Chapter 1: The Cape | Day 4, Vino

It’s Sunday evening, 5:30. We leave in an hour for a Jazz Safari. There are conflicting interpretations around what the means, but it seems we’ll be fed and entertained by a jazz musician at their home. Thus far our travel agent, Astrid, has earned perfect marks on this trip, so should we really be concerned over food poisoning, an errant trumpet honk or potential captivity?

I’ve been warming by the fire in the bar area of our hotel for the last few hours. Riano, our closest friend on the hotel staff, served the Crocodile and Springbok (African deer) pâté I picked up at the Table Mountain gift shop, gave us a bit of tea, while Hamid added logs to the stove. Jazz plays in the background. We needed this warmth and relaxation after our wet, windy and cold trek up Table Mountain earlier in the day.

But I’m 24 hours behind on the journal, so I’ll try to stoke the embers of my memory from yesterday’s vineyard tours.

—--

You again, I think to myself as we approach the van waiting out front of our hotel. Gary is back for day two of adventures.

“Good morning Royce.”

“Gary.” I reply. Why has this guy not grown on me yet? Am I jealous over Scott’s attention? I crawl into the van and catch myself - give him a chance Royce, you’re being a dick.

“Would you guys like to attach your Bluetooth and play music for today’s journey?” Gary asks.

“On it.” I reply, linking my phone and allowing my unwarranted chill toward our jovial guide begin to thaw.

“Our first stop will be in Stellenbosch. Next to Cape Town, it is the oldest community in South Africa.” Gary tells us. “It’s a Dutch town, houses a university with 40,000 students, and is home to around 150 wineries.”

“Will we visit them all?” I inquire. A small smile creeps across Gary’s face. We’re both making breakthroughs this morning. The sun is reflecting off the corrugated roofs, as we head further away from the metropolis of Cape Town. It’s going to be a good day.

“I‘ll drop you at the bottom of Church Street. Explore the town, and make your way up to the church at the end. I’ll meet you there in an hour.” Gary instructs us.

“What are you going to do while you wait?” Scott asks.

“I’m just going to chill, watch some videos. Have a smoke and a pancake.” He replies.

We all laugh as the van doors open and we spill onto the sidewalk.

Tara remarks that Stellenbosch reminds her of Europe. Narrow side streets are bordered by sidewalks, crowded with cafes. There are students at their studies, or shaking off the cobwebs of a Friday night. Adults are drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. Tara spots a bookshop across the street and off we go.

“Point me to something written by a South African,” I ask the woman tidying up the displays.

“This one is quite popular,” she comments, as she reaches for a thick paperback in the historical fiction section. The cover is adorned with a sailboat. That was easy, I think to myself, as I walk it to the front counter.

After checking out, we cross the street and find a table next to three boisterous women who just discovered that the cafe serves Espresso Martinis.

“You look like you’re having fun.” I offer them as I sit at the neighboring table.

“We haven’t seen each other for years, and it’s never too early to start drinking!” One of them shares with exuberance.

Scott and Tricia join us, and while I go inside to place our orders, Scott launches into conversation with the one appearing to be their ringleader.

“What do you think about Trump?” Scott asks her.

“Well” Angela begins, as she pulls out a cigarette and brushes her long gray braid out of her face, theatrically.

“After years of listening to American judgement over our country’s protests and corruption, it was quite humorous to observe your insurrection on January 6th! THAT, Scott, has not happened here.” She finishes, awaiting his reaction.

Our table takes an instant liking to this woman and her unfiltered opinions. We learn that her husband is a journalist, and are shocked to discover her deep knowledge of our political system. How does she know the name of a Colorado congresswoman, I wonder in amazement. Angela complains of her country digging out from 10 years of rule by an absolute bozo, and hopes for our own sake that we don’t fall into the same political pitfall.

This isn’t the first time Scott has posed the same question to a local. Apparently, the worldview of our previous president and current contender is not one of admiration. He only cares about his own country, and doesn’t think much of Africa, they share.

One of the three women lives in Denver, and used to have her chiropractic office at the exit to our neighborhood. She’s visiting these two friends whom she’s known since her childhood in Johannesburg. They decided to skip their high school reunion further north, opting for a long weekend in wine country instead.

Scott has visibly lost interest in Angela’s opinion, and abruptly informs them that we are now leaving to meet our guide. Love him to death, but we need to work on his transitions.

As we depart the town, Gary lets us know that the wine industry began in this region in 1670.

“The Dutch were responsible for bringing their wine making experience to South Africa. The cool and temperate sea, mixed with the warm southern weather make for an ideal grape-growing climate.”

Though listening, I am mesmerized by the view. Yesterday’s ocean has been replaced by green land decorated with symmetrical grape vines criss-crossing the valley. Mountain peaks obstructing the sun cast massive shadows over the cultivated ocean below.

We turn off the main road and are stopped at a rot-iron gate, beyond which a winding drive, adorned with flowers, leads up to the Graff wine estate. Vibrant green fields, divided by deep brown vines welcome us on one side. Climbing out of the van, I take in a view that somehow rivals those off the Cape. How South Africa continues to surprise us with her beauty is, well, surprising. She looks more beautiful with every wardrobe change.

