12 May to 26 May 2019

I got back from AfrikaBurn feeling exhausted.  I had no regrets leaving before the finale weekend. After bringing all my gear inside, I cleaned it as best I could. Everything was covered in sand, including me.

Cape Town had experienced a severe drought and was only recently recovering. Water use was still strictly limited.  I guiltily showered under a cascade of delicious hot water, a minute, or two, longer than I should have. I watched as the desert  I’d taken back with me disappeared down the drain. That night as I got into my clean comfortable bed, I couldn’t recall the last time a bed felt that good.

I still had a few weeks in South Africa. I took another few days to relax and then began thinking of touring the Garden Route.

The Garden Route is one of South Africa’s major tourist attractions. It encompasses about 300 kms (190 miles) of beautiful coastline, a range of mountains, and many small towns.

The best way to explore the Garden Route is with ones own vehicle. But driving on the left and shifting gears with my left hand was a daunting prospect. I wasn’t sure I was up for the challenge. However, options were few. The few travelers I met with the same idea were planning the same route in less than a week, I wanted twice that, and a “hop-on, hop-off” tourist bus did not offer much freedom.

Leading up to my departure I sat directly behind the Uber drivers and mentally practiced the manuevers I would be doing on my own. It helped. And like most things, the anticipation was worse than the reality. It didn’t take me long to adjust to driving on the opposite side of the road, although I kept a mantra of “Keep Left” at the ready.

Leaving Cape Town I passed the multitude of million dollar homes perched on the hills of neighborhoods like Clifton and Camps Bay. And was soon encountering Mitchell Plains, a sprawling township with shacks of corrugated tin with incongruously pretty pastel accents, sitting atop windswept dunes, visible from the road. Once again, the extreme disparity of wealth, along racial lines, was unsettling.

I continued along  the coast and a haze lifted.  The sea emerged from a palette of grays to those of brilliant blues. The rocky shoreline was dazzling.

Unsure of how my first day behind the wheel would be, I’d booked a place in Pringle Bay, only a two hour’s drive from Cape Town.
The town was barely that with a few shops and restaurants. I managed to grab lunch before a recommended spot was closing for the day.

The host of my AirBnb, Kirsten, had settled here from Germany decades ago and as of late was making her living selling her paintings. The fact that she’d only begun to paint a few years prior was particularly remarkable. Her work was decorative and easy on the eyes. I understood her success.

I looked forward to walking along the beach, but coming from Cape Town, I was wary.  But the only warning I received was to insure all windows and doors of the apartment were carefully locked before leaving home. Thieves of the human kind were not the concern. Baboons roamed the area in large numbers and although they were not known to attack anyone, they would rampage a house in search of food if given the slightest opportunity. And although extremely thorough they were anything but cautious and tidy. Kristen showed me a baboon’s hand print left from one such visit still on her wall as she described the disastrous state her apartment was in.

As a rule, I didn’t stay many places more than one night. Fortunately, there wasn’t much distance to cover  between towns so I usually had ample time to explore.

The terrain changed markedly.  Open flat expanses abutted beaches with adjoined mountains and forests. Each day offered a rush of beauty.

I largely relied on Google Maps for directions and often found myself on back, gravel roads that seemed to go on forever. Much of the land was hilly and I felt like I was driving on top of a roller coaster.  I would pass, on occasion, workers tending to huge tracts of lands. Otherwise there would be no one around for miles.

One road I took stopped dead before a wide river.  A ferry powered by the strength of three men was there to take me across.

I headed to Cape Agulhas considered to be the southernmost tip of the African mainland. I was rewarded with a climb up the lighthouse, an opportunity to see where the Indian and Atlantic Oceans meet, and see the remains of the Meisho Maru shipwreck. The coast is treacherous and maps indicate the hundreds of ship wrecks that occurred here through the centuries.

I headed further east to the De Hoop Nature Reserve for a night and booked an early morning, 7 a.m. guided tour with a naturalist.  I was the only participant.  Despite the early wake up, it was a great way to begin a day.

Still Bay offered a glimpse of the independent fishermen carrying on the tradition of their forebears.

Two nights spent in a luxurious treetop with only the sound of birds was divine, but I missed the sea.

