Tag Archives: exploring

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.

Day of exploring

Adventures, Little Rock,

Last Sunday dawned somewhat overcast but nice and hot. I was definitely still adjusting to the time zones. Which had the advantage that I was up early. Unfortunately, many attractions would only be open in the afternoon according to the guide book in my hotel room. Guide books are my kryptonite – the chances of me getting anything like work done once I’ve got my hands on a guidebook of the area are slim to zero. And things being closed didn’t scare me – travels with people like Richard have taught me that there is generally plenty to see outside, especially in a foreign country.

I had breakfast and headed off, armed with a map from the hotel and the standard sense of adventure. I was a little concerned about getting lost. In retrospect, it would have been quite difficult to get so lost I couldn’t find my way back but the first day out is always a little terrifying, especially alone. My colleagues had expressed interested in exploring but where nowhere to be found at the time.

I headed to the River Market. The market is a farmers market that operates only on Tuesdays and Saturdays but it’s a good landmark and from what I could gather, the river market area had lots to see. It didn’t disappoint.

Little Rock sits on the banks of the Arkansas River. The river is big. Huge to me. The relative size of rivers is something I struggle to articulate. I struggle to explain to others how massively huge a river like this is, based on my frame of reference. SO MUCH WATER! In reality, at least so I gather from comments and reactions of local people, it isn’t all that big. It certainly looked big to me – big and intimidating and navigable.

Right on the water, in front of the River Market is an amphitheatre. Apparently, the Little Rock Symphony Orchestra performs there quite often. Sadly, no performance (that I can find) while I’m here. Must be a gorgeous setting for live music.

From there, walking west, the path goes along beside the river until it reaches the spot where the remaining piece of the original little rock stands. Little Rock was the name given to this area by the first French traders who plied their wares along the Arkansas River. It was named for an outcrop of rock that was easily used as a landmark. Over time, the original rock was destroyed to create the foundation for a railway bridge – the next step in the economic development of the area. A small part of the original rock remains, however, and now stands in a little park area along the river, with boards explaining the history.

Public History. I never understood public history when I studied it at varsity. Well, I understood it but I didn’t get the significance. It is only later, having spent time travelling in countries who invest far more heavily in public history that I am beginning to see the value. I still have difficulties with the idea of boiling down complex, multi-perspective history to a few information boards in a park, but it is definitely helpful if you’re an ignorant foreigner trying to get a sense of the place.

This park area along the river has several different public history displays, constructed, it would seem, at different times. One talks about the history around the naming and founding of the town and the Little Rock itself, one is focused on the civil war and one talks about native Americans. They were informative, if somewhat shallow, as is the tendency in public history. I found the civil war one particularly fascinating. Did you know that Arkansas was all but wiped out by the American Civil War?

Above me was a huge bridge. The kind of bridge (a pedestrian bridge) where you can take a lift up to the walking level. I gather this is partly because the bridge was raised at some point in the past to allow for improved river traffic. Either way, the bridge is significant. I remember all the bridges in Korea. The story of the country for me was, so much, rivers and bridges. This was equivalent in size.

Further along, somewhat hotter and somewhat later in the day, I found myself walking through a public sculpture garden. Another aspect of American life not often replicated at home. I’m not talking public art in the sense of large, ugly statues here. This was art. Proper art. Art designed to challenge and enchant and to explore the medium. There were some beautiful pieces, just standing there, outside, for anyone to go and look at. One piece really captured my attention with its swirling, expansive energy. I could live with that in my house, I thought. Strange, not so many years ago, I knew nothing about art. These days I am far less circumspect and far happier to throw out my less than educated opinion based only on what I think. The Sylvia Plath-style adult and child was also pretty incredible.

A few squirrels later (yes, there are squirrels here – three types, I gather) I had reached the end of the riverside walk, so I turned back and headed towards the street again. I had long since abandoned street names and resorted to the tried and tested means of getting lost – following my instincts.

I crossed a road at the traffic light. I have always objected to the term ‘traffic light’. I guess everyone is somewhat stubbornly attached to the terminology he or she grows up with, and I am no exception. It’s not a ‘traffic light’, it’s a ‘robot’. Full stop. What I haven’t experienced in the past was the talking traffic lights. I understand the reason and I get how they might be helpful to some, but it’s a little panicky when the traffic light is counting down the seconds before the robot changes and you’re going to get run over and…and… and. You get the picture. Especially panicky when you’re in a country that drives on the wrong side of the road so crossing the street is fraught with the ever-present danger that you may be looking in the wrong direction.

