After yet another rich breakfast with Italian music in the background I spend an easy morning at the Auberge Clermont, reading, smoking a Toscanello and taking a few pictures around the vineyard. At about noon I am politely asked to vacate the room as they have to clean up for the lucky guests who will take my room in the afternoon. Oh well. Time to drive to Cape Town anyway, I have to fill up my tank, return the car and check-in for my flight to Johannesburg.
Easy drive to the Cape Town airport. I stop at a filling station just before the rental car return. A plump black attendant comes forward with a big smile flashing from his white teeth. (There is virtually no self serve station in South Africa because the fuel price, by law, must be the same as full serve.) "Hello sir how are you? Have you had a good trip? It's an honor for me to serve you today." He is extremely welcoming and works with alacrity and gusto. Well maybe it's for the tip, but no can't do that all that just for the tip. It's a sign of a positive attitude, of someone who is aware of being there to do something useful. He is in a talkative mood: after he inquires about my home city, he starts commenting on the latest Serie A exploits of A.S. Roma. (I always wonder why foreigners always refer to "la Roma" with its official company name.) He knows much more than me about Italian soccer. I can nod a few times when he mentions Totti but am totally impotent when he asks specific questions about defensive tactics of Italian players and the like.
He fills up my tank, meticulously cleans the windshield, checks my oil as well as the level of my wipers' water as if it were his own car. It's been a long long long time since something like this happened to me in Europe. I would like to give him a tip but I am extremely embarrassed to find out that I have no coins or small notes on me. I openly tell him so, thanking him profusely for his work. He keeps smiling and tells me not to worry, to drive safe and have a good trip.
After returning my car to Avis I make my way to the check-in counters to catch my flight to Johannesburg, the next stage of my trip, where I will meet my photographer friends for a couple of weeks of intensive digital shooting.
My flight is uneventful and by early evening I will check in at my hotel just around the corner from the airport of South Africa's economic powerhouse city. During the flight, which takes place around lunch time, which would normally be a huge Christmas feed, again I have the opportunity to reflect on the fact that this year I am free of Christmas celebrations. Not only of eating too much but also of giving and receiving unwanted gifts and putting up with crazy traffic.
In the last few years I have celebrated Dies Natalis Solis Invicti with my friend Massimiliano, with whom I share a healthy agnosticism and a romantic nostalgia for all things (ancient) Roman. This year I will miss that as well, maybe we can make up next time I am in Rome. It must have been a fun time in Rome the, this year-end period, to indulge almost without limit to celebrate the rebirth of the invincible Sun, when the days once again start getting longer.
After a light buffet dinner, during which I share the excitement of a cricket match between South Africa and Sri Lanka with a couple of tall black guys, I decide to take a walk in the lukewarm evening. My hotel is close to a large casino complex and I am curious to take a peak. There is a sort of outer ring to the complex, with kids and families, all kinds of restaurants and no smoking signs. As one approaches the inner rooms the first gambling tables appear. There are even electronic automatic roulette robots, where the wheel is encased in a glass cube and players place their bets through various buttons on the four sides. Weird...
Then one can go through some heavy glass doors doors, each bearing a sign to keep it closed at all times, into an inner ring where smoking is allowed and the most addicted players crowd around roulette and black jack tables. A sort of sancta sanctorum of gambling, with very serious faces and people (mostly men) often dressed in bizarre attires, jewels and hats. The croupiers, mostly women, are smartly dressed though they could do with a bit less make up in my view. A pub-style bar at the very core of all this is very busy providing cool beer and various sorts of alcohol to the patrons in between bets. there would be plenty of opportunities for interesting photographs, but somehow I get a feeling this would not be appreciated and I don't think I want to get into an argument with anyone in this crowd.
25 December 2013
24 December 2013
18. - 24 Dec.: Paarl wine tasting for Christmas eve
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| Lance with his pearls |
I then drive around a bit but most vineyards are not open for tastings because of the Christmas holiday. Black Pearl I suppose does not count, you are welcomed in the home of the owners, it's not really a commercial tasting operation.
But I find one that is open for business: Backsberg. Maybe because the founder is Jewish? I drive in with two young Frenchmen and we are welcomed by two ladies at the tasting counter. One of the ladies, very thin, her skin of a lovely hazelnut color, in her mid twenties, serves the wines for our tasting while the other is quieter and sits at the cashier. The two Frenchmen are a bit high and one of them makes repeated comments, in French, on the aesthetic characteristics of the serving girl and on how he'd like to take her out in the evening. Rather poor, well, taste on his part. Besides, she looks at him with raised eyebrows: maybe she speaks French and understood what was supposed to be a macho comment to his buddy? I hope so.
We go through the usual procedure: dry whites (sauvignon) more full bodied whites (chardonnay) lighter red pinotage and heavy caliber reds. Pretty good stuff, and I fall for the temptation of ordering some. These are easy wines: their philosophy is to make wines that are a pleasure to drink even for the uncomplicated taster, and I think they largely hit their target.
On the way home I pass by some slums, oddly located between lush vineyards. Metal and plastic corrugated sheets covered with plastic and held up, moreor less, with creatively positioned strings and wooden poles. No electricity, no running water, no paved streets. A sign on a shack, under a coat of arms with three big capital letters SFW, very improbably reads Die Stellenbosch-Boerewynmekerye (the Boer wine maker?).
A bit beyond, more poor housing, but this time small houses made of brics with electricity poles all around. Even cars parked by the road.
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| Die Stellenbosch- Boerewynmekerye |
Easy evening in my room. I munch on some spicy Hunan food I received as a gift from Yan. Hunan food is supposed to be the spiciest in China and Yan assures me what she has brought over this time is nothing compared to what you can get at home. I of course believe her, and then again, I can boast Southern Italian descent so I am no chicken when it comes to hot chili!
I thoroughly enjoy this Christmas eve alone, and not just because of the Hunan food. It's the first time in many years I have no obligations. With dad's passing last June I can just consider this a normal day. I do remember, with a tiny bit of nostalgia, when I was a kid, believed in Father Christmas and waited for midnight so that we could open our gifts. I was often disappointed because my birthday is only one week before today, and thus I would often get only one gift. But still, it was a night to look forward to for the rest of the year. Ever since that ended, it became more an obligation than anything else. Maybe things will revert to the ancient tradition if I ever have kids. Let's see what happens...
23 December 2013
17. - 23 Dec.: Wine tasting in Stellenbosch and Paarl
It was a Belgian friend of mine who strongly recommended I visit Beyerkloof when in Stellenbosch for a tasting of their great pinotage. This is a typically South African cross between Pinot Noir and Hermitage, and Ivo told me Beyerkloof was famous for it. Ivo is Flemish, Bruxellois, Belgian, European and, when it comes to wine, a real citizen of the world. I guess you have to be if you are Belgian and love good wines. There are maybe a dozen or os good vineyward in Belgium but not enough to satisfy a lifetime of oenological tastings. After learning the three official languages of his home country, as well as English, which is a sine qua non in the financial world where he works, he decided to pick up Italian, just for fun. He lives in Brussels and so we meet often to discuss the oenological merits of fermented grape juices from around the planet. He is one of the relatively few Flemish who still lives in Brussels, the capital of Belgium and of Europe that has progressively become almost completely francophone.
After the disappointment of two days ago, when Yan and I were bounced at the door because it was end of business, this time I make sure I get there during regular business hours, and after parking in the scorching sun I walk through the gate to the tasting room. It is a dark room, made even darker by a slick black counter on top of which an endless succession of glasses is filled with wines. It is a bit noisy, which does disturb me as I try to concentrate on the aromas of the first whites that are served to me, but after all this is where wine lovers from all over the world come to have fun, and we should not take ourselves too seriously.
Prices are really attractive, but unfortunately local prices have little to do with what I would pay for the same bottles in Europe. It's not so much trasportation costs that weigh in here, as freight charges by sea are quite reasonable, it is tax. Excise tax and Value Added Tax to be precise. So an excellent quality/price ratio in South Africa (say 8 to 10 euro for an upmaket vintage red) becomes a think-about-it 25-30 euro per bottle when delivered to Europe. Nevertheless I request more information about having a few bottles sent to my address in Europe.
And by the way while I did like their Pinotage I thought their cabs were better: powerful yet velvet soft on the palate. Perhaps not the best to age for decades but easily enjoyable a few years after harvest. "Cabs" is South African short hand for "Cabernet Sauvignon", perhaps the most successful varietal in the world, originally from France but now universally used either alone or in the classical combination with Cabernet Franc and Merlot. The name? It was, they say, by chance that sometime in the XVII century some southern French vintner accidentally crossed Cabernet Franc and Sauvignon Blanc and realize the outcome was going to be a hit.
A most kind lady shows me a chart with final consumer prices for all European destinations, each taking into account trasnportation and tax. I can see that Switzerland is the best country to live in if you are going to import wine from South Africa to Europe. Belgium is not on the chart at all, and the lady can't really tell me why. I am very curious now and she goes and calls the manager, a blond very Dutch looking thirty-something that is more than happy to explain.
I am startled to learn that they do export directly to all of Europe except Belgium, because the local importer objects. I can't believe that of all European countries only the distributor to Belgium holds such blocking power but that's exactly it.
Well so much for sending Beyerkloof wines to Belgium. I shall have to buy it from the importer. Or maybe not, I don't like the fact that residents from all other European countries can order their wine from the producer except Belgians. As I think through my options for retaliatory action I continue to sip away and notice that most staff and patrons are white but there are a few blacks and colored in bith sides of the counter. I ask the lady who is serving me and she says rhe schools for sommelier and university agronomy are now completely mixed.
