Chapter 1: The Cape | Day 5, Table Top Mountain & Jazz

It’s 11am on Monday morning. I’m high above the clouds, sitting next to Tara, across the aisle from Scott and Tricia, all three asleep. We’re on a flight to Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe. Leaving Cape Town felt like abandoning a friend. And we did. Riano came early to work, so he wouldn’t miss bidding us farewell.

While we make our way north, let’s pick up where we left off. But first can I ask, are you enjoying this adventure? I’m curious what impression Africa has left on you. Is it what you imagined?

—--
I reach over and pick up my phone. 8am. Sunday morning. I was awake in the middle of the night. Again. I could blame the wine from yesterday, but I feel fine. No remnants of a hangover. Does it take 4 days for my body to adjust to this side of the planet? Who cares, I resolve, as I sit up in bed, somewhat refreshed.

I hear our neighbor’s door open, so I stand up and open ours. Tricia is standing in her robe.

“We’re headed down to breakfast in our jammies. Join us.” She invites, all smiles, despite her prior day’s shenanigans and similar late night.

“We’ll be down in five.” I reply, excited to brush off the cobwebs and start our next African adventure.

Tara and I sit down to breakfast minutes later in our sleep ware, and without preamble, Tricia poses the question she and Scott have been contemplating all morning.

“Why do you think whites have done so much of the colonizing of this planet?” She asks, with eager curiosity.

Jesus, Tricia, can I get a coffee first? But this has not been a trip, nor a relationship, of idle banter. Fuck the weather, let’s get down to how religion and the Enlightenment have wreaked havoc on civilizations over the millennia. How does Judaism differ from Christianity and when does a life begin? This is what I love most about these great friends. We question. We challenge. We contemplate. A safe place for curiosity without judgement.

30 minutes after breakfast, we are dressed in joggers, sweatshirts, puffy vests, light jackets. We fill a backpack with 4 waters and board the hotel’s van so Hamid can bring us to the trailhead of the most famous geographical feature of Cape Town - Table Mountain. She has been looming over us since arriving, blocking the sun, breaking up the clouds, watching over us. At nearly 4,000 feet above sea level, Table Mountain is the backdrop to every view in the city.

“You must stick together, and please put your fastest climber in back. Be careful.” A trail guide warns us at the drop-off point.

“That’s strange,” Tara remarks, “We’ve never been extended that advice before any hike in Colorado.”

I have to look nearly vertical to see where we are going. The climb boasts 3,000 feet of elevation gain, and we’ve been instructed that the hike will take us two or more hours to complete.

“Let’s get going, team!” I direct with excitement, leaping out in front, completely ignoring our guide’s grave warning.

Each step is like walking up an uneven stone staircase. The sound of rushing water accompanies our ascent, as we pass small waterfalls along with a myriad of hikers. One guy scoots around us in bare feet.

“It’s a great hike with no shoes,” he informs. “The rocks are so smooth.”

For a few minutes, I imagine the benefits of doing the same. And then the rain begins. Accompanied by an increasing wind, and dropping temperatures, it dawns on us that we may have miscalculated the weather and our attire. Forget shoes, we need gloves, a beanie and a raincoat.

As we pass through the key hole of the mountain’s peak an hour and a half later we find ourselves atop a flat promontory enveloped in a cloud, wind howling over the summit, taking our breath and any remnant of warmth with it. I take a quick picture before jamming my hands back into my now soaked puffy vest. Restoring feeling to my fingers is a slow and painful process.

I consult a metal map bolted to the top of a rock pillar, looking for directions to the Funicular - South Africa’s version of a cable car. I choose a trail that disappears into the clouds. Looking back every 20 feet to make sure the rest of my party is with me, I walk blindly toward the transportation that will rescue and hopefully warm us from this mountain top.

And then the “table clothe”, the local’s description of this cloud cover, is suddenly removed and we have a clear view of the ocean thousands of feet below. South Africa, would you please stop flaunting your beauty. We get it. You’re gorgeous. Cue oohs and awes.

