Arriving in Africa, I felt a familiar combination of openness and blankness, the same thing I experienced the first time I flew into Europe. As I looked out the plane windows while landing in Johannesburg, I couldn't help but think, these mountains are African.
The feeling of blankness comes from not knowing what to expect, though it might also have something to do with having been on a plane or in airports for 36 hours. The open-mindedness stems from wanting to see and experience as much as I can in my short stay in this country. So far I have not been disappointed.
The first thing I had to do when I arrived in Cape Town was figure out how to drive on the left-hand side of the road. This wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. It takes a certain amount of trust in the system not to follow your instincts and pull over to the right side, but the speed of the oncoming traffic on the highway leaves little time for hesitation.
Actually, driving on the left side is much weirder in thought than in practice. As a pedestrian, it's a different story. If I rely on instinct, I'm toast. Instead I have to look both ways repeatedly, like a lost schoolchild. It's also unnerving to look at other cars on the road and see that there's a 7-year-old in the driver's seat, and on top of that, he isn't even paying any attention to the road. Until, of course, you realize that that isn't really the driver's seat, and you should probably go because it's a green light.
I got very lost while driving into Stellenbosch the first night to meet up with Peter. He left me no exact address, no local number, no plan/time to rendezvous. In lieu of signs, the streets are labeled by scantly legible names painted in yellow on the curbs, so after looping through town several times, I found myself accidentally heading away from the lights of town and up into a mountain pass.
The road was narrow and dark enough that I decided not to turn around too suddenly. As the road's elevation climbed, however, I grew transfixed enough by the scenery not to want to even turn around any longer. The almost-full moon made the road shine like a ribbon winding through the shadowy outlines of the mountains. An unmistakable reminder to just relax and not worry about being lost.
I drove on past lodges, houses and wineries, eventually turning around in some industrial park driveway manned by a guard. When I knocked on his booth and asked him how to get back, he told me, simply, "You go over the mountain, you are in Stellenbosch."
Fortunately, the ATM I hit up when I got back was in front of an international call center, so I dialed Peter's American cell phone and we met up for some food and Castle lager at one of the nearby pubs.
The next day we climbed two separate peaks. First we ascended Table Mountain via the Skeleton Gorge Trail. I used to think signs marking the trail as "strenuous" were directed only at asthmatic nonagenarians, but apparently they apply to me these days as well. We made it to the top in a few hours, though, greeted by a mix of stunning views and all-encompassing fog. The speed with which clouds travel at the height is astonishing.
We took a roundabout trek across the summit to the cable car station, trekking alongside drop-offs that made my head swim, even though I'm usually not afraid of heights. I so badly wanted to launch a frisbee off the cliff and into the city bowl below, and Peter thought it would be fun to fire a hot dog all the way to Robben Island using Slugger's Hot Dog launcher. But, alas, we lacked the means.
In the end, it was probably best that we were unable to carry out our projectile-launching plans. Frisbee golf discs fall hard and dangerous from 1,086 meters, and any cape baboon lucky enough to catch a hot dog would probably grow dependent on ballpark freebies and lose all desire to fend for itself. Plus, Peter told me that in August an American tourist fell to his death from the top of Table Mountain while attempting one of the upper hiking trails, so we decided stick to safe activities like eating dried mangoes and snapping photographs.
After riding the gondola back down the mountain, we drove into Cape Town to enjoy some french fries along the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront.
After regaining our strength with pommes frittes, we headed back up Kloof Road to tackle the second peak of the day. This was the much-smaller but no less enigmatic Lion's Head, which Peter and I had heard was a popular spot from which to observe the full moon. We started out at a hearty pace, but were nearly turned back by a giant tree that had fallen in our path.
Fortunately, we overcame and took the trail around the base and up the ridge of the Lion's Head peak (so-named because its shape resembles a lion's head), affording us views of the sun setting over miles and miles of coastline.
We reached the top at the very second the first sliver of moonlight rose from behind the clouds. Several dozen people had gathered at the peak, many with their cameras ready, and I heard a man shout: "de maan komt!" to his kids playing on the other side of the small summit.
In the flash of cameras I saw couples with their arms around each other, friends sitting or standing around in groups, sipping champagne from plastic glasses.
We must have stayed at the top for at least 90 minutes, watching the moon rise higher over the lights of Cape Town. Though it was dark long before we began the way down, we passed a few groups of people still on their way up. By the time we got back to our car on Kleef Nok road, you could still see the distant flashlights of people filing both up and down the mountain.
That night I had dreams of falling off the side of Table Mountain. Nothing unpleasant or nightmarish, just semi-lucid visualizations of taking a liberating free-fall from the summit. A letting go of the caution and restraint I'd shown that day while hiking, and a subconscious release of tension from the long trip overseas. Or perhaps just a subconscious desire to become a Pteranodon...But enough for one day. More tomorrow.
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