My next stop is the Fairview estate, in the nearby Paarls region, just a few km away, where I enjoy wonderful tasting of wines as well as excellent olive oil. Ryno is the somelier guiding me through the range. He explains that the olive oil is done in the Italian tradition and that is why it gets Italian names. I get my very own table in a spacious and airy room with high ceilings and mirrors. One by one Ryno proposes half a dozen wines which I have selected from the house's production.
Here they can and do export direct to Belgium though at a price, because of the notorious VAT and excise tax, of course. Final price is about double what I'd pay here but prices are so convenient that I can't resist ordering a couple of cases. And why should I resist anyway: part of the pleasure when I drink this wine in Europe will be recalling this wonderful time at the vineyard.
I then move on just a few hundred meters to another property by the same owner. It's called the Spice Route and here it's chocolate and wine matches that are on offer. It's a serene hillside with a farmhouse sitting on top. You can park and walk up a few steps to a huge terrace where the friendly staff will bring you the chocs and the wines.
It's almost closing time and the sun is gently dropping lower over the horizon but there is still plenty of time. I always found it difficult to match any wine with chocolate. In Europe my favorite combination is dark chocolate with Banyuls. A couple of times I tried a young Barolo, a combination I learned from Pierre Marcolini in Brussels at one of his tastings. Here I find that it is Syrah that is the best match for the intense flavor of Fairview's chocolates.
It's the end of the day, I am sorry it's over but it's been a satisfying experience. I have hardly eaten all day but the wines and the bits and pieces of bread have filled me for the day and I look forward to a quite evening in my Clermont attic with warm decaffeinated coffee and a good book.
After the disappointment of two days ago, when Yan and I were bounced at the door because it was end of business, this time I make sure I get there during regular business hours, and after parking in the scorching sun I walk through the gate to the tasting room. It is a dark room, made even darker by a slick black counter on top of which an endless succession of glasses is filled with wines. It is a bit noisy, which does disturb me as I try to concentrate on the aromas of the first whites that are served to me, but after all this is where wine lovers from all over the world come to have fun, and we should not take ourselves too seriously.
Prices are really attractive, but unfortunately local prices have little to do with what I would pay for the same bottles in Europe. It's not so much trasportation costs that weigh in here, as freight charges by sea are quite reasonable, it is tax. Excise tax and Value Added Tax to be precise. So an excellent quality/price ratio in South Africa (say 8 to 10 euro for an upmaket vintage red) becomes a think-about-it 25-30 euro per bottle when delivered to Europe. Nevertheless I request more information about having a few bottles sent to my address in Europe.
And by the way while I did like their Pinotage I thought their cabs were better: powerful yet velvet soft on the palate. Perhaps not the best to age for decades but easily enjoyable a few years after harvest. "Cabs" is South African short hand for "Cabernet Sauvignon", perhaps the most successful varietal in the world, originally from France but now universally used either alone or in the classical combination with Cabernet Franc and Merlot. The name? It was, they say, by chance that sometime in the XVII century some southern French vintner accidentally crossed Cabernet Franc and Sauvignon Blanc and realize the outcome was going to be a hit.
A most kind lady shows me a chart with final consumer prices for all European destinations, each taking into account trasnportation and tax. I can see that Switzerland is the best country to live in if you are going to import wine from South Africa to Europe. Belgium is not on the chart at all, and the lady can't really tell me why. I am very curious now and she goes and calls the manager, a blond very Dutch looking thirty-something that is more than happy to explain.
I am startled to learn that they do export directly to all of Europe except Belgium, because the local importer objects. I can't believe that of all European countries only the distributor to Belgium holds such blocking power but that's exactly it.
Well so much for sending Beyerkloof wines to Belgium. I shall have to buy it from the importer. Or maybe not, I don't like the fact that residents from all other European countries can order their wine from the producer except Belgians. As I think through my options for retaliatory action I continue to sip away and notice that most staff and patrons are white but there are a few blacks and colored in bith sides of the counter. I ask the lady who is serving me and she says rhe schools for sommelier and university agronomy are now completely mixed.
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| Ryno tells the Fairview story |
Here they can and do export direct to Belgium though at a price, because of the notorious VAT and excise tax, of course. Final price is about double what I'd pay here but prices are so convenient that I can't resist ordering a couple of cases. And why should I resist anyway: part of the pleasure when I drink this wine in Europe will be recalling this wonderful time at the vineyard.
I then move on just a few hundred meters to another property by the same owner. It's called the Spice Route and here it's chocolate and wine matches that are on offer. It's a serene hillside with a farmhouse sitting on top. You can park and walk up a few steps to a huge terrace where the friendly staff will bring you the chocs and the wines.
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| The odd couple: wine and chocolate |
It's the end of the day, I am sorry it's over but it's been a satisfying experience. I have hardly eaten all day but the wines and the bits and pieces of bread have filled me for the day and I look forward to a quite evening in my Clermont attic with warm decaffeinated coffee and a good book.
22 December 2013
16. - 22 Dec.: Franschhoek
Around noon I take a long walk with a coffee flavored toscanello cigar around the vineyards. It is sunny and 26 °C. An ideal day for meditation, rest, reading, backing up hard drives full of pictures and uploading some stuff online to share news with friends and family. Unfortunately there is no wifi in my room (I've become accustomed to take it for granted, just as hot water) but my MTN data plan works like a charm and I am connected to the world.
A plaque outside my room informs that Auberge Clermont was inaugurated in 1997, 140 years after founding of the current farm in 1857. But the roots of the Auberge go back at least another century and a half before that.
It was in 1694 that Abraham de Villiers received title to the land from the Dutch authorities and founded the farm he called "Champagne". Like many other properties in the region it has a French name, so chosen by nostalgic Huguenots to remind themselves of faraway France, their homeland they were never to see again. The farm morphed repeatedly over the following decades until it reached the current mix of vineyard and upmarket B and B.
21 December 2013
15. - 21 Dec.: Cape Town to Franschhoek
In the morning we visit Cape Town's famous Aquarium. It's a kids' attraction, with colorful boards and touch pools, but it is most interesting for adults as well. We are most kindly invited for a guided tour by Kevin Spiby, whom I don't really know but whose father Geoff I met a few years ago while diving in the Maldives. Kevin has an innate passion for nature in general and the ocean in particular, has worked here for a few years and thinks this is the best job in the world. Geoff and I were on the same liveaboard then and shared a passion for underwater photography. We then kept in touch via Facebook, and when I messaged him that I was on my way to the Cape he put me in touch with his son. Magic of modern technology.
As we walk in the Aquarium Yan and I are painted with magic ink mark on our wrist so we can go in and out all day. Unfortunately that won't be possible as Yan has to catch a flight home to China in the afternoon.
Of the many tanks and pools we saw, ranging from the cute to the impressive to the most bizarre, the huge tank with turtles and sharks is what I enjoyed the most. There is an elaborate weekly feeding schedule for the fish and turtles here and we happend to be there when Kevin is scheduled to drop bit and pieces of fish to feed the pelagic animals who circle around the thick glass (really thick, as is 25 centimeters!) in anticipation.
There are a few microphone problems so that the master of ceremonies down with the public can't talk to Kevin who is ready on top but in the end it is all sorted out and we can witness some voracious fish dart around to grab their food. Kids seem to enjoy the touch pools, where they can stroke rays, more than anything else.
Final walk through the waterfront. Yan buys me another pair of shorts with countless pockets, the kind of Indiana Jones style clothes I have grown to love most. South Africa is a paradise for outdoor gear and clothing: good quality stuff and very very reasonable prices.
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For our final lunch together in Cape Town we head to the Food Market, which is just steps away from the shops and the aquarium.There is so much variety of food from all over the world it is hard to choose. "Ho fame!", says Yan with impeccable pronunciation, it's her second favorite Italian phrase. (Her favorite one is "Ho molta fame!") She has some Chinese noodle served bya smiling Taiwanese lady while I grab a refreshing frozen yoghurt with walnut topping.
But the main feature of our lunch will be fresh oysters which we buy from the "Oyster Lady", a small stand run by a lovely superblack lady that sells only oysters, excellent fresh South African oysters for what is to us a cheap price.
No drinks, no bread, nothing: just oyesters and oh yes some lemon. Not to be missed in the Waterfront Food Market if you like oysters.
Well time to go to the airport. It's the end of our trip to South Africa, though I will continue on my own for a few days and then join a bunch of Italian photographers for a further tour of more sides of this multifaceted ountry. The airport is small but comfortable. There is a huge parking lot adjacent to the terminal, but it is almost completely emtpy and has an almost uneasy feeling to it even though it is still broad daylight.
I drop Yan off and, after waiting a bit for her delayed flight to take off, I sadly drive all by myself to Franschhoek in the late afternoon. Check-in at the Auberge Clermont was supposed to by at 7:00pm. I honestly had overlooked that detail on the reservation form but they gently remind me at 7:15 that check-in time is past but they will extend me the courtesy of waiting until 7:30. Because of the delay there is no way I am going to make even that deadline, so I am told that I am welcome to come later if I don't mind that the reception will be closed and only the night watchman will be there to see me to my room. No choice, I am on the road by 8:00 pm.
It's a bit eery to drive at night in the countryside. The roads are good but there is very little lighting and virtually no one around. Well, almost no one: as soon as I leave the city I witness a nasty brawl by the roadside among half a dozen big black guys who scream and yell and throw punches at each other.
