“This Cape is a most stately thing, and the fairest Cape in the whole circumference of the earth.”

– Sir Francis Drake, British explorer

 

NB: Language contained in this post may be deemed “politically incorrect” elsewhere. Racial distinctions are politicised and socially acceptable in South Africa, hence their use for accuracy in this post.

A lot can change in two years. In 2017 I first set foot in South Africa, using it as a base to explore the southern part of the continent. Having spent a few months there, I wrote about my hopeful reflections for what was, and still is, an overwhelmingly beautiful, raw, fascinating and baffling country.

And I missed it. Much like the loyal followers of Dr. Livingstone missed his heart, insisting that it be returned to Africa after his death.

Two years later it’d bring me back, this time with a suitcase instead of a backpack, with opportunity to settle rather than transition. And instead of seeking out the next activity, I’m seeking out WW2 veterans for my newly-founded We Will Remember project, investigating a mysterious ecological phenomenon and earning a living at the same time—all while surfing as much as possible.

For the unfamiliar, let me introduce the city.

Cape Town sits on the southern-most tip of Africa, let alone South Africa. Sail a few (thousand) uninterrupted miles south and your sandy toes will be instantly frostbitten by an iceberg in Antarctica—there’s a resident colony of penguins here for a reason. Notwithstanding the indigenous Khoikhoi and Bantu farmers, the Cape was first “discovered” by the Portuguese, settled by the Dutch East India Company and militantly colonised by the British.

There’s a downtown business district, but Cape Town is less of a city and more of a sprawl of towns and townships that sit around the base of Table Mountain which, as the name suggests, has a summit so flat it’s been cleaved off. During the summer months on a cloudless day, the mountain is adorned by a “tablecloth” of orographic cloud that rolls off the peak like a smoke machine.

A lot can change in two years but still, as the Thais would say, be “same same but different.”

It’s a spectacular place…if you have money.

Depending on who you ask, and depending on who’s been robbed, 2019 Cape Town’s crime is as bad, if not worse, than Johannesburg. But while statistics will show you an alarming rate of homicides and sexual assaults, the reality is that these horrendous incidents are concentrated in the townships, where the poorest and most vulnerable communities reside. Gangs exploit the situation and bring drugs like nyaope with them. The rest is opportunistic “petty crime” and this is born out of sheer desperation.

South Africa has been ranked as having one of the most unequal societies in the world. It won’t surprise you that economists attribute this to Apartheid—institutional segregation and oppression that ended with Nelson Mandela’s rise to power in 1994.

The Haves and Have Nots are everywhere worldwide, but this is what makes Cape Town so baffling: in Hout Bay, mansions literally sit next door to townships; once the sun sets on affluent Camps Bay, the same precautions apply as Copacabana beach; and nearly every property has walls, an electric fence, armed response signs or all of the aforementioned. The disparity in wealth and its social consequences is very visible here.

While sunbathing on the white sands of Clifton, I noticed that one of the coolbox-guys (generally coloured or black vendors who sell drinks illegally…but whatever) was sprinting away from an angry competitor.

“Must’ve stepped on his turf,” I thought.

Ranting profusely, the seemingly-wronged vendor threw the escapee’s cool-box on the floor and walked away, but my intuition told me the show wasn’t over. Lo and behold, the angry vendor returned, only this time I caught the glint of his blade whilst he charged towards his target. All this in front of 500 pleasure-seekers in broad daylight. All this on a beach privately accessed by the highest concentration of millionaires in South Africa.

The other day at about 7 a.m., we had breakfast on our balcony. As the ocean fog gave way to pink hues of dusk and the whooshes of commuter traffic grew more frequent, we watched as two men tried to break into our car.

Then, having finished a surf lesson at sharky Muizenberg, my instructor revealed that he couldn’t call his boss because his phone was taken at gunpoint the night before.

It’s a city of blatant contradiction, where models and “influencers” (and seriously, there are a lot of beautiful people here) shuffle for a “boomerang” Instagram while yet another homeless person shuffles past to sift through another bin, seeking things that only the impoverished could treasure.

So why do I love this city so much?

Because it’s the most photogenic city I’ve ever seen. With the 12 Apostles mountains casting shadows on rainbow residences and pristine white sand, it’s not difficult to see why film directors regard Cape Town as “Little LA” (note: Cape Town has significantly more aesthetic value than Los Angeles).

