Category Archives: South Africa

The Great Shoe Search

Adventures, Gear, South Africa

A few years ago, I found myself in South Korea with winter approaching and no proper closed shoes. All the women’s closed shoes I could find seemed to be 6-inch heels – not ideal for snowy winter. So, with some trepidation, I did something I’ve never done before and spent a large amount of money on a pair of trail boots. The prettiest little boots in all the world. I’ve never looked back.

These boots have become my everyday shoes. I wear them to work. I wear them for walking. I wear them when I’m in the field visiting rural homesteads and looking at goats. I even wear them when I’m shopping or out with friends. Not that I spend much time out with friends. In fact, work and goats occupy most of the hours of most days. Which makes the boots ideal. They’re comfortable, functional and suitable for all kinds of weather, work and mud.

My boots have become something of a part of an identity. They represent a certain kind of life and a certain set of choices. Sadly, boots don’t last forever, particularly if you’re wearing them every day. Thus began the Great Shoe Search. I knew what I wanted but most South African shops don’t sell Korean hiking boots, so the trick was going to be finding an acceptable alternative.

It turns out I’ve become something of a trail-shoe snob. I am very particular about the kind of way in which I want the shoes to feel on my feet. I’m also rather fussy about the style. These are going to be work shoes so I’d prefer to avoid the headache of having to find clothes to match shoes in neon orange and pink.

The search has taken rather a while. This is partly because I live, at least most of the time, in a part of the world without a lot of shops. I took the opportunity of a trip to the Western Cape to scour the Somerset Mall but failed to find anything I liked. Now, having moved to Johannesburg (temporarily), I was determined to find a new pair of shoes. This was becoming somewhat urgent as my current boots were really beginning to come apart at the seams, which is particularly problematic because I appeared not to have any other shoes. I’m sure I used to, but I seemed not to anymore.

Determination finally paid off. I spent a morning in a shopping centre, visiting everyone outdoor store and every shoe shop that might possibly sell boots. No joy. Finally, I gave up and caught the train to another centre, where I repeated the process. I was close to admitting defeat when finally I came across a store that I’d heard might carry the same brand of shoes as my Korean boots. I walked in the door and there, right in front of me, was a pair of boots I’d seen on the internet and decided might work. This particular “model” hadn’t been available in any of the other shoe shops I’d been to. Now, here it was – on sale. I searched for my size and hurried to try them on.

They’re perfect. The perfect replacements for my pretty little boots. They’re less inconspicuous – more clearly boots.  But that’s okay. Perhaps it’s a good thing. I start a new adventure on Monday morning and now I can do so with brand new boots. In the meantime, I’m setting off for a long walk on a beautiful autumn day in the leafy suburbs to wear in my new boots.

Weekend in motion

Adventures, Airports, bus, Car, Eastern Cape,

The weekend started at 5am on a Thursday. It wasn’t a long-weekend, really, but Thursday was a public holiday, so one day off turned it into one. I woke up anxious. I’m always anxious before travel, worried I’m forget something, scared I won’t wake up on time, nervous bookings haven’t been made, even when I’ve sorted them out myself. None of it ever happens, but the anxiety wakes me early. By the time my alarm goes off, I’m wide awake.

6am. Dawn is breaking over Durban as we speed towards the city. It takes half an hour to reach the bus station. 40 minutes really. It’s the first time I’ve taken a bus from the Durban station, I realise. The first time I’ve been since I arrived by bus, just over a year ago, moving to KZN.

Check in, stow luggage, climb onto the bus. In a curious (and pleasant) twist, I find myself not squashed into an aisle seat next to an oversized mama with fried chicken or, worse, a someone with a baby, but right in front, looking out at a waking city from huge front windows.

We leave almost on time, just as the sun is rising. Through Durban, past landmarks and familiar places. Two of the craziest weeks of my life happened in this part of the world, one at the Expo Centre, one at the ICC. I’m thinking about those weeks as we pass the ICC, Wilson’s Warf, the restaurant where I first tasted sushi. I got a message that morning from an old friend from those crazy days. The memories make me smile.