I hope my night watchman is there when I arrive and have to get off the car to ring the bell. Night watchman, in Dutch speaking country, I instinctively think of Rembrandt's masterpiece. Well it won't be nearly as grand but the very black and unDutch watchman will be there for me and do his job and then some.
When I finally make it to the hotel, all the lights are off and the gate is shut. I am not really at ease as I get off the car in the dark and start ringing the bell a few times. After about ten minutes I am welcomed by the night watchman who kindly shows me to the parking lot and helps carry my bags to the room in the second floor attic where I will spend the next few days.
Time to go to sleep, but not before reading the traveler's poem which I find on my pillow, written in a delicate almost translucent rollof paper and tied with a straw string.
As we walk in the Aquarium Yan and I are painted with magic ink mark on our wrist so we can go in and out all day. Unfortunately that won't be possible as Yan has to catch a flight home to China in the afternoon.
Of the many tanks and pools we saw, ranging from the cute to the impressive to the most bizarre, the huge tank with turtles and sharks is what I enjoyed the most. There is an elaborate weekly feeding schedule for the fish and turtles here and we happend to be there when Kevin is scheduled to drop bit and pieces of fish to feed the pelagic animals who circle around the thick glass (really thick, as is 25 centimeters!) in anticipation.
There are a few microphone problems so that the master of ceremonies down with the public can't talk to Kevin who is ready on top but in the end it is all sorted out and we can witness some voracious fish dart around to grab their food. Kids seem to enjoy the touch pools, where they can stroke rays, more than anything else.
Final walk through the waterfront. Yan buys me another pair of shorts with countless pockets, the kind of Indiana Jones style clothes I have grown to love most. South Africa is a paradise for outdoor gear and clothing: good quality stuff and very very reasonable prices.
For our final lunch together in Cape Town we head to the Food Market, which is just steps away from the shops and the aquarium.There is so much variety of food from all over the world it is hard to choose. "Ho fame!", says Yan with impeccable pronunciation, it's her second favorite Italian phrase. (Her favorite one is "Ho molta fame!") She has some Chinese noodle served bya smiling Taiwanese lady while I grab a refreshing frozen yoghurt with walnut topping.But the main feature of our lunch will be fresh oysters which we buy from the "Oyster Lady", a small stand run by a lovely superblack lady that sells only oysters, excellent fresh South African oysters for what is to us a cheap price.
No drinks, no bread, nothing: just oyesters and oh yes some lemon. Not to be missed in the Waterfront Food Market if you like oysters.
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| Oyster lady |
I drop Yan off and, after waiting a bit for her delayed flight to take off, I sadly drive all by myself to Franschhoek in the late afternoon. Check-in at the Auberge Clermont was supposed to by at 7:00pm. I honestly had overlooked that detail on the reservation form but they gently remind me at 7:15 that check-in time is past but they will extend me the courtesy of waiting until 7:30. Because of the delay there is no way I am going to make even that deadline, so I am told that I am welcome to come later if I don't mind that the reception will be closed and only the night watchman will be there to see me to my room. No choice, I am on the road by 8:00 pm.
It's a bit eery to drive at night in the countryside. The roads are good but there is very little lighting and virtually no one around. Well, almost no one: as soon as I leave the city I witness a nasty brawl by the roadside among half a dozen big black guys who scream and yell and throw punches at each other.
I hope my night watchman is there when I arrive and have to get off the car to ring the bell. Night watchman, in Dutch speaking country, I instinctively think of Rembrandt's masterpiece. Well it won't be nearly as grand but the very black and unDutch watchman will be there for me and do his job and then some.
When I finally make it to the hotel, all the lights are off and the gate is shut. I am not really at ease as I get off the car in the dark and start ringing the bell a few times. After about ten minutes I am welcomed by the night watchman who kindly shows me to the parking lot and helps carry my bags to the room in the second floor attic where I will spend the next few days.
Time to go to sleep, but not before reading the traveler's poem which I find on my pillow, written in a delicate almost translucent rollof paper and tied with a straw string.
20 December 2013
14. - 20 Dec.: Cape Town tour and music
Tour of the city with Teddy, a big colored man in his mid-thirties who is passionate about his country and especially his city. He takes us around in his van, the two of us together with two Indian couples in their sixties from Delhi.
As he drives along he fills time with his personal anecdotes. A predictable but nonetheless moving one is his memory of the day Mandela was freed in 1990 and spoke to the crowd. It could have been the beginning of the end for the country. Blacks and coloreds were waiting for their day of revenge, or at least of payback. Teddy tells with still vibrant emotions that they were all waiting for a signal to go and get them... But Mandela spoke of peace and reconciliation, and South Africa lived.
He drops us off at the bottom of the cable car that will take us to the Table Top, the landmark mountain of Cape Town and Natural World Heritage Site of UNESCO. We are lucky today: not only is the weather great: sunny and just slightly breezy. But, most importantly, there is very little wind, and wind is the main reason why the service is shut down on most days. Now however the cable car runs with hurried alacrity, ferrying hundreds of people up and down the mountain.
Not only that: at the bottom station of the cable car, a huge bill board proudly announces that Table Top has been declared a wonder of the world. Well...
The view from the top is indeed stunning. Lots of people but enough space for everyone to enjoy his personal corner with Cape Town, Robben Island and the ocean as background.
As we continue our tour, a more interesting and unusual story we hear from Teddy as we drive by the city court house. It is that of his brother, whose skin is very fair. While they sahre the same parents, Teddy came out much darker. It happens. because of his whitish skin, his brother Henry was taken away from his family and sent to white orphanage. It was not considered acceptable for a "white" kid to be brought up in a colored family. Henry spent some time in the white orphanage, while their mother tried all possible legal recourse to have him back home. It took some years, but in the end she prevailed. That a mother had to go through all that ordeal to prove a kid was her own son highlights once more, if needed, the absurdity of the foundation upon which the apartheid regime was built.
Evening of jazz with Sobelo, of Flipsidetrails. He is a dynamic jolly good fellow who organizes special tours ...off the beaten track. We are going to spend the evening and the night with local jazz musicians.
Our first stop is at the home of Hilton Schilder, in a suburb of Cape Town that we reach after a 20-minute drive. Hilton and his wife welcome us at the door and we are led into their small but comfortable house. After we take our seats in the living room, in front of a grand piano, Hilton tells us a bit about his personal history.
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Hilton grew up in a musical family: he is the son of famous jazz pianist and band leader Tony Schilder. He was around when his dad’s jazz band rehearsed and secretly climbed on drummer Monty Weber´s drum kit when rehearsals were over. At the age of three he was given his first very own drum. From an early age he began to play in many different kinds of groups. There were jazz bands, Carnival troupes, disco bands, hip-hop groups and he was part of all of these in one way or another.
He now plays several instruments, though the keyboard is his main choice. Today he is playing an electric keyboard for us because his piano is out of tune.
In the 1980s he founded with Mac McKenzie The Genuines, which specialized in the music of the Cape Province Goema. He introduced experimental concept bands like African Dream and Iconoclast (with Victor Ntoni and Vusi Khumalo) to combine traditional South African music with contemporary genres. In addition, he led his own groups, he has performed with Festival on the Cape Town International Jazz, and went on tour with John Enders.
This band also performed in Germany, Holland and Italy. He has also performed solo in France. He was the driving force behind the band, Iconoclast, and he is a regular member of Robbie Jansen's, Sons of Table Mountain as well as substantial contributor to these groups' repertoire as a composer.
His first album under his own name No Turning Back (2003) was nominated in the category 'Best Contemporary Jazz Album' for a South African Music Award (SAMA). It offers a range of music from Cape Jazz, through rock/pop to electro ambient sounds. With Alex van Heerden, he founded the duo RockArt, the direction in acoustic and electronic jazz minimal moves and also appeared in Switzerland. With Mac McKenzie he has launched in recent years, projects such as Namakwa, the District Six band and The Goema Captains of Cape Town to life. In 2008 he was given the opportunity, his various activities as Artist in Residence in the Bird's Eye Jazz Club in Basel imagine
Hilton's cultural roots are ever evident in his work. He is intensely aware of his social and political surroundings. He describes himself as a "mind freedom fighter".He has also been a fighter against his liver cancer, which at one point seemed to have seriously threatened his life but from which he now seems to have recovered.
Finally, his eclectic personality spans over the visual arts as well. He like painting and has produced interesting etchings.
In the meantime his wife is putting the final touches on her meal. As many South Africans, they are of mixed blood and also mixed culinary heritage and tonight's fare blends some Malay flavors with more purely African meat and veggies.
A simple but delicious meal and when we are done it feels as if we'd been friends for ages. I am sure we'll meet again.
But the musical evening is not out: after leaving the Schilders at around 10:00pm, we head back to twon for the Mohogany room pub, where Shane Cooper and his famed double bass are playing with a small band of piano, sax and drums.
On the way, Sobelo slides a CD by Abdullah Ibrahim, another symbol of the country's music, into his car's player.
At the Mohogany Room we are welcomed by a pretty lady at the door. After paying our ticket we walk inside and take our seat a few rows away from the stage. After which we go and grab a drink. I go for my usual boring gin and tonic, but Yan is faithful to her Sex on the beach. As always, she is met by a giggle and a shaking of heads from the other side of the counter... The wooden chairs in the small room is packed with an audience of perhaps eighty, and quite a few more are standing by the walls. It is quite hot and stuffy but the rythms.
