The Bridge At Cahors, France

This Medieval Bridge at Cahors, France (just south of the Dordogne Valley on the main north/south motorway to Carcassone and The Languedoc Region of southern France) was the dividing line between "English France," and French soil during the Hundred Years War. Its three massive stone towers and fortified gateways kept the two armies apart -- except after hours, when festive-minded soldiers from either side would sneak across the river in rowboats, wine and feast and carouse together, and return to their respective sides of the river with "fair warning" just in time for renewed hostilities at daybreak.


Thursday, March 27, 2014


ZULULAND

Zululand is not the dry, bushveld flat and dry savannah one imagines or is led to believe is the norm from Hollywood movie productions.  It is in fact, a beautiful, lush place laden with sugar cane, pastures with rolling green hills, a pristine coastline, forests full of gum trees, and a plethora of zig-zagging rivers and streams.  This is in direct contrast to its history, which is rife with historic conflicts between tribes, kingdoms, and nations.

The regional infrastructure is modern and efficient, with late-model cars, homes, and productive businesses.  The roads are excellent, if a bit narrow at times.  Quite a bit of poverty exists here still, but this is not “Third World Africa.”  It is a unique ethnic culture and one with a rapid expansion history until Great Britain – making an imperial power grab of its own but also honoring requests from nearby tribes and Kingdoms to quell the aggressive Zulu nation – declared war on the Zulus in 1879.

Three years later the warrior dominated society (built much along the same lines as the ancient Greek Spartans from about 1816 on under the great Zulu leader Shaka kaSenzangakhona, or “Shaka Zulu”) were forced to disband militarily.  Their King Cetschwayo kaMpande was taken south to Capetown in chains, and the nation was then subdivided among 13 chiefs.  They subsequently spilled more Zulu blood fighting between themselves in the ensuing power vacuum, than the Zulus ever had fighting the Kingdoms of Lesotho, Swaziland, Great Britain, The Boers, and other rival tribes.

One remarkable man I learned about who was part of this Zulu history was John Dunn.  Dunn was a legendary white hunter, ivory trader, rancher, and gun runner (who sold useless old flintlock muskets to Zulus and other tribes) and became wealthy from his various enterprises. As a result he acquired large tracts of farmland and cattle and befriended King Cethschwayo.  Dunn’s influence also enlarged as a result of taking on 48 Zulu wives and siring over 117 children.  He was prominent in Zulu circles for over three decades.

Dunn saw the war coming with the British prior to 1879, and knew Zulu spears and shields – despite their fighting numbers and martial spirit – would never stand up against modern Enfield rifles.  He sided with the British.  That saw the end of the friendship between he and the King.  Yet, Zulu culture is founded around respect, and to a lesser extent ownership of cattle and multiple wives.   Dunn was respected for his gutsy change of allegiance, and for how firmly embedded he was through his wealth, wives and children in Zulu society.  When the Anglo-Zulu war ended in 1882 with a British victory, Dunn was appointed as one of the 13 chiefs (and the only white man so named) in the new Zulu Nation now controlled by the British.  Today, Dunn is the most numerous surname among colored tribal families in Zululand.

ESHOWE

A quick visit was arranged to the Fort Nongqayi Museum & Village in Eshowe, scene of one of the most important battles of the Anglo-Zulu war.   The fort was built in 1883 by the British to house a native Zulu police force (the Nongqayi) whose purpose was to enforce British control following the end of the war.  Here – uncharacteristically in relative comparison to other museums and exhibits I have viewed since leaving Capetown – the history of the fort itself, the area, the Zulu culture, and military events are all adequately explained (both in Zulu and in English).  Strangely there are no takeaway pamphlets or booklets to walk away with that will cement the information you have just acquired.

My guide for the afternoon, a young Zulu history intern named Zanoxolo (impossible to pronounce by a westerner as the Zulu language incorporates the famous “clicking” sound utilized by many southern tribes in their verbalizations), is very knowledgeable about his people and their history.  We discussed ideas about a more effective portrayal for visitors at the museum of Zulu history from all perspectives, especially the use of more printed materials.  It is my hope he gets promoted to curator upon full completion of his history degree due to the passion which he approached his people’s history, and the enthusiasm with which he passed it on to me.

Two other museums further north in the historical Zulu capital of Ulundi are missed.  Most of the history repositories here close early (as early as 3 PM) and are extremely difficult to find.  They are not well marked on either maps or public circulars. Locals often don’t even know about the presence of their own nearest museum.   It is a definite shortcoming of the tourist industry in Zululand or Kwazulu-Natal – the lack of clear and specific road directions and highway or roadway signage once you closely approach your intended destination.

Disappointed at missing out on a Zulu cultural showing (including traditional costumes and dancing) and a nearby multi-media presentation in Ulundi, I hit the road and decide to continue fairly late into the evening for two famous battlefield objectives related to the Anglo-Zulu war of 1879.

ISANDLWANA

As the daylight rapidly fades, coming around a curve north of Babanango I am suddenly transfixed by a dominant silhouetted object now framed by a blood-red sun.  It vaguely resembles a British Lion in repose, or the resting Sphinx of the Giza Plateau in Egypt.  But the proud torso is lacking a head.  This visual imagery turns out to be very symbolic of what happened here 135 years ago.  As my drive continues, I have the haunting feeling that I have been here before.

It is my pleasure this night to be a guest of the Isandlwana Lodge.  It stands about two miles from the object of my visual fascination, Isandlwana Mountain.  It was built in 1998 by two American philanthropists, Maggie Bryant and Pat Stubbs.  Both wanted an environmentally sensitive building and one that architecturally conformed to the site.  Shield shaped and featuring a huge curving thatched roof, The Lodge was purposefully designed to appear as if it had grown out of the rock formations on which it is built.

The beautiful earth-toned interior tiles on the Lodge are from South Africa.  Most of the furniture inside was made in nearby Durban from woods indigenous to the area.  Columns that support the roof are from an old pier in Durban and are named after Zulu commanders or significant men in the chain of command during the Anglo-Zulu war.  The view from either the exterior stone terraces or private bedroom verandas and the glass-walled interior overlooking the mountain and intervening valley are spectacular – especially at sunset.  Manager Mike O’Connor acts as the perfect host in balancing out hospitality and a raconteur’s playful spirit as he warmly provides time and space for two days of battlefield research and writing.

At the very start of the Anglo-Zulu war, with Britain alarmed at the growing territorial expansion and military might of the Zulu nation interfering with Crown interests in South Africa, the British gave King Cetshwayo an impossible set of conditions to avoid war.  By early January the British were already marching in three columns totaling nearly 4800 men into Zululand.  They camped on the night of January 21st at the base of the previously described mountain – Isandlwana, meaning “looks like a little house.”