From Durban, we head south, towards Port Shepstone. This stretch of road I know well from travelling down this way for work. I watch the familiar river-mouths, the clusters of huts, the little towns. The bus drives on and on, gobbling up the road. I’m sitting there with my headphones in, my feet up and my seat reclined. I feel happy. Happy about the coming weekend, sure, but mostly just happy in that moment. Sitting there on that bus, with my music, watching the world go by, I am happy.

Just north of Kokstad, we reach the snow. A heavy cold-front hit the country a few days before, causing snow in all 9 provinces, I read somewhere and bringing traffic between major cities to a standstill. Now, the sun is shining and it’s beautiful. The snowy hills go on for at least half an hour.

We travel south after a stop in Kokstad: Mthatha, Qunu, Dutywa, Butterworth. We stop and pick up passengers. At Butterworth, we get out and walk around. The wind is still snow-cold. Somewhere on the Kei cuttings, a police van passes us going in the other direction and flashes its lights, warning the bus driver about a traffic cop hiding around the corner catching anyone who might be speeding. On and on.

It is dark when we reach East London. The windows of the bus keep misting up. It is cold outside. I rush into the ticket office to pick up another ticket for Saturday but they warn me that those buses are running late. I’ll have to make another plan.

That evening, I have supper with my family in East London and then head home to Stutt for the night. I haven’t been home for ages. It’s great to be able to spend a night at home. Home with the family and a fire and the cats.

The next morning, back to East London. Saturday is out, so I’m travelling on Friday afternoon. We pick up the ticket at a Checkers and head back to the bus stop. Rushed goodbyes and I climb aboard another bus. This time it is a Translux bus. It looks newer than the Greyhound I took the previous day. The bus is almost empty. The stewardess tells me to sit where-ever I like. I find a window seat and settle down. Their sound system is, mercifully, broken. The trip will be peaceful.

Along the beachfront, the sea a perfect blue that day, then out of the city and away. We take the same road as the day before but in the opposite direction, towards King William’s Town. This time, my mind is drifting. I’m miles away as I stare out of the bus window at the country-side that is so familiar.

In King William’s town, the bus fills up, but I still have an empty seat beside me. I put on my music when a baby begins to cry. Children so often disturb the beautiful peace of travel.

I barely see the countryside passing as we head on towards Grahamstown. I know this road so well. I drift in and out, sometimes noticing where we are, sometimes not. The landmarks pass, the familiar curves and twists of the road. How many times have I travelled here? How many trips to and from varsity? How many since?

In Grahamstown, the first thing I notice is that Birch’s is still open. It’s a Friday afternoon. How often I have arrived at or left from this stop. Never while I was at University here. For some reason, I never took the bus then. Since graduating, nearly ten years ago, I have been back so many, many times and each time this is where I arrive, where I leave.

I gather my bags and set off up the familiar hill, familiar streets, familiar houses. It’s a long walk, but a peaceful one. I turn down a quiet street and pass a man walking his dogs. He looks like a professor.

I’m staying at a backpackers. I check in and settle down. The website said they served food. It turns out the website was wrong. It doesn’t matter. The deck outside looks out towards Makana’s Kop. It’s starting to turn towards dusk. I watch the fading Grahamstown sunset. This town used to be home. I wonder if it is anymore. I meet a Canadian who is here to figure out what he wants to study. He talks about his family. They’re coming over soon, to see this strange country that has bewitched their son. We talk of history and ideas and the contrasts between countries and of humour.

I plan to go to bed early but instead find myself reading and catching up on the ideas of my own academic world. The conversation with the Canadian has left me wanting to engage, to think. The others who are sharing the dorm eventually head out for the night and I put away the computer and head to sleep.