It is quite warm though a couple of A/C machines pour a cold avalanche of freezing air right on top of our heads. I love it despite the fact that my skull is no longer protected by hair, but Yan finds this artificial breeze annoying. I tell her that there is not much we can do, it is hot as it is and it would be unbearably stuffy if they turned it off, and plus can we ask the management to make everyone else sweat, including me, because she does not like A/C. But, as always, she has her way: during intermission she politely asks the lady at the counter if anything can be done and while I bury my head in my hands and look the other was the lady simply stops the A/C's swinging blades so that the cool air is now directed to the ceiling and not down to our heads. Simple.
When all of this is sorted out we can start enjoying our music. Shane Cooper, as often with double bass players in jazz, is a bit overshadowed by the piano, the drums and especially the sax. He does stand out in a couple of solo improvisations though, and his natural talent as well as his precise technique immediately strike me as out of the ordinary.
It's been a long day in Cape Town, and one to remember for a long time.
As he drives along he fills time with his personal anecdotes. A predictable but nonetheless moving one is his memory of the day Mandela was freed in 1990 and spoke to the crowd. It could have been the beginning of the end for the country. Blacks and coloreds were waiting for their day of revenge, or at least of payback. Teddy tells with still vibrant emotions that they were all waiting for a signal to go and get them... But Mandela spoke of peace and reconciliation, and South Africa lived.
He drops us off at the bottom of the cable car that will take us to the Table Top, the landmark mountain of Cape Town and Natural World Heritage Site of UNESCO. We are lucky today: not only is the weather great: sunny and just slightly breezy. But, most importantly, there is very little wind, and wind is the main reason why the service is shut down on most days. Now however the cable car runs with hurried alacrity, ferrying hundreds of people up and down the mountain.
Not only that: at the bottom station of the cable car, a huge bill board proudly announces that Table Top has been declared a wonder of the world. Well...
The view from the top is indeed stunning. Lots of people but enough space for everyone to enjoy his personal corner with Cape Town, Robben Island and the ocean as background.As we continue our tour, a more interesting and unusual story we hear from Teddy as we drive by the city court house. It is that of his brother, whose skin is very fair. While they sahre the same parents, Teddy came out much darker. It happens. because of his whitish skin, his brother Henry was taken away from his family and sent to white orphanage. It was not considered acceptable for a "white" kid to be brought up in a colored family. Henry spent some time in the white orphanage, while their mother tried all possible legal recourse to have him back home. It took some years, but in the end she prevailed. That a mother had to go through all that ordeal to prove a kid was her own son highlights once more, if needed, the absurdity of the foundation upon which the apartheid regime was built.
Evening of jazz with Sobelo, of Flipsidetrails. He is a dynamic jolly good fellow who organizes special tours ...off the beaten track. We are going to spend the evening and the night with local jazz musicians.
Our first stop is at the home of Hilton Schilder, in a suburb of Cape Town that we reach after a 20-minute drive. Hilton and his wife welcome us at the door and we are led into their small but comfortable house. After we take our seats in the living room, in front of a grand piano, Hilton tells us a bit about his personal history.
Hilton grew up in a musical family: he is the son of famous jazz pianist and band leader Tony Schilder. He was around when his dad’s jazz band rehearsed and secretly climbed on drummer Monty Weber´s drum kit when rehearsals were over. At the age of three he was given his first very own drum. From an early age he began to play in many different kinds of groups. There were jazz bands, Carnival troupes, disco bands, hip-hop groups and he was part of all of these in one way or another.
He now plays several instruments, though the keyboard is his main choice. Today he is playing an electric keyboard for us because his piano is out of tune.
In the 1980s he founded with Mac McKenzie The Genuines, which specialized in the music of the Cape Province Goema. He introduced experimental concept bands like African Dream and Iconoclast (with Victor Ntoni and Vusi Khumalo) to combine traditional South African music with contemporary genres. In addition, he led his own groups, he has performed with Festival on the Cape Town International Jazz, and went on tour with John Enders.
This band also performed in Germany, Holland and Italy. He has also performed solo in France. He was the driving force behind the band, Iconoclast, and he is a regular member of Robbie Jansen's, Sons of Table Mountain as well as substantial contributor to these groups' repertoire as a composer.
His first album under his own name No Turning Back (2003) was nominated in the category 'Best Contemporary Jazz Album' for a South African Music Award (SAMA). It offers a range of music from Cape Jazz, through rock/pop to electro ambient sounds. With Alex van Heerden, he founded the duo RockArt, the direction in acoustic and electronic jazz minimal moves and also appeared in Switzerland. With Mac McKenzie he has launched in recent years, projects such as Namakwa, the District Six band and The Goema Captains of Cape Town to life. In 2008 he was given the opportunity, his various activities as Artist in Residence in the Bird's Eye Jazz Club in Basel imagine
Hilton's cultural roots are ever evident in his work. He is intensely aware of his social and political surroundings. He describes himself as a "mind freedom fighter".He has also been a fighter against his liver cancer, which at one point seemed to have seriously threatened his life but from which he now seems to have recovered.
Finally, his eclectic personality spans over the visual arts as well. He like painting and has produced interesting etchings.
 |
| by Hilton Schilder |
In the meantime his wife is putting the final touches on her meal. As many South Africans, they are of mixed blood and also mixed culinary heritage and tonight's fare blends some Malay flavors with more purely African meat and veggies.A simple but delicious meal and when we are done it feels as if we'd been friends for ages. I am sure we'll meet again.
But the musical evening is not out: after leaving the Schilders at around 10:00pm, we head back to twon for the Mohogany room pub, where Shane Cooper and his famed double bass are playing with a small band of piano, sax and drums.
On the way, Sobelo slides a CD by Abdullah Ibrahim, another symbol of the country's music, into his car's player.
At the Mohogany Room we are welcomed by a pretty lady at the door. After paying our ticket we walk inside and take our seat a few rows away from the stage. After which we go and grab a drink. I go for my usual boring gin and tonic, but Yan is faithful to her Sex on the beach. As always, she is met by a giggle and a shaking of heads from the other side of the counter... The wooden chairs in the small room is packed with an audience of perhaps eighty, and quite a few more are standing by the walls. It is quite hot and stuffy but the rythms.
 |
| Shane Cooper |
It is quite warm though a couple of A/C machines pour a cold avalanche of freezing air right on top of our heads. I love it despite the fact that my skull is no longer protected by hair, but Yan finds this artificial breeze annoying. I tell her that there is not much we can do, it is hot as it is and it would be unbearably stuffy if they turned it off, and plus can we ask the management to make everyone else sweat, including me, because she does not like A/C. But, as always, she has her way: during intermission she politely asks the lady at the counter if anything can be done and while I bury my head in my hands and look the other was the lady simply stops the A/C's swinging blades so that the cool air is now directed to the ceiling and not down to our heads. Simple.
When all of this is sorted out we can start enjoying our music. Shane Cooper, as often with double bass players in jazz, is a bit overshadowed by the piano, the drums and especially the sax. He does stand out in a couple of solo improvisations though, and his natural talent as well as his precise technique immediately strike me as out of the ordinary.
It's been a long day in Cape Town, and one to remember for a long time.
19 December 2013
13. - 19 Dec.: Swellendam to Cape Town, through Stellenbosch
After another pantagruelic breakfast we head off for a walk in town. Swellendam is a quaint little place, but it is doaked in history as it is one of the very oldest towns in South Africa. The fourth oldest to be precise, and it retains its old charm even if modern shopping malls are popping up along the main street, which would otherwise very much look like a Western American desert town.
A little shopping and a few photographs to the beautiful orthensia that dot the streets and we drive to Stellenbosch. An easy drive, mostly downhill, heading straight for the Cape.
We reach Stellenbosch at about 4:00pm but again, like for the ostrich farm, the first vineyard we visit, ... is about to close down. A guard at the door comes walking towards us as we approach the gates of the tasting rooms after parking in the huge lot between the road and the vines. He is polite and smiling. In fact I get the feeling he is a bit bored and welcomes the chance to do something and talk to someone. No chance to taste anything here today, he says, they are closing down for the day. I'll be in the region for a few days but this is Yan's last chance for a good tasting of South African nectar before she heads back home. Time for Plan B.
I have a quick look at the various guidebooks in the car and we decide our best chance for a tasting of South African wine before dinner sits at the "L'avenir" ("the future" in French) farm. You can't really see L'avenir from the road unless you spot a board by their main gate. You then have to drive a small winding path seemingly in the middle of nowhere until you reach the farm.
Why "L'Avenir"? Why a French name in the middle of a country that boasts eleven official languages, of which nine are African and two (English and Afrikaans) are anglo-saxon? It's because of the immigration of French Huguenots escaping persecution by the Catholics in the 16th and 17th century France. The found refuge in many Protestant European and North American countries, and a few hundred families ended up in the Dutch Cape Colony. Here they were put to make wine. And today more than 90% of all South African wine is produced by the descendants of the Huguenots.
It is a purely bucholic setting, a small farmhouse in a gently sloping garden and, a few hunder meters away, the vines. We take a table outside and are attended to by Katie, a new girl in the farm, it's her first day on the job in fact. Katie is a college student who makes some extra money for her studies. We taste a half dozen whites and red in the garden, in a idyllic setting but for a worker with a very loud lawn mower who is doing his thing just in front of us. Luckily after some 15 minutes he is done and moves on, leaving us with the tranquillity of a setting sun, blus sky, green rows of ripening grapes and our wines.
With most of our senses sated we head out to drive to Cape Town, where we reach our hotel by the Waterfront. Dinner is at "The Greek Fishermen". Great fish soup, intense aroma and thick creamy texture, one of the best ever, and it would have been enough for a meal. But we are tempted by their seafood platter, expecting one of those imposing round trays with piles of shell fish and crustaceans on a think bed of ice. What we get, however is not much, is all cooked and not really exciting to the taste buds. Oh well.