The Tsitsikamma National Park offered cabins on the sea. I got an unexpected thrill to see a whale jump from the waters. The area offered beautiful trails and some tourist attractions.

Monkey Land and Bird of Eden were perfect destinations for a rainy day.

Reportedly the Bloukrans Bridge is the third highest bungee jump in the world at 216 meters. I was satisfied to watch others take the dive and impressed with their courage.

I decided to return to Cape Town by the inland route, along Route 62. It offered a very different, but no less stunning landscape through lush and arid mountains.

The Garden Route is renowned for its vineyards. I only visited one winery where I was given two complimentary glasses of wine, in addition to the one I ordered, at lunch. Everything I tasted was delicious, but it took me a few hours to sober up. Luckily I had walked there from my B and B.

Ronnies Sex Shop is a popular tourist stop along Route 62. It began as a joke with friends of the owner when they added “Sex” to the original sign and created a popular tourist destination. It was a welcoming place to stretch my legs.

As I traveled the Garden Route, I understood its appeal. Beauty is found at every turn.

The two weeks passed quickly. I was back in Cape Town and my flight to Namibia was in two days.

To be continued…

29 April to 3 May 2019

My reason for going to Cape Town was to stay put for a month or so, hike, read, and relax after a few months of steady travel. Things didn’t work out exactly as planned. The locals I met, besides infecting me with an unpleasant dose of paranoia with their frequent warnings, kept mentioning AfrikaBurn which I had never heard of. My curiosity was piqued.

The promise of artistic and personal freedom with a heavy dose of hedonism, epitomized by the “Burning Man” extravaganza launched in 1986, has since created international, annual, franchises of sorts.

AfrikaBurn is one of them and follows the same principles: radical self-expression, communal effort, self-reliance, freedom, and leaving no trace, to name a few. Which,  I would learn, offers attendees an opportunity to express themselves and do things they likely couldn’t, shouldn’t, or wouldn’t do elsewhere.

For one week “Burners” display their creativity in the forms of their extraordinary, functional, “mutant vehicles”, large wooden structures/art pieces (to be ceremoniously burned), colorful attire or none at all, and engage in mostly drug-induced revelry, while inviting the fierce wind/sand storms to strip away any remaining inhibitions.

Since I am no fan of crowds, using drugs, wearing costumes, and wild partying it would seem obvious to most that AfrikaBurn may not have been an ideal event for me. Yet I found the creative environment very appealing.

Usually people spend an entire year preparing for AfrikaBurn, where they will converge in the requisite barren, isolated, desert location, Tankwa, Karoo. Despite its starting date in a mere ten days, I decided, if at all possible, to go.

Getting a ticket, transportation there and back, and supplies would be difficult. The 13,000 tickets are strictly limited and were already sold out, rides were organized months in advance, and I had no camping equipment of my own.

The event is expressly designed for participants only, not spectators, and any options to join a project this late were extremely limited.  However, the official website stated an ongoing need for volunteers. This proved to be the open door I’d been looking for.

I contacted Sarah, in charge of coordinating volunteers, and expressed my interest in lending a hand despite my lack of a ticket, transportation, equipment, and a camp to join (Complete self-reliance would be difficult given the harsh environment.). She was sympathetic to my plight, if not overly optimistic, and suggested I use Facebook as a resource. My experience with social media is limited, but using various online venues I managed to find rather quickly a ticket and a one-way ride (I figured getting back to Cape Town would be easy enough with 13,000 attendees). All I now needed was a camp to join. Those I knew of were already full.

I decided to check out Couchsurfing and found the “Burning Couch” camp listed.  Lydon the organizer, from Cape Town, was friendly but made it clear that free-loaders were not welcome. I convinced him of my sincerity and soon a flurry of WhatsApp messages connected me to our group. Menus were planned, shopping trips were organized, and meetings were attended.

The people I continued to meet in Cape Town uncannily fell in one of three categories: they were going to AfrikaBurn, they wished they were going to AfrikaBurn, or they’d already been to AfrikaBurn. They all expressed delight that I was going, but kept focusing on the subject of costumes. Costumes? I was still lacking a sleeping bag, a tent, and even the most basic camping supplies. My concerns for survival seemed markedly out-of-place.