Immediately the next morning the British Commander, General Frederic Augustus Thesiger, 2nd Baron Chelmsford (Lord Chelmsford) divided his forces.  By the end of the day, he had divided his total command 11 ways, with none of the elements having communication with the other (a huge military faux paus on both counts).

Their intention was to search for the Zulu and then bring accurate accounts of numbers and locations back to camp. About 1800 of his troops and a contingent of native irregulars stationed in a wide arc at the base of the mountain remained near camp.  He personally led a force of about 1200 mounted troops to the south to seek the elusive Zulu.  The troops left behind were from the beginning were far removed from their tents, their supplies, their ammunition re-supply, and critically from each other.  Each unit would end up fighting its own battle.

Chelmsford  was warned that these Zulu warriors he was about to face were much more deadly than those the Brits had encountered in previous skirmishes.  Still, Chelmsford maintained a disdain for the Zulu character and fighting ability.  To add stupidity to Chelmford’s ignorance, the position of his remaining troops was also undefended on two sides.  Due to the nature of the topography at Isandlwana, those defending the camp were blind to what lay around them.  It was felt by Chelmsford and other officers that the Zulu would never attack an established British camp.

The Zulu ran feints with small-unit demonstrations all morning, intending to distract Chelmsford’s command detail.  Meanwhile, approximately 20,000 Zulu warriors were streaming like army ants toward the lightly defended British troops at the base of Isandlwana.  Another 5000 lay in wait at the river ford to block any British retreat. As his sitting duck troops were making their first Zulu contact on the mountain’s outskirts, Chelmsford sat calmly taking morning tea and then breakfast about 12 miles away.

The Zulu employed their classic (and deadly) “Horns of the Beast” formation. A primary “head” and “trunk” or main body of Zulu troops occupy the battlefield center.  The head classically makes contact with the enemy, then falls back as if being routed and hopes the enemy will rashly give chase.  This is where the bulk of the troops (the trunk, made up of the most experienced warriors) rushes up by surprise to overwhelm the enemy.  However … this is only done after a left and right pincer (thus “Horns of The Beast”) have made a wide sweep around the enemy and encircled him stealthfully from the rear.  Too late, the enemy learns he is both surrounded and outnumbered.  It should be further noted: the Zulu do not take prisoners.

At Isandlwana, Chelmsford left the encamped troops in command of Lt. Colonel Anthony Durnford, who became the scapegoat for the battle for many years afterward.  An attempt by him to make contact with Chelmsford failed.  Watching through field glasses from a distance, at the time of the initial attack the Baron saw that his field tents had not been struck (a military sign of distress) and assumed all was well.  The Zulu – protected by chest high grass until they were almost on top of the British – overwhelmed the invasion force right from the start.

Most not caught in the initial attack engaged in a heroic fighting retreat.  A series of 279 white cairns viscerally marked (each one representing an average of five British dead) the “Trail of Tears” back to the tents at the base of the mountain.  The cairns and their staggered spacing as the battlefield visitor works their way toward where the top row of tents would have been near the base of the mountain are very emotionally moving.

The defenders fought valiantly, with Zulu on all four sides of them.  Eventually, they ran out of ammunition, the Zulu “horns” having taken a wide berth and come up from behind to cut off the ammo supply wagons from the Redcoats.  Then the battle became a matter of hand to hand combat – the British bayonet against the Zulu stabbing spear, the assegai.  Against the rapidly diminishing British, were arrayed a 10,000 man Zulu front (head and trunk), a 7000 man right horn, and a 5000 man left horn.

The fighting was over by 2 PM, except for one solitary British soldier who fired from a cave high on the mountain until his ammo ran out at 3:30.  At that time, the Zulus burned the British tents, and then ritually disembowled all 1329 of the British dead as well as their own 3000 in the belief that it “released the bad spirit that had been trapped inside them during the battle.”

Chelmsord, meanwhile, did not arrive with his 1200+ troopers until 9:30 that night at the still smoking tents.  He was thus initially spared the horror and outright evidence of rout – the greatest British defeat in the nation’s military history at the time.  He initially disappeared for seven days, then took up energetic pursuit of the Zulu once again until sacked by the British high command.  Burial for the British dead did not take place for four months out of necessity to await reinforcements and continue pursuit of the Zulu.

ROARKE’S DRIFT

Some parties attempted a rearguard action and a retreat away from the primary river crossing (or “drift”) across the Buffalo River toward their encampment of the previous night at Roarke’s Drift, 11 miles away.  Only those with horses survived.  Nobody among the British who were on foot lived to fight another day.  Most on horse did not make it back to Roarke’s Drift, either.  The Buffalo River was running at a depth of 20 feet that day after ten days of sustained rain, and many survivors to that point ended up drowning in the enraged current or trapped on the Isandlwana side of the river.

Drunk with victory, the Zulu (who were trained to advance up to 50 miles daily for up to a week) continued their assault along the primary supply route toward Roarke’s Drift, where they knew a large British store of supplies was waiting, along with British reinforcements.  Waiting for them were 400 British and native troops.  When a trickle of survivors appeared from the battle at Isandlwana via a parallel escape path known as “The Fugitive Trail” and described the horror of what had just happened, the native troops deserted.  Only 150 regulars were left to defend a small trading post and church rectory confiscated by the British for use as a field hospital against 4000 Zulu.

The drive over is dusty and hot, and the river is currently running at a mere trickle.  Water supply, in fact, is a problem yet without a solution in this part of Zululand.  Rainfall has been minimal for close to three years.

Due to the supplies at the base, however, the British had time to pile up two perimeter lines of flour sacks and another interior line of biscuit boxes to slow the Zulu advance and greatly aid in their defense.  This time, it was the Zulu who were badly led (by a younger brother of Cetschwayo).  A series of five major but uncoordinated attacks against the newly created sack-walls and buildings failed to dislodge the British.

By the time the Redcoats were down to their last 600 rounds of ammunition at 4:30 AM, the Zulu had given up for the night.  The British suffered only 17 dead, a goodly number of them previously wounded patients dragged away by the Zulu in hand-to-hand fighting within the tightly clustered rooms of the hospital building.  The Zulu are said to have suffered over 1000 killed and an equal number of wounded.


