All posts by Claire

About Claire

Wandering (and wondering) development professional and aspiring aid worker. Contact me on anticipationofwonder[at]gmail[dot]com

Backpackers fail: Banana Backpackers, Durban

Adventures, bus, KZN, ,

South Africa has some excellent backpacker spots, in Cape Town and Joburg and I’m sure in Durban. Banana Backpackers is not one of them.

My bus was nearly 2 hours late leaving East London. The trip was mostly uneventful except for that minor incident when some muppet on the side of the road threw a glass bottle at the bus managing, by some miracle to hit and subsequently shatter the right-side front window. No-one was sitting in those seats (I was a whole row back), so no harm done but seriously, our cricket team should think about drafting in the person somewhere between Kokstad and Port Shepstone who can hit a moving bus at 20 metres with a projectile as unpredictable as a coke bottle!

Other than that, uneventful, if particularly pretty. As a result, it was pushing 11 by the time I arrived at the Backpackers. At this point, things got weirder. The cab dropped me off on a city street, beside a run-down building. The front door was open and the security guard directed me up the creaking stairs. On the first floor, the rickety-looking black gate was opened by two girls at reception. Over the thumping, distorting noise of music in the adjacent bar area, I was told to follow them to the dorm. I dragged my suitcase past the central courtyard area, where people were braai-ing and drinking.

Just off the central courtyard, in a dark hall, the reception person knocked on and then just pushed open an orange door. The 10-bed door looked pretty standard – white linen, pillow and thin duvet on each bed, bunks that look like they’ve seen better days. I was sharing with one other person, who was already asleep. I put down my bags and returned to reception to check and pay. The girls at reception could hardly hear me over the music. I went out onto the balcony – hunching against the wall to avoid the rain – in search of somewhere I could hear myself think. Pretty soon, I gave up and headed to bed.

Which meant braving the bathrooms. They’re not the worst backpacker bathrooms I have ever seen – that honour is reserved for a particular hell-hole in Mozambique – but they’re a good, solid second. And they shared the problematic characteristic of being available for general use by the bar patrons, most of whom were not residents. The place was a mess. The kind of mess where you simply grit your teeth and get through it because you’re not going to find anywhere better tonight.

By this stage I was tired. All I wanted was to fall into bed and sleep. I got to the dorm and turned to close out the noise and the people. The door wouldn’t close. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t get the door closed. I went to fetch someone from reception. She said she’d send someone later. I objected until she came herself immediately. She explained that I couldn’t have a key because it was a dorm (for the record, this is absolutely not standard practice at SA backpackers). I explained that I could live with not having a key, if I could only have a door that would close. She shrugged and said it was a difficult door and there was nothing she could do. And that was it.

I lay in bed for hours, fuming, tossing and turning, attempting to find the mosquito that was hunting me and wishing there was a way to block out the thumping music and the screeching people (like a door, perhaps!). Through the un-curtained windows, a street lamp blinded me whenever I turned over. After a couple of hours two girls, clearly a little worse for wear, wandered through our dorm to the balcony to have a chat. The other person in the dorm got fed up, threw them out and found an old, plastic chair to put against the door. That didn’t close it, but at least it was obvious that it was supposed to be closed.

In the morning light, the dusty floors, the dirty bathrooms and the noise were glaringly obvious. The linen on the beds seemed clean, but beyond that there was little to recommend the place. I’d initially picked it because of the location but I’d certainly rather have been a bit further away and had a backpackers that was closer to the usual standard of SA backpackers. The place obviously used to be quite pleasant – walls painted, posters advertising adventures, 24-hour reception. Plus, paddle-pool and braai area. But those days are long gone. And all this for exactly the same price as I recently paid for a classy, clean, comfortable backpackers with excellent service and even better location in Cape Town

For the record, anyone seeking a better SA Backpackers experiences could start with Cape Town Backpackers, iKhaya Stellenbosch Backpackers, Penthouse on Long (Cape Town) or The Backpackers Ritz in Joburg, to name just a few.

Snapshot: Rural Eastern Cape

Eastern Cape, rural areas

Drive out of King, towards Peddie, on the road I know so well. The road I used to travel to and from University every holiday for those years. And so often since. The road to Cape Town. The road to Grahamstown.The road home.

Pass the turn off to the Steve Biko Garden of Remembrance and wonder once again whose idea it was and who is supposed to maintain it. Pass the garage where the bus stops. Under the railway bridge and on, to the open road.

It’s late summer and everything is green. The grass is long, ready for winter. The thorn trees are rich, dark, close to the ground. It’s been a good summer.