I kept Sarah abreast of my progress and remaining obstacles. She graciously gave me the number of a friend willing to lend me AfrikaBurn essentials like a 25 liter container for water, cooking and eating utensils, lamps, parasol, and “fairylights” generally used to decorate Christmas trees and patios, but worn at night to avoid getting run over by mutant vehicles. I went out and bought a tent, a goose-down sleeping bag to ward off the night-time temperatures, and enough food (none requiring refrigeration) to ensure I would not go hungry.

It took me several days to obtain, organize, and pack my gear, but now, the day before departure, I was ready (the AfrikaBurn website was excellent and in addition to many tips provided a list of “survival” items each of which I had dutifully crossed off upon acquisition.) I had goggles for the sandstorms, multiple scarves, also for the sandstorms, and a range of clothing for the variable desert temperatures. But still no costumes. I figured I’d wear my regular attire with some creative flourish and fit in well enough.

Marcos from Uruguay, and his British friend, Victoria, both in their early thirties, had flown in from their respective home towns the day before, specifically to attend AfrikaBurn. They picked me up punctually at 5am in front of my apartment. The plan was to arrive at the gates when they opened at 9am. We had exchanged many messages back and forth after our initial contact on Facebook, but it was our first meeting. I was impressed with their reliability and relaxed, friendly manner. Marcos’ mother was Brazilian, his dad was from Argentina, his grandparents came from both Portugal and Italy. He possessed five passports and was in the process of obtaining a sixth. Our conversations largely pertained to travel, but a comfortable silence filled the time too.The last stretch prior to reaching Tankwa, on rough gravel roads, was notorious for flat tires. Fortunately, we were spared and the drive went smoothly, despite Marcos deciding that this was the perfect occasion to drink and drive for the first time in his life.

Entering AfrikaBurn was like entering a parallel universe inspired with ample doses of Peter Max, Mad Max, and Victoria’s Secret (despite the scorching African sun, there was no shortage of exposed flesh). The atmosphere was festive.

Marcos and Victoria dropped me off at my camp and we wished each other well. They were giddy at their much-anticipated, now finally here, days of non-stop drinking and dancing.

My fellow “Burning Couch” campers came from all over the world, were mostly traveling on their own, and in their twenties and thirties. Our number grew with each day. Apparently Lydon had difficulty turning anyone away. Amongst the dozens, there was: Jose, a chef, with large portraits of Einstein and Dali tattooed on each calf. He twirled his Daliesque moustache while tirelessly assisting anyone attempting to cook with the finicky propane stove.
Linda, a self-professed stoner. It was only a matter of seconds after she awoke before her stash of marijuana appeared and a joint was passed around. Yet, she always managed to have a cup of tea ready for anyone tired, thirsty, or in need of some comforting conversation.
Bernalee, nineteen, from South Africa, had been nervous about AfrikaBurn’s reputation for drug use and relaxed mores, but decided to go anyway. My initial impression of her being overly sheltered, and fragile was shattered when she told me of traveling to the U.S. to bicycle from New York to Florida, by herself, only weeks after learning how to ride one, and her hitchhiking through Honduras and El Salvador alone. Bernalee’s aversion toward drugs was never an issue. (Neither was my lack of interest.) The atmosphere was refreshingly non-judgmental and once her concerns were allayed she relaxed.
Johan, an exchange student from Amsterdam, was quiet but clearly wise and extremely thoughtful. He was instrumental in helping me drive heavy stakes for my tent into the concrete-hard ground–crucial given the strong winds–a grueling, painful task. He had an oversized thumb, not from hammering, I presume he was born that way, which in no way hampered his agility, but immediately brought to my mind the protagonist in “Even Cowgirls Get the Blues.”

Everyone in our camp was remarkably easy-going, helpful, generous, and kind. Time was spent as we chose, but all were encouraged to participate in a rotating preparation of dinner and eat together. And we did.