Patrons here are mostly, though not exclusively, white, while waiting staff is mostly black or "colored", as they call mixed race people here. The Waterfront is the pulsating heart of international Cape Town, with upmarket restaurants, smart stores and an uninterrupted flow of tourists, both domestic and international.
A little shopping and a few photographs to the beautiful orthensia that dot the streets and we drive to Stellenbosch. An easy drive, mostly downhill, heading straight for the Cape.
We reach Stellenbosch at about 4:00pm but again, like for the ostrich farm, the first vineyard we visit, ... is about to close down. A guard at the door comes walking towards us as we approach the gates of the tasting rooms after parking in the huge lot between the road and the vines. He is polite and smiling. In fact I get the feeling he is a bit bored and welcomes the chance to do something and talk to someone. No chance to taste anything here today, he says, they are closing down for the day. I'll be in the region for a few days but this is Yan's last chance for a good tasting of South African nectar before she heads back home. Time for Plan B.
I have a quick look at the various guidebooks in the car and we decide our best chance for a tasting of South African wine before dinner sits at the "L'avenir" ("the future" in French) farm. You can't really see L'avenir from the road unless you spot a board by their main gate. You then have to drive a small winding path seemingly in the middle of nowhere until you reach the farm.
Why "L'Avenir"? Why a French name in the middle of a country that boasts eleven official languages, of which nine are African and two (English and Afrikaans) are anglo-saxon? It's because of the immigration of French Huguenots escaping persecution by the Catholics in the 16th and 17th century France. The found refuge in many Protestant European and North American countries, and a few hundred families ended up in the Dutch Cape Colony. Here they were put to make wine. And today more than 90% of all South African wine is produced by the descendants of the Huguenots.
It is a purely bucholic setting, a small farmhouse in a gently sloping garden and, a few hunder meters away, the vines. We take a table outside and are attended to by Katie, a new girl in the farm, it's her first day on the job in fact. Katie is a college student who makes some extra money for her studies. We taste a half dozen whites and red in the garden, in a idyllic setting but for a worker with a very loud lawn mower who is doing his thing just in front of us. Luckily after some 15 minutes he is done and moves on, leaving us with the tranquillity of a setting sun, blus sky, green rows of ripening grapes and our wines.
 |
| Grapes at l'Avenir are slowly maturing |
With most of our senses sated we head out to drive to Cape Town, where we reach our hotel by the Waterfront. Dinner is at "The Greek Fishermen". Great fish soup, intense aroma and thick creamy texture, one of the best ever, and it would have been enough for a meal. But we are tempted by their seafood platter, expecting one of those imposing round trays with piles of shell fish and crustaceans on a think bed of ice. What we get, however is not much, is all cooked and not really exciting to the taste buds. Oh well.
Patrons here are mostly, though not exclusively, white, while waiting staff is mostly black or "colored", as they call mixed race people here. The Waterfront is the pulsating heart of international Cape Town, with upmarket restaurants, smart stores and an uninterrupted flow of tourists, both domestic and international.
18 December 2013
12. - 18 Dec.: Swellendam kayak and sherry
Great breakfast, one of those you remember, and I am picky with breakfast! Lots of freshly squeezed juices make for a great welcome.
Italian songs from a half a century ago or so gently fill the atmosphere in the background. In particular, they keep playing "Tu vuoi fa l'americano", a song by Neopolitan Renato Carosone that was released in 1956. In fact, I will hear this song in several lounges and breakfast rooms during this trip. Not sure why, but it seems to have made a more long lasting impression here than in Italy, where it has long since forgotten and is hardly ever played in public spaces. If you've missed until now, you can listen to it here.
Trip to the dam for canoe. I asked the waitres of our hotel for directions to the Swellendam lake, but she kept referringto the "dam". That's how they call artificial lakes that are formed as a result Sunny and pleasant but a bit windy. Lots of tents around the artifical lake created by the dam.
So Yan drive off satiated by a and musically enriched by Renato Carosone and soon we find ourselves driving by what does indeed look like a fairly good size prison, with fences barbed wire and everything you would expect from a prison. Yet, somehow, a prison does not fit in this pristine and wild environment that is a celebration of freedom and wildlife.
We get lost, our navigator can't find the way, until we stop by a road block and ask a few friendly policewomen who ask a male colleague who apparently lives there and in no time we are on our (correct) way. As we get there it gets again a bit confusing as the camp is quite large and there is no indication where the canoes are, but with some persistent trial and error we get there! We are welcomed by Kelly, who tells us it's 100 rands for the canoe we can pay on our way out . She kindly gives us some sun screen when we ask and we are ready to paddle.
We choose a two seater kayak over two separate ones. In the water we start easy downwind, but soon we are at the other end of the lake, oops, of the dam, and working our way back upwind requires a fairly strenuous effort.
Some kids make merry on a floating platform moored in a crevice in the rock. We are about to ask them if we can join, but in the end we prefer to sit back and enjoy the sunshine in our face.
Dinner again in villa. Colonial feeling of luxury of old. Tonight we take and share the quail again and for contrast we gor for salmon. Both superbly prepared and served with delicate vegetables that fit the bill perfectly. Again a South African red wine helps wash it all down.
After dinner Yan and I decide to sit down in the living room, by the fire place. Sherry and port wines are available for a small charge and it's basically all you can drink, at least I did not see anyone check. Not that we wanted more than a small glass. David, a bubbly young black man who waited on us at the restaurant, comes to stoke the fire and ask if we need anything. This mellow experience we share with an elderly German couple who speak good English. He is a retired Mercedes Benz manager, and they are driving pretty much the same road we are.
After the German couple politely excuse themselves to go to sleep, David comes again to stoke the fire. We strike a polite conversation but he gets very excited when I tell him I am a writer. Well not a household name of a writer exactly, I hasten to add, I used to write about international politics and nuclear weapons but now prefer to concentrate on travelogues. He seems overwhelmed.
"Do you mean I now know a real writer?" he says with his eyes wide open. I am not sure what to make of it. He asks what my latest book is about and I tell him, it is on the Maldive islands. He'd like to see it and I offer to show it to him, but it's only in Italian. (Again, my mistake not to write it in English.) He says it does not matter, he's love to see it. So with immense pleasure I find myself almost blushing at someone asking to see my book. Not a friend, not a relative, but a perfect stranger who can't even read it. In the morning I'll present him with a signed copy and wait patiently for some feedback that will never come.
Italian songs from a half a century ago or so gently fill the atmosphere in the background. In particular, they keep playing "Tu vuoi fa l'americano", a song by Neopolitan Renato Carosone that was released in 1956. In fact, I will hear this song in several lounges and breakfast rooms during this trip. Not sure why, but it seems to have made a more long lasting impression here than in Italy, where it has long since forgotten and is hardly ever played in public spaces. If you've missed until now, you can listen to it here.
Trip to the dam for canoe. I asked the waitres of our hotel for directions to the Swellendam lake, but she kept referringto the "dam". That's how they call artificial lakes that are formed as a result Sunny and pleasant but a bit windy. Lots of tents around the artifical lake created by the dam.
So Yan drive off satiated by a and musically enriched by Renato Carosone and soon we find ourselves driving by what does indeed look like a fairly good size prison, with fences barbed wire and everything you would expect from a prison. Yet, somehow, a prison does not fit in this pristine and wild environment that is a celebration of freedom and wildlife.
We get lost, our navigator can't find the way, until we stop by a road block and ask a few friendly policewomen who ask a male colleague who apparently lives there and in no time we are on our (correct) way. As we get there it gets again a bit confusing as the camp is quite large and there is no indication where the canoes are, but with some persistent trial and error we get there! We are welcomed by Kelly, who tells us it's 100 rands for the canoe we can pay on our way out . She kindly gives us some sun screen when we ask and we are ready to paddle.
We choose a two seater kayak over two separate ones. In the water we start easy downwind, but soon we are at the other end of the lake, oops, of the dam, and working our way back upwind requires a fairly strenuous effort.
Some kids make merry on a floating platform moored in a crevice in the rock. We are about to ask them if we can join, but in the end we prefer to sit back and enjoy the sunshine in our face.
Dinner again in villa. Colonial feeling of luxury of old. Tonight we take and share the quail again and for contrast we gor for salmon. Both superbly prepared and served with delicate vegetables that fit the bill perfectly. Again a South African red wine helps wash it all down.
After dinner Yan and I decide to sit down in the living room, by the fire place. Sherry and port wines are available for a small charge and it's basically all you can drink, at least I did not see anyone check. Not that we wanted more than a small glass. David, a bubbly young black man who waited on us at the restaurant, comes to stoke the fire and ask if we need anything. This mellow experience we share with an elderly German couple who speak good English. He is a retired Mercedes Benz manager, and they are driving pretty much the same road we are.
After the German couple politely excuse themselves to go to sleep, David comes again to stoke the fire. We strike a polite conversation but he gets very excited when I tell him I am a writer. Well not a household name of a writer exactly, I hasten to add, I used to write about international politics and nuclear weapons but now prefer to concentrate on travelogues. He seems overwhelmed.
"Do you mean I now know a real writer?" he says with his eyes wide open. I am not sure what to make of it. He asks what my latest book is about and I tell him, it is on the Maldive islands. He'd like to see it and I offer to show it to him, but it's only in Italian. (Again, my mistake not to write it in English.) He says it does not matter, he's love to see it. So with immense pleasure I find myself almost blushing at someone asking to see my book. Not a friend, not a relative, but a perfect stranger who can't even read it. In the morning I'll present him with a signed copy and wait patiently for some feedback that will never come.