Saturday is an early start. I am the only person awake in the place except for a lady lazily cleaning the kitchen. She opens the door for me. I settle down on the veranda to wait for my lift. I’m travelling with two people I don’t know. I want to be ready when they arrive.

Bags packed we head off towards Nieu Bethesda. I’ve never been there before but I assume the driver knows the way. Strangely, it doesn’t bother me when he intimates that he’s not 100% sure. Someone these roads, this part of the country, feels familiar.

We take the Cradock road, driving along through miles and miles of countryside. My countryside. When I travelled to Kenya a few months ago and found myself nostalgically feeling like I’d come home, this was the home I was thinking of. At Cradock, take the road towards Graaff-Reinet, past the Mountain Zebra Park.

I’m jerked back from staring at the passing landscape by a sign for Colesburg. We’re on the wrong road. We turn back and find out way again. How did I know? Colesburg was the wrong way. I get strange looks as we head off again.

At the T-junction with the Graff-Reinet road, we see the first sign for Nieu Bethesda. A few km onto the final stretch and the road turns to gravel. I realise I’m not driving and it’s not fair to say, but gravel roads through this countryside in this part of the world feel peaceful. Perhaps it is because the gravel forces a slower pace. You notice more. We pass a beautiful antelope in the camp next to the road. There is snow on the mountain peaks.

Nieu Bethesda is a tiny, tiny town in a ring of beautiful mountains. It is well known for its more eccentric inhabitants, most notably Helen Martins who lost the plot after her father died and turned her ordinary, small-town home into a crazy place full of sculptures and stained glass and paintings, known as The Owl House.

We meet the groom at the pizza place. A place as small as this could only have a pizza restaurant because of the tourists. The pizza is good. We go back to the house where they’re staying, right near the micro-brewery where they will get married.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of laughter and getting dressed and prettiness. Everyone helps to get the place ready. The moment arrives. It is relaxed and beautiful and intimate. There is beer. There is crazy, intelligent, interesting conversation. There is cake.

It’s a lovely evening, followed by a gorgeous, crisp morning in Nieu Bethesda. The snow-topped mountains sit in the bright sun. The trees look wintery and beautiful. The houses are the settler houses I love, all perfectly maintained and whitewashed. We have breakfast at a place called The Karoo Lamb. A few of us take the opportunity to visit the Owl House. Nieu Bethesda is not what I expected but it is beautiful. Definitely worth a visit.

By 11am, we’re back on the road. On and on, past the Mountain Zebra Park, past Cradock, past Bedford. We are driving into heavy, dark clouds. It seems appropriate. I feel such heartache at leaving the Eastern Cape.

In Grahamstown, I stop at one of my favourite restaurants for a quick late lunch before heading to the shuttle and out of town. On and on. The window of the shuttle bus is broken. Icy-cold air howls through the vehicle.

It is a relief to get to PE. I take the usual quick lap around the PE airports, remembering all the times I’ve been here and, more often than seems fair, been stuck here. Through security and, unsurprisingly, the flight is delayed. Luckily, the delay is short and soon we are making our way towards the plane.

We land in Durban after 9pm on a Sunday night. The driver of yet another shuttle is there to pick me up. Just another hour and I’m home. I’m tired but happy. I get caught up watching the Olympics closing ceremony.

Walking home from work the next day, I realise what this feeling is: I feel peaceful. I have no doubt, in fact I am certain, that it will not last, but just for a while, just for now, for a change, I do not feel restless.

Butterfly World and Fairview

Adventures, Western Cape, , , , ,

A couple of weeks tack, I flew down to the Western Cape to spend the weekend with my family. I haven’t seen the family in months so I was pretty thrilled. Particularly because I won’t be around for Christmas. But, of course, we didn’t just do family catch-up stuff, we also visited two places I’ve been wanting to go to for ages.

