. We went made an impulse decision a month ago, whilst sitting on the train in Ireland, browsing through Air BnB apartments, and saw one that was completely incongruous. For about the same price as a hostel it looked like we could stay in luxurious hillside flat, complete with a host with gushing reviews from anyone who'd encountered him. It seemed too good to be true, but we booked it anyway and waited for the moment where our bank accounts got cleaned out and we had to find a last minute moldy hostel and resign ourselves to our own naivety. Luckily, we got an email from Ian, our host, as we docked: "I am here! Black t-shirt, red scarf, no hair".
His beaming face greeted us as we stepped off the ship, and I instantly loved him. He was one the most immediately likable people I've ever met. I think hospitality was actually exuding out of his pores in the Capetonian spring heat. He gave us all hugs like old friends, and piled four extremely relieved travelers into his little white car. We spent the next four days in his sun-lit, sophisticated apartment, the walls colored with his personal art collection and surfaces piled with neat little stacks of guidebooks and cookbooks from around the globe.
How lucky we were. We sat on a deck that looked down onto the city as it met the ocean, drinking bottles of local wine that cost less than a cappuccino back home, and woke up to the sun rising over the waterfront. It still felt like there had to be a catch, but there wasn't. We were a little puzzled as to why he'd want a bunch of students taking over his property- it almost didn't seem worth the hassle of the cleaning, picking us up, answering our one thousand questions, all for relatively little compensation… but it turns out he just has a genuine interest in meeting travelers, hearing their stories and welcoming them to his city. Ian had traveled all around the world and loved to story swap over coffee from his dinky little espresso machine. He just liked people. This made me feel better about the world.
Ian took us on a road trip round the 'Cape of Good Hope' to celebrate Emma's birthday, which is a beautiful stretch of coastline that makes for a spectacular drive. The winding road wraps its way around a peninsular of rugged cliff tops and towers over white sand beaches that are miles long, passing through scrubland dotted with wildflowers and inland roads flanked by tribes of baboons and antelope. We stopped for cold white wine and local fish in a restaurant that sat on the oceanfront, and sung happy birthday over a fat slab of 'malva pudding'- almost like English sticky toffee pudding but better- I know moist is the king of cliches when describing cake, but it would be a travesty to not include it here. You have NEVER had such a moist moist moist moist cake. Horrible word, great dessert. We fed seals in small fishing town, and stalked an ostrich we found in the scrublands, which looked us straight in the eye and resolutely did a large poo in our direction. It was the highlight of the day, and I've never laughed that hard at something going to the toilet. Matters of excretion reminded me that I can grow up all I want, but my sense of humor is stuck firmly between the ages of six and eight. It was the confidence in it's expression that did it for me. It knew how much power it held in that one maneuver, the ultimate diss as we attempted with over-dramatic shuffles to sneak closer to it, despite being in its direct line of sight. What we would have done upon reaching it, I'll never know; pop a leg over and ride it home, perhaps? Sadly, it's bowels got in the way of any potential ostrich-jockeying. I only hope he knew how much it meant to me.
In more lady-like news, we hiked to the top of Lion's Head, a large rock with panoramic views of Cape Town, and went to an almost awkwardly cliche African restaurant, (where they did things like play bongo drums and sell key rings), but it was worth it to try their plate of barbecued meat you'd never get elsewhere- antelope, kudu, crocodile, springbok and…ostrich. Probably our old friend from the cliff top. That'll teach him.
We woke at 4am one morning to go (cage) diving with great white sharks. I'm almost tempted to leave out the cage part, incase my mother's blood pressure needs some exercise, but we were all safely tucked behind iron bars. That is, except when my feet stuck out into the open ocean because my legs weren't quite long enough to hook under the safety bar, and were left flailing as all my senses were paralyzed by the sight of a twelve foot shadow emerging from the murky water, it's beady black eyes looking straight at us.
We took it in turns to be submerged as the boat's captain threw chum into the water, and propelled a resigned looking tuna head attached to a rope into the water. The sharks would often throw themselves out of the water to clamp down on it's sad little face, flashing their huge white underbellies and rows of pointed teeth as they flew through the air. As we returned to shore four hours later, shivering from the icy water but with adrenaline still electrifying us, I decided the sharks were more beautiful than terrifying. This was something the boat's captain, who swims with them un-caged, felt very strongly about: leaving the Jaws stereotype behind of a vicious man-eater, and seeing them as a powerful, instinct-driven animal who would much rather eat a seal than a human, but sometimes gets a little confused. We don't taste great, apparently.
We're currently midway between South Africa and Argentine, and the levels of Ship Crazy have reached new heights; 12 days at sea is a proving a challenge- the ship lettuce is slowly fading from a vibrant green to a muddy dishwater brown, the bananas are getting steadily blacker, and there is a ship wide shortage of french fries, the grandest of all disasters. However, as we near the end of our journey, these little quirks are becoming more an more endearing, because I know this is the only time in my life I'll get to complain about them. And as the food is getting steadily more dire, the sense of community on the ship is increasing with equal force, a happy result of many, many hours spent together, talent shows, sea olympics and movie nights. We are sailing on to Buenos Aires, and five days in Patagonia await- a completely new landscape that I've always dreamed of exploring. I will update again after our next adventure!
Hanna