“Tricia! Get over here for a picture!” I shout over the wind, so the poor stranger I cornered to take our photo doesn’t lose a hand to hypothermia.

With the parting of the clouds, we notice the brick structure boasting a coffee shop and cafe. I pop into the men’s room first and loiter at the hand dryer, trying to restore feeling back in my fingers, while ignoring the pleading stare of another patron whose hands are dripping wet.

I’m now standing inside the cafe at the check out counter, ordering any item on the menu that will thaw our bodies. I can still see my breath in here, hopeful that the coffee, pizza, tea, and shepherds pie I ordered will restore my core temperature. We have to get off this mountain.

“Please do not hold onto the handrails when the cable car is moving,” we are instructed as we begin our descent, staring through the glass of the funicular into the abyss below.

“Did we hear that right?” One of us asks. What ride on planet earth has ever been preempted by the words, ‘please don’t hold on’. Then we realize our ignorance. This cylindrical vessel spins ever so slightly, allowing all of us to stay put and enjoy a 360 degree view over the three-minute descent back to civilization. I’m so glad I held my tongue on that one.

“Would you like to purchase one of the pictures?” we are asked in the gift shop at the base of the Funicular.

“No ma’am, we are just trying to thaw out under this heater.” I comment, as the four of us huddle under the portable furnace mounted above the store’s wares.

“Does your room have a bathtub?” Tara asks Tricia.

“No, does yours?!” Tricia responds with hopeful jealousy. It’s clear, we’re all miserably cold.

“Hamid is here!” Scott announces and walks out of the store. As I’m leaving, I notice a small tin resembling cat food that has “Crocodile pâté” across the front. Checking the label, I confirm my salivating eyes. 42% crocodile. Next to that tin, I see another labeled Springbok pâté. ‘Try everything local’, I’ve been instructed. I mean, I can’t not eat the mascot of my recently adopted sport’s team. I quickly pay and catch up to the others, practically running to the van.

“Crank up the heat!” We all direct Hamid in unison.

“Do you mind if I show you Signal Hill? It’s on our way back to the lodge.” Hamid asks.

After a brief descent, we are climbing once again. Looking out of my window, I see all of Cape Town laid out below us. The Stadium, where my green and gold were victorious the night prior, stands proudly along the waterfront.

“What did you call this place, Hamid? Make out hill?” He and I share a laugh.

“That’s what the locals call it.” Hamid responds, confirming my suspician. I smile again. Sorry, Gary. Hamid will always be my favorite. I don’t care how many off-color jokes you can tell.

As soon as he parks, I leap from the van and sprint to the edge, hoping to snap a couple photos and get back to the warm interior before my body notices the cold again. As I turn from the view, another heart-stopping photo logged in my phone, I notice everyone has emerged from the van and is sitting around a picnic table. Hamid is handing out champaign flutes and opening a bottle.

“I wanted to celebrate your visit, guys.” He shares with a genuine smile. We toast, take a sip, and speed walk back to the now cooling vehicle.

“What would you have done if we didn’t get out of the car, Hamid?” Tricia asks. While I was out capturing the view, the other three turned down multiple requests by Hamid to leave the van and enjoy the view. He had his toast planned long before we dragged our wet, cold, whimpering bodies off the mountain. And rock beats scissors. Or driver beats rider.

An hour later, I am thawing next to the fire in the lounge of our lodge. A warm shower and hot tea accompanied by crocodile and Springbok pate have put me in a foggy haze, and I doze off to the soft jazz and girls’ quiet discussion next to me.

—--

“My name is Adiola. I am taking you on your Jazz Safari this evening” A smiley black man greets us outside of the hotel later that night.

“Where are you taking us?” Someone asks, all of us curious to discover what this “safari” entails.

He explains that we will start the evening in a suburb 20 minutes North of the city, as if we were on our way to Johannesburg.

“Isn’t that 15 hours away?” Scott asks.

“Yes, but we will only be going 20 minutes.” Adiola clarifies.

“Ok. So we’re going to a suburb of Johannesburg.” Scott confirms in his smart ass humor.