Perhaps in reaction to the surprise at the outcome of the battle, and the reaction to the horror of the day’s earlier events 11 miles away at Isandlwana, a record 11 Victoria Crosses (Britain’s Highest Military Honor) were awarded that day to the defender’s of Roarke’s Drift.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

LESOTHO – THE “KINGDOM IN THE SKY”

Lesotho – a small country and one of the poorest in Africa – is completely embedded within South Africa.  It is located to the west of Durban on its Indian Ocean side.  Upon entry at Tele Bridge (I was charmed by the fact that all entry transactions were notated here by hand) in the southwest corner of Lesotho, you immediately go from a First World South Africa to a Third World enigma.

It showed up initially as a mosaic of rutted and washed out dirt roads, ramshackle scrap tin homes, half clothed and barefooted children, barely maintained traditional Besotho “beehive” thatched roof houses, and many incomplete building projects that seem to have been held up for a long time.  I don’t think they have mortgages here.  Most people were walking, and did not bother to hitchhike.  Most did not seem to have any destination in mind.  Most at first did not seem employed, or employable.

After about five miles, the road comes to a junction and there is asphalt paving once again.  An immediate objective is the small town of Quithing, location of a dinosaur museum with rare footprints of the long extinct prehistoric creatures.  Carbon dated measurements from the site date back approximately 180 million years.  [ These riverbank turned-to-stone imprints represent the last tells of creatures we are told inhabited nearby lands such as the: sauischaian, tyrannosaurus, ornithischian, edmontosaurus, afrovenator, cryolopausaurus, camarasaurus, brachiosaurus, gifaffatitan, euhelopus, torvosaurus, eustrettospondylus, diatnitzkysaurus, and megalosaurus ].

The museum itself is quite simple.  It was also uncharacteristically easy to find.  The curators seem more interested in selling curios and mementos than telling the remarkable story involved in their rare collection of tracks.  Only half a page of trivia dedicated to the dinosaurs is posted on site.  Characteristic of the people of this nation however, is the young guide who was responsible for unlocking the dinosaur building.  He was humble, polite, patient, quite modest, very quiet, not very knowledgeable but still had a sincere desire to be of service.
 
I drive away from Quithing, anticipating first-hand pleasures galore from this “Mountain Kingdom.”  A puff piece promoted by the Lesotho Tourism Development Office promised “remote and rugged countryside spectacular in all its guises.”  Wonderful fishing, hiking, abseiling … and thin, cool air from “the highest country in the world” (somebody forgot to tell them about Nepal and Tibet).  Rock art galore.  A laboratory for artists and craftsmen.  Recreation challenges unmatched, particularly for off-road sports.  “Reaching those spots  is a challenge in itself for many …”  I am a bit amused to say afterward, at least part of this is true!

The country is at first spectacular.  There are multiple elevated bluffs, impossibly fashioned rocky outcrops, flat-topped verdant mesas, and for a counterpoint either high alps or broad lush green valleys laced with corn and sorghum.  Shepherds tend lazily to their gatherings of cattle and sheep.  The copper bells of the cattle are especially soothing.  It is almost as if you are traversing a cross between the American Southwest and Switzerland.

Yet for the next two days, my experience afterward was as if playing “Hide and Seek” with an entire country.  The road signs are either non-existent, misleading, or posted in the wrong places – as in, well away from the roads.  As a result, many wrong turns are taken.  I am told this is due to childish pranks, and the removal or juvenile theft of signs.  And then I commit the ultimate traveler’s sin … yes, backtracking.  This is almost obligatory in this country.  Every gas station and grocery store becomes an informal guide post.  Tourist information kiosks are unknown in Lesotho, even in the capitol city of Maseru.

The roads in the southern end of the country are superb.  You can easily motor along at 110 to 120 kilometers per hour without worry on almost new asphalt.  However, as the old joke goes: “First the bad news.  We are completely lost.  Now, for the good news.  We’re making excellent time.”  Directions, once received, have to be verified often.  Each subsequent version often contradicts its predecessor.  Taxis and beat up older model cars comprise most of the traffic.  They usually travel about one third your speed.

Getting around them, especially when they cluster in tight convoys like old World War II Liberty Ships, can be a real challenge.  You begin to see the wisdom of letting somebody else lead though, when in pothole territory.  In the old days, miners used to take canaries into the tunnels with them.  If the bird fell over dead at some point, the miner knew there was a gas leak.  He then beat a hasty retreat topside.  If you see the car 30 yards in front of you pop two feet up into the air, you know they have hit a speed bump or pothole. You slow down, thanks to them serving as your mine canary.

You soon learn this go-it-slow approach is related also to a desire to save gas, the vehicle often having barely usable brakes, obvious noises indicating an engine rod has been thrown or the rings are shot with resulting black puffs of smoke emanating from the exhaust, or the shocks are gone.

The shocks are gone because Lesotho is pothole and speedbump hell.  You can be driving along at normal freeway speeds, and suddenly with no signage or warning hit a small lip and find yourself airborne on a dirt road.  Within seconds, you are weaving frenetically between deep rain-washed ruts, rock debris, soft and crumbling dirt shoulders, and mud puddles of suspicious depth.

One road, leading to the Kome Caves (allegedly one of the top eight tourist attractions in the country), did this for seven cage-wrestler-crazy miles.  Suddenly without any obvious reason at the next village it resorted to pavement once again.  Then immediately devolved into a steeply reclined (no exit or going in reverse possibility here) four wheel drive track that only a sadist with a death wish could admire.  To call it sinister and diabolical would be to offer up that the Marianas Trench might be “deep.”

For probably the first time in my life, after arriving at the caves in first gear – knees shaking, neck rattled, and fairly ready to wet myself -- I chose not to visit.  Who needed more misdirection, additional cost, and wasted time to see six huts dug into the hillside?  If these caves were anything like the “it’s just around the corner” directions for getting there, little treat was in store after all.  Time was becoming a commodity.  I had already learned: if it looks like it will take you an hour in Lesotho, count on three.  Plus optional backtracking. Not so optional given the usual lack of signage.

Great care is taken to avoid Maseru.  I have no yen whatsoever to visit another smog-choked, trash infested, and traffic gnarled major city (despite the fact it is much more modern here). It is therefore bypassed to visit Thaba-Boisu.  “Sacred Mountain.”  The starting place of the Lesotho Kingdom.  Burial place of all seven of the nation’s kings.  The site was inhabited dating back to 1824 – a time when competition for land and resources was primarily between black tribes.  The mountain is really a mesa shaped fortress, with six well-hidden pathways to the top and only one major (read: obvious) entry point, the very steep Rafutho Pass.  From this vantage point of safety the kingdom expanded outward over the next four decades.

