I find it difficult to write with much levity about South Africa. It exhibits the normal ironies and absurdities that make life interesting to comment on, but it also faces profound issues more worthy of thoughtful contemplation than flip remarks. Cape Town and South Africa are full of incredible beauty and incredible contrasts. In terms of natural beauty, Cape Town owns one of the most beautiful settings of any city in the world and its contrasts are similarly world class. Within a span of 30 minutes I have witnessed scenes of both unbelievable human squalor in a shantytown and a string quartet concert amidst the beauty of Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens. Nonetheless our first week in Cape Town produced its fair share of interesting anecdotes so I will cover them here and leave the more meaningful observations for a later entry.

My auspicious debut on the streets of Cape Town (detailed in my last journal) offered only a prelude to the special charms of Cape Town’s driving patterns and the styles of giving directions. Cape Town drivers are in a class by themselves – they make Boston drivers look in comparison like grandmothers on a leisurely Sunday drive. Based on observed driving patterns, stop signs must be a mere “suggestion” rather than a traffic law. Apparently when you buy a BMW or Mercedes in this town you are also given a “Get Out of Traffic Jail Free” card so that these beasts may speed down the motorway far in excess of the speed limit and without any fear of being pulled over by the police. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen the police pull anybody over, but I have seen the police at the scenes of many accidents.

Directions in this town rely on the long history of “oral tradition.” Precise distances, addresses or even road numbers have no place in a proper set of Cape Town directions. Instead you get something like “take this road down to the bottle shop (liquor store), get on the motorway (no one ever gives you the number of the motorway), go a fair bit past the rise (anyone hear of distances?), exit at the hospital (name?), go left at the roundabout, follow the big brown wall and we’re just past the garage (gas station).” And these directions were given to us by the Cape Town Federal Express office, an organization whose business relies on precise directions. Eventually the only way you get anywhere is to talk on the cell phone to someone at the destination and get directions in real time, which is a very nice way to get to know the locals.

Once we got the hang of navigating the city, we took the kids down to the Victoria and Alfred waterfront and the Cape Town Aquarium. Through shear serendipity we happened to park next to a recreational vehicle driven by Cesare and Elizabeth Pastore. This delightful retired couple has spent parts of the past six years driving their RV throughout the world: from Italy across Asia, around Australia, and the full length of the Western Hemisphere from Circle, Alaska to Ushuaia, Argentina. Our trip pales in comparison to theirs! They graciously invited us for tea and snacks and shared stories from their trip.

Later in the week, based on an assignment from James’ Lakeside classmates, we attempted to view the local rugby club in a match. Woe betide any country that goes into battle against South Africa, New Zealand or any other country that plays rugby – that is one tough sport. American football players are cream-puffs by comparison, playing under layers of plastic armor while rugby players run just a fast and hit just as hard but without any protection. We witnessed first hand body-slamming, eye-gouging, head-butting action, and that was just among the fans fighting to get into the stadium. Imagine a sea of crazed, black-clad fans hungry for action and then imagine our meek family of Americans among them. We tried to see a match between the Cape Town “Stormers” and the “Highlanders” from New Zealand who kindly played the role of Christians to the Stormers’ lions. The game was sold out and even our Cape Town friends couldn’t get tickets. Unlike American sporting events, there were no tickets to be had from scalpers at the stadium so we just absorbed the atmosphere and watched some of the action from outside the stadium.

My attempts at filming the natural beauty ran up against the Local 47 Brotherhood of International Landmarks. The Villarrica Volcano from Chile obviously had signaled ahead regarding the arrival of our scab film crew since Table Mountain had the same annoying habit of popping into and out of the clouds at the most inconvenient of times. But when Table Mountain comes out it is indeed something to behold. This three thousand foot monolith defines this town as a landmark for local navigation, a creator of weather, and a backdrop to any activity you can think of. With the constantly changing reflections of sunlight off the rocks and the rapidly evolving panoply of clouds, Table Mountain offers a different presence every time you look at it.