17 December 2013
11. - 17 Dec.: Knysna properties and drive through the mountains to Swellendam
Get up and breakfast in Mike's terrace. It has been too short, these four days in Knysna flew by so fast. The view in front of us here is spectacular, so is the house behind us. We don't want to leave but there is so much more to experience during the rest of our time in South Africa.
We talk about real estate, it would be fun to invest and spend some time here every year. Just for fun, we look at a house on sale. A newly renovated townhouse with two bedrooms, a good size living room and a huge kitcken with a dining area. Asking price is 1.2 mill rand, about 70k euro, negotiable. OK the Rand is weak this year but this won't buy you more than a parking spot in Rome.
We take some final pictures with Mike and his classy and nostalgic Merc SL convertible. He chose to have his name on the number plate to make it even more persona. Time to go.
Today we are heading west, toward Swellendam. Mike come with us part of the way, until Sedgefield, a small town on the coast about half-way between Knysna and George. We are going to have lunch with a friend of his who is building shopping malls all over Africa and wants to talk to Yan about Chinese business. As everywhere else in the world, the Chinese are pouring into South Africa, both to buy (raw materials mainly) and to sell (pretty much everything). They also want to invest the immense capital that they have accumulated over the last decades of break-neck export growth.
Easy drive to Swellendam. We don't take the shortest route toward Cape Town, but instead opt for climing up the mountain and enjoy the incontaminated landscapes of the interior. Several hours of infinite emptiness. Reminds me of Nevada, or Arizona.
We miss our chance for an ostrich ride by ten minutes at Oudtshoorn as they close at 4 in afternoon. This region is known for its ostrich and yan wanted to ride one. Oh well. I would not have been able to anyway as I just exceed the maximum allowed weight (I won't say what that is).
By the evening we reach Schoone Oordt Countryhouse, a well appointed boutique hotel in an old colonial house. Old style but classy property ran by a couple from Cape Town that bought a dilapidated manor about ten years ago and made it into their lifetime project. Big room, bed with posts and a fireplace which we actually enjoy in the evening before going to bed. Or while in bed for that matter. It is a bit of time travelling.
Dinner in the villa. Very few choices in their menu which does not change for the week, but they are all excellent. Quail for me and salmon for Yan. They politely suggest that, tomorrow, we may want to try another restaurant in town. They are not really a restaurant, not yet anyway, as they mostly cater to hotel guests. By the end of the dinner Yan and I agree we don't really need another restaurant tomorrow, we will come back here. A bottle of mellow and fruity Pinotage 2013 by African Java provides the necessary lubrication for all of the above.
And this is the official celebration of my birthday, for which we get complimentary dessert :)
We talk about real estate, it would be fun to invest and spend some time here every year. Just for fun, we look at a house on sale. A newly renovated townhouse with two bedrooms, a good size living room and a huge kitcken with a dining area. Asking price is 1.2 mill rand, about 70k euro, negotiable. OK the Rand is weak this year but this won't buy you more than a parking spot in Rome.
We take some final pictures with Mike and his classy and nostalgic Merc SL convertible. He chose to have his name on the number plate to make it even more persona. Time to go.
Today we are heading west, toward Swellendam. Mike come with us part of the way, until Sedgefield, a small town on the coast about half-way between Knysna and George. We are going to have lunch with a friend of his who is building shopping malls all over Africa and wants to talk to Yan about Chinese business. As everywhere else in the world, the Chinese are pouring into South Africa, both to buy (raw materials mainly) and to sell (pretty much everything). They also want to invest the immense capital that they have accumulated over the last decades of break-neck export growth.
Easy drive to Swellendam. We don't take the shortest route toward Cape Town, but instead opt for climing up the mountain and enjoy the incontaminated landscapes of the interior. Several hours of infinite emptiness. Reminds me of Nevada, or Arizona.
We miss our chance for an ostrich ride by ten minutes at Oudtshoorn as they close at 4 in afternoon. This region is known for its ostrich and yan wanted to ride one. Oh well. I would not have been able to anyway as I just exceed the maximum allowed weight (I won't say what that is).
By the evening we reach Schoone Oordt Countryhouse, a well appointed boutique hotel in an old colonial house. Old style but classy property ran by a couple from Cape Town that bought a dilapidated manor about ten years ago and made it into their lifetime project. Big room, bed with posts and a fireplace which we actually enjoy in the evening before going to bed. Or while in bed for that matter. It is a bit of time travelling.
Dinner in the villa. Very few choices in their menu which does not change for the week, but they are all excellent. Quail for me and salmon for Yan. They politely suggest that, tomorrow, we may want to try another restaurant in town. They are not really a restaurant, not yet anyway, as they mostly cater to hotel guests. By the end of the dinner Yan and I agree we don't really need another restaurant tomorrow, we will come back here. A bottle of mellow and fruity Pinotage 2013 by African Java provides the necessary lubrication for all of the above.
And this is the official celebration of my birthday, for which we get complimentary dessert :)
16 December 2013
10. - 16 Dec.: Knysna golf and dining
Tour of downtown Knysna. It's a wonderful late Spring day and it is obvious that Summer is knocking at the door. Lots of people strolling about, eating in the numerious terraces, drinking and shopping. Inevitable in an upmarket area like this, most shoppers and diners are white while many of the workers are black.
As I walk aimlessly around I meet a painter of dogs. A man in his mid-sixties perhaps, kind of short (even by my own 1.69 cm standards) and sporting a long graying beard almost down to his chest. His thick mustache do not completely hide a sweet greagarious smile. A pair of rectangular glasses with a thin frame combine very appropriately with a black beret to produce a perfect blend between a carefree XIX century bohémienne and a modern alternative street artist.
Yes, Teddy is a painter of dogs. He has a dog with him, a small hairy dog called Jock. I know the dog's name because it carries a bright golden badge around its neck with the owner's phone number, in case it should get lost. Teddy paints Jock a lot, it is his main subject, but he also paints other dogs. Occasionally, he paints something else, mostly when he gets motivated by a commission for a specific subject, he told me. But dogs is what he likes to paint.
Just a few steps from his position a couple of sturdy guys are playing their guitars while singing country music. It is a rich mix of Southern country, with some occasional blue-grass overtones, and other local street music. They both wear black T-shirts, a thin necklace, dark sun glasses and a hat that reminds me of Indiana Jones.
Our walk continues to the local supermarket, where Yan and I fall in love with the most colorful baskets of tropical fruits. You can buy it as it comes from the tree, or for a small premium they will serve it nice and peeled in small trays. Prices are incredibly low, at least for our strong Euro, but Yan tells me these delicacies would be far more expensive even in Beijing.
Afternoon back to golf practice. Trying to hit the ball into a more or less straight trajectory toward some flags planted at varying distances into a huge field. I aim at the 50 and 75 meters flags, with mixed results, but who cares? Mike, Lifang and I have a fun and relaxing time while the sun gently sets behind us.
Dinner with local friends at Cafe Mario by the Waterfront. There are no black or colored patrons. My local friends say it's normal because blacks like different food and each of the peoples of South Africa keep to the company of their own kind. Just like Germans and Italians. Well, maybe. It is true, when I live abroad I tend to have more Italian friends than others. But here other considerations come into play: safety, a backlog of racial distrust, if not hatred, that has not yet been completely overcome.
I ask them a question that I will ask a number of times when talking with white South Africans old enough to remember apartheid. The question is: All whites now say they are for racial equality, but what did you think then? (Actually not all whites would agree, there are yet some factions of overtly racist white South Africans, but they are marginal.)
The answer I get today is that they did not know much of what was going on during apartheid because there was no tv in South Africa until the 1980s and a strong censorship prevented news from spreading even within the country and even among rich whites. It is true that there was no TV in South Africa until very late, it started broadcasting only in 1976 to be precise, and then only one channel was available and it was strictly controlled by the government.
And yet I find it hard to believe they did not know, there was so much noise around the world, they certainly knew of Archbishop Tutu winning the Nobel peace prize in 1984 for his anti-apartheid activities. I come out of this conversation with a belief that while most whites were, and are, honestly open and not racist, they acquiesced with apartheid at least, and feared change.
In a way this reminds me of Italy and Fascism: most of my compatriots supported it as long as it was successful and made them feel special, but after 1945 it was virtually impossible to find anyone who would admit to having been a Fascist. And of course many claimed a role in the Resistance, just like many South Africans now say they operated to end apartheid for what they could and were never racist to begin with.
Be that as it may, the restaurant serves very good, real Italian, ossobuco, the best I can remember having outside my beloved peninsula! Italy is well known here for the food, of course, but not for much else. My friends are an exception: they are highly sophisticated lovers of the arts and know Rome as well as any bona fide civis romanus.
When I ask, however, I am surprised no one remembers another Italian who made South Africa known around the world in the 1970s: Marcello Fiasconaro who almost accidentally broke the world record for the 800 meters wearing the blue Italian shirt with a tricolor in the middle. The world record was gone three years later but the Italian record still stands forty years later and counting...
Back home, just after midnight, Mike pops a bottle of bubbles. It is now 17 December and it is officially the day of my 54th birthday.
As I walk aimlessly around I meet a painter of dogs. A man in his mid-sixties perhaps, kind of short (even by my own 1.69 cm standards) and sporting a long graying beard almost down to his chest. His thick mustache do not completely hide a sweet greagarious smile. A pair of rectangular glasses with a thin frame combine very appropriately with a black beret to produce a perfect blend between a carefree XIX century bohémienne and a modern alternative street artist.