Why this particular mountain, in a mountainous kingdom?  Primarily because it was easily defended.  Vertical sandstone walls up to 50 meters high protected the redoubt on all sides except for Rafutho Pass.  Hand built rock walls were added there, to reinforce control of entry and exit traffic.  13 on-site springs also provided water for up to 4000 people (who lived on the site from 1824 to 1905).  Corn and other crops had to be brought up daily from the valley floor below, however.

The Boers – who seemed to war with everybody at one time or another – later collapsed the growing Bosotho Kingdom of Moshoe-shoe the 1st and were about to annihilate the tribe in 1865 after a series of cattle ownership ... uh ... disputes.

The Dutch say the Bosotho tribesmen stole their cattle.  The Bosotho (singular of Lesotho) say the cattle were there by nature all along, and eventually domesticated by them.  When the Boers arrived and chased the tribes away through the force of superior firepower, they are said by my guide Edgar Moiloa to have acted as if there had been a vacuum in cattle ownership.  So to the Bosotho, what was “rustled” was merely being taken back and restored to rightful ownership.

3500 Boers attempted to take the mountain.  In a battle of guns versus spears and tossed or rolled stones, the primitive technology won out.  Nine Boers lost their lives, and eleven were wounded.  All at Rafutho Pass.  Later, King Moshoe-shoe appealed to Queen Victoria to further safeguard Lesotho.  A British Protectorate ensued and lasted nearly 80 years.  Independence followed in 1966.

Thaba-Bosiu has more than a protective girth of sandstone around it.  It has a vista that is … well … to die for.  There is a sense of peace and contentment I marveled at here, not often experienced in epic journeys.  It was my good fortune in terms of schedule to walk half the perimeter of the mountain, visit the Moshoe-shoe homestead (rough circular and square stone buildings, much like those of the American Navajo Indians), and the tribal graveyard in the middle of the elevated mesa.

The gravestones were very course and rough for the most part, except for the father of the current royalty, King Leslie III.  His father Moshoe-shoe II has been interred on the mountain top since 1996 in a marble memorial.  The casket and fittings had to be flown up the mountain by helicopter. Moshoe-shoe I had the type of rough hewn, above ground and rock-piled crypt one would expect for a great warrior king.

At the base of the mountain, is the cultural model village of Thaba-Bosiu.  It has a beautiful cluster of designer beehive-type thatched roof huts, along with protective fencing and a tribal interpretive center.  It was nearing completion but not yet open at the time of my visit.  From there, I attempted to motor off north and east to visit yet another set of caves, at the Liphofung Nature Reserve.  Here, a large sandstone overhang utilized by the ancient San peoples for shelter protects cave art, sandstone mortarless homes, and various layers of archeological deposits bearing witness to a way of life long since sighed into history.

I had originally planned on spending three days in Lesotho and exiting via the fabled Sani Pass – on its eastern border, opposite Durban.  However, when these plans were made known, I got the old raised eyebrow query and ominous looks of great concern.  Apparently (aside from the admitted beauty of the location at nearly 10,000 foot in altitude, and the stunning vistas offered by its multiple hairpin turns) this is not something to be attempted in an underpowered rental car.  I was told the last 30 kilometers to the pass degraded into a rough and pitted gravel track, negotiable only by four wheel drive vehicles.  So much for tourist guides.  No details like that were specified anywhere I sought transit info.

So I opted for an early exit from the 30,000 square kilometer country at its northern crossing at Ha Belo Matla-keng for the return to South Africa.  Despite delivered promises of grandeur within the country and the obvious friendliness of its people, I had grown increasingly frustrated with brain jarring drops into unmarked potholes, and road maintenance trench slits left uncovered that kept the driver constantly on edge (and proved consistently worse than potholes).


Also constant speed bumps (many of them unmarked: almost as if it was a private local joke about which visitor would get bounced the highest?).  And again the lack of signage (no matter what the reason)).  Poor directions so you had to backtrack constantly were another reason.  It became obvious in short order many Lesotho citizens did not know their own country (despite its small size) well at all.  In the final analysis, one can not reasonably enjoy a destination for long, being set on edge for too lengthy a time and lacking anything short of a helicopter for safe delivery to its major attractions.

Sunday, March 23, 2014

THE  ROAD TO LESOTHO


It is painful but necessary to leave Stellenbosch.  A nearly 1500 mile road journey awaits to get to Kruger National Park by March 27th.   The well-known “Garden Route” eastbound along the Indian Ocean side of the South African coast is long, and uneventful.  The road itself is almost perfect.  You can travel nearly any speed you like.  There are few potholes.  The asphalt is smooth, and there is a well-adhered to protocol where if you have another vehicle coming up on your tail, you get over into the emergency lane partway so they can pass.

After about a 350 mile haul from Capetown, the first stop of note is Knysna, a charming coastal town famous for its shopping, its views, and its Rastafarian community.  Like so much else apart from the promotional considerations, you find out after the fact you can not really visit the community without getting reservations and paying for a tour.  No quick stop by, get a feel, snap a few pix, and move on to the next roadside attraction.  You feel like your timeline (given as little control as you have over that anyway) is being violated under such controlling circumstances.

What does bring great enjoyment in this burgh is two massive cliffs which form gates at the city’s seamouth, called the “Twin Heads” by locals for their headland function.  I prefer to call them the “Cold Gates,” in respect of the geographic bookends they represent (for those driving out to the river inlet at the ocean’s mouth) in honor of King Leonidas and the Greek 300’s heroic stand at Thermopolaye circa 490 BC.  The twins are huge (both broad and tall), direct a powerful tidal surge through a narrow inlet between them, and are composed of the most beautiful layers of red and chocolate and gold sandstone so that the feature presents itself as if a giant sliced piece of chocolate layer cake.

Plattenberg Bay, a bare 30 miles up the N2 coastal highway, is a delightful place to stop for lunch.  The white scimitar-shaped beaches present a curved picturesque background for a meal and a glass of wine or two before heading up the coast. 

While there, I get a chance to compare perspectives with Andre Dutoit, an actuary and economist going under the moniker of “The Big Positive Guy” who was giving a speech that evening at the coastal hotel providing the meal.  The Capetown based Andre (attended by his affectionate adopted daughter Julia) had spent appreciable time working in London and had both a European and South African perspective once again on political developments and economic opportunities in his home country.

The notes taken during this conversation would bore most readers here.  And they are too lengthy for sharing at this time, at a time when I must write and/or post virtually every day just to stay even, or get permanently behind – given that there is always a daily necessity of moving on and a fresh adventure on the morrow.  Suffice it to say, he was a fascinating fellow, well-versed in world events that somehow always got tied back to what lay in store for South Africa – no matter the good or bad turn elsewhere.