Ignoring Scott, Adiola turns his radio to jazz and drives half the speed of every car on the interstate to our destination. Half an hour later, wee pull up to a barbed wire-topped brick fence encircling a small house in a working class suburb of Cape Town. Should the trampoline in the yard ease our fears of being kidnapped and ransomed for money?

We are greeted by a lighter skinned black man with eyeliner and a black cape. Are we on the set of the Empire Strikes Back? Inside, this older gentlemen named Hilton Schilder introduces us to his wife, Tesma. A feast of rice and chicken dishes decorate a small rectangular table. The living room has an electric piano, a 60 inch flat screen, a couple leather couches, and an 8x11 of Jesus keeping a watchful eye on everyone. Nothing else decorates the white walls in this simple house.

Before we sit down to our curry, HIlton’s daughter emerges with twin girls about 2-years old, and a 9-year old son, Aiden. The kids are very cute. Aiden, though shy, responds with smiles at a handful of questions. As strange as this night feels all around, the fear of being murdered is slowly dissipating.

After getting a short history of Hilton’s family, his jazz background, a glimpse into his drug explorations as a youth, we retire to the living room for the next phase of this odd evening. The Hilton Schilder You Tube Channel is at the ready, and as he stands next to his idle piano, TV remote in hand, my hopes of hearing live jazz music disappear.

We watch 15 minutes of random videos as he explains that ‘this one came out in the 1980’s and was banned for political reasons’ or ‘this guy in my band produces his own acid’. He finally sits down at the piano and plays a few of his songs.

“I was in the hospital, waking up from the morphine, when this melody came to my head.” He tells us in his sing song, reflective voice. “Listen for the sound of the heart rate monitor.”

Getting back in Adiola’s car 30 minutes later, we are each in a confused state over what we just experienced. This sweet set of African grandparents just shared a meal with us and introduced their family to complete strangers. That was cool. But a jazz safari? And an eccentric musician?

“Our next stop is at Hilton’s cousin’s house in the suburb south of the city.” Will he be in a cape and make up too, I wonder.

And as we enter a one-bedroom, third-floor apartment, in another Cape Town suburb I have a feeling the night will not be ending in a crescendo of Jazz.

“Treat yourselves to some food,” Eldrid invites us. I gaze at the bowls of potato chips and cheesy puffs decorating the kitchen table.

“Would anyone like some wine?” He asks. Yes please, God, I say to myself as I grab the bottle and top off my water glass.

Over the next hour, we explore the psychotic history of his family tree of musicians, are accused of having fake food in America, and get his unsolicited opinion on transgender children ruining our schools. ‘We, uh, just came for the live music’ I think to myself and look for the safest escape route.

We can’t get out of there fast enough, but before pulling out of the apartment’s parking complex, Eldrid hands something through the window to Adiola and we witness a South African drug-deal. Ironically, that felt most authentic to a jazz safari.

Well, Astrid, you can’t win them all. I think it’s time we move this adventure north. Thank you, South Africa for all of the memories. You did not disappoint.

At the airport Tricia asked if we were ready to leave. Reflecting on the question, Cape Town could not have delivered more. She showed us her beauty in all the ways. The land, the sea, the people, the culture. She welcomed us. She nourished us. I can’t recall a 4-day trip that left a more lasting impression. And still, it was time to go. We were ready.

Africa, in my imagination, was not this. The dream-like topography. The cleanliness. The adventure. The native’s affection for their country. Their spirit. Their food. The people. Ah, the people. Everyone so welcoming. So friendly. So open. I’ll miss South Africa for so many reasons. And yet, gazing through the hazy clouds, I can’t help but wonder what magic this continent below me has yet to reveal.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now going to spray the interior of the cabin with an insecticide. It is completely harmless, but if you choose to cover your eyes or mouth, please do so.” A minute later, a stewardess walks down the aisle with an open canister of something that is going to protect us against the rabid mosquitoes living aboard. Between that and the malaria pills we began ingesting two days ago, we should be safe from the blood borne disease those pesky little creatures carry.

Well, friends, it seems we are now in Zimbabwe.