Yes, Teddy is a painter of dogs. He has a dog with him, a small hairy dog called Jock. I know the dog's name because it carries a bright golden badge around its neck with the owner's phone number, in case it should get lost. Teddy paints Jock a lot, it is his main subject, but he also paints other dogs. Occasionally, he paints something else, mostly when he gets motivated by a commission for a specific subject, he told me. But dogs is what he likes to paint.
Just a few steps from his position a couple of sturdy guys are playing their guitars while singing country music. It is a rich mix of Southern country, with some occasional blue-grass overtones, and other local street music. They both wear black T-shirts, a thin necklace, dark sun glasses and a hat that reminds me of Indiana Jones.
Our walk continues to the local supermarket, where Yan and I fall in love with the most colorful baskets of tropical fruits. You can buy it as it comes from the tree, or for a small premium they will serve it nice and peeled in small trays. Prices are incredibly low, at least for our strong Euro, but Yan tells me these delicacies would be far more expensive even in Beijing.
Afternoon back to golf practice. Trying to hit the ball into a more or less straight trajectory toward some flags planted at varying distances into a huge field. I aim at the 50 and 75 meters flags, with mixed results, but who cares? Mike, Lifang and I have a fun and relaxing time while the sun gently sets behind us.
Dinner with local friends at Cafe Mario by the Waterfront. There are no black or colored patrons. My local friends say it's normal because blacks like different food and each of the peoples of South Africa keep to the company of their own kind. Just like Germans and Italians. Well, maybe. It is true, when I live abroad I tend to have more Italian friends than others. But here other considerations come into play: safety, a backlog of racial distrust, if not hatred, that has not yet been completely overcome.
I ask them a question that I will ask a number of times when talking with white South Africans old enough to remember apartheid. The question is: All whites now say they are for racial equality, but what did you think then? (Actually not all whites would agree, there are yet some factions of overtly racist white South Africans, but they are marginal.)
The answer I get today is that they did not know much of what was going on during apartheid because there was no tv in South Africa until the 1980s and a strong censorship prevented news from spreading even within the country and even among rich whites. It is true that there was no TV in South Africa until very late, it started broadcasting only in 1976 to be precise, and then only one channel was available and it was strictly controlled by the government.
And yet I find it hard to believe they did not know, there was so much noise around the world, they certainly knew of Archbishop Tutu winning the Nobel peace prize in 1984 for his anti-apartheid activities. I come out of this conversation with a belief that while most whites were, and are, honestly open and not racist, they acquiesced with apartheid at least, and feared change.
In a way this reminds me of Italy and Fascism: most of my compatriots supported it as long as it was successful and made them feel special, but after 1945 it was virtually impossible to find anyone who would admit to having been a Fascist. And of course many claimed a role in the Resistance, just like many South Africans now say they operated to end apartheid for what they could and were never racist to begin with.
Be that as it may, the restaurant serves very good, real Italian, ossobuco, the best I can remember having outside my beloved peninsula! Italy is well known here for the food, of course, but not for much else. My friends are an exception: they are highly sophisticated lovers of the arts and know Rome as well as any bona fide civis romanus.
When I ask, however, I am surprised no one remembers another Italian who made South Africa known around the world in the 1970s: Marcello Fiasconaro who almost accidentally broke the world record for the 800 meters wearing the blue Italian shirt with a tricolor in the middle. The world record was gone three years later but the Italian record still stands forty years later and counting...
Back home, just after midnight, Mike pops a bottle of bubbles. It is now 17 December and it is officially the day of my 54th birthday.
15 December 2013
9. - 15 Dec.: Knysna golf and spa
Mike then takes us for a town tour which is made even more enjoyable by the fact that we are driving is his vintage convertible Merc. Knysna is indeed an idyllic paradise and I have little difficulty understanding why many like to spend time here, especially the warmer months between November and April.
Another round of golf practice (yes I am getting addicted, I know because I get the first blisters on my hands and don't mind) and it's time for some shopping downtown. Great opportunities for outdoor clothing and equipment here. I am like a child in a candy store as all this khaki colored multipocketed garments are my favs. Besides being practical, they project my ego into endless Indiana Jones fantasies and make me feel less a tourist and more an explorer. Well, at least an eccentric travel writer.
In the afternoon massage Yan and I book a massage and steam room at the Conrad. We are given a twin room and get our muscles pain relieved by a couple of young South African ladies, one white and one black, both excellent masseuses.
Dinner (which was included in our massage package) is in the Conrad's terrace. The sun is setting behind a row of houses but it's still warm enough to keep our bleach-white robes on for the meal. As some point Yan feels a draft: because of an open door nearby the warm air from inside the building gets sucked out and blows over our table. Funny, usually a draft is only a problem if one is inside: and the ladies then ask to close the windows or doors. Superb cheese cake to close off the night.
14 December 2013
8. - 14 Dec.: Knysna golf and tour
Today we take it easy after the intense pace of the last few days. Breakfast at the Pezula golf club, sitting in a wide terrace under a blue sky. Full English breakfast with the most appropriate African enhancement of tropical fruits.
We then go and try some golf. It is my first time ever and I kind of like it. I can see how it can become addictive. Just try some putts for now. I am quite excited so I run to gather my balls after shooting my first set too far from the flag, only to be gently reprimanded by Mike who intructs me that one never runs on the golf course lest the impacts of fast feet landing on the delicate grass should dig holes that would distort the game. OK lesson learned.
We then drive around a bit and explore the Pezula property. About 400 hundred lots, some two thirds of which have beed developed into beautiful villas of various sizes. Eighteen golf holes naturally, plus all the infrastructure that makes this a world-class course. It seems that most owners, who are by right members of the Golf Club, don't even play golf at all, but enjoy the setting, the scenary and the company.
Dinner is at a family run restaurant downtown, Pembreys. Well appointed yet informal and warmly welcoming atmosphere, with excellent fish from the region, and of course Cape wines. The owners are Vivian and Peter Vadas, who besides their lives share a passion for Mediterranean and especially Italian cuisine. Their son Peter John has moved on but not before he absorbed his parents' dedication to high quality food, and recently has become the chef of a top notch restaurant near Cape Town. I opt for a pair of excellent Cape soles, nicely grilled and served with potato wedges.
Much to my own chagrin I decide not to drink nearly so much as I would like. Alcohol tests are apparently taken very seriously here and spending a night in a local prison (the usual penalty for speeding, it seems) is not my idea of an alternative, off-the-beaten-path journey through South Africa.
Another problem with driving home is that the speed limit changes every few hundred meters and, while I strive not to exceed it, Mike tells me not to go too much slower either, lest I become suspicious as the police think I can't cope with the allowed speed. It's a little stressful to keep within the narrow speed range that will keep the police away for either reason - I did drink a bit after all. But eventually we make it home in one piece and can cap off the night with a little grappa.
We then go and try some golf. It is my first time ever and I kind of like it. I can see how it can become addictive. Just try some putts for now. I am quite excited so I run to gather my balls after shooting my first set too far from the flag, only to be gently reprimanded by Mike who intructs me that one never runs on the golf course lest the impacts of fast feet landing on the delicate grass should dig holes that would distort the game. OK lesson learned.
 |
| My first ever golf ball |
We then drive around a bit and explore the Pezula property. About 400 hundred lots, some two thirds of which have beed developed into beautiful villas of various sizes. Eighteen golf holes naturally, plus all the infrastructure that makes this a world-class course. It seems that most owners, who are by right members of the Golf Club, don't even play golf at all, but enjoy the setting, the scenary and the company.
Dinner is at a family run restaurant downtown, Pembreys. Well appointed yet informal and warmly welcoming atmosphere, with excellent fish from the region, and of course Cape wines. The owners are Vivian and Peter Vadas, who besides their lives share a passion for Mediterranean and especially Italian cuisine. Their son Peter John has moved on but not before he absorbed his parents' dedication to high quality food, and recently has become the chef of a top notch restaurant near Cape Town. I opt for a pair of excellent Cape soles, nicely grilled and served with potato wedges.
Much to my own chagrin I decide not to drink nearly so much as I would like. Alcohol tests are apparently taken very seriously here and spending a night in a local prison (the usual penalty for speeding, it seems) is not my idea of an alternative, off-the-beaten-path journey through South Africa.
Another problem with driving home is that the speed limit changes every few hundred meters and, while I strive not to exceed it, Mike tells me not to go too much slower either, lest I become suspicious as the police think I can't cope with the allowed speed. It's a little stressful to keep within the narrow speed range that will keep the police away for either reason - I did drink a bit after all. But eventually we make it home in one piece and can cap off the night with a little grappa.
13 December 2013
7. - 13 Dec.: Schotia Game reserve to Knysna, via Elephant Back Ride Safari
Get up at the crack of dawn (well almost, it must have been 6:30am) for a quick (wood fire heated) shower in the open, an instant coffee and an early morning walking safari in the hills around our tents. Justin is there as promised and so is the Washington couple we met yesterday.
We start slowly and enjoy the cool early morning air but no animals in sight. The Washington lady jogs around and gets way ahead of the rest of us but suddenly grinds to a halt when in sight of the two huge mammals. Rhinos! Two big white rhinos, buth sadly dehorned by poachers in May 2013.
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We can get very close. Maybe a bit too close when Justin tells me to freeze as I drop to the ground to photograph from down up and one rhino puts its big lips on the ground within two meters from the tip of my lens. Great pictures though!