Past houses and open veld, a graveyard near the road. Past men working to build a fence around a patch of ground.

Around a bend and there, a small settlement beside the national road. Beside a dam. Behind a fence. I can’t remember it clearly from the early days. I think it was smaller. Just one or two huts visible from the road. Now it is more built up. Houses with gardens. Fields. A sign on the main road – turn-off to a Zimbaba. A real place with a real name on an official name-board. How much of a difference does that make?

We turn off, across the grid, onto the dirt road. A couple of hundred metres on, the road T-junctions at a medium-sized dam. The water is calm and blue on a beautiful, sunny day. Rippling across the day. Gum trees line the other side. They’re invader-trees and are technically no longer welcome in SA but they’re still beautiful beside the dam.

The dirt road is not bad, especially considering the recent rains. We pass some rugby fields. A few soccer posts lie, stricken, overturned, obviously unused, but the rugby field is newly mowed and freshly marked. This part of the world is rugby country.

Turn right after the sports fields and follow a poorly-graded road. Just as we leave the first settlement, three horses are grazing in a paddock not far from the road. They look rich and well-kept after the good season of rain and grass. All the animals look healthy and well.

Along the road, driving slowly on the gravel, we pass sheep and goats. A lamb looks back at me before its mother hurries it over a small rise beside a pool of water. We stop while three donkeys take a leisurely (and reluctant) stroll from the middle of the road. One is a young one, with a shaggy coat in many colours and mournful, watching eyes.

At the village, we pass the high school. It looks well-kept – fresh white paint on the walls, a row of new toilets. Someone must have run a school garden project here once but the garden has gone to grass and weeds. The fence around the school is all intact and shiny and the gates are closed and locked during the school morning. A few younger children watch the car pass from the verandas of their homes.

Brick homes, often with several buildings on each property. And glass windows. Such a contrast to the stark desperation of urban poverty. Poverty here is more subtle, less spoken of, carefully hidden away from the prying eyes of a small community. No less deadly. We pass a house with a 4×4 in the driveway. I wonder who lives there.

Most houses have animals of some sort. A sheep or two grazing in the garden. Some chickens wandering the yard. A goat in the vegetable patch. Cattle. Donkeys. Pigs. There is something so real, so normal about it. My heart sings just a little. This is how the world should look.

Beyond the houses and gardens, the chicken hoks and goat-herds with their animals, past the kraals enclosed with poker-red flowering aloes and the full farm dams, the yellow-green hills of the Eastern Cape roll away into the distance and a thunderstorm begins to gather on the horizon.

Cape Peninsula Day Tour – Baz Bus

Adventures, Cape Town, Travel, , , , ,

The bus was late picking me up. Not that it mattered; one of the joys of travelling has to be not watching the clock. With all 11 people safely picked up, we headed off over Kloof Neck. The advantage of a Baz Bus tour is that they pick up from backpackers. I’m not sure other tours would do that or, more specifically, that they’d be able to find the backpackers. The other advantage – apart from being, just generally, a great tour.

Through Camps Bay and around past the 12 Apostles Hotel, enjoying the beautiful Cape Town morning. We were lucky to get such good weather. Cape Town weather, while it is stunning when it is clear, can be unpredictable this time of year.

As we passed Llandudno, the tour guide was quick to name a few of the celebrities who are supposed to have houses there, from Tom Cruise to Elton John – the Beverley Hills of Cape Town, he called it.

Into the “small fishing village” of Hout Bay. I’m always amused when people call this affluent suburb a small fishing village. It does have a fishing harbour, however, which was the first stop. This tour has the option of taking a boat-trip to Seal Island at an extra cost of R60. I was seriously considering it but when no-one else showed any interest, decided just to wander around Hout Bay harbour instead.

Next was a quiet drive up towards the look-out point on Chapman’s Peak where we stopped for biscuits and juice, looking down on Hout Bay. This is a beautiful sight, especially on a calm, sunny day, and one that most people don’t often take the time to enjoy. Boats move lazily across the water. The mountain peak appears to be cut in half, with the huge jutting rock-face waiting eternally to tumble into the sea so far below. The strange and ridiculously expensive houses nestle in the fynbos. Everything is calm.

Chapman’s Peak Drive is spectacular on any given day, but is particularly breathtaking when it is crystal clear and when enjoyed in the company of those who are seeing it for the first time. A bit out shark-spotters and then across Kommetjie and Fish Hoek to the next stop, Boulders Beach.