During the heat of the day many of the “Burners” sought shade under a tarp or visited one of the many theme camps. They were marked on a map, with opening hours, and catered to virtually every interest, need, desire, and fantasy. While some people were dancing to the electronic waves of sound, others were finding their inner spiritual animal, freeing their sexual inhibitions (so I was told), getting intentionally “bad advice”, charging their cell phones with solar power, sipping Ethiopian teas beneath a bedouin tent, or learning how to repair a bicycle. Some were opting to take showers with the washing done by hands other than ones own. For the modest, private showering was available elsewhere. Others were sipping pink bubbly from long-stemmed glasses in the cozy “Marilyn Bar”, complete with swivel stools, decorated with larger-than-life posters of, naturally, Marilyn Monroe. Some spent their time driving around in mutant vehicles. And everything was free, except the ice.

Night time most people sought wild revelry, and I sought my tent for sleep. My efforts, I would quickly learn, were futile. The incessant, deafening, pounding sounds, calling it music would be a stretch, started around 10pm and continued until 7am. The bass beat thumped through my torso and echoed like a jack hammer inside my head. I managed to sleep at most a few hours each night. My mood each morning was less than cheery. Those who had chosen to have a sleepless night with the aid of mushrooms, who knows what, and youthful energy were appallingly good-humored and would remain that way for the duration. I politely hid my crankiness as best I could. Drinking very strong coffee helped.

The slot I had chosen to fill as a volunteer “Greeter” coincided perfectly with a blinding sandstorm. I stood on a road completely exposed to the elements welcoming newly arrived Burners with my best smile hidden between large plastic goggles (similar to those I wore on lab days in high school) and sheaths of fabric to keep the sand out of my mouth, nose, and ears. Fortunately, people’s delight in finally arriving to AfrikaBurn bolstered my enthusiasm. I offered them hugs and danced a Chaplinesque two-step for several hours. Fighting the relentless wind and sand was exhausting. After my shift, I headed directly to my tent where I didn’t budge until dinner, fours hours later.

Camps ran the gamut in size and creature-comforts. Some consisted of elaborate dwellings complete with gazebos, couches, dining tables, and chandeliers, others, like the one I joined, were basic camping experiences with a tarp covered eating area and a propane stove.

Toilet facilities were shared by the entire AfrikaBurn community and called “loos with a view”. They were seats atop huge tanks that required some stairs to reach. When one sat just a head and depending on how tall the person was, some shoulders, would be visible. The seats faced out in the direction of the surrounding expansive desert, thus the “view.”

The climax of AfrikaBurn is aptly, the ceremonial burning of the towering wooden art pieces. A large audience gathers and a solemn silence fills the air while the carefully monitored flames begin to roar, and some courageous souls run naked around the periphery. After the fire reduces the piece to ashes, spectators wander off into the darkness.

Despite AfrikaBurn’s guiding principle of participation, admittedly, I engaged in only a few workshops suited for the less adventurous, like the Ethiopian tea tasting. My participatory role was my stint at volunteering, taking photographs, always welcomed, and my many conversations, which included reassuring two teen-age boys that their fear of LSD was not something they should be ashamed of. My wanderings were never dull.

But after four sleep-deprived nights, with a stream of events and people–no matter how lovely they were–and hearing that the approaching weekend would be when the real partying began, I began looking for a ride back to Cape Town.

I found one with a woman rabbi from Toronto.

12 April to 29 April 2019

I. Joburg to Cape Town

Taking the train from Johannesburg to Cape Town is not a popular option. Those who can afford to, fly and those who can’t, prefer taking the bus. But being partial to train travel, I found the twenty-six hour train trip appealing and booked a berth on the Shosholoza Meyl train.

Before embarking at the Joburg station, I met a British couple and their extremely articulate, poised teenage daughter Estelle. Later, the daughter revealed her sleepless nights fearing the world’s end, in precisely twelve years, if the effects of global warming were not halted. Her fifteen-year-old shoulders were far too young to be carrying such an enormous weight.

A sixtyish woman with bleached blonde hair and nose ring shared my compartment for several hours. When she wasn’t complaining about the delays and calling her son with constant updates, she was sharing the sordid details of her husband’s murder by his lover and her husband, because, according to her, ” He wouldn’t divorce me to marry her.” She described the slaying, completely unsolicited, as if she were describing the interior of a kitchen she was remodeling. I headed to the dining area soon after and stayed there until I was certain the woman reached her destination.