It’s an eco-utopia, where southern right whales trade places with humpbacks, where playful seals of False Bay lure the biggest concentration of great white sharks in the world (or used to…) and where unique flora thrives, such as the Fynbos.

It provides a lifestyle where you can run along an ocean promenade, your stamina prolonged by an Atlantic mist, catch a wave, dive with a pre-historic pelagic and then taste the wine that pours freely from the neighbouring valleys of Franschoek and Stellenbosch—all within less than an hour’s drive.

It’s the energy created by distinct cultures with 11 spoken languages, the clicks of isiXhosa merging with the rolls of Afrikaans and the friction between chaos and “civilisation”, where booming minibus taxis overtake McLarens and Audi R8s. And this ignores the influence of other Africans, such as the inspiring conversation I had with a Zimbabwean Uber driver-cum-linguistic genius named Knowledge, and the camp extravagance of my waiter who was in fact a juice entrepreneur from the Congo.

But most importantly, there’s a humanity here, once personified by the Madiba himself, Mandela, that by contrast to my last experience in South Africa, has grown.

In 2017, upon crossing the border to Namibia, I had the stark realisation that by comparison, I’d had hardly any social interactions with South Africans who weren’t white. This wasn’t by choice. But now it feels different—I don’t feel that resentment towards my skin anymore.

Sipping a coffee, the cup was nearly blasted from my hand when my Zulu server high-fived me. He was an aspiring rapper and after talking through my strangely encyclopaedic knowledge of hip hop, he insisted that we share numbers so I could watch him perform on Long Street and rampage across town (sorry Elise).

His lyrics, he said, are conscious, but rather than look back at the wrongs of the past, he feels his purpose is to shine light on the opportunities of the present.

There’s still a lot of healing to be done. But from my experience, it’s happening.

Caffeinated once more, I spoke with a travelling yogi who specialised in the release of trauma through physical movement. To him, South Africa can only heal if Europeans let go of the guilt of their ancestry and for Africans to let go of the pain of theirs. Easier said than done, but a start he says, is to connect with one another, no matter the race or economic class, as human beings.

I had the opportunity to put this into practice. Sweating profusely from a run the next day, I noticed a homeless African walking towards me deliberately. My instincts had me tense up, defensive thoughts immediately questioning his intentions. But my guard immediately dissolved as his face lit up and he started impersonating my movement. He simply wanted to make conversation and ask how my run went. We shared a laugh, and in that, he had a moment of dignity.

It’s commonly said that there’s good and bad in all societies. But with less suspicion, the perception of this ratio is normalising in South Africa. An analogy is found in the “car guards”—unemployed people who self-impose a duty to “help you park” and “watch over your car” in exchange for an undefined sum. There’s no obligation to pay them, but Capetonians must feel there’s a new Madiba in town with the way I’ve been throwing coins around unwittingly…

Some have attempted to extort me for more while others have literally moved the earth to find me a space, such as when I persuaded a chap to block a space for me by pretending I was the council inspector (sorry Muizenberg municipality…)

The trauma of Apartheid still lingers and with that fear, anger and guilt. But it’s no surprise when the source runs deeper than commonly perceived. Some historians argue British policy during the gold-rush of the 19^th century and actions during the Boer Wars (read: concentration camps) is what helped give rise to fervent Afrikaner nationalism.

Yet with a growing consciousness, we’re seeing less of the Haves and Have Nots, but a new generation of Have Mores who seem willing to purge the hostility of the past.

To live in Cape Town is to tell a tale of two cities. It changes when the sun goes down, but if you keep your wits about you and don’t go looking for trouble, it won’t go looking for you. Street-wisdom is a necessity here, and it’s amazing the amount of people who lack this skill.

But if Cape Town, and the rest of South Africa, can provide greater access to education, open the economy to lower-skilled jobs and enlighten those on the toxicity of resentment, then perhaps the township of Khayelitsha will be smaller in the years to come.

One evening in the twilight hours, I watched as a homeless black man meticulously washed the clothes he’d splayed out on the grass below me. His sink was a broken water bottle and his washing line was a barbed wire fence. I’d been locally advised not to offer help for fear of encouraging begging. So, frustrated in my ivory tower, all I could do was acknowledge a human being in very different circumstances to mine.

Cape Town holds both the best and worst of what life has to offer. It lifts and humbles me in equal measure. And I feel blessed to be reminded of it.

– Written by Chris Dennett, Christory.co.uk