The Mother City
I was awake at 1am last night, a familiar weight on my heart - try to ignore what you know you want, until you slip. Something akin to dancing with fire, moth to a flame - cliche intended, true freedom is the absence of love [in this sense, aimless]. As Yoda so aptly stated, “only the dark side deals in extremes”.
At 4am I was headed to the gas station, a friend due to depart - a week dedicated to better his life, navigate the system, compete. There is an air of profound despair, along the highway at that time - so many living without basic necessities. It is a world I have never laid eyes on, though I’m aware - the chaotic, discordant dreams that echo across the highway.
It changes rapidly, soon driving through the well lit flora - bridging a pristine shaded suburb, with the ancient indigenous forest stretching far up the sheer mountain face. Again, I am considering my own happiness - anger with myself, rather than the sins of man. A sense of futility is difficult to escape, when you know - with absolute certainty, that there is none.
A valley winds its way through the mountains, carved out by a now abhorrently polluted river - spilling out into the ocean. Some of Hout Bay’s inhabitants have the nerve to complain, as though they bear none of the blame - the socio economic divide is apparent here, condensed to a population of 33000 people [inevitably skewed, it’s a beautiful place]. It has been my home for 26 years, a safe haven from the relative dystopia that exists beyond the rim - it helps to know your way around, though the sense of community is also valuable [alerting the locals to any unusual concern]. You can find Bugattis, with excellent and reasonably priced pizza - otherwise, the Hout Bay roastery has the only coffee I’ve ever felt worth the price it went for [strength may vary, request an aged, rich, single origin bean]. The town’s greatest secret, knowledge I extend to you as a factor of trust - is a tunnel, about the width of two people, roughly hacked through the back of table mountain and ending somewhere above Camps Bay. I highly encourage any who hope to find it, to focus on the latter - the exit, as it begins amidst a patrolled reserve. One may acquire a pass to the mountains - though you might ask, “where’s the fun in that?”
I’m kidding guys, get the pass - there’s stunning guided trails through the forest, well worth the cost.
I may have fallen out of the loop, my experience began at Gandalphs - in Observatory, a dingy but vibrant hard rock “club”. It sold 3 Black Label dumpies for R10 - later followed by “all you can drink” Thursday’s. There was a live music venue upstairs [RAW], often R20 entrance - the place no longer exists. Shut down roughly the same time as Tagore’s - a minute dive bar in Observatory, had effectively been cut in half and stacked onto itself. Surprisingly, they had space for a piano, often hosting intimate jazz sessions. The greatest casualty would be that of “The Great Wizoo”, situated in Rondebosch, at a sports centre near to the UCT music college. A friend of mine [Kirst] ran the show, until she was offered a bursary to study business overseas - many young [jazz] muso’s getting a feel for the live scene would run through their material, the venue also booked a number of experienced performers. It was a jam, cheap drinks, multicultural, vibrant - so it goes, an era ends.
It’s curious to think that less than 2% of my life has been spent outside the city, further still to consider how much I remain oblivious to - within its borders. I’ve never been to Silvermine, never hiked Newlands forest - nor have I engaged with the tabletop scene in Milnerton, yet I consider my life to be filled with a number of unique and diverse experiences.
With limited knowledge of the suburbs stretching up the east coast, to Cape Point - I took a brief look at the area, weaving through the busy Sunday streets. One first hits Kalk Bay, a condensed and lively strip - from there you’re faced with the wind. An uninteresting drive along the coast through Fishoek - a clear presence of street-drug culture, to arrive in Simon’s Town. The fee to boulders beach [around R50] was, I suppose - understandable, it’s stunning. This was soon established as a presage to the unsettling secular air of the area. I did find an art gallery with a reasonably priced collection of vibrant and intriguing work - small place opposite the statue, the owner [Alan] was talkative and engaging, passionate. The area is rich in history, also features an elaborate gemstone processing facility.
I had to choose whether to cross through the mountains to the parallel coast, to Noordhoek and Kommetjie - or further investigate the Kalk Bay strip. Those from Hout Bay I know to - well, contest systemic wealth distribution [would be one way of putting it] tend to make the trip along the short mountain pass [to Noordhoek] frequently enough that I should know there’s "something" happening there. It’s a stunning area, regardless - perhaps leaving it as an enigma is valid.
In Kalk Bay I found the hippie stores selling incense at close to R100, as you would imagine - the coffee was not up to standard. It’s a superficial affair, sun bleached - at least during the day. The Brass Bell has been operating for around 50 years, an interesting history [beginning as a sole structure on the platform, with around 6 bar stools]. There are, of course, a number of places to eat. A young compassionate woman walked me through the area, some odd curio shops - a club called Cape to Cuba stood out, which frequently hosts live music. Maybe she’d felt the need to defend her hometown - the lifestyle, her partner seemed amiable enough.
Aside this, there's a number of places in the city to visit - through Camps Bay, Seapoint, Greenpoint, perhaps the coves stretching down from Llandudno. You could walk through the CBD, stuff happens there. First Thursdays, apparently worthwhile at the moment - Shack almost always is, on the weekends. At the end of it, sharing the experience is what matters - the good, the bad, fuck it, this is defined by who hears it and how well you tell it.
I’d lived two years in Observatory - a population mainly composed of students. The Armchair - a large central venue, now hosts comedy and karaoke nights, as well as live music. Seems there is little to no consensus on apparel, too many thrift stores I suppose. I joke, “they smoke, that which appears alternative - perhaps feels interesting, to one’s altered perceptions, is likely purchased”. The place retains its enigmatic heritage, fittingly situated against the city’s insane asylum - you’ll still find obscure passages leading to peculiar locations. A large number of homeless people have occupied the square, I was told the result of Cape Town metropolitan clamping down on their drifter population - curiously a small informal settlement has also cropped up along the main road to Rondebosch, squatters rights apparently. It is what it is, the city, the mountain, forest, ocean - profit, that will be obtained at any cost. It scares me, hell it scares me - still we rely on the rain to feed us, to sustain us, what sort of contorted fucking game are we playing. Here I am, vaguely catatonic for the loss of a woman - though it is not her, beauty, nor intelligence, rather her understanding. The prospect of a respective agreement, to support each other - for the sake of others, and losing this.
True, I am at a loss - partly the result of resisting the mechanisms that hold this society hostage, spending the past 6 years in relative isolation. What I see now, only solidifies my beliefs - we are not happy as a society, laughter is the release of pain. Oh, what a life, the meaningless energy that guides us - I admire you, so many of you, your resilience. I think I need to get out of this city, I wish we all could.
PS. don’t worry you silly soul, life is beautiful - caring about it, the collective wellbeing as well, is part of this. If I reach the end without having tried, failed - kept on, what could I blame but myself. This, only this, I could not bare - I loved the girl, truly.