The first was Butterfly World. Butterfly World is outside Stellenbosch on the Klapmuts road. It is, as the name suggests, a centre focused on butterflies. What they do is import crates of butterfly pupae and then place them in the special tropical butterfly enclosure. The enclosure is full of plants and fishponds and the butterflies hatch in flashes of bright colours and spend their happy little lives flapping from plant to plant. All the butterflies are imported, apparently, and there are some gorgeous colours and shapes. We also saw one butterfly take an unfortunate dip in the fishpond where it became a quick snack for the fish. But for the most part, it was a room full of beauty. I particularly loved the gauze-winged butterflies that collected on plants or around food – like a butterfly tree.

Butterfly World also has other things. In a second room, we spotted the brightest red-orange parrots huddled with their heads hanging upside down on a branch, an iguana sitting regally in a high-up iguana house and a couple of blue duikers. Another room has all manner of strange lizards and the cutest, tiniest tortoises in the world. Yet another has love-birds and parrots and guinea pigs. Some of the guinea pigs were ordinary-looking and some had babies – first time I’ve seen a mother guinea pig suckle her young. There were also some that looked a little like they had been crossed with a Pekingese dog – all long fur but instead of being smooth and silky, it was ruffled and sticking out and made them look a little insane.

When we were there, the place was full of children who, in spite of the signs asking them not to, were attempting to pick up the guinea pigs. All of a sudden, one of the fluffy-haired ones that had been lying there playing dead decided he’d had enough, jumped up, scaled the little wall, took off across the path and hid under a bench. Of course, everyone could still see him, but I’m guessing he wasn’t the brightest of guinea pigs and was happy to go with the ‘if I can’t see you, you can’t see me’ theory of escape. In the final room, we met the manic marmoset. My mother had been here a few days before and one of the marmosets had become quite attached to her – sitting on her shoulder and refusing to get off – and succeeded in following her into the spider room (the less said about the spider room, the better). When it saw her again, it happily jumped onto her shoulder and settled down as if it had known her all its life. It really looked like it was completely ready to go home with her. And when she tried to get it to climb off, it hopped onto my sister’s shoulder instead.

Eventually we managed to leave the marmoset behind and headed one last time through the fluttering beauty of the butterfly room and back to the car to head to our next stop.

This time we were going to Fairview. Fairview is a wine and cheese estate near Paarl. They’re particularly well-known for their goat’s cheese and their wines are gaining recognition over time. The first thing we noticed when we arrived was the goat tower. The goat tower is pictured on many of their products – most South Africans would probably recognise it – and it looks just like the picture. When we arrived, there were no goats outside but we could see horns and tails in the house at the top.

We left the goats to sleep and headed inside to taste some cheese and wine. Very intelligently, Fairview has set up their pricing so that you can pay to taste 6 wines and 6 cheeses or just the cheeses – so that non-wine drinkers don’t suffer. The wine tasting involves selecting from a list. It was lovely. We tried several different wines from three of the Fairview ranges – all red – including the delightfully named Goat Roti Syrah Viognier, a La Capra Malbec and the 2006 (Reserve) Beacon Shiraz. There was another we tasted (and I wish I had kept the paper because I’m not sure I’m right but I think it was the Fairview Mourverde) that was fascinating – they gave us two different wines, one their own, one the Spice Route version of the same wine, to compare. One is produced in the much dryer West Coast area of the Western Cape, the other in Paarl and the difference is significant. It was fascinating.

From there, we headed off to try the cheeses. My sister’s description of the goat’s milk feta as tasting hairy is pretty accurate but the camembert was good and I really enjoyed one of the last cheeses we tasted, which was a cross between a camembert and a blue. I’m not normally a blue cheese fan but this was really interesting.

After picking up some wine and cheese to last us the weekend, we stopped at the tower. The goats had decided to make an appearance and were posing obligingly for the tourists. Really, they’re very photo-friendly goats, even if they do smell awful – quite a lot like the taste of the cheese my sister had been criticising inside. From there, we headed back to my brother and sister’s place in Somerset West, with a short stop at the strawberry farm along the way and settled in to a weekend of family, catching up and a little bit of shopping.