Before long we were back on the bus for the final rush to Cape Town, Table Mountain rising up higher and higher as we drew nearer. We asked, would we be going up there, pointing at its flat, expansive summit. Sadly no, Jan said, much to our disappointment. We were going to the cape to see the penguins.
But not before we stopped off to pick up some beer. Jan asked us, “Do you want some beer?” We did, so he collected the cash in a hat. The money in hand, Jan spoke to our driver in Afrikaans. We pulled over, next to a roadside pub, surrounded by a scattering of vehicles, but more so by bicycles.
“Want to help me?” Jan asked. Sure I said. “Leave your wallet on the bus,” he said, “and anything else you hold dear.” That did not inspire much confidence as to the wisdom of our endeavour.
“Not to worry,” Jan said just as he and I walked through the door, all eyes within snapping to us. There was not one white man to be seen among them. Jan didn’t seem concerned, so I followed him when all I wanted to do was beat a fast retreat to the bus. I didn’t. I kept on, focused on his back, despite the eyes that I knew were tracking our progress. I tried to appear as cool as Jan. I likely failed. We approached the bar, its length secured behind a rank of wrought iron fencing that brought black and white western banks to mind. We ordered our beer, paid up front, and waited as the cases were slid out to us, through a gated gap at the floor. We hoisted them, two apiece, and walked back out the door as though we hadn’t a care in the world.
“Not to worry,” Jan repeated.
My mouth was dry. My litre of beer did not last long.
We booked into our motel. “What is there to do?” we asked. We had a free afternoon and evening we were told. So, a few of us made our way to the coast for a swim. We walked, not the brightest decision. It was farther than we’d thought, and there were few whites about. None, actually, besides ourselves. We endured uncomfortable scrutiny, much as I had when I’d walked back from the mall in Sandton City. We didn’t bathe for long; the water was far colder than the Dolphin Coast had been. We knew as much, watching the surfers boarding in and out of the surf, red faced and otherwise wrapped in wetsuits.
We stayed close to the motel after that. There was a bar. There was a disk jockey. There was beer. There was a lot of beer. I was used to that by now, the copious volumes of beer, the late nights and early mornings. Or so I told myself. Tanya and the twins and a couple other girls were very invested in bottles of champagne; I can’t testify to its quality, but judging by its label, I don’t think it was top shelf. I hit my bed as late as I’d become accustomed.
I slept in. As I awoke, I looked at my watch and noted that the bus was set to depart in about fifteen minutes. I felt like shit. Taking stock, I decided to take a pass on the penguins. I showered. I shaved, taking extraordinary care. My hands were shaky. My head was throbbing. I had a big breakfast, with plenty of juice and coffee, chased by about a litre of water and a few extra-strength Tylenols.
I asked the front desk what excursions I could buy. They helped me leaf through the pamphlets at the front desk, and I found two I liked, Robben Island and Table Mountain. All I had to do for Table Mountain was show up; a gondola was scheduled every quarter hour, the price no more than a bus fare. I booked the afternoon Robben Island tour. A cab picked me up and I was off.
Table Island was surreal. It was an actual mountain. It didn’t look that high, owing to its top having been cleaved off, but it was. It was so high, in fact, that the table sported a subarctic ecosystem. Short scrubby shrubs clung to the warmth of its rocky ground. We were warned against ever leaving the marked trails, informed that our very footfalls were deadly to plants already barely clinging to survival. I can imagine why. The table was forever buffeted by the icy subarctic winds of the Southern Ocean, winds that never let up. And it was high enough that the air was thin, rarefied and not particularly warm either. It was cold enough to require the fleece I’d bought at its base. When I faced the sun and closed my eyes, I imagined the red I saw through my lids was the warmer air at sea level; but the side not facing the sun was cool, growing colder by the minute.
I descended having wandered about for an hour and made for the pier. I was early so I ate an early lunch, drank another litre of water, and popped yet more pills.
The ferry was full. Nelson Mandela was all the rage at the time, and those tourists who’d come to the Garden Route were eager to see the prison where he’d spent decades of misery, sentenced to hard labour breaking chalk, going nearly blind for his trouble. Sunlight reflected off the chalk wall had taken its toll, destroying his eyesight. I saw his cramped cell, no larger than a cot, its walls apt to be frigid by winter and suffocating by summer. I was horrified when I saw implements that ought not to have been of use even in the Spanish Inquisition, and was treated to a lecture on what life was like for the political prisoners sent there to waste away in anonymity, or in the case of Mandela, unseen by those he continued to inspire in spite of his prolonged absence. Had they killed him, he’d have been a martyr, so they tucked him away and worked him to within an inch of his life, instead.
The tour complete, I made my way back to the pier where I browsed for a few souvenirs and had an early supper. I was making my way back to the car park when I saw, to my heart’s delight, my tour bus. No guesswork was required: how many buses could there be in Cape Town with Contiki Tours scrawled across its flank.
I made my way for it. When I’d closed about half the distance, it began to pull away. So, I began to run, waving my arms. It didn’t look like it was going to stop, so I slowed to a walk again, thinking myself no worse off than I’d been. I hadn’t expected to see the tour bus, after all.
I stopped! Its door opened, and my heart leapt again. I began to run again, but my souvenir bags made running difficult. I slowed. I walked. I mounted the steps to the cheers of my friends.
“Where were you?” the twins asked. I filled them in. They were envious.
I asked them about their own trip to the Cape. They said the bus ride there and back was long, the visit short, the penguins not very forthcoming. I was glad I’d missed it.
We had a going away party that evening. Those who were close, sat closer still. No one got drunk. Some slipped away early for more private goodbyes.
We all signed a page, leaving our contact information: names, addresses, email, and such. It’s kind of a ritual on Contiki Tours, I’d come to realize.
I kept in touch with Tanya and the twins for a little while, but those letters, quickly exchanged a first, became infrequent, as one might expect. Travel friendships, Euro pals they’re called, fade quickly. A world separates them, and they’re usually soon forgotten. That’s expected. Think on it: How long did you know them for, anyways? A week? A day? And did you really know them? I think you did, some anyways. If anything, those fleeting friendships are the most intense you’ll ever know. You’ll share with them what you’d never think to share with even your closest friends. But in the end, in a blink of an eye, your time together comes to an end and you never see them again.
Elizabeth was a blink in my eye. Flaxen hair. Bright blue eyes. “Hi.”
I loved you for a moment. And then you were gone.
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