The second coastal overnight was taken at Grahamstown, roughly halfway between  major pits stops at Port Elizabeth and East London.  I was very fortunate here.  While pulling off to the side to let a faster vehicle pass, the rented Hyundai’s wheel hit the rough edge of the road and let off a loud explosion.  The ride was rough after that.  I checked the tires, and they seemed fine.  But by the time I got into town, the left front was completely flat.  So even before dinner and finding a hotel for the night, the tire had to be attended to.

And this is where the “Car Attendants” come into play.  Many black South African youth are unemployed.  They rent themselves out therefore, as car guards or watch attendants to make sure your vehicle is not broken into.  They are remarkably cheap.  One might be very happy with $1 US for an overnight watch.  You don’t ask how many others he is doing this for concurrently, and on how broad a range … within eyesight, or for multiple blocks?  Many who never watched the vehicle for a second may descend on you, also, after seeing you head for your vehicle and ask for “a tip” for guarding the vehicle.  So when I roll in ever so carefully, and announce that I needed help with a flat tire (meaning: where is a tire shop that might still be open at 7 PM?), there is practically a rugby scrum to remove the wheel. 

Every lad from within three blocks descends on the car.  They are either giving advice, srestling for access to the tire wrenches and spanner (or jack), or telling me how stupid the others are and how I ought to let a real man handle the job.  There is no mention of price.  That all comes later.  They must first complete the “King of The Hill” battle just to be first in line to organize tools and touch the tire.  Watching this competition is rather like watching a combination of a Chinese Fire Drill and Abbott & Costello’s famous “Who Is On First?” movie short.  I watch the Battle Royale with fascination.  It takes little time at all to forget about hunger pangs and dinner.

Eventually the spare is replaced.  The victors line up for the spoils.  And then some.  I once read of a New York City bus accident, where the capacity of the bus was only something like 54 persons, but fully 94 made claims for injuries sustained (some artful dodgers having slyly maneuvered themselves onto the bus ex-post facto).  The tire episode went something like that.  Seven shamefully presented themselves for recompense.  I started asking prosecutorial questions, very lightheartedly at first.  With scrutiny, the numbers receded.  We got down to four.  I decided to pay two dim fellows who were nevertheless first on the scene, the one who raised the jack, another who put the tire on and tightened the bolts, and an undeserving fifth just because of his brash expectation and comic relief.

The staff at Grahams Hotel were much more professional.  General Manager Steve made several calls and directed me to a tire shop the next morning (a national holiday, Human Rights Day, so that everything was closed) and Lulu greased the skids on hotel matters so I could concentrate on what was necessary to keep moving.  The next morning, Steve at the local Hyundai shop sold me a brand new metal rim (mine had been crushed in four places – I am lucky the tire did not explode), then arranged for a man to come in off holiday and replace the ruined tire.  Richard van der Merwe, at the local Hi-Q Tire  dealership, also came in off his holiday as a manager, fired up the credit card mechanism, then sold me the tire at discount. He had interrupted his holiday to open his shop for a complete stranger.  I call these folks in my extended travels, “Road Angels.”  Grahamstown is loaded with them.  Steve & Steve and Richard and Lulu, you go down in my personal Hall of Fame.

What was neglected in all the excitement over meeting genuine “Car Watchers” was the day’s excursion, to Addo National Elephant Park – about 30 kilometers outside Port Elizabeth.  Initially, I thought this first exposure to wild South African game would be elephants only.  This notion was quickly abused.  A couple miles from the main camp on quality dirt roads brought us face to face with multiple bands of warthogs.  Then the massively elegant Kurdu , with their spiraled rear-facing horns.  Also the Red-Hartebeest and shaggy-coated Eland (all three from the antelope family.  (It makes you wonder why nature gave them horns at all, when they are rear facing and can’t really be used in self-defense).

Then ostriches.  Followed by Zebras.  And black-backed redcoat jackals.  Blue Cranes, and Black Headed Herons.  A Leopard Tortoise or two.  And massive Cape Buffalos“Where are the bloody elephants?” I wondered to myself.  I knew they were close.  Fresh pachaderm scat littered the roadway in still steaming piles virtually everywhere.

Almost prepared to accept the notion that this was the wrong time of day for sightings (fisherman know not to pursue their prey at 4 PM, but at sunrise and dusk), I round the corner and see eight foot high brush moving with great energy.  Or being moved.  A grey mound appears above the foliage.  A trunk slowly curls even higher, as if transfixed by an Indian snake charmer.   Looking backward into the clear cuts that punctuate the route between curves in the road, one is spotted.  Then another.  Soon a group.
These are not the sad looking creatures with the crusty wilted eyes and the look of resignation one views in narrowed confinement at the zoo.  These are robust creatures in their prime, and fully in their own element.  They are huge.  They are quick. They are proud.  They are determined not to be approached, nor to give ground.  You can almost hear them saying: “Back that little white four-legged tin can up just a little further and I will provide you with a real lesson in the application of physics.”

A subtle negotiation occurs afterward.  You back the car, or turn it broadside to the road, to get the best viewing and photography angles.  The elephants observe.  Then move.  You in turn back up or move forward, or turn a bit.  Other cars, seeing you have stopped, follow suit.  A dance ensues.  A very slow waltz.   Elephants and very tentative cars.  Always the vehicle is in gear for a quick getaway.  Especially when babies are involved or get too close to the road.  Mama San reacts very quickly then.  The parallel reference to escaping Grizzly Bears that has become almost a stock joke remains true in this circumstance: “I don’t have to run fast, just run faster than you!”   Finally visually sated, you leave, only to see even larger elephants elsewhere.  Usually knocking down trees.  But luckily not near the road.

A turn is made finally off the semi-coastal primary west-east highway of the N2, north on the N6 toward Lesotho.  I am still struck by the fine qualities of the road (even if the shoulders are a bit suspect).  The country opens up as if it were a massive high alp, mindful of scenery from “The Big Valley” or “Bonanza” from bygone television years.  It is akin to being in the middle of the ocean, passing by or through lengthy and low crested waves only to emerge on to yet another vast green expanse.  It is lulling.  Sheep and goats line the roadway.  There is very little agriculture, however.  I am later told this is too risky, due to rains and harsh winters.  What is not clear is: too much rain, or too little?

You pass Bish, Stutterheim and Queenstown before stopping in Aliwal North – a point at which it is necessary to turn east to transit Lesotho.  This makes for a fine opportunity to sample one of the local pubs.  Usually this has a dual purpose.  To whet one’s palette, and to get a scouting report.  I have always said the best intel comes from bartenders – and those that hang with them.  They see and hear everything, faster even than the internet.