After breakfast we drive to Lenmore, a restaurant not far and our meeting point with Walter, from elephant back ride safari. Yan insisted on doing this and while I was initially a bit reluctant as we have a lot of driving today and lots to see on the way, she was right as this turned out to be a unique experience.
From Lenmore it is a long drive, over one hour on a highway then 45 minutes of a dirt road with potholes the size of bomb craters. We are pretty shattered when we get to the reserve but thrilled with anticipation.
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Walter tells us he used to work here but then changed jobs to driver because too remote wants to be with family. Proudly show his name and number still on gate. He now takes cigarettes and other stuff to the staff at the camp who don't see civilization for weeks on end.
There are three elephants, and they always go together even if there are no clients. We rent two elephants and the third just follows... We start a bit late: while the elephants are tamed, they are free to roam around and to gather them for the tourist ride is not always a five minute affair.
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It's a lot of fun to ride them, and it is as natural as it gets: no saddles or seats, just our bums on their bare back. Walter smiles when we say we'd like to ride longer than the standard half an hour: "You'll bruise your behind raw!" After 45 minutes we realize he was right, but it was worth it!
At the end of our ride we get a tasty lunch by a small lake, and then all start our way back over the bomb craters to Lenmore and our car.
Time to drive to Knysna, which we reach after an easy five hour drive on the N2, the long coastal road that runs along South Africa's maritime regions.
Dinner is at the Golf club with Mike, a German friend of mine who used to be my neighbor in Belgium. Rather an ex German I should say: he moved to Italy from his native country when he was very young, married Carla, a bright and beautiful Italian lady he met at work, and lived and worked around the world ever since. Ten years ago he retired and they decided to abolish Fall and Winter from their vocabulary: May to October in Italy, and November to April in South Africa, where of course the seasons are inverted. Carla sadly passed away a few years ago but Mike keeps his seasonal hybernation routine.
There is a birthday party going on and the main dining room is taken. Crowds of all-white friends singing South Africa's national anthem. I am especially struck by their singing the rifst lines in Xhosa: Nkosi sikelele Afrika... A song full of meaning, especially when sung by whites. The new South Africa.
No fear: we get table in the main hall, between the kitchen and the bar. Delicions seafood, nice full bodied Chardonnay from the Cape (beer for Mike) and a very forgiving check. The strong Euro buys a pretty good time in South Africa this year.
We start slowly and enjoy the cool early morning air but no animals in sight. The Washington lady jogs around and gets way ahead of the rest of us but suddenly grinds to a halt when in sight of the two huge mammals. Rhinos! Two big white rhinos, buth sadly dehorned by poachers in May 2013.
We can get very close. Maybe a bit too close when Justin tells me to freeze as I drop to the ground to photograph from down up and one rhino puts its big lips on the ground within two meters from the tip of my lens. Great pictures though!
After breakfast we drive to Lenmore, a restaurant not far and our meeting point with Walter, from elephant back ride safari. Yan insisted on doing this and while I was initially a bit reluctant as we have a lot of driving today and lots to see on the way, she was right as this turned out to be a unique experience.
From Lenmore it is a long drive, over one hour on a highway then 45 minutes of a dirt road with potholes the size of bomb craters. We are pretty shattered when we get to the reserve but thrilled with anticipation.
Walter tells us he used to work here but then changed jobs to driver because too remote wants to be with family. Proudly show his name and number still on gate. He now takes cigarettes and other stuff to the staff at the camp who don't see civilization for weeks on end.
There are three elephants, and they always go together even if there are no clients. We rent two elephants and the third just follows... We start a bit late: while the elephants are tamed, they are free to roam around and to gather them for the tourist ride is not always a five minute affair.
It's a lot of fun to ride them, and it is as natural as it gets: no saddles or seats, just our bums on their bare back. Walter smiles when we say we'd like to ride longer than the standard half an hour: "You'll bruise your behind raw!" After 45 minutes we realize he was right, but it was worth it!
At the end of our ride we get a tasty lunch by a small lake, and then all start our way back over the bomb craters to Lenmore and our car.
Time to drive to Knysna, which we reach after an easy five hour drive on the N2, the long coastal road that runs along South Africa's maritime regions.
Dinner is at the Golf club with Mike, a German friend of mine who used to be my neighbor in Belgium. Rather an ex German I should say: he moved to Italy from his native country when he was very young, married Carla, a bright and beautiful Italian lady he met at work, and lived and worked around the world ever since. Ten years ago he retired and they decided to abolish Fall and Winter from their vocabulary: May to October in Italy, and November to April in South Africa, where of course the seasons are inverted. Carla sadly passed away a few years ago but Mike keeps his seasonal hybernation routine.
There is a birthday party going on and the main dining room is taken. Crowds of all-white friends singing South Africa's national anthem. I am especially struck by their singing the rifst lines in Xhosa: Nkosi sikelele Afrika... A song full of meaning, especially when sung by whites. The new South Africa.
No fear: we get table in the main hall, between the kitchen and the bar. Delicions seafood, nice full bodied Chardonnay from the Cape (beer for Mike) and a very forgiving check. The strong Euro buys a pretty good time in South Africa this year.
12 December 2013
6. - 12 Dec.: Game drives and walks at Schotia Game Reserve
This morning our driver is Justin, son of owner of Schotia who is going to take over at some point. He is very passionate about the reserve and his job and shows both affection and authority while is leading our tour. A close up encounter with a lone male lion soon after breakfast is just what we need to wake up.
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After lunch we rest a bit and then go for a walking safari around our tented camp. We run into a family of giraffe who let us come pretty close.It is warm and sunny, an ideal afternoon for a leisurly walk in the wild. I take the opportunity of our stop at the camp to add more wood to the water heating furnace.
Later on we keep on driving and share car with a couple from Washington state. He is cool and easy she is a bit paranoid about the animals and diseases. I wonder why she came to Africa in the first place.
In the evening, after another filling and tasty meat buffet by the fire, we welcome the night by driving out again in search for the lion, whom this time we meet as he is lying in the open grass.
But the most frightening encounter of the day is yet to come: it's about 11pm and we are making our way home when our good old friend Old Boss who is not yet ready for a good night sleep. He is in musth and when Justin tries to drive on the way to our tents he seems to have alrady lost his sense of humor.
The day ends with a candle-lit hot bath in our large tatch-covered tub house. I add more wood to the furnace and the water is nice and hot, a pleasant contrast to the moonlit chilly evening outside.
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| Readying a hot bath |
Later on we keep on driving and share car with a couple from Washington state. He is cool and easy she is a bit paranoid about the animals and diseases. I wonder why she came to Africa in the first place.
In the evening, after another filling and tasty meat buffet by the fire, we welcome the night by driving out again in search for the lion, whom this time we meet as he is lying in the open grass.
But the most frightening encounter of the day is yet to come: it's about 11pm and we are making our way home when our good old friend Old Boss who is not yet ready for a good night sleep. He is in musth and when Justin tries to drive on the way to our tents he seems to have alrady lost his sense of humor.
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| Old Boss is not ready for sleep |
11 December 2013
5. - 11 Dec.: Lalibela Lodge to Schotia Safari Game Reserve
Funny how these two private game reserves have names coming from different parts of the world, very far from South Africa.
In the morning another early game drive and then an easy move a few km to the west to Schotia Safari Game Reserve . This is a very different type of reserve: not luxury and in fact in part a tented camp. Our tent is quite big and it is raised from the floor by a system of stilts.
Quite a romantic bathroom too: water is heated by wood, and one of the first things I must learn is how to add wood to the furnace just outside the bathroom, next to the shower.
Our ranger for the afternoon drive is Leandi, a petite and seemingly
fragile blond girl in her late twenties. (OK Leandi if you are reading
this by any chace please don't be upset if I got it wrong, I am always
wrong with ladies' age.) Yan asks about the meaning of her name and the
answer is quite unique: her mother had six sisters and L.E.A.N.D.I. are
the initials of their names. I forgot the sisters' names, but the
ethimology stuck in my mind.
Leandi drives better than I have seen any man drive, especially when shifting our big 12 seater 4x4 into reverse and backing off in the mud from a charging elephant bull in chase. She also knows quite a bit and gives us comprehensive explanations about the fauna and the flora we see.
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Dinner buffet by the fire, just next to the croc and hippo pond. Then a night drive during which, with the help of a big halogen light, we see a lone male lion resting in a bush. Can't really see much of him but enough to get some adrenaline pumping.The best sight though is a majestic male kudu who passes nonchalantly by as we drive home.
In the morning another early game drive and then an easy move a few km to the west to Schotia Safari Game Reserve . This is a very different type of reserve: not luxury and in fact in part a tented camp. Our tent is quite big and it is raised from the floor by a system of stilts.
Quite a romantic bathroom too: water is heated by wood, and one of the first things I must learn is how to add wood to the furnace just outside the bathroom, next to the shower.
.jpg) |
| Male elephant |
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| Bull chasing jeep |
Leandi drives better than I have seen any man drive, especially when shifting our big 12 seater 4x4 into reverse and backing off in the mud from a charging elephant bull in chase. She also knows quite a bit and gives us comprehensive explanations about the fauna and the flora we see.
Dinner buffet by the fire, just next to the croc and hippo pond. Then a night drive during which, with the help of a big halogen light, we see a lone male lion resting in a bush. Can't really see much of him but enough to get some adrenaline pumping.The best sight though is a majestic male kudu who passes nonchalantly by as we drive home.
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| Male kudu, my fav antilope |
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