The next couple hours are spent on the veranda of this stunning property, gazing at the various vineyards filling the valley below, the massive sky, the towering mountain peaks. Puffy clouds float by on the breeze. Scott returns my smile. This is so nice, we say in unison

“It must be hard dealing with these views every day” I joke with our sommelier.

“It is these views that make me happy.” He shares with a smile. What these people lack in sarcasm, they sure as hell make up in genuine happiness.

Inside, I walk up a ramp to the restroom and notice a narrow river cascading beside me. Through a glass window, I look in on hundreds of aging oak wine barrels. The other wall displays various paintings and my path ends at a tranquil pool of water, adorned by a sculpture. Tara remarks how the diamonds you can purchase here are not following the Rand. In short, the estate is dripping with modern luxery. I love it.

“Scott, can you believe they’re still together after all that shit?” Gary asks, interrupting our reverie.

“What?” Scott asks, confused.

“Your butt cheeks!” Gary exclaims with a laugh. As we slip into inebriation, it seems that Gary has cast aside his proper English upbringing in favor of American vulgarity. He’s got us all rolling. We purchase some wine, pay our bill and take one last gaze before piling back into the Mystery Machine.

“We’re off to Franschhoek!” Gary announces.

We learn that the Huguenots, French Protestants in the 16th and 17th centuries, fled Catholic persecution and settled in this area of South Africa. And where you have Frenchman, you have wine. I press play on the hip hop playlist I just created, and Outkast begins blasting from the Volkswagen speakers. What the hell was in that wine, I wonder.

“What do you call two lesbians in a cupboard? A lick-her cabinet.” Gary. He’s on a roll.

Driving through the next village, we stop on another hill, overlooking another valley of breathtaking views, to open another bottle of unforgettable wine. Here, we sit for a light lunch, which Gary defines as two courses rather than 3. In a dinning room surrounded by glass walls, we gaze out at the scenery.

I’m served smoked lake trout, followed by braised beef. The French cuisine is washed down by copious amounts of white wine, while we learn about Gary’s wife and two children. We’re friends now, and I’m drifting between his life story and the dreamy landscape.

“I have one more surprise for you.” Gary announces as we climb back into the van.

A few minutes later, he pulls into a long, tree-lined drive leading up to the oldest winery of Franschhoek, Grand Provance. Parking under a tall oak tree, we begin exploring the grounds, decorated by sculptures of various genres. I notice characters out of the Lion the Witch and The Wardrobe alongside two statues of naked women on pedestals, awaking from slumber. We’ve entered the garden of nymphs, it would appear. How drunk am I?

Wine bottles are delivered, and Gary, with his newly discovered comfort asks:

“Must all sexual encounters with my wife begin with muffing?”

“Muffing?” I repeat, choking on my white wine.

“You know, oral sex.” He clarifies.

“Must?” I wonder audibly. “What seems to be the problem, Gary?”

We spend 15 minutes unpacking the intimate goings on with Gary and his wife, our opinions, and any number of topics that would have seemed taboo 24 hours ago.

“I learned never to bring up the topics of politics, sex, or religion on my tours.” He told us yesterday. And yet, here we are, having a verbal orgy around all three. Blame the wine, the garden nomes, or this welcoming country. Our friendship now sealed with both Gary and this rich valley, we climb back into the van open bottle and Dixie cups in hand, ready to return to the city.

Walking into Black Heath Lodge an hour later, we are greeted by the warmth of a fire and the boisterous shouts “Let’s go Springboks!” The biggest Rugby game of the year is happening just down the street in the harbor stadium, and every TV in the country is tuned in to watch South Africa take on New Zealand.

I drop into a chair, shout to Riano for a beer, and strike up a conversation with my neighbor, who is adorned in the green and gold rugby shirt of our home team - the South African Springboks. Scott’s gone up to bed, but Tricia has remained and is eager to meet our visibly excited friend as well.

“Abundance is my Christian name. I am here on business, entertaining clients, who are at the game right now.” We learn between cheers for her team.

She reveals a broad smile and glowing eyes while explaining that she is visiting from “Jo-Burg” (Johannesburg), and works for a private equity firm. The clients are financial advisors that bring client money into her firm. I tell her that I’m in the same line of work, and she insists on my meeting her boss tomorrow. Can I invest money in a South African equity fund, I wonder.

It’s been 15 years since the Springboks have defeated New Zealand in Cape Town, so we turn back to the tv as the seconds wind down on the clock, the suspense palpable. Gary helped explain the rules of rugby earlier in the day and I find myself screaming alongside Abundance. She is in conversation with Tricia when I leap from my seat and yell out that we won! Tricia buys a round of drinks, and our new friend disappears to her room, returning with a brand new rugby jersey.

“This is for you, Royce. We had an extra for our clients.”

I look at her, smile, and then rip off my shirt and don the official sweater of my new home. It’s not lost on me that the South African Springboks sport the same colors as my Green Bay Packers.

It’s now 9pm, and there is nothing left to accomplish. The day was filled with so much. Conversation. Adventure. Wine. Camaraderie. And above all, friendship.