Is the pass closed?  What time does the border station stay open until?  Are there potholes along the way?  Cattle or sheep in the road?  How far?  Where do I turn?  You can not always count on maps for this info.  In fact, the roads in South Africa and particularly this section of the country are not particularly well labeled.  This is in marked contrast to the quality of the road itself. Turnabouts and reverses of direction are frequent.

It is dark by the time Lady Gray is achieved.  This small town about 30 kilometers outside Lesotho therefore serves as the base for the night.  Arriving late, you get last choice of rooms.  Driving from one to the next, it is discovered all are booked due to the National Holiday (Human Rights Day).  The proper thing to do in that case is retreat to a local pub.  Not only do they have the best intel, they also have decent and affordable meals.  And local regulars, who know other people.  Generous people.  People willing to accommodate strangers.  A young woman by the name of Pye Cloete offers a room for the night at her family’s farm, and for half the usual rate for the trip (which has been about $35 nightly).  Upon seeing the home, I suspect the money is simply a means of paying the servants for their extra efforts to accommodate the “man with all the questions.”

I find out in the course of the evening’s remaining hours that it is my good fortune to stay the night with the community’s leading family.  The 150 year-old Dutch colonial style home has seen six generations come and go, often overlapping each other in residency.  The home is huge.  There are four bathrooms there, at least 16 beds, two living rooms, a separate family room, and more photo wall pix than exist at Ranger headquarters in Kabul for identifying Taliban insurgents.  A recent remodeling project – to scrape three coats of paint off all the original Oregon Pine woodwork inside the home – took 18 years.
It is often joked that the home’s perimeter is “larger than the community church.”  The family just happens to also own the local dairy, and Annie’s Café where dinner was first  eaten hours earlier.

Soon Cloete, patriarch of the family, was formerly mayor of the town before blacks were given the vote around 1994.  Before departure from this most welcoming family, there is also an opportunity to meet Elsie, the ever gracious family matriarch, and Neil, who works the ranch and is also an accountant in town.  Brother Van Ardt and sister Rika live much further away.


Reluctantly the farm must eventually be parted from.  Muitual promises to keep in touch are made.  Lesotho – “The Kingdom In The Sky” -- awaits.  I have little idea of what to expect, except an unusual opportunity at some juncture to see rare dinosaur tracks embedded in the rock hardened edge of what used to be a muddy river bank 180 million years ago.

Thursday, March 20, 2014

STELLENBOSCH


The roadside announcement reads: “Forecast: 100 chance of wine today!”  And so it is, for the unquestioned wine capitol of South Africa. Surrounded by the granite semi-circles of the Simonsberg and Drakenstein Mountains, and sprinkled amidst lush rolling hills, Stellenbosch is to South Africa as Napa Valley is to California, Mendoza is to Argentina, and Bordeaux is to France.  Over 140 wineries (actually called “Wine Farms” here) dot the immediate landscape around the city core alone.

Founded in 1679 – and many of the better wineries date to nearly that time – it is the second oldest city in the Western Cape after Capetown (a mere 32 miles distant).  Located on the banks of the Eerste River, the town is known as as “The City of Oaks.” During the Boer War from 1899 to 1902, British troops used the city as a base.  It was known as an ideal post, though the reputations of those assigned here were tarnished somewhat as it was felt they had too cush an assignment and could not make it on the front lines.

I am lucky enough to spend the better part of two sunny, perfect days here.  Drinking, toasting, learning, and dining.  The Mediterranean climate is perfect for wine production, with rainy and cool winters but hot summers.  The area is still dominated by Dutch culture, both in its language, customs, and architecture.  As such, it is generally a more conservative area than the rest of South Africa, and has a reputation still of being a bastion of “Afrikaners”  -- the primarily Dutch culture that authored the socially devastating apartheid policy which tore this country apart for nearly 50 years.

A game attempt is loosely made to follow the world famous Stellenbosch Wine Route, established in 1971, to cobble together as many winery visits as two day’s time will allow.   That plan quickly falls apart, however (and for the better).  One good winery leads to another, as servers and other employees let you in on local secrets about where best to quaff your next sips, dine, and take refuge for the evening in a hotel with a view.  My intent the first day is to visit four wineries.  One tied up the entire afternoon.  Neethlingshof, in business since 1692 and selected as one of the Top Five wineries in all of South Africa.

One is immediately made to feel as a guest here, not a sardine in a tourist crush bellying up to the tasting bar.  You have the choice of sampling inside, or out.  Given the perfect weather, my choice was obvious.  Jean-Lous Leroy, a highly intelligent 31 year-old black  viticultural exchange student from Montpelier, France introduced himself as my server.  Visitors are supposed to get five tastings for the modest fee of Rand 30 (a little less than $3 US).  I am treated to nine.  And I am immediately stunned by the quality of the wine relative to its pricing.

A double gold-medal winning red Bordeaux blend called “The Caracal” that somehow manages to be brilliant up front with tastes of plum and blackcurrent and a pinch of tobacco and chocolate still remains long on the finish.  It costs a bit less than $14 a bottle.  It is my clear favorite. The “Owl Post Pinotage” – a grape unique to South Africa – with arresting flavors of raspberry, cherry and mocha, costs less than $16 a bottle.  “The Six Flowers” – a Hungarian barrel wooded blend of six different white varietals and another award winner, costs less than $8.  My second favorite, a light-bodied Malbec with hints of ripe plum and chocolate, costs less than $6.

In between pointers about South Africa’s wine industry (all grapes are estate grown at each winery for instance, and there is little or no buying grapes on the market for bulk producers or hobbyists – thus each bottle of wine is truly “estate harvested and produced”) Jean-Louis casually discussed local culture and history.  He spoke of reverse racism, where blacks now feel free to openly display cynicism and at times downright hatred for whites.  And about how as a European, he was in a good neutral position to watch the historic actions of the Dutch and English within the country.

“The Brits are progressive,” he said.  “The Dutch are very conservative.  Apartheid came from a Dutch government and was supported by a Dutch majority.  Please realize not everybody supported apartheid. The word derived from a Dutch definition meaning ‘separate or apart.’  Blacks here will generally speak English, but they refuse to speak Afrikans (the local Dutch dialect).  Their memories of what apartheid had done to them will take a long time to subside.”  I am taken enough by his perspectives that we agree to continue the conversation at a reasonably priced local restaurant, the “Cape Fish Market,” later in the evening.  And to keep in contact after that.