I began speaking with Terrance, who managed the dining car, during his free time. He always had a book in hand and had read every self-help book he could acquire. He’d come from abject poverty, but his mother instilled in him a passion for learning. He was fortunate. Many of his friends were dead or in jail.

For the rest of the voyage I alternated my time between the dining car for conversation and dining, and stretching out on my berth reading the inexplicably engrossing second volume of Karl Ove Knausgard’s My Struggle.

Before leaving Joburg, while still on the train platform, I briefly met a young girl of six or so who spontaneously reached up to hug me. I told her it was one of the best hugs I’d ever had. She and her mother were traveling on the same train to Cape Town. I told them I would see them later.

But, I didn’t. That evening I took a walk through the cars. I hadn’t realized that the dining car that I’d been enjoying for meals, conversation, and relaxing, divided the train into two parts. Passengers with reserved berths, were the only ones with access to the dining car and the entire train.

When I stepped into the first car past the dining car, it only had seats. There were no compartments nor berths. The car was crowded, unlike the section of the train I’d been traveling in. Women were busy tending to their children or trying to sleep sitting up. The few men were engaged in a game of poker or sneaking a smoke between cars. Large parcels, which presumably contained in part water and provisions to last the trip, were positioned throughout the car. There was no place for the adults to recline. Babies and small children, nestled together and slept on clothes and blankets carefully arranged on the floor. All the passengers were black. Where I was enjoying the comfort of berths and separate compartments, all the passengers were white.

As I went from car to car looking for the girl, I was met with looks of surprise, apparently few tourists ventured to this part of the train, but my smile and greeting was received with warmth. A few curious passengers asked where I was from.

A few cars later, I saw the girl sitting next to her mother. “I found you.” I said unable to contain a big smile. The girl once again outstretched her arms and we embraced. Once again her hug with its warmth and innocence instantly touched my heart. After some moments chatting together I wished her and her mother a good evening and made my way back through the many cars of seated passengers to my berth.

Coming from a family of modest means, I did not grow up being one of the “Haves” in a land of “Have-Nots.” Here it was inescapable and unsettling.

The twenty-six hour train trip stretched into thirty-two. Along the way we stopped at a small community for fifteen minutes. I got out to stretch my legs, breath in some fresh air, and take a few photographs. Others went out for a smoke and some picture taking too. Children were playing nearby with some wheels and a stick. The community was poor and the homes were very basic. Within minutes a camera was snatched from the hands of an older German tourist. The thief ran off and quickly disappeared. A Swiss, well-built man did his best to follow, but came back empty-handed. We had been given no warnings from the crew, but the deftness of the offender undoubtedly came from practice.

My own experience with theft was less dramatic. Back at the Joburg station I’d bought some drinks and snacks for the trip at a small supermarket. I didn’t buy much, and didn’t pay much attention to the price given in the local currency. But after buying a drink on the train, I questioned the amount I’d paid and looked at my receipt. The cashier, while scanning my items, also scanned an expensive package of imported prosciutto. I suspect any misgivings she may have had would not taint the taste of the delicacy.

The train ride continued peacefully and uneventfully. The enjoyment of the generally unchanging, but nonetheless picturesque plains of the “Karoo,” allowed time to pass pleasantly by.

I had planned on arriving at my rented apartment in the daylight hours, but with the delay it was nearing 10 pm. After the many warnings I’d received about the crime rate in Cape Town, something I would hear over and over again, seeking out a taxi ride at the station was something I’d hoped to avoid. When I overheard a fellow passenger calling for one, I asked if she could arrange a pickup for me as well. She made this trip often and knew many of the drivers by name. She arranged for one of them to meet me upon arrival.

II. Arriving in Cape Town

As we disembarked at Cape Town’s central station, I looked for the young girl and her mother once again to say goodbye,  but did not see them. They and most of the other passengers had inevitably gotten off at the previous station on the outskirts of town where the townships are.