Penguins make me happy. This has long and varied roots but is mostly because penguins are associated in my brain with people who make me happy. Until now, however, I had never seen the Cape Town penguins. When I lived in Cape Town as a child, the colony didn’t exist yet and later there was so much going going on that it somehow never happened. Today’s trip was partly an attempt to remedy that and I was in no way disappointed.

The penguins that live at Boulders Beach are African or Jackass Penguins – so called because they bray like donkeys. They also smell a lot like rotting fish and are a terrible nuisance to residents in the area because they have a particular fondness for dog-food and swimming pools. All this is tolerated, however, because they are both endangered and so darn cute. It was a little chilly on that side of the mountain, so some of the penguins were huddled in sandy hollows under dry dune-bushes. Others were waddling, two-by-two across the sand-dunes to their houses or towards the sea. We saw one abandoned egg in the undergrowth.

Further along the purpose-built wooden walkways, the beach opens out and penguins huddle together making a terrible racket. Some sit and sun themselves on rocks. Others nest with babies. Fluffy, brown, comical baby penguins. The guide tells me they are terribly grumpy at this stage of their development – because they are as yet unable to swim and so fish – but they are definitely particularly delightful to watch. African penguins are quite small and some of these young penguins were almost as big as their mothers but, still brown and fluffy, they huddled together in the sand.

Having dragged ourselves away from the penguins, we headed back to the bus and onward towards Cape Point nature reserve. This reserve is one I have visited but not for many years. It also differs significantly from many other South African reserves. Most nature areas in South Africa are grassland areas that focus on large mammals, up to and including the big 5. There are a few, however, that have a different flavour, from mangrove swamps to wild coastal areas. This is one of the ‘different’ ones. Although there are some large mammals here, the real joy and beauty of the reserve is the wide-open rolling hills of fynbos edged on all sides by the crashing Atlantic ocean.

This particular tour has a special option over most others – a 6km cycle through the Cape Point nature reserve. I must say, for the record, that I am rather unfit and the last time I cycled may actually have been in Gyeongju that Autumn day. It was still delightful. You cycle along the road, so the traffic can be a bit annoying, but the air is clear and crisp and the world stretches out in all directions with the grey of the Cape foliage. As we cycled, a couple of Bontebok gallopped up beside us and across the road. A little further along, two large male and one female ostriches stood about 10m away, peck-pecking at the ground. In between hill-tops the plains spread out. The joy of cycling, and why it is worth the tiredness, is that you are able to travel more slowly and be right there, close up to nature. There is no distance and no glass and metal and plastic between you and the world you are seeing.

Cold meat, salads and rolls for lunch, along with a good, long rest, followed the cycling, at a tourist and information centre looking out towards Da Gama’s cross. I wandered off to look around and found an ancient pine tree bent almost to the ground, as if constantly blown and buckled by the prevailing wind, even though this day was still and calm.

The guide informed us that he would normally head to Cape Point after lunch but the mist had come in, so we were going to try the Cape of Good Hope first. This Cape lay clear of mist, with the sunlight playing dazzling, dancing games across the kelp forests just below the water. There is a latitude and longitude sign here where all the tourists gather to take turns for a photograph – a picture to prove we were there. A busload (quite literally) of Chinese tourists scrambled for their turns. Even the group of backpackers I was with, far more the type to claim higher moral ground over ‘tourists’, indulged their desire for proof of existence. I wandered along the beach and drank in the smell of the sea and wondered how many days of flying it would take to reach the end (or bottom) of the world.

From the Cape of Good Hope we climbed up a ridiculously treacherous, steep and far-too-tough-for-unfit-people staircase path. From there we began the (much gentler) 40 minute uphill walk to Cape Point. Some part of me would have preferred to do the downhill walk, but there is something special, either way, about that walk between the two end-points of the Cape Peninsula. Looking down cliffs, looking out across false bay, looking out, south, towards the endless sea. We reached Cape Point parking area with much tiredness. I didn’t even go up the final path (another 20 minute walk) to stand on the actual South Western-most tip of Africa. I didn’t need to. Being there was enough. Instead, I spent some time not moving, enjoying the views and watching the strangely unexpected sight of an ostrich foraging on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Atlantic ocean.

And then it was done. The trip back to Cape Town was still beautiful – via Ou Kaapse, which is one of my favourite drives in the Western Cape, and then M3 past UCT and back to town. I was exhausted – it took me several days of stiffness to recover properly – but I’m glad I took the opportunity to visit Hout Bay and to see the penguins and to spend some time at the points that end the place that is my home.