The following day, four wineries make their acquaintance.  Morgenhof, Warwick, Kanankop, and Tokara.  Bridgitte Fredericks at Morgenhof proved once again that to be an engaging and generous host was the rule within this valley.  This winery, dating back to 1692, featured beautiful Dutch Colonial and Cape Dutch buildings.  Many are used for weddings.  They were later augmented after purchase by French owner Anne Cointreau in 1993 with French Chateau complementary buildings, including a wedding chapel.

This winery features International  Gold (Michaelangelo Awards) Merlot costing about $12 US a bottle, and a “Fantail Pinotage” 2011 that is light and yet oddly complex for about $5 a bottle.  The signature wine once again is a Bordeaux blend of cabernet sauvignon, cab france, merlot, and malbec.   It has won a silver Michaelangelo Award and boasts flavors of mocha, black fruit, tobacco, a hint of cherry, and some raspberry.  It sells for about $23 a bottle.

I had the rather odd experience here, of an independent wine tour operator hearing my plans, swooping in like a force of nature, ignoring her own clients, and virtually planning my complete afternoon including a lunch reservation and trail of five wineries to follow.  I did not visit a single one of her command performance recommendations -- primarily because she did not make a single inquiry about my taste preferences.

Kanonkop – one of the younger wineries in the Stellenbosch Capelands with grapes being grown on the estate “only” since 1930, had been referred as a premium vintner of complex red wines.  I did not find this to be true.  Despite a long list of award winners, and a very pleasing 2012 Pinotage costing less than $7 per bottle, this particular recommendation did not find favor with me.  Perhaps it was the wine.  Perhaps the grounds were not as scintillating as others witnessed nearby.  Or perhaps it was the very formal service that attended the wine tasting.  No sense of humor here, and very little warmth in the offer or presentation of the product.  I am hoping for the sake of other visitors that this particular winery was merely visited by me on an off day.

Conversely, Warwick proved to be a real treat.  The grounds are green and open.  They are approached by a meandering, almost watercourse driveway.  The complex offers picnic grounds, a bocce ball pit, children’s play area, wandering peacocks, a gorgeous on- premises lake, oversized outdoor cushions for stretching out and sampling wine while leaned against a tree (or favorite squeeze), a garden inspired by the historic Jardin du Luxembourg in Paris, and a commanding view penthouse on a nearby hilltop with 360 degree vistas for sharing special occasions.

The wine itself was almost an afterthought, given the delight of the grounds that made for such relaxing tasting.  They included a fine wooded chardonnay, a deep cabernet sauvignon, an “Old Bush Vines” Pinotage (my favorite), a Cape Blend called “Three Cape Ladies,” a beautifully finished Bordeaux blend called Trilogy, and an easy sipping and modestly priced Cab Franc.


Tokara Wine Farm had a reputation going in for a French palette featuring heavy red vintages.  New to Stellenbosch in 2000 and one of the wine “babies” of the valley, it might have had the most intense and memorable lineup of the 48 hours sampling in the Cape Winelands.  These included a Director’s Reserve White 2012, which was vibrant and intense and almost impossibly long on the finish (for less than $20 US) – winner of an International Veritas Silver Medal in 2012; a Reserve Collection Stellenbosch Chardonnay 2012, winner of a Veritas Gold Medal in 2013 that tasted as smooth as velvet, but was both intense and complex and hinted of freshly buttered toast (about $13); and finally a Tokara Reserve Syrah 2010 costing about $25 per bottle that won a Double Gold Veritas Award in 2013.  Despite the relatively higher price for a South African wine, this one was a must sip and a must buy.  It is plum in color, packed with the taste of dark berries, hints of cassis, is long on the finish, and has a lingering, elegant presence about it.

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

CAPETOWN  (SOUTH AFRICA)

The 11 hour flight in from Amsterdam is running late anyway.  There is a long line at the car rental counter, and of course the usual dodgy “extra fees” and disclaimers and attempts to pass the liability buck not mentioned when first booking the vehicle online.  Then the vehicle itself.  A six speed Hyundai, steering wheel on the right side, shift stick on the left.  Turn indicator toward my right hand.  Windshield wiper on the left.   And of course, you drive on the left.  Just the opposite of The States.

I pull out of the parking garage at 1 AM, grinding the gears like a broken down tank due to the reversed shift pattern.  Reverse gear itself does not work.  My very first turn is into oncoming traffic.  No way to back out (until later, when I discover there is a small reverse button on the shifter which must be maneuvered just-so to go backward).  A rapid U-turn is executed – and yes, that is the correct use of the word – and I head out for the hotel.  The navigation system is not intuitive, and there are no directions.  It has its own sense of humor.  It is called “try as you might” and pray like hell.

When I am finally able to enter in an address, it does not inform you that you must be specific as to district and neighborhood also.  Following the prompts, I enter in a street name and number and “Capetown.”  After going in huge loops multiple times and putting 77 kilometers on the car before even getting out of sight of the airport, I unwittingly pull into a suspect area with furtive youth excitedly pointing at the car.  Nav system is double checked.  I am in Khayelitsha, one of those refuges of the underprivileged (called townships here) that virtually every guidebook warns you about not entering alone or at night.  They are much like the favelas (slum shanty towns) in Brazil.

The Hyundai idles in a dead end, overhead map light brazenly announcing my presence.  Inspired youth begin to excitedly circle the car.  I make a lurching departure, not really caring about a destination.  What a way to start your birthday …

After arriving two hours late at the hostel and already having consumed one-sixth of a tank of gas, I wipe down the windshield.  It is covered with spittle from all the times a turn signal was intended but instead the rain wipers were actuated.  Madeline and Tjaart, managers of the Surf Shack Hostel, are gracious upon arrival.  “Welcome to South Africa,” they offer cheerfully at nearly 3 AM.  My first night’s sleep is very restless.  The morning weather in the Blouberg beach area district, however, is stunning.  Clear and 65 degrees Fahrenheit.  Table Mountain, the iconic mesa which is the backdrop for Capetown and one of the new “7 Natural Wonders of The World,” beckons like a come-hither look from a beautiful woman.  No waiting.  Time to dig into the sites.

Table Mountain both dominates and partitions Capetown, from a 3000 foot rise in elevation.  Directly below is the (also) dominant cone-shaped mound of the misnamed Lions Head peak.   To its right is a bustling waterfront, a rabbit warren of shopping stalls, restaurants, pubs, museums, and boats of all manner of description -- a definite tourist magnet in this European style town. Beyond and about three miles offshore is the notorious Robbens Island, where world famous political prisoner Nelson Mandela (first black President of South Africa after the fall of apartheid) was incarcerated for 18 of his 29 years as a captive.  To the left and below, the azure colored beaches of Clifton and Camps Bay and Llandudno contrast with the darker blue waters where the cold surf of the Atlantic Ocean meet the warm waves of the Indian Ocean.  Far beyond to the left and south is Cape of Good Hope, the infamous navigation headland for turning round Africa and focal point for over 640 shipwrecks since the 1500s, due to its fog obscured and storm tossed waters.