I invited the British family to join me and we all walked from the train to the taxi area. The large station was nearly empty and quiet, but not, as I had expected, intimidating. There were no hustlers nor hawkers in sight. Just a few tired travelers, like us, heading toward their destinations with bags in tow. An “Excite” taxi was waiting at the exit. After dropping off the family at their hotel I asked the driver if we could make a quick stop at a store so I could buy some food. I hadn’t bothered to eat dinner on the train expecting an arrival at every moment and dining in a restaurant at that hour did not appeal to me. Despite doing little and having ample time to stretch out and relax during the long journey, I was tired and wished only for a quiet evening alone at home. The driver graciously obliged.

The beauty of Cape Town that I had heard so much about, was obscured by the busy four-lane road we drove on dotted with a few fast food joints and large, nondescript buildings. The driver pulled up to a service station and I dashed in. The pickings were slim, but I found some bread, cheese, and yogurt with unfamiliar brand names to sate my hunger.

The apartment I’d rented had a metal electric gate, as most of the residents in this rather upscale neighborhood did. I used the code I’d been given and the gate swung open, but finding the correct door to my apartment was more challenging. There were many apartments to choose from and the instructions I’d received offered no clear guidance. As I tried the key in several doors, I hoped no one would mistake me for an intruder. Armed response security notices, like in Joburg, were prominently displayed.

I eventually found, without incident, the apartment in the very back of the building. It was a stylish, small duplex with a private enclosed patio. I settled in quickly, prepared a small meal, and went upstairs to the bedroom, grateful to have a clean, comfortable, quiet place to call home.

III. Cape Town Life

My original plans of strolling and hiking freely in Cape Town were short-lived. The parameters of what was deemed safe by the people I spoke to, all white, were oppressively narrow. I was told to avoid many areas during the day and not to walk anywhere after dark- the sun set around 6pm.  It was difficult to access whether they were paranoid or prudent and I was too new in town to trust my own instincts.

The admonishments to take Ubers, which I dutifully if unhappily did, to go even short distances in the evening had an upside. Many of the drivers came from Zimbabwe and were usually listening to music from their country. I would ask them about the upbeat, rhythmic guitar driven tunes and learned of the late, great Oliver Mtukudzi. His music, and that of other Zimbabwean music makers, was a great improvement over the pop/easy listening muzak I politely endured with other drivers.

The days were passing quickly and I was still blind to the city’s appeal, I sought to lift the shroud cast by the pervasive fear and glaring racial inequity. Admittedly, beauty abounds in Cape Town. The coastal drive, mountains, and nearby beaches are stunning.

Penguins at Boulder Beach are delightful.

Lion’s head and Table Mountain offer breathtaking views.

The V & A Waterfront, despite its large shopping malls, still has remnants of its fishing industry.

Kirstenbosch Gardens, once owned by Cecil John Rhodes, are gorgeous.

Colorful Bo-Kaap displays a thriving neighborhood with a fragile history and future.

Historic Company Gardens offers a taste of the colonial past. The museums offer excellent collections of art.

There is jaw-dropping architecture, namely the multi-level Zeitz Museum of Contemporary Art built from abandoned grain silos.

And the powerful and beautifully designed District 6 Museum which focuses on Apartheid’s devastating effect on communities and individual lives.

The hip, once marginal, neighborhoods of Woodstock and Observatory  offer a taste of the gentrification to come ( for better and for worse) with cozy cafes, cute shops, art galleries, and award-winning restaurants.

And nearby towns offer different perspectives and  experiences.

Some chance encounters in Cape Town led to invitations for dinner at some exquisite abodes worthy of House and Garden covers, including a Passover Seder where the guests were mostly Christian. Their high fences, security alarms, and car culture creates an allegedly safe, yet insular lifestyle. My hosts were kind, welcoming, educated, interesting, and white. My discomfort with the country’s skewed social order, not that my own country is exempt, was usually best kept to myself.

While my strolling around Cape Town increased with time, the warnings remained steady.

In an effort to stay on the “safe” streets during my heavily curtailed precious moments on foot, I asked people, en route, the best way to get somewhere. Conversations would begin and coincidentally many of the people I spoke with were planning on attending AfrikaBurn. “AfrikaBurn?” I asked. I’d never heard of it.

To be continued…