On the other side of the street, I spent some time calming down and enjoying the novelty of the sight of the trolley (stree- rail-car-thingy). This apparently runs daily, although I have yet to try it. I was just thinking that this place felt eerily familiar when I turned around and there before me was a Korean ‘Gate’. I’ve written before on this blog about how Korean ‘Gates’ have little to do with getting in and out and everything to do with being elaborate, symbolic, colourful structures representing things of which I have little understanding and also dragons. I spent a lot of time in Korea looking at Korean ‘Gates’. I know one when I see one. This was definitely one. In the middle of Little Rock, Arkansas. Eerily familiar took a turn for the more serious.

It turns out the Gate is indeed a Korean monument. In a bizarre twist of fate, this Gate – the HU Lee Gate – is dedicated to Lee HU, the founder of the American Taikwando Association, who loved Little Rock because its mountains and lakes reminded him of his home in South Korea. When he died, his family and Little Rock’s sister city in Korea, Hanam, built and dedicated this Gate to him.

He was right about the similarities. Beyond the lakes and the mountains, the water and the bridges, the climate is the same. At least, the summer is the same. For days, beginning on that Sunday, I have walked around listening to the cicadas. I grew up with cicadas at home but they were different. The birds and the bugs at home were different to those in Korea. But for a year I lived with the bugs and the birds, the sounds and the texture of the air that is so much my sensory memory of Korea. This place is the same. It feels the same. The hot humid summer, the angle of the sun, the sound of the cicadas just like they are in Daegu. The trees and the temperatures. This place is familiar because it feels just like the place I called home for a year (with less Korean writing and more Mexican food).

I headed off into the rest of the day with a strange weightless familiarity. It’s the first time in my life that I’ve been to a foreign, never-visited-before place and felt like it was somewhere I used to call home.

A quiet visit to Grahamstown

Adventures, South Africa, ,

It is a dusty, warm winter afternoon as we wandered between the tombstones. I find cemeteries interesting. It’s not a fascination with death; it’s the history. This cemetery was used by the settlers in Grahamstown – those families who climbed off the boats in the 1820s and began a new life in what was to become a thriving educational, judicial and religious centre in the expanded Cape Colony and the young Union of South Africa. There are many important people, like the man who brought the first printing press to Grahamstown. To be honest, though, it is the ordinary people that fascinate me: the parents of Mr so-and-so who came over and lived their last 20 years here, the woman born in Dublin who married a Grahamstown farmer, the family that lost four children before any reached the age of 5. I was struck by just how many young children, infants rest here. There has been lots of talk about infant mortality rates in Africa just lately. We forget just how recently South Africa had the same, terrible problem.

Later, two of us went driving. Grahamstown is a university town and in all the very happy years I spent there, I didn’t explore very much outside of town thanks to lack of car. This time we could. We drove up past the monastery. The monastery wasn’t there when I was at varsity. Or, at least, I didn’t begin hearing about it until much later. It’s a landmark now. The road wound past and kept going, past crystal-blue dams and tall trees, through dips and up hills and over railway tracks, until we reached a point so high we could see for miles and miles. The road was beginning to get worse, so we stopped and got out. Not even the breeze was disturbing the incredible, breath-taking quiet. One of the things I missed so much, longed for so often in Korea was a quiet, empty landscape stretching to the horizon. This landscape stretched forever and forever – rolling hills right to the sea, a glimpse of which was visible in the distance. We could see a house far away to one side and the aloes and dry winter grass and thorn-trees of home. It was a perfect moment. The afternoon was warm and sunny. The sky was so huge and so blue above us. The view stretched all the way to the sea.

On the way back, we chatted – that gentle, rolling conversation of old friends. We went looking for coffee and found everything shut (except Wimpy) on a Sunday afternoon. Grahamstown was so quiet. It felt so familiar and so gentle. Grahamstown always does that to me. The beautiful old buildings – Commem, the Grocotts Building, the Cathedral – as you’re walking up from the bus stop. The University rising at the end of High Street, so reassuringly solid and the same. Getting the bus at Kimberley Hall, where I spent so many, many hours. Some part of me wishes I could live in Grahamstown but opportunities are scarce and chances are slim. That doesn’t mean I won’t visit again and again, particularly for as long as one of my favourite travel-mates is there to share those little moments of gentle exploring.