An aerial tramway which ascends steeply to a shoulder of Table Mountain is often shut down due to low visibility and high winds.  I am blessed that my birthday is not to be one of those days.  The views are distant, clear, and stunning.  A photographer’s dream.  Mist rolls in from the north, then peels back, as if not quite sure it wants to ruin this spectacular outing for so many visitors.  Most  have waited three days for a clearing.  A cafe at the top offers unrestricted 180 degree peeks of the thrilling view below.  I have a Peroni beer (Italian heritage must be honored) and sample ostrich stew for the first time in celebration of my birthday.
After descending from the peak, Cape Point becomes the new objective.  Along the way the beaches previously observed from on high experience a close-up examination. Hyper busy sidewalk and seafront cafes line the route.  Really no different ambience wise than touring the west coast of Italy, or the south coast of France.  There are very few swimmers however -- the waters from the Atlantic are much too cold.  Spectacular carve-outs among the granite bouldered cliffs allow traffic to drive out of surf’s reach but still directly above the waves much of the way.  The road is smooth, a bit narrow, but paved and well marked throughout.  No nav system needed here.

One unique stop is at Simonstown.  A colony of Cape Point “Jackass” Penguins (so-named due to the braying sound they emit when excited) pulls traffic in from the highway for what is almost a required pit stop.  Shortly on down the road as one heads toward Cape Point along the inside of “False Bay” (a huge crab shaped inland sea of sorts with The Cape of Good Hope as its left pincher and Cape Agulhas as its right) several signs warn of the presence of baboons in the area.  I inquire as to their exact whereabouts.  “Be careful what you wish for,” growled one rather annoyed local, barely restraining a pit bull on a short leash as it dragged him back to his car.  “They are very aggressive.  Leave your car window open even a bit and they’ll get everything inside.  And I don’t mean just the food.”  He then went on to explain Baboon wranglers had to be hired to keep these adaptable critters away from the locals.

Cape Point – the actual tip of the broader geographic feature of The Cape of Good Hope – is reached just before sunset.  Rather anticlimactic, in some ways.  The vista is excellent, but it is hard to compare to that offered by the commanding view from Table Mountain.  A somewhat melancholy retreat is made to Blouberg for dinner at the nouveau Caribbean Cubana Restaurant to hoist my favorite drink – a Brazilian caipirhina – and contemplate not only the day’s highlights, but my birthday gratitude attendant with richly experiencing another adventurous year.

Capetown Castle is a pentagon shaped Dutch military fortress located just beyond the waterfront, in an obvious defensively commanding position looking over the flats of the city.  Built between 1666 and 1679, it is the oldest surviving building in South Africa.  A bell tower was added in 1684.  The multi-hued stone fortress served as the military, civilian, judicial, and administrative center of the city until very recently.  I spent two hours here, enjoyably reviewing the history of conflicts (and thus the national progression of South Africa) between the Dutch and natives in a series of nine territorial wars, the Zulus and the British over land rights, and the Dutch and British in a fight for national dominance.
Probably the most interesting part of the castle however, was the locally renowned William Fehr collection – a series of historical paintings and well-preserved period furniture which have special relevance to the South Cape.

Included within this collection was a most impressive wooden dining table for 100.  Each place setting is laden with sets of uniquely designed and colored placeware (mostly ceramic), each from different artists, celebrating Capetown as the Design Capital of The World for 2014.  A ground-level dungeon and torture chamber might have proven to be equally interesting, but its instrumentation had long since been removed.

An increasingly popular District 6 Museum celebrates what used to be a place, and now represents an idea.  The idea of “Never, never again …”  and the memory of a thriving multi-racial community, deliberately eradicated under the racially divisive apartheid Group Areas Act of 1950.  Starting in 1966, one of the world’s foremost examples of urban repression saw the forcible removal of 66,000 people over approximately 20 years to create a whites only area.  Homes, churches, schools, hotels, cinemas, and businesses were systematically demolished in a make believe show of “urban renewal.”  Ironically, whites never moved into the area.  Today, repatriation claims are being worked out, former residents are slowly moving back and both government and individual families are attempting to rebuild District 6.

Its modest two-story frame tells a chilling story of painful loss and the hope of return in hundreds of  personal bios displayed in narrative form on the museum walls.  A story that was nearly as devastating as the Nazi extermination of the Jewish Quarters in Warsaw and other cities during World War II, lacking only the death camps as a final solution.

I recall one gentleman remembering the difficulty of relocating his 49 pigeons.  When his building was demolished and he was forced to move, the birds were kept indoors at his newly assigned (and diminished) home in fear they would not yet adapt to their changed locale in the Cape Flats to the backside of Table Mountain.  He finally released them months later.  When he returned home that evening, not a single bird had returned.  He checked the razed  and now unmarked streets of District 6, trying to find his former address.  With some difficulty, the spot was located.  As he suspected, all 49 birds were huddled there.  “They looked at me,” he said, “as if to say: We’re home!  Why aren’t you?”

Another spoke of being evicted from District 6 and torn apart from his wife, almost like slaves at market in the American South 100 years previously.  He was black.  His wife was colored (black mixture, not a native or purely racial black woman).  They were assigned to different townships.  Each had to carry a set of hated ID papers that served also as a transit pass (the “dompas”).  Despite being married, his pass only allowed a visit with his wife but every three months, and at that for only two hours at a time.

One quote from a female survivor of the forced exodus named Deborah Hart sums up the tragic episode nicely: “Whereas some of the economic and social costs of the razing of District 6 may be ascertained, its toll upon individual lives and emotions is immeasurable … oral evidence, literary accounts, and almost two decades of news reporting unite in their testimony to the fear, humiliation, bitterness, and anger that accompanied the displacement.  Not least among the consequences was fragmentation of the identity and heritage of a particular community which had profound implications for its social, political, and cultural expression.”

When asked later what I most noticed most about the NEW South Africa, after the prison release of Nelson Mandela, the end of Apartheid and the Group Areas Act and the establishment in 1994 of a new constitution offering “one man, one vote,” this quote came back to me.   I thought about the question for awhile.  Then answered: “The absence of fear.”  I notice most blacks finally able to be at ease in their own country, not having to show a pass or constantly